Page 92 of Bold

Brazen

Sixteen Years Old

“Are you going to stand up on the board or just lie there and fry all day?” After a few falls into the water, my elbows rest on my own board, and I kick through the water, nearing my lazy companion.

“You were the one who wanted to go surfing. I’m just here for your amusement.” Sunday sits up and throws her legs into the warm water, giving me a smug look. She hasn’t even attempted to ride a wave since we swam out here.

“Why did I even buy you the board?” I pull myself up and use the safety ropes to tie our boards together.

“I don’t know. Why did you?” She cups water into her hand and dampens her sun-kissed skin.

I feign helpfulness and splash water up at her. I laugh. She doesn’t.

“You’re the one who went on and on about wanting to learn to surf. I listen to you. Do you listen to yourself?”

“I say a lot of things, and I probably mean less than half of them. Especially when it comes to stuff like this.” She splashes water back my way.

“You’re impossible.” I shake my head.

“Impossibly brilliant,” she boasts.

“Impossibly irritating,” I correct.

I lie back on my board and join Sunday in sunbathing.

“Do you think we’ll still spend days like this when we’re out of high school and old?”

I crack my eyes open and look over to find her looking back at me. “Has the heat gone to your head? What has you all sentimental?”

“Don’t you ever think about it? What life will be like when third period isn’t the most important event of the day?”

This is about more than third period.

“I guess, yeah, but what has you thinking about it now?”

She slides off her board and into the water before resurfacing and pulling herself up onto mine. I shift to give her room, and she settles herself cross-legged in front of me, looking entirely too serious.

“My parents have been pressuring me about Saint Leo.” The Catholic university her parents have selected for her.

Sunday has never said it outright, but I know she doesn’t want to go to college there. Yeah, we’re sixteen, but they treat her more like she’s six, and if she doesn’t stand up to them, that isn’t ever going to change.

“Sunday, you need to–”

“I don’t want to talk about that. I just want to talk about what you think our lives will be like when adulthood comes calling. How do you see it?”

I’ll play along. “I’m going to own my own business,” I state, effectively enabling her tendency to push away the things she doesn’t want to talk about.

“Doing what? Are you going to be a professional beach bum?”

With my hands on either side of the board, I rock us enough to scare Sunday into thinking we’ll capsize. She shrieks, and I laugh.

“No, you mouthy brat. I don’t know what I want to do, but I want to work with my hands, and I want to be the boss. What do you want to do?”

“I want to be your boss.” Her smile is cocky as she teases.

“You can’t. You don’t listen to yourself or to me, huh? I just told you I was going to be my own boss. You can be my partner though.”

We could be bosses together.

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