“Now, before I embarrass myself, you do call it pizza, right?” he asks. “It’s not going to be another ‘pop’ situation, where it turns out I’m using the wrong word again?”

He’s funny. I like funny.

“No,” I tell him as we pull into the parking lot. “But if you really want to sound like you know what you’re doing, just say that you want a couple slices of Big Lu.”

“What’s Big Lu?”

“It’s short for Big Luigi, a pizza with everything on it. It’s the house specialty, and trust me when I say that you’re going to want to order it.”

“You’re telling me it’s good?”

“No, I’m telling you it’s life changing.”

“Life-changing car wash pizza?” he says as we get out of the car. “This should be interesting.”

Luigi’s still has the shape and design of a car wash, which is part of its charm. (It’s also part of the legal requirements that protect it.) As we walk up to the counter to order, I’m suddenly extremely self-conscious. I’ve never been on a date before—and I’m not sure this would even qualify as one—but I am walking into Luigi’s with a guy and I don’t know all the protocols. In fact, I don’t know any of the protocols. There’s no line, so we go straight to the counter.

“I’ll have a couple of slices of Big Lu and a—” He almost says “pop,” but he catches himself and says “soda.”

Then he says something that surprises me.

“And whatever she wants.”

I wasn’t expecting him to pay for my lunch, but I think it’s a check in the “it’s kinda, sorta like a date” column.

“I’ll have the same,” I say.

The cashier rings it up, gives us two cups and a number to take to our table. Ben makes another “is it soda or pop?” joke as we get our drinks, and then we sit down in a booth. I have been in Luigi’s a thousand times before, but I have never felt more like a fish out of water in my entire life.

“How long have you lived in Pearl Beach?” he asks.

“Born and raised,” I answer. “Third generation. By the way, we usually call it PB.”

“More lingo,” he says with a nod as he sips his drink. “So far I’ve learned ‘soda,’ ‘Big Lu,’ and ‘PB.’ Pretty soon I’ll be fluent, which is important considering that I’m a native.”

I give him a look. “I think you’re getting ahead of yourself. You ordered two slices of pizza. That hardly makes you a native.”

“No, no, no,” he tells me. “It’s legit. I was born here.”

“You were born in Pearl Beach?” I ask skeptically.

“Nope,” he says. “I was born in PB. See, I’m using the lingo.”

I laugh. “Now you’re messing with me.”

“Actually, I’m not. I was born the summer after my father finished law school. This is where Mom grew up, and since his job didn’t start until the following January, they came here and stayed with my grandma. That way they could save money and my dad could study for the bar exam. I lived here for the first six months of my life.”

“Well then, I guess that means there’s an islander in there somewhere,” I joke. “We’ve just got to shake off some of the Wisconsin that’s covering it.”

“Watch what you say about Wisconsin,” he says with mock indignation. “That’s America’s Dairy Land.”

“I didn’t mean to imply anything negative.”

“You better not. There are a lot of important things that come out of Wisconsin.”

“Is that so?” I say playfully. “Like what?”

“Okay,” he replies, perhaps a little caught off guard. “I’ll list some of them for you.”

He pauses for a second, and I impatiently cross my arms.

“Harley-Davidson motorcycles . . . and custard.”

“Custard?”

He makes the happy delicious face. “You haven’t lived until you’ve had the custard at Babcock Hall.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“And the Green Bay Packers. Everybody loves the Packers.”

I shrug.

“And don’t forget milk. Without which we would not have our wonderful smiles.”

He flashes a smile, and I have to admit that I am sold.

“You’ve got me there,” I say.

I don’t know if it’s because of the back and forth nature of the conversation or all the endorphins released by the incredible aroma of pizza that fills the air, but I’m actually feeling more relaxed.

“So we’ll accept that Wisconsin is amazing and wonderful. But since you’re stuck with us for the summer, what exactly does your job with the Parks and Recreation Department entail?” I ask.

“I think I’m responsible for anything that no one else wants to do,” he says with a laugh. “There’s a lot of scrubbing and cleaning. More than a little mowing. And, starting Monday, I’m one of the counselors for the summer day camp. That should be great—four days a week with a bunch of screaming kids trying to torment me.”

“I did that,” I tell him.

“You were a counselor?”

“No. I was one of the screaming kids who tormented the counselors. It was a lot of fun.”

“The schedule’s insane,” he says. “Every day it’s something different. We’ve got kick ball, soccer, swimming, and we’re even going to the golf course once a week.”

“Don’t forget Surf Sisters,” I say.

“We’re going to Surf Sisters?” he asks.

“On Tuesdays campers will learn respect for the ocean, beach safety, and the fundamentals of surfing,” I say, quoting the brochure.

“I thought that was at a place called Eddie’s Surf . . . something or other.”

“Steady Eddie’s Surf School,” I say.

“That’s it.”

“Surf Sisters is actually run by two sisters, and Steady Eddie was their dad,” I explain. “They are one and the same.”

“That’s great news,” he says with a smile. “Does that mean you’re going to be our surfing instructor?”

I try to hide my disappointment as I tell him no.

I leave out the part about how I was supposed to be the instructor but pawned it off on Sophie because I didn’t want to deal with all of those screaming kids. Of course, it had never dawned on me that I would want to deal with their dreamy counselor.

“That’s too bad,” he says. “We could have chased them together.”

This development puts me in a funk for a little while, but it’s nothing that two slices of Big Lu can’t cure. During the rest of the conversation we talk about his hometown and high school. I figure if I let him do most of the talking, I will not put my foot in my mouth, as I’ve been prone to do in the past. This strategy seems to work, because we keep talking even after we’ve finished eating, which is pretty cool.

I try to resist my natural instinct to overanalyze every little detail, but I can’t help but look for any hint that he might be interested in me. He’s good about eye contact; it’s not piercing and creepy but he stays engaged. Never once does he make more than a casual glance at the game playing on the big screen TV behind me. Better yet, there are a couple of sharky girls at the next table. They’re cute and giggly, and I think more than a little loud on purpose trying to get his attention, but he seems oblivious to them.

“Don’t you think?” he says, and I realize that I have no idea what he’s talking about. (How’s that for irony? My analyzing how engaged he is made me zone out.)

“Totally,” I say, hoping that it makes sense based on the question. Fearful of continuing to talk about a subject of which I am unaware, I decide to change the topic. “So how’d you end up here for the summer?”

It didn’t seem like a trick question when I asked it, but his expression makes me rethink this. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry.”

“No, it’s nothing secret, just a little sad,” he says. “My parents are getting divorced and it’s really ugly. There are lawyers and screaming arguments, and my mom was worried that it might scar me for life, so she arranged with Uncle Bob for me to come down here and work with him.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that. A few of my friends have had their parents get divorced, and it was hard on them. I’m so lucky that mine are happy together.”

“The worst part,” he says, “is that my dad is being a total jerk. I don’t get it. He’s being so mean to her, and I wish I were up there because I want to be there for her. But she thought this would be best for me.”