Sophie, my mother, and I stake out a spot right at the corner where the route turns off Seagate and onto Ocean Ave. This is the halfway point of the parade as it makes its way from the high school parking lot to the bandshell, and because they have to slow down and wait at the turn, most of the bands play a full song here.

While we’re waiting for the parade to begin, we tell Mom about Surf Sisters, and she’s almost as bummed as we are. This funk hangs over us until we catch sight of Dad’s band coming our way. The Founding Fathers are playing some Dixieland jazz number, and what they lack in precision and synchronicity they more than make up for with enthusiasm and ridiculous costumes.

My dad plays trombone, and I swear he picked it because it’s the goofiest looking instrument. He exaggerates his marching when he sees us, and it’s impossible not to laugh at him. We all shout and wave, and he responds with a wink and a long, drawn out blast from the trombone.

“Has he always been like that?” I ask my mom.

“Always,” she says. “He did the exact same thing when I waved at him during this parade back when he was in the high school band and I was your age.”

Sophie and I laugh at this, but as I watch Mom watching him, I can tell she’s flashing back in time for an instant. She smiles and I notice her cheeks have the same blush that Ben described in mine. It dawns on me that there was a time when my mom felt exactly the same way about Dad that I feel about Ben. I wonder if she had as many questions as I do or if she was one of those girls who had all the answers.

Our next highlight is when Sophie’s little brother marches by with the Cub Scouts. Unlike my father, there’s nothing silly about him. He’s the pack’s flag bearer and takes his responsibility with full patriotic seriousness.

“Way to go Anthony!” shouts Sophie.

He looks over at us and gives us a very grown-up nod. We respond with wild applause and cheering, and he can’t help but break into a little smile.

Behind the scouts is a group of Shriners in miniaturized sports cars. The tassels from their fez hats flap in the wind behind them as they race by and make figure eights in the street.

Next up is my least favorite float. It’s sponsored by Surf City and features Bailey Kossoff, the reigning champion of the King of the Beach surf contest. He’s sitting on a throne next to a fake palm tree, wearing board shorts, a royal cape, and a king’s crown. I’ve got nothing against him. I think he’s an amazing surfer, but I could live without all the Surf City bimbos in their bikinis who surround him and wave to the crowd. Of course Kayla is one of the girls, and when my mother sees her, she says something completely unexpected.

“I know I’m a teacher and I’m not supposed to talk about a student,” she says. “But since this is summer vacation and it’s just us girls, let me tell you something. I cannot stand that girl.”

This is completely out of character for Mom. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her say anything negative about a student in front of me.

“I’m serious,” she says. “Her mom was the same way when we were growing up. I tell you, the broom does not fall far from the witch tree.”

Sophie eats it up. “I’ve missed hanging out with you, Mrs. Lucas.”

“I’ve missed you, too, Sophie,” Mom says with a smile. “We should do this more often.”

I wonder if Mom made this unprecedented move because she has somehow become aware of my current situation. I don’t doubt that Kayla’s going to keep flirting with Ben, and my mother probably wants to give me a little boost. Before I can give it much thought though, we hear the sound of approaching snare drums.

“Here comes our girl!” Sophie says, pointing at the band.

Nicole may not always like the fact that she’s six feet tall, but it sure does help us pick her out of crowds.

“Check it out—she’s right next to Cody,” I say, noticing the lineup. “Maybe there’s something to be said for intervention-worthy stalking.”

Mom gives us a look but decides not to ask.

The band marches to the cadence from the drums until they come to a stop right in front of us. They are about to play a song, and since they’ve played the same six or seven songs at every football game we’ve ever attended, Sophie and I try to predict which one this will be.

“‘Hawaii Five-O,’” she guesses.

“‘A Little Less Conversation,’” I counter.

We only have to hear the first few notes before I’m flashing a broad smile and basking in the glow of victory. “Nailed it.”

The Pearl Beach High School Marching Panthers have been playing “A Little Less Conversation” for as long as anyone can remember. I wouldn’t be surprised if they began playing it the day after Elvis released the song. This is not a complaint, mind you. They play it because they completely knock it out of the park every time.

Just as we do at football games, we all sing along. It builds to a climax when we shout, “Come on, come on! . . . Come on, come on! . . . Come on, come on!” That’s when the trumpets reach their crescendo and the whole band starts marching again at our urging.

I really kind of love everything about Pearl Beach, if you haven’t noticed.

This is the first time I’ve seen Nicole perform since she switched to drums, and you’d never know that she hasn’t been playing them her whole life. She is so focused she doesn’t even notice us jumping up and down waving at her.

There are more Shriners—this group is on tiny motorcycles—and then the mayor rides by waving at everyone from the back of an antique car. Next we see Ben and the kids from summer camp marching alongside the float for the Parks and Recreation Department.

The kids are wearing various athletic uniforms and carrying sports gear to represent the many activities that the department sponsors. Apparently, though, some of them have gotten tired and handed their gear off to Ben. At the moment he’s carrying a surfboard, a baseball bat, a football helmet, and a bag of golf clubs. Considering that they’re only halfway through the route, you’ve got to wonder how much more he can carry.

“He’s going to pass out before the end of the parade,” jokes my mom.

I don’t know the proper protocol when your boyfriend (can I call him that? I think so) marches past you in a parade, so I just smile and do a coy fingers only wave when I see him. He’s trying to say something to me, but I can’t hear him over the revving engines from the tiny motorcycles.

“What?” I ask.

He rushes over to us, short of breath and frantic. “I need your help. Can you take this?” he says as he hands me the surfboard.

“You want me to take it to the shop and hold it for you?”

He gives me an incredulous look. “No, I want you to carry it alongside me and march in the parade.”

“You want me . . . in the parade?”

He looks desperate. “Yes!”

“You really don’t get the whole ‘introvert’ thing, do you?”

Before he can answer, he has to chase after a kid dressed as a football player who’s wandering off in the wrong direction.

I stand on the curb frozen by fear. I’m totally mortified by the idea of marching in a parade in front of, you know, people. That’s when I feel a hand push me from behind and make the decision for me. I stumble out into the street and it’s too late—I am in the parade. I turn around expecting to see that it was Sophie but am surprised to discover that it’s my mom.

“He asked you to help and he’s really cute,” she says. “Have fun.”

Fun?

I’m a little bit like a deer caught in the headlights until I see Rebecca, the shy girl from the surfing class. She’s dressed in a soccer uniform, holding a ball in one hand and waving to the spectators with the other.

“Hey, Izzy,” she says when she sees me there. “Isn’t this great?”

I’m not sure, but I think I just got schooled by the nine-year-old version of me.