Page 60 of The Beach Shack Summer
She disappeared into her room and came back holding something behind her back, grinning in a way that made Tyler nervous.
“Going to take surf pictures?” she asked innocently.
“That’s what I said.”
“Like this one?” She produced a square photograph with a flourish.
Tyler stared at the Polaroid in horror. There he was, sixteen years old, attempting to look cool while holding a surfboard that was clearly too big for him. But the worst part was the hair—a bleached-blond disaster that defied both gravity and good taste.
“Where did you?—”
“Margo. She gave it to me when I went for basil last week. Said you went through a ‘surf god phase.’” Stella studied the photo. “The puka shells really complete the look.”
“I blocked out the puka shells.”
“And the bleached tips?”
“It was 2004. Everyone had bleached tips.”
“Did everyone look like a radioactive pineapple?”
“Okay, that’s—” Tyler reached for the photo, but Stella danced back.
“She said you had a Polaroid camera? The one that took this?”
Tyler paused. “Yeah, actually. Think it’s in the closet somewhere.”
“Does it still work?”
“No idea. Haven’t used it in years.” He looked at her curiously. “Why?”
Stella shrugged, suddenly interested in the hallway carpet. “Just thought it might be cool. You know. Instant pictures. Retro or whatever.”
Tyler recognized the studied casualness—the same tone he used when trying not to care about something that mattered. “Want to look for it?”
“If you want.”
“Come on.”
The hall closet was an archaeological dig of Tyler’s life, made worse by boxes of Meg’s overflow office supplies stacked in front. They had to move three boxes of printer paper and a tower of manila folders just to reach Tyler’s stuff.
“Why does Meg need so many folders?” Stella asked, setting aside another box.
“Color-coded filing systems, apparently. Don’t touch the order or she’ll know.”
“She’ll know?”
“She has a system.”
“For closet boxes?”
“For everything.”
Twenty minutes later, they’d excavated enough to reach the back. Tyler pulled out a battered camera bag, dusty and forgotten.
“This is it?”
“Should be.” He unzipped it carefully. The Polaroid camera nestled inside, a vintage model that had seemed impossibly cool when he was sixteen. “Sun 660. Got itat a yard sale.”
