“So instead of I try smoke it, give me five instead.”

He hooted at her impudence, then fished in the pocket of his shorts, found his ragged wallet, and handed her a wet five-dollar bill.

“I was joking. I don’t want your money. I got one job.”

“Where you working?”

“Sunset Grille, waiting tables.”

He pinched the joint and slipped the roach into his shirt pocket. “What about a beer?”

“I never drink. Anyway, you don’t want to see it. I come all red in the face, can hardly breathe. You know pakay—bad drinkers.”

“So what do you do for fun?”

“Family.” She slapped the board. “And this.”

“You need to bend your knees more. And lean into the nose of the board. And keep your feet farther apart.” He turned to face the surf. “Too much west in the wave. It’s closing out at the corners. You need to compensate.”

“The big expert,” she said.

He laughed at her defiance, but he was struck by the smoothness of her skin, her hairless arms sparkling with salt crystals, her tiny wrists, her lovely neck. He said, “No. But I know a few moves.”

Now he touched her hand with his pale water-soaked finger and traced her salty forearm to the crook of her elbow and up her brown biceps, and as he did he sensed her stiffening, her shoulders rising, her mouth going grim.

“Not that either,” she said.

He pulled his hand away as if he’d been scalded. He was thrown, her flat voice like a reprimand, the worse because she was so small yet so severe, as though with that touch he’d violated her. And what? Just a friendly poke on her arm.

“I wasn’t suggesting anything.”

She shrugged. “I don’t like people touch me.”

“I’m Joe,” he said.

“I know. Sharkey. I seen you shredding Rocky Rights.” She faced him, squinting when the last of the sun caught her gaze. “I’m May.”

She picked up her board, struggled to keep it under her arm, and muttered something he took to be sarcastic as she walked up the slope of the beach.

“Girl Scout.” It was Skippy, approaching him with a can of beer in his fist.

“What’s wrong with Girl Scouts?”

“No action.”

“You know, that might be cool—the best thing in the world for me,” Sharkey said. “Not a contest.”