My feet hurt from the scorching hot sand, and I’m bored out of my mind. After three days stuck in the car with Dad, my annoying little brother, and Dad’s new girlfriend Marleen, we’ve finally arrived at the campsite by Lake Bolsena. Thank goodness I have my own tent this year, so I don’t have to be around that stupid Eewout all the time. As soon as we park the car, I quickly set up my tent and slip into my new bikini. Marleen insists on slathering me with sunscreen from head to toe, and when I’m finally free, I sprint straight to the beach.

  Finally alone. I walk across the black sand. The sun burns on my pale skin. I walk slowly, only lifting my foot when the heat becomes unbearable. Man, this black sand is hot! Those prissy girls at school probably couldn’t handle this. Will I get blisters from it? … You can die from heatstroke. But of course, that won’t happen when the wicked stepmother smothers you in sunscreen every day. All that does is give me pimples. Maybe that witch does it on purpose.

  Two boys are windsurfing. They’re tanned from the sun and have long blonde hair. They look identical, probably twins. One of them waves at me with a grin and shouts something. Do they want something from me? They actually look kind of cute … I hesitate! But I’m bored to death! I wave back and dive into the water. Maybe this vacation will turn out to be fun after all.

  “Bonjour!” the waving boy calls out as I surface. Oh crap, they speak French! I wave back briefly and swim on. One of the boys is on the surfboard, while the other is standing chest-deep in the water. The one in the water starts rambling: “Blahdyblahdybabbeldebabbel…”

  I don’t understand a word of it. “Hey guys, I speak no French.”

  The boys burst out laughing. The one on the board sails over quickly and cheerfully calls, “You anglais?”

  “No, hollandais.”

  “You want surfing? I am Thibauld.”

  “My name is,” ugh, my stupid name, Ta!Ma!Ra! Gross… Let me think. “Tammie!”

  “Hi Tommy, je m’appelle Jean-Luc,” says the other boy. “Désolé, je n'parle anglais.”

  Well, this language barrier isn’t so bad after all.

  Thibault jumps into the water. The two show me how to climb onto the board and help me pull the sail out of the water. After a few falls, I get the hang of it. Surfing is actually pretty fun, and I think I might have a knack for it. But the water’s a bit cold. After about an hour, Jean-Luc or Thibauld—I forgot who’s who—the boy in the red wetsuit asks, “T’as froid, Tommy?”

  “Watte?”

  He points at me, shivers a little, and wraps his arms around himself. Oh, he’s asking if I’m cold. Do I play it tough? Nah, I’m really cold. “Yes, a little.”

  He takes off his wetsuit and helps me put it on. It doesn’t fit perfectly—boys’ size—but it’s better than nothing. I get to keep it on for the rest of the day, and the twins take turns wearing the blue wetsuit for half an hour each.

  Suddenly, it’s getting dark. Oh crap. I’m late for dinner. The father figure will probably have a sermon ready. “Guys, I have to go eat!”

  “Okay, à demain!” one calls out, while the other asks, “See you tomorrow?”

  “Yes!” I nod and dive into the water.

  When Dad sees his teenage daughter running up in an ill-fitting wetsuit, he’s just surprised.

  At night, I’m cozy in my own tent on my own air mattress. God, I’m so glad it’s vacation! Why are French boys so much nicer than Dutch ones? I’m thrilled that next year I’ll be done with those jerks at school. Even if it means going to the gymnasium. That means I’ll have to study, ugh! But those idiots are all headed to VMBO.

  The next morning at breakfast, Marleen says I have to return the wetsuit to the boys and then go shopping with her. I don’t feel like going to town at all, but she keeps insisting. Stupid cow! I walk to the beach with the wetsuit over my shoulder. The twins are already busy with their board.

  “Salut, Surf Girl! You go with us?”

  I want to, but I’ll get in trouble if I do. “No, sorry. Wicked stepmother makes me do the shopping today.”

  As I trudge back to the tents, I glance back. The boys look disappointed. Well, so am I.

  It’s already hot in the car. First, the witch wants to shop at the market. Guess who gets to carry everything? You got it. Back at the car, Marleen says, “I have a surprise for you.”

  She puts the groceries in the car and leads me through narrow streets. Suddenly, we’re standing in front of a watersports store. A huge shop with multiple floors. Marleen talks to the salesman, who turns out to be a Dutch guy, Pieter, who’s been living in Italy for three years. She googled him! Pieter takes me up a staircase to a mezzanine overlooking the ground floor, filled with wetsuits and diving gear. The kids’ sizes are “shorties,” like the twins’. The girls’ suits are, of course, all in candy colors. The wicked stepmother pulls a bright pink one off the rack.

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  “Oh no, I’m not wearing that!”

  Marleen starts to say something, but the salesman laughs. “Pink’s a bit too young for you, huh? Come with me, I’ve got something better.”

  He walks to a rack in the adult section. There are suits from all sorts of brands. Black and purple, yellow and red, blue. He rummages through and pulls out a black neoprene one. “This is an XXS, it should fit you.” Pieter holds it against my shoulder. It has long sleeves, and the legs come just above my ankles.

  “I think it’s too small,” says the mother substitute. “She’s still growing, and it needs to last a few years.”

  The salesman disagrees. “A good fit is really important. A wetsuit has to be snug, or it’s useless.”

  Blah blah blah. I think he just wants to get rid of it because no adult would fit into it. But it is my size. Then Marleen starts haggling over the price. Embarrassing! I snatch the suit from Pieter’s hands and dash to the fitting room. Curtain closed. Five minutes of wrestling. It’s harder than I thought! The twins’ red wetsuit was a size bigger. But once I’ve got it on, it feels amazing. Soft, much better than the stiff cheap kids’ suits, and it fits like a glove. I look in the mirror. Wow, I’m the lead in that creepy vampire movie. What’s it called? Underworld! Long black hair, shiny black suit. I do a few karate moves. Now I just need a black trench coat!

  I wait until I can’t hear Marleen haggling anymore. She’s already negotiated a good chunk off the price, so the stepmother’s happy too. Okay, time to muster some courage. I pull the curtain open.

  “Looks good on you, girl!” she says.

  And the salesman seems glad to be rid of this unsellable item. They have matching booties and gloves from the same brand. I try those on too. Lucky I’ve stopped growing into my feet. The smallest pair fits perfectly.

  “Should I pack it up, or do you want to keep it on?”

  “Duh! It took me an hour to get it on! Am I supposed to take it off now and wrestle with it again at the campsite?”

  Pieter cuts off the tags, and Marleen pays. As we leave the shop, I immediately regret it. It’s hot in the sun. Who walks around in a wetsuit on a scorching day? But I can’t go back to the shop. That’d be too embarrassing! With a red face, I follow Marleen.

  A boy whistles at me!

  “Filthy sexist!” yells stepmom.

  Does the witch really think he was whistling at her? That boy was looking straight at me! I should be mad at him, but… this suit does look good on me! I stand a bit straighter. Let them stare—who knows my butt in Bolsena?

  We drive back to the campsite, and it turns out Dad rented two surfboards for me. “I talked to Thibauld and Jean-Luc’s parents. They don’t have enough money for a second board. So I thought…” I cover my ears. I don’t need to know that!

  It’s a bit windy, and the powers-that-be are okay with me going surfing after lunch. The twins are already at it with their board.

  “Tommy, la Surf Girl!”

  That evening, I lie in my tent thinking. This was the best day of my life. I want it to stay like this forever. Even at the new school! I zip up the tent and walk in my pajamas to Dad and Marleen’s tent. They’re talking softly with a bottle of wine between them. “Dad, from now on, my name is Tommy.”

  Oof, that came out harsher than I meant! I run back to my tent and crawl into my sleeping bag. I’ve ruined it. What an idiot I am! It takes a long time to fall asleep.

  “FOOOOD!” My brother thinks I need to wake up. Bikini on, brush my hair, deodorant. I take a deep breath and crawl out of the tent.

  Dad and Marleen act like nothing’s wrong. Eewout still calls me Tamara. See! I just keep my mouth shut. After breakfast, I silently put on my wetsuit—it’s still a bit damp, which isn’t great. But once I’m in the water with the twins, my bad mood vanishes. There’s a light breeze. Perfect. I’m getting better at it.

  When it’s time for lunch, I hear Marleen call from the beach, “To the table!” No Tamara, but no Tommy either… I pull my board onto the shore and walk to the tent without taking off my wetsuit. Silently, I grab an Italian roll with chocolate spread. Dad and Marleen still act like nothing’s happened. Dad casually mentions they had coffee with the twins’ parents.

  “They’re from a village in the Cévennes,” says Marleen, “an hour’s drive from Montpellier. And they’re friends with a Belgian couple with two little girls, Maelle and Maelys, who are about Eewout’s age.” Great for him… I’ll only respond if you call me Tommy.

  That afternoon, and the next day, and the day after, I’m surfing, and Eewout is playing soccer. I only see the family at meals. The conversations are pointless, and I keep quiet.

  On the fourth day, it’s completely windless. We try, but we don’t move an inch. The boys give up after half an hour, saying it’s pointless. What a bummer! I lie flat on the board and paddle to shore. Marleen’s standing there with a stupid grin. Turns out she arranged with the French and Belgians to go to some village in the afternoon, to the “park of monsters.” I make a face, but Jean-Luc calls out, “Tommy, Bomarzo! La parc des monstres! La parc, Tommy, c’est magnifique! Tu l’aimerais!” Yeah, yeah, blah blah. But his brother looks excited too. And Eewout doesn’t want to go at all. Maybe it’s worth checking out.

  Eewout whines the whole ride. Brat! But once we’re at the park and he sees the crooked house, he forgets his bad mood. “Tag, you’re it!” and he runs inside. Screw you! I chase after him, slipping on slanted floors, dodging weird walls. I lose my balance and tag the Belgian mom. She laughs and shouts something I don’t understand. We run around the crazy statues in the park all day. Even the Belgian girls have fun. That evening, we eat at a roadside diner with fluorescent lights and plastic tablecloths. The lasagna is delicious. Dad says, “Tommy, pass me the parmesan.” Yes! I win!

  The next few days are windless too. We “les trois familles” go on trips to the crumbling village of Bagnoregio, the creepy catacombs of the side-by-side churches in Bolsena, and other local attractions. Dad and Marleen stay up late every night, drinking wine and laughing with the twins’ parents and the Belgian couple. My French is getting better. By now, everyone at the campsite calls me by my new name. Except Eewout. He refuses. But he doesn’t count. He’s only doing it because he knows it bugs me!

  After a windless week, a strong breeze picks up. Finally, surfing again! I put on my wetsuit, complete with booties and gloves, and run to the board rental. The twins are already there. We hit the lake. It’s windier than ever, and the boys show me how to pick up speed. It takes some getting used to, but soon I’m zooming over the waves as fast as my friends. No, not boyfriend friends! They’re only twelve. They’re nowhere near ready for that.

  It starts to rain. The boys want to head to shore. Not me. It’s not cold, and we’re already wet. And if a girl keeps going, the tough French boys can’t stay behind. So we keep at it.

  But the rain gets heavier, and the wind picks up. Suddenly, it’s hailing! Ouch! A big hailstone hits me on the head! We head back to shore. Crazy how fast a storm can hit here. The hail pelts my suit and sail. With my eyes half-closed, we race to shore as fast as we can. We don’t see the waterspout coming. Even if we had, we couldn’t have done anything. We’re sucked up and tossed around for minutes. As suddenly as the storm started, it stops. I fall from the sky with a thud. My board is broken, and I’m bruised all over, but I don’t think anything’s broken.