The Slap Before the Storm

On the French Riviera, four high schoolers sweated their guts out on a beach. Waiting for a miracle to happen. 

To start off, these holidays were a blip in the system. You see, Conan's father owned a beautiful villa there on the coast. And every year when summer came, he occupied the house with jazz bands, beautiful people and laughter for months. A never-ending dream of music and life. 

Thus, during summer, Conan was prohibited from staying at the villa.

But a few days ago when they were still in their hometown of Lyon, Conan's big brother had called. Their father had left the house early and in a hurry because of, "some issues with a, friend, you know,"  had said Rian. 

After that, they were quick to book train tickets.

But today, they had woke up late. It was eleven when they hurried to the beach. The sun was now at its highest and hottest. And though the wind fooled people into staying longer, Conan was not fooled. His skin roasted despite many layers of sunscreen. They had played some ball, but the sun had drained them. On his lap, rested a used up book titled, "The Lazy Man's Way to Riches" by Joe Carbo. An old gem forgotten by everyone. He had spent sixty bucks and extra shipping to get his copy.

He broke their heat-induced coma.

“As the palest guy on this beach, my word counts,” Conan said. He turned to Lance. “And if you don't go talk to this girl now, it'll be time for the troops to fall back.”

He watched behind his sunglasses the few people who remained at such a murderous time of the day. Young married couples bringing their toddlers at noon, and girls tanning. So dizzy with heat they lost track of time. 

The four boys fit in neither categories. 

But right before they had decided to leave the beach, a group of French girls with expensive tastes had arrived. They sat a few towels ahead of them. Lancelot had crushed on a brunette with a seashell choker. 

“10 more minutes,” said Lance. Ali clicked his tongue, exasperated. After all, these girls were not his style. First off, none were Latina and second, they would not be able to stand Ali anyway. 

Marco had ditched his jealous girlfriend. "To hell with French girls. One was enough," he said. "And I can't play Clash of Clans with all this sun."

Ali grunted in approval. He wore multi-coloured, designer swim trunks. He was failing to bluff through his tells, and Marco was close to guessing his card. He was, after all, The Poker Master. 

Lance was smart too, with an ear for words and music. Like always, he played a rap until midway, got bored, and skipped to the next “I know she looked at me! And I know I can get her Insta. Just give me five more minutes."

Ali clapped his hands and turned to him. “Now look, you have to snap out of it man. She was looking at the lifeguard.” They all laugh, Ali the hardest. 

Four year old Conan and Lance were the first of the group to join the International School. Lance had told him that when they met, Conan did not know English yet and kept talking to him in Italian. Still, they became best friends. Later on in middle school, Ali and Marco arrived. Right away, the four clever boys knew their alliance would bring doom to the school. But they grew out of that too. What remained after strenuous years of heartbreaks and pimples, was no joke.

They were tall, and all facets of handsome. They couldn’t drink yet, but had already made considerable returns in cosmetic sales. Not that they needed money. Their families were more than well-off. Ali was the most hard-working, a future astrophysicist.  Marco, the Poker Master, would become a terrifying lawyer. Like his dad. Lance would either rise to stardom, or become the hacker that stole your data for money. Or both. 

Conan knew early-on he wanted to work in business. Exactly what, he did not know. But he was a great negotiator, had a knack for opportunities, and could tell when something smelled off.

They were friends with everyone, but stayed together. The Pack, as they called themselves in middle school. The name had stuck, and people still joked about it. Though recently, The Pack had changed. A girl called Zyra had started hanging out with them. 

Conan had tried reading. It might have helped distract him. But grains of sand speckled his greasy hands. The paper felt now uncomfortable to the touch. 

The sun was hot, the group was tired, and the speaker was dead. 

“Lance,” he finally said. “Is it truly your intention to talk to this girl?”

Lance looked annoyed. “Yeah. It is.”

They seemed extraverted enough. One had large, heart-shaped sunglasses. And though Conan could not see her eyes, he could feel that she was looking at him.

"Ok Lance," said Conan closing his book. "I'm not waiting any longer."

“Shut up. You're not my mom."

Conan checked the girl with heart sunglasses. “Oh yeah? Just watch Mommy and learn." 

And he gave the girl what she did not know she wanted.

A bright smile. So charming, so soft, girls stumbled. Unable to react. It was not a game, and neither an act. Just himself. This smile had given him much in life. Indeed, when he was young, it gave him many toys. Yet, he soon discovered smiling was not magic. He smiled and smiled and smiled, and his parents had still gone through with their divorce. But time had passed, and these days, his smile had much more interesting results. 

Giddy and swooned, she turned to her girlfriends. 

“Oh my God,” Lance said. “If another girl smiles at you I swear I’m going to smack your lobster neck.”

They were trying their best to act detached, but the girls were bubbling up. 

“You should thank that lobster,” Conan said. He grabbed the ball. Stood up. “Wait here guys."

“Are you really doing this,” asked Lance in jubilation.

“When I come back, get ready to play ball.”

“Bro you’re the boss no cap.” Ali said and smacked Conan's behind. 

“Damn that big ass of yours has some echo.” Lance said.

They all wheezed, half bent on laughter. Except Conan. He was walking towards the girls.  He stared at each one, as they turned around and met his gaze. Like a pride of lionesses, their drowsy eyes sharpened.

A handsome lion had dared to approach them. 

Almost at their level. He removed his sunglasses, and crouched.

“Hello ladies, how are you doing?”

The one with the sunglasses took the lead. She mirrored Conan and removed hers. “Good,” she said. “But it’s getting pretty warm. We were actually thinking of going home.”

“Oh I get it,” He pressed two fingers on his large forearm. They left a stark mark of sunburn. “I’m pretty cooked too as you can see.”

The girls laughed, and sunglasses-no-more girl touched his forearm.

To check for the sunburn. Yes?

While Ali and Marco watched the scene with a lazy eye, Lance was straining his ear. He could not hear what Conan was blabbering about.

A few seconds of giggles and head tilts. Then the mood changed. Lara turned to check her girlfriends. They exchanged intense looks. A serious debate. After some last words were exchanged, Conan returned to his encampment. His smile meant victory.

“Ok guys, they said yes. But first, we go get some smoothies at the beach bar. Ball is later.” 

The boys clapped. They were not surprised, but nonetheless impressed.

“And we pay for them,” Conan added. They whined. “What are you crying about, Ice Boy,” Conan said to Ali.

“I’m not even interested in these women."

"It's not about that," Conan said. "It's about making friends."

"Yeah," Marco said, almost snorting. "Friends. Like the type of friends your Dad has."

"Easy now with the jokes."

Lance stood up. Took Conan by the nape. Forehead to forehead. Emotion in his voice.

“Thank you Mamma Lobster.” 

SMACK!

Lance slapped his sunburnt back. Conan groaned, but laughed, “I don’t want to show the ladies we’re brutes, but I will end you when they’re gone.” He turned to Ali "And you too, ass man." They all snickered. Conan headed for the beach. “I’m going to freshen up.”

Lance followed him. "Why are you coming," said Conan. "You're the one who wanted the girl."

“I need to piss too.”

"Just go at the beach bar! And I don't need to piss."