Two Boys, a Girl, and a Sailboard

Chapter 16: Two Boys, a Girl, and a Sailboard

Summer 1994

Age 16

A week after the Chudley Cannons match, Annie knelt on the ground in front of the open tent, gazing at the two red-haired slumbering heads resting on the pillows in front of her. Her own tent was a few feet away from theirs, but she had been awake and out of it for hours by now. Impatient to get on with the day, she bent down to croon softly in George's ear.

"Wake up, you lovely great lump of a boy," she sang in a quiet, mockingly seductive voice.

She saw a flicker of a smile cross his face, followed by a brief, low, quiet sound that she almost didn't catch. Had it been a sigh? Or a moan?

That's strange, she thought. She'd been expecting a response more along the lines of a swat to the ears....

George smiled to hear her voice crooning so close to his ear. He was still smiling as his eyes blinked open and his gaze alit on Annie's upside-down head hovering above his. He saw an answering half-smile on her face, along with a puzzled expression.

It took about four seconds for George to realize the following things:

1. He was awake and, therefore, no longer dreaming.

2. He had, in fact, been dreaming moments ago. About Annie. And himself.

3. It had been a very vivid dream, and he was about to die of embarrassment if she happened to look in the wrong direction....

George quickly rolled over in his sleeping bag so that he was now lying on his stomach and buried his face in his pillow. This position felt uncomfortable, to be sure, but it was infinitely preferable to resembling a flagpole in front of her. He felt the mortification of it burning on his face, which he reckoned must now be a similar shade to his hair.

"Oh, come on!" she cried in frustration. "The tide is coming in now, and I want help to get the sailboard down to the beach. Get up already, you lazy git!" She shoved his face further into the pillow as she tousled his hair with her fingers.

"Just a minute. Let me stretch," he mumbled into his pillow. That's a pretty good excuse, right? Why this morning, of all mornings, did this have to happen to him?

He tried thinking of something else. But it didn't help that the image currently burned onto his retinas was Annie kneeling over him wearing shorts and a bikini top – a reality which meshed rather well with the dream he had been having. After a long, over-exaggerated stretch and roar of a yawn, he lifted his head. He saw that Annie now sat back onto her heels on the ground in front of him with her hands set on her hips. "What time is it?" he asked, attempting to stall a few moments more.

"Nearly eleven," she whined impatiently. "I've been trying to wake your blasted brother for about ten minutes now. He appears to be dead. Sorry for your loss, by the way. Then you started moving a bit, and I thought you might be easier to arouse, so I gave up on the corpse and began torturing you."

Arouse. Torture. Interesting choice of words, he mused. He filled his lungs with the sea air and blew it out again forcefully. The worst of the embarrassment had past, and he figured he could safely stand up now. He rolled himself over and sat up, legs still in the sleeping bag, his back to Annie.

Fred chose that moment to snort loudly and roll over, then returned to the stillness of the grave.

"If you promise not to fall back asleep, I'll give you some privacy," Annie giggled quietly.

George chuckled in return. "Not necessary. I fell asleep in my trunks last night." He crawled out of the tiny tent he shared with his brother. "I'm starved. What's to eat?" he asked through another yawn as he stood upright at last.

Annie tossed him a plastic bag full of scones, and he stuffed one whole into his mouth.

He had almost finished it when he began to explain, "The only reliable way I've found to wake Fred is with a forceful kick. Placement doesn't appear to be critical. Just be prepared to sprint for it once his eyes are open." He stuffed in another scone. "These are good!" he added, barely intelligible.

"Feel free to swallow before speaking next time, you troll," Annie teased.

"I'll remember that next time I try to give you a compliment, hag," he parried.

This is more like it – the teasing insults. Back to normal, he thought. Must have simply been some random, crazy dream, before. He'd certainly had some bizarre ones lately... involving a disturbing cast of characters, to boot.

He ate two more scones. "Want one?" he offered.

Her hand fluttered theatrically at her heart. "Such a gentleman!"

"Forget it then. More for me," he retorted, full of mock indignation.

She had probably already eaten, he figured. Judging by her wet hair, she'd already been swimming, too. He finished chewing the last of the scone as he watched her bend over to collect the mast and sail of the rented sailboard, lifting them to her shoulders and shifting their weight to find the right balance point.

"All right, no more excuses. I let you sleep late and fed you. Now make yourself useful and bring the board," she ordered.

"What a ray of sunshine you are this morning!" he replied.

She ignored him and started walking along the path that led to the beach.

"I thought this was supposed to be a vacation, not a forced labor camp!" he called after her.

Annie responded by flashing him a rude hand gesture over her shoulder without turning around.

Chuckling, he grabbed the board and jogged after her. His long legs caught up with her comparatively short ones quickly. The path to the shore from their campsite was level and didn't demand much attention, so his eyes and thoughts began to wander. His gaze kept roving back to look at Annie.

Suddenly this morning, for no reason he could quite understand, he had become hyperaware of her. He noticed, for instance, how she had grown a bit taller over the last year or so. Yet her body was still compact; the top of her head barely cleared his shoulders. And she had.... Well, there was no other description for it, was there? Annie had filled out, and quite pleasingly so.

His eyes grazed over her body, taking careful note of the many new and interesting features there. It lacked any hard edges or sharp angles anymore. He'd never paid attention before to the soft curves of her shoulders, waist and hips, or how they moved synchronously together as she walked. He caught himself staring at her buttocks as they moved rhythmically underneath her shorts with each step.

He shook his head violently in an attempt to scatter the unbidden thoughts. Forbidden thoughts. This is Annie, for crying out loud! the sensible, ethical part of his brain railed. She'd probably deck me if she knew what I was thinking just then. And for good reason!

What was wrong with him this morning?

Show some self control, man, he admonished himself silently. He now forced his eyes to stare straight ahead, above Annie's head, at the horizon line.

They reached the beach after a short walk further. Annie set the sail and mast down on the sand next to her towel and bag. He stopped a few feet away from her, still attempting to clear his mind.

"The sun is getting stronger this late in the morning. Best to slather up," Annie recommended.

She pulled a bottle of sunscreen out of her bag and started distributing it on her arms and legs. Stomach. Chest. Sweet bloody Merlin....

George tore his eyes away from ogling her and forced himself to stare out at the water, but couldn't completely help that his attention was still acutely focused on the movements he could still see out of the corner of his eye. Control, he sternly reminded himself once again.

"Your turn," she called and tossed him the bottle.

"No thanks, Mum. I'll pass," he said disdainfully as he threw it back to her. It was just habit to argue with her, really. What they always did, after all. Just like normal... and normal was good. Right?

"Don't be thick. Look at your skin, ghost boy. You'll fry to a crisp!" she scolded and tossed the bottle at him once again.

He rolled his eyes but decided she was probably right. He didn't fancy the idea of spending the rest of the week with skin on fire. She busied herself by rigging the sail onto the mast as he put on some sunscreen. He handed the bottle back to her after he finished.

"Here, turn around. I'll get your back, then you can do mine," she said.

She didn't wait for an answer, just spun him around on the spot and began rubbing the lotion across his shoulders, neck and back. He lost his self control momentarily – what little there seemed to be of it this morning, anyway – and allowed himself to relish the sensations of her impromptu massage.

Mistake! his rational mind screamed in panic. Recovering just in time to avoid humiliation, he slammed his curiously raging libido back behind iron bars. Control!

She finished spreading sunscreen on his back, then handed him the bottle once more. She stood in front of him now, facing away with her arms raised horizontally. Expectantly.

CONTROL!

He forced his hands to quickly spread the lotion across her shoulders. He could feel he was rapidly approaching the brink of mortal embarrassment the longer he touched her. He swallowed hard and paused for a moment, trying to think.

He cast around in his head for the most revolting thing he could think of. The smell of a Dungbomb? Flobberworms? Aunt Muriel? Yes, that would do: Aunt Muriel. The worst of the crisis was staved off for the moment.

"Don't forget this part," Annie requested. She was pointing to the small of her back, directing his attention there. The string from the tiny knot at the middle of her back dangled down onto her lovely golden....

No, wait... DUNGBOMBS! he shouted in his head.

No good. He closed his eyes and focused instead on the mental picture of Aunt Muriel in her lavender muumuu as he brusquely slopped sunscreen on Annie's lower back, dropping the bottle clumsily into the sand.

"Thanks," she said softly, looking back at him over her shoulder with an oddly apologetic expression.

They both bent down to pick up the pieces of the sailboard and dragged them to the water a short way. Working together, they began to fit the sail onto the board. Annie had positioned herself in front of him, her body bent a little over the board, leaning toward him. She held the board still in the water, braced against her thighs, and her... her.... George gulped. The view was spellbinding. He wasn't sure whether to thank God for bikinis or to curse Him.

George fumbled about, working the mast into the socket. Distracted by her alarming proximity and the flurry of inappropriate images now coming to mind, he smashed one of his fingers in the attempt.

Dungbombs! Frog spawn! But the reasonable voice in his head was growing more feeble by the second. The images, however, burned with disturbing intensity. Nothing was working to dispel the horrible rush of blood now, not even the throbbing pain in his finger. George felt an urgent need to get himself into deeper water.

"You can go first," he rushed to offer.

"Okay," replied Annie, shrugging her shoulders. She turned her back to him and started pushing the sailboard through the waves, out into deeper water.

George dove into the next wave, aiming himself at an angle away from Annie. The cold water helped him regain some measure of control over his renegade body, and he stayed under until his lungs were burning for another breath.

What the hell is wrong with me today? he asked himself yet again as he dove under the next wave. Some strange surge of hormones?

He surfaced once more and faced the shore. Fred was now standing there near Annie's pile of stuff. He swam back to join his brother, eager for distraction.

Fred had dug around in Annie's bag until he found the sunscreen and was dousing himself with it by the time George reached him. Together, they entertained themselves for a while by watching Annie teach herself through trial and error to stay upright on the sailboard. After several spectacularly hilarious wipeouts, she seemed to get the hang of it. Maybe it was the physical distance between them now, or perhaps the buffering presence of his brother, but George felt a welcome normalcy return to his mind and body once more.

Half an hour later, Annie cruised all the way back onto shore. Hopping off the board, she struck a body-building pose with her fists in the air and roared in triumph. "That was bloody brilliant!" she exclaimed as she flopped down on the sand in front of her audience, spraying them with icy, refreshing droplets of ocean.

"I agree," offered Fred. "Which part was more brilliant, George? The time she was thrown in headfirst? Or the one when she belly flopped?"

"I would have to vote for the time she flew arse over teakettle off the back end," he offered.

"Ah, yes. One for the highlight reels, that," Fred agreed as both brothers laughed heartily.

Annie indignantly stuck out her tongue, but then couldn't resist breaking into a good-natured grin, too. "Let's see you do any better, George."

George leaped up and ran toward the board. "Pay attention now, children," he called back to them.

They spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon similarly engaged. The boys caught on to the sailboard a bit faster than Annie had done, and they bragged incessantly about their consummate skill. She argued it was because their fat heads were better able to counterbalance the sail.

They took shelter from the worst of the afternoon sun at the movies in town nearby. All three agreed the mindless action film would be a far superior waste of their time than the romantic sap-fest that was also being offered. Afterward, they stopped at a market on their way out of town. Then it was back to the campsite for dinner. Annie whipped up an enormous pot of camp stew, which the boys devoured entirely.

"That was excellent!" offered Fred.

"Don't give her a compliment. It brings out the inner hag," George warned.

"In that case, it was a particularly putrid poison. I think I'm about to puke."

"Sod off, the both of you," snapped a smirking Annie.

"Didn't I tell you?" laughed George.

"Quite haggy," agreed Fred.

They lounged around the campfire late into the evening. Fred and George spent a good deal of time arguing amongst themselves whether or not Ireland could possibly make it to the Quidditch World Cup finals that summer.

Annie was well used to this sort of exclusive conversation between them by now. She didn't mind so much anymore. It was simply good to hear their voices again after the long school year of doing without. Unable to actively participate, she let her mind drift as she gazed alternately between the fire and the tiny scrap of a setting moon.

She was in trouble.

She couldn't deny it any longer: it was definitely a crush. What better word could describe the feeling in her chest, her stomach, her knees whenever she found herself lately in George's presence?

That morning at the beach had been a particularly excruciating spot of heaven, when she had been alone with him and inspired by an excuse to touch him. She felt guilty about that, now. Even more so for forcing him to touch her when she'd asked him for help with the sunscreen for her back. But oh – the rush of her heart and the surge of her blood when he had! Her body sang as it relived those moments.

Instantly, she was disgusted with herself. How pathetic! He could barely stand it – having to touch her – that much had been obvious. The look of utter distaste on his face had been perfectly clear. And she was paying for it now: the swath of burned skin across the middle of her back was painful enough that she'd be sleeping on her stomach tonight.

What could she do? Ever since Fred and George had begun leaving for Hogwarts every fall, she practically held her breath until the time they reunited with her each summer. There was no one else on the planet with whom she felt more comfortable, more relaxed, more at peace. It was ironic that as different as they were – from two separate worlds, practically – there was no one she was closer to (excepting her Gran, of course). She imagined, for just a moment, spending the summer days without them and instantly felt an emptiness inside that she thought would leave her for dead.

Misery to keep herself apart. Heart-wrenching torture to stay.

"That's it for me. I'm completely knackered," yawned Fred, interrupting her thoughts.

"You've only been awake for eleven hours!" George chided him.

"Your point?" Fred demanded.

"None. Forget it. You clearly need your beauty sleep," he chuckled.

George then turned to Annie. "You ready for bed as well?" he asked.

His soft, smooth voice sent a thrill through her. "I suppose," she replied as casually as she could manage.

Annie smiled to herself as she turned to crawl into her tent. Yes, this must be her own tiny little bit of heaven/hell, she thought. She would be replaying his voice repeating that phrase in her head all night long; of that she was sure.

On their second morning at the beach, Annie gingerly removed her shirt and had just begun to apply more sunscreen as George approached.

"Oi!" exclaimed Fred when he saw the angry red band across the middle of her back. "That must hurt!"

"Indeed, Captain Obvious," she answered sarcastically. "Your brother missed a spot yesterday."

"Git," Fred snorted. "Let me show you how it's done, idiot," he called to George, who had just reached them. "Pay attention now!"

George had been stalling that morning, trying to avoid being alone again with Annie. He rolled his eyes, but did in fact watch as his brother carefully spread the sunscreen over Annie's back. He cringed when he saw her flinch, heard her suck in a breath through her teeth as Fred tried to gently cover the burned skin.

"Sorry!" his brother muttered sympathetically, then continued rubbing his hands down the rest of her back. Back up to her neck. Now her shoulders.

If his brother didn't stop touching Annie soon, George felt he would be unable to keep from punching him. "Save some for the rest of us," he growled.

Fred smiled at him and winked, then handed the bottle to Annie. "Would you get mine for me?" he asked her, all innocence. Turning to face away from her, he grinned broadly at George and wiggled his eyebrows lecherously as Annie doused him with sunscreen.

George looked down at the sand. As difficult as it had been yesterday when Annie had touched him, when he had touched her – this was worse. A hundred times worse. He knew that he could not risk looking at Fred again. The urge to knock that leer off his face would be irresistible.

From now on, he would make sure that he and Annie got down to the beach before Fred woke. Yes, he decided, that would be better than this.

The next five days fell into a similar pattern. Mornings and early afternoons at the beach. Late afternoons in town. Suppers back at camp. Lounging by the fire before bed. Sleep. Repeat.

The last day of their trip came too soon. Annie kept her camera with her nearly the whole time that morning, alternately snapping shots of her friends around the campsite and on the beach, then riding the waves on the sailboard.

Fred stole it from her bag when she went out for her last turn on the board. He took a picture of George with his eyes crossed and nose pressed up like a pig's. Then he hiked down his shorts and took a picture of his own arse.

"Classy!" cried George.

He reached out and yanked the camera away from his brother before he embarrassed himself any further. Recalling the lessons Annie'd given him last summer, he pointed the camera out to sea. He chuckled to himself, knowing she'd be furious to find a sneaky, forbidden picture of herself when the roll was developed.

"Oh, yeah!" Fred encouraged him, instantly realizing what he was doing. "She'll be right pissed at that! Good one!"

He spun the lens to bring her into tight focus. George paused, staring at her for several moments through the viewfinder, arrested by the sight.

Annie was seated, straddling the board with her legs dangling in the water and her hands resting on her thighs, relaxing for a moment between waves. The colorful sail fanned out on the water's surface to her right. The sun glinted on the water beaded on her damp, golden skin, and she'd lifted her face toward it like the sunflowers in his mother's garden. Wet curls clung to her forehead, cheeks, and neck. There was a bright, contented smile on her face as she floated serenely on the waves.

It was a lovely scene. George swallowed the strange lump that had formed in his throat, then snapped the picture.

The three of them spent the afternoon laughing and joking with each other as they packed up the campsite and loaded Annie's truck. Then Fred drove them home.

They never let Annie drive her own vehicle, primarily because neither one of the brothers could fit on the seat when it was pulled up far enough for her feet to reach the pedals. They always made her sit in the center behind the gearshift on the floor, instead. It was an added perk that it reliably drove her batty – having to sit between them where they could take the mickey out of her mercilessly, and she had no escape.

Today, Annie's legs were forced to rest across George's lap the whole way home while her head was leaning on Fred's shoulder. George couldn't decide whether he or his brother had the better end of the deal. At least, with a week's worth of practice controlling himself, he was able to avoid further embarrassment. It took a lot of concentration, though.

Fred pulled off the road just onto the overgrown lane that lead to the Burrow and parked. The boys clambered out of the cab. George shut the passenger door and walked around the front of the truck to the driver's side.

"See you Saturday?" George asked, closing the door for Annie as she scooted the seat forward in order to drive.

"Nah. Gotta work. Sunday?" she offered.

"Can't. We're all going to pick up Harry then."

Fred had finished unloading all their gear from the back of the truck as they were talking. "See you, Annie!" he called, then banged an all clear signal on the side of the truck bed with his hand.

They both turned to look at Fred. Annie leaned out the window and waved goodbye to him. Fred turned and began trudging through the tall grass of the lane, which had been taken over in the years since the Anglia had been gone, headed to the Burrow.

"Oh, right – Harry's coming. Well, have fun at the big match. Hope this Krum bloke is as amazing in person as Fred seems to think," she said.

George turned back to her as she began to speak, only to discover her face was now inches away from his.

Krum? She said something about Krum? Are we talking about the Cup, then? George covered his disquiet with a dismissive snort. "We'll tell you all about it when we get back. Next Friday, then?"

"Okay. See you then. At the fort."

Several moments passed, and George still hadn't moved away from the door. Annie hadn't moved to restart the truck, either. They seemed frozen by each other's gaze, stunned by realization of how physically close they were after a week of careful avoidance.

"Are you coming?" Fred hollered impatiently.

That broke the spell. George shoved himself off the door of the truck, turned away and bent down to gather the stuff Fred had left behind. Annie was mortified to discover she had still been leaning out the window from when she'd waved at Fred, practically in George's face. She turned the key and drove off.

The following week dragged interminably for Annie. The sole bright spot, as well the most depressing, was when she had collected the photos of their trip from the developer.

Lying in her bed, she laid them out one by one on her quilt. Out of thirty-six frames, no less than twenty-five were of George. She was particularly angry with herself for taking the one of his sleeping face. He had looked so peaceful, so handsome that morning that she couldn't resist. It had crossed a line and she knew it. So far it was her favorite.

There were three near the end of the roll that were unexpected. One was of George mugging for a picture. Of course, Fred stole the camera when I wasn't around to guard it, she realized with a smirk. Another was a blurry, flesh-colored photo that could only be Fred's arse. Classic Fred, she chuckled to herself.

And then she saw the photo of herself on the sea. She was impressed by how well it was composed. The colors were vivid, the focus sharp. She usually hated photos of herself, but this one was different. Maybe because it's a candid? She was surprised by how... how happy she looked. Blissful, almost.

Another thought suddenly entered her head: which of the boys had taken the picture of her? The two previous shots were unquestionably taken by Fred, but was this one as well?

Or could it have possibly been George? A grenade of excitement exploded through her as she considered this option.

Could she afford to hope? Probably not. Could she resist? Unlikely.

When Annie met up with the boys again the following Friday under the willow, they were practically bursting with the tale of their adventure at the World Cup. She'd had nine years of experience following the tennis match that their conversations could become when they were excited, but this one was a bit hard to follow even for her.

Some poor git had eaten one of their trick treats. The Quidditch match had been unparalleled – Krum's performance was as spectacular as expected – but she would have to find out what a veela was, exactly. A riot of some sort had followed during the night. Then they launched into their plans for vengeance against a bookie who had cheated them.

She was exhausted from the heat as much as the animated monolog – or was that technically a dialog? – by the time they finished the tale.

"I'm roasting. Anyone else care for a swim?" asked Fred.

Annie looked at George, who she discovered was looking at her. He raised an eyebrow in question. She gave a small shrug and a tiny shake of her head.

"Nah," they both replied coincidentally in unison.

"Suit yourselves." Fred strolled off toward the river.

And then they were alone. What each of them hoped for at least as much as they dreaded, unbeknownst to the other. Neither could bring themselves look at each other directly.

Annie broke the silent, awkward standoff. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small envelope. "I made duplicates of the snaps from the trip. Thought you two might like some. They don't move, but they're not half bad." She had sharply edited the collection, of course.

George took the envelope and flipped through the photographs. The first one was of his brother and himself, cheeks bulging with breakfast, the tents visible over their shoulders. The next several were rather impressive action shots of each of the two of them riding the sailboard – Annie was a talented photographer. Here was another one with Fred in the midst of being toppled by a wave; he had to chuckle at that one. Another one of a beautiful sunset from their campsite.

Then came the stupid ones Fred had taken. He laughed out loud when he noticed she had given him both copies of Fred's arse portrait.

"I want him to autograph my copy before you leave," she explained, laughing with him.

"Oh, no, don't! He'll never let it go!" George begged her.

"Sorry. That's just too classic Fred," she giggled.

George turned back to the pictures. He knew which one should be next. He held his breath in hope as he looked.

And there it was: Annie floating on the sailboard. He didn't mean to stare at it for so long, but found he couldn't look away.

"Did you take that one, or was it Fred?" Annie asked quietly. She hoped her voice sounded casual. She stared out across the little stream.

"I did," he confessed, wondering why it felt so dangerous to do so. He had never hesitated to boast – usually in ridiculous exaggeration – in front of her before. And he'd told himself when he'd taken the shot that it had only been a prank to get her riled.

Annie's heart spun within her chest. After taking a few seconds to get herself back under control, she continued. "It's really good. The composition, I mean."

"Thanks," he mumbled, failing to notice she didn't seem angry with him for taking it.

He flipped through the final two pictures, not really seeing them. He replaced the stack into the envelope and set it carefully aside.

"Thanks. For the snaps, I mean. It was fun. The trip, I mean," he stammered. George wanted to punch himself for sounding so stupid.

"Yeah," Annie agreed awkwardly.

They sat quietly for a while.

"I'm going to miss you two," she confessed softly. She felt safe saying it, since she had said exactly the same thing for the past five years. She had a feeling it was even more of an understatement this time, however.

George nudged her shoulder with his own. "Cheer up. We always write."

She chuckled and shook her head. "Fred never writes, does he?"

"No, not really," George admitted. "I've been forging his signature for a couple of years, now. He's a self-centered prat, so what do you expect?"

She giggled and shrugged.

He reached out and patted her hand with one of his. For some reason, it mutinously remained there, refusing to return to its rightful owner. "I promise to write you," he added with half-mocking sincerity, hoping his teasing tone would excuse his silly bid to touch her.

"You're such a saint," she laughed.

"True. Destined for celestial paradise, me," George agreed, smiling.

"Via martyrdom, most likely," Annie teased him.

They laughed together for a moment longer. Then they heard Fred squishing and dripping his way back to where they sat. George let go of her hand and put the photos safely into his pocket.

"Come on, Annie, love. Give us a goodbye hug!" called Fred.

"No! Fred! Cut it out!" she squealed and tried to dodge his open arms without luck.

The three friends laughed. It was the last time they would see each other for two years.