Meet Me at the Boardwalk Read Online Free PDF Page B

Miles had always maintained a sort of reverse-snobbery against skateboarding—even though as far as I could tell, surfing and skateboarding is pretty much the same thing. One’s the water version; one’s the land version. Right? But out loud, Miles always said, “Skating is for the tourists who rip down the boardwalk like they own it.”
    When his mom wheeled him in that morning, I couldn’t quite breathe. The door opened, and the sunshine poured into the front hall. I mean, I could breathe but my heart was thumping a little too hard for breathing to be pleasant.
    Then I saw him.
    He was himself.
    The spark was back in his eyes, and his hair had grownenough so that it had a sort of mid-career Brad Pitt thing going. Honestly, I didn’t even notice the cast. He smiled, and then his mouth fell open.
    “A skateboard?” he said, laughing.
    I tried to smile back. My throat tightened. My eyes began to sting.
    “Listen, Jade, honey, I really have to run to work,” Mrs. Gordon mumbled, locking the wheelchair brakes. She patted down her pockets and handbag, checking for essential belongings—keys, wallet, phone. “I know you have a funny sense of humor, but don’t let Miles ride that thing. Thanks so much, dear—”
    With that, she slammed the door behind her.
    Miles’s eyes moistened.
    “Hi,” he said.
    “Hi,” I said.
    “What’s up?”
    “I brought you a present.”
    “I thought you were scared,” he said.
    “Of what?”
    “Of seeing me.”
    I tried to swallow again, but it hurt. “Do you like it?” I choked out. My voice was hoarse, like a criminal in a mob movie.
    “Do I like what?”
    “The skateboard.”
    “I love it.” He lifted a hand, reaching out toward me. “Can I see it?”
    “Sure.”
    I marched forward and placed the skateboard in his lap, all the while thinking: Whatever you do, Jade, don’t cry.
    He tossed the skateboard on the floor. It landed with a rubbery thud, and then rolled toward the hallway.
    “What?” I cried. “You don’t like it, do you?”
    “I like it a lot. I just like more that you—I just like that you’re here.”
    “Wouldn’t miss it,” I croaked.
    He held out his arms to bring me in for a hug.
    I sat on his lap and hugged him back for a long time. He smelled clean and new like fabric softener. Miles used to smell like the beach.
    We pulled apart. We looked at each other. Everything seemed to be a blur.
    He kissed me. On the lips. I kissed him back.
    I ran my fingers through his hair. His shoulders were just as strong and firm as they’d been before the accident. I’d massaged them on lots of occasions, for fun, even to tease him after he’d surfed. But now was different. We pressed close together, and our kiss deepened, as if the harder we kissed, the less real Miles’s accident would seem. Nothing made sense. Our tongues touched. This is Miles , I kept thinking. Miles . He’s like your brother .
    But the kissing went on. Soon, I felt his fingers running over my shoulders, through my hair. We both sighed a little, into each other’s mouth. We kissed like that for a long, long time.
    His lips were softer than I’d thought they would be.
    Afterward I left the room and washed my face and made him lunch: microwave fried clams. He laughed.
    Then he sat in bed while we played a round of poker. Right, and a final crucial detail—
    We never talked about the make-out session again. Ever.

Megan
    W hen you clean mansions for a summer job, you’re invisible. You’re not supposed to speak unless spoken to. You just scrub the thousand-dollar furniture and launder the Prada clothes, and keep silent. It’s a requirement. That’s a big plus for me, right there. It’s probably the reason I’d decided to stay on, doing Jade’s job, cleaning up for tourists instead of working on the boardwalk. Mom has also asked me a million times to “help out” every single summer at the tourist board. To “help out” is a euphemism for answering outrageous phone calls