[English] SECOND CHANCE SUMMER

Second Chance Summer
Page 20



As I sat at the table now and watched my dad flip through his papers, I started to get the claustrophobic feeling that I was getting more and more lately—like I needed to get out but had absolutely nowhere to go.

“How are you doing on that?” my father asked, and I noticed him trying to read my crossword puzzle upside down.

“I’m stuck on this one,” I said, tapping my finger on the empty boxes. “A thirteen-letter word for ‘change.’”

“Hmm,” he said. He leaned back in his chair, frowning, then shook his head. “I’ve got nothing,” he said. “But maybe it’ll come to me. I’ll keep you informed.” He pushed himself back from the table and stood up. “I’m going to run some errands in town, kid,” he said. “Want to come?”

“Sure,” I said, automatically. It definitely sounded like more fun than pointlessly surfing the Internet, which was what had pretty much been on my afternoon agenda now that trailing behind my father was no longer an accepted option. I headed inside to get my shoes.

When I met him out on the driveway, my dad was standing by the driver’s side and tossing the Land Cruiser keys in his hand. I walked across the gravel, feeling the rocks through the thin rubber of my flip-flops, and stopped in front of the hood.

“All set?” my father asked.

“Sure,” I said slowly, adjusting the canvas bag over my shoulder. I couldn’t help but think about the pill bottles that were lined up on the kitchen counter. I had no idea what they were for—or what the side effects were. My dad hadn’t driven, as far as I knew, since the morning we left, when he showed up to get me and took me for bagels. “Do you want me to drive?” I asked, realizing I didn’t know how to phrase the question I wanted to ask. My father waved this away and started to open the door. “I mean… ,” I started. I could feel my heart beating fast. Criticizing my father—or questioning his judgment—was something I had absolutely no experience doing. “Is it okay for you to be driving?” I said it quickly, just trying to get the words out.

The sentence hung between us for a moment and when my father looked across the hood at me, his expression told me that I had overstepped. “I’m fine,” he said a little shortly. He pulled open the driver’s side door, and I walked around the hood to the passenger side, feeling my face get hot.

We drove in silence down our street for several minutes before I broke in. “So what are these errands?” I asked. I could hear how my voice was unnaturally cheery, not really sounding like me, and I realized it was probably the vocal equivalent of Warren’s strained smile.

“Well,” my father said, and I could tell by the way he glanced over at me with a quick smile before rolling to a stop at a stop sign, that he’d gotten past my comment and wanted to move on as well, “your mother has requested some fresh corn for dinner tonight. I need to pick up the mail. And…” He paused for a moment, then looked back at the road. “I thought you might want to stop by the Clubhouse. Maybe apply for a job.”

“Oh,” I said. “A job.” I looked out the window, feeling embarrassment wash over me. So he’d noticed that, unlike Warren and Gelsey, I had no talents to occupy my time with. Unfortunately, I also had no work experience—I’d spent the most recent summers doing things like service projects, language immersions, and going to camps in which I had to dissect things.

“You certainly don’t have to,” he said as we got closer to Lake Phoenix’s main street—called, creatively, Main Street. “It was just a thought.”

I nodded, and as my dad made the right turn onto Main and swung into a parking spot, I turned over his words in my head. I knew I couldn’t just keep hanging out at home with nothing to do. And, frankly, I didn’t see many other options. “Okay,” I said, shouldering my bag as we got out of the car. I shut my door and I tipped my head toward the Clubhouse building, where the Lake Phoenix administrative offices were. “I’ll give it a shot.”

My father smiled at me. “That’s my girl,” he said. I smiled back, but even as I did, I could feel an immediate, almost panicky reaction. I wanted to freeze this moment, keep it from moving on, dip it in amber somehow. But just as I thought this, my dad was already looking away, starting to walk up the street. “Shall we reconnoiter in thirty?” he asked.

I glanced down at my watch. Back home, I almost never wore one, because I always had my phone with me. But aside from a few awkward text exchanges with acquaintances that I’d resorted to in extreme loneliness, my cell had been quiet. And since I hadn’t felt I needed constant proof that nobody was calling me, I’d taken to leaving it in my room, which meant that I needed some other way to tell the time. “Thirty,” I echoed. “Sure.” My dad gave me a nod before walking up the street to Henson’s Produce, no doubt on a mission to get my mother her corn.

I turned and headed toward the Clubhouse building, wishing that I’d straightened myself up a little more that morning. I was wearing what had, after only a few days, become my de fac*****mmer uniform—cutoff jean shorts and a tank top. I was worried that this outfit, coupled with the fact that I had never held a job before, might seriously impair my chances of getting hired. But as I stood in front of the wood-paneled building, with the painted Lake Phoenix design (a phoenix rising from the lake, water dripping from its wings while the sun rose—or set—behind it) on the window, I realized that there was nothing to do but to give it a try. So I straightened my shoulders and pulled open the door.

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Fifteen minutes later, I had a job. I stepped back out into the sunlight, blinking at it before I slipped my sunglasses back on, feeling a little bit dazed. I now had three white Lake Phoenix employee T-shirts (the cost of which would come out of my first paycheck), an employee handbook, and instructions to show up for work at the beach in three days. Jillian, the woman who was in charge of the hiring, had told me repeatedly, even as she looked over my application and scrolled through the options on her computer, that I was much too late in the application process to expect anything great—or, for that matter, anything at all.

The Lake Phoenix administrative offices were bigger than I’d expected—I’d never spent much time in the Clubhouse, except for when we’d occasionally gone for brunch on Sundays, Warren and I staying put for what felt like hours before getting permission to leave and running for the beach. I finally located the employment office, which placed the teenagers of the summer community in jobs around Lake Phoenix—lifeguarding, working at the beach or pool snack bar, teaching seniors yoga. Most of the kids I had known had gotten their first job—usually doing something low on the seniority ladder, which always seemed to mean cleaning bathrooms—at fourteen, and the jobs got better the older you got. If I’d continued to come to Lake Phoenix in the summers, I probably would have had my first job years ago. Instead, the “work experience” section of my application had been embarrassingly empty.

But Jillian had finally come up with a job—there was an opening at the beach. The job description had been very general, which was slightly worrying to me, but Jillian said that since I didn’t have lifeguard training or much sailing experience, it would most likely be at the snack bar. And since she hadn’t mentioned that cleaning bathrooms was in any way a job requirement, I’d accepted. I’d filled out my payroll and tax forms, and had gone from having no plans for the summer to discovering that employment comes with T-shirts.

Now, standing out in the early afternoon heat of Main Street, I realized I had some time to kill before I had to meet my father. I stopped into the tiny Lake Phoenix library, renewed my card, and checked out three paperback mysteries. I was tempted just to hang out there for a bit, soaking up the air con***ioning, but also wanted a chance to wander up Main Street.

Lake Phoenix’s commercial district was pretty small, just the length of one street. There wasn’t even a movie theater. To see movies, you had to drive twenty minutes to the next town, Mountain-view, and the Outpost, a combination movie theater/miniature golf course/arcade that we’d gone to whenever it had rained. But Lake Phoenix only had a single stoplight, a gas station, and handful of stores. There was The Humble Pie, and next to it, Henson’s Produce. There was Sweet Baby Jane’s, the ice cream parlor where Gelsey had never ordered anything except a strawberry shake, and a hardware store. There was the Pocono Coffee Shop, which everyone always just called “the diner,” and a store, Give Me A Sign, that specialized in personalized signs for houses.

As I continued up the street, I found myself automatically noticing the new stores, every time one didn’t fit with what I expected to be there—but then I would also find that I couldn’t remember what had been there before. A pet store/dog grooming parlor, Doggone It!, was definitely new, but looked pretty empty, except for a redhaired girl behind the counter, turning the pages of a magazine. I had made it almost to the end of Main Street when I found myself in front of another new store, Borrowed Thyme. It looked like it was a bakery—there were loaves of bread stacked in a display in one of the plate-glass windows, and a beautiful layer cake in the other. My stomach rumbled just looking at them, and I was peering past the cake to see farther into the shop when I became aware of someone clearing their throat behind me. I turned and saw a peeved-looking older man, wearing an overlarge Phillies baseball cap and a scowl.

“Going in?” he barked, nodding at the door that I now realized I was blocking.

“Oh,” I said. “Right.” I pulled the door open, holding it for the man, who grunted in response as he made his way inside. I was about to just close the door and head back to meet my dad when curiosity got the best of me. Also, I could feel the air con***ioning from the doorway and smell that wonderful bakery smell—freshly baked bread and buttercream icing. I stepped inside, letting the door slam behind me.

It was cool and darker inside, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust after the brightness of the street. I could see, as things came into focus, two small wooden tables with matching chairs by the windows, and a glass-topped counter that ran almost the width of the shop. Pastries and cookies were displayed beneath it, and behind the counter was a baker’s rack stacked with the bread that I had been able to smell from the street. My stomach grumbled again, and I started thinking that maybe I would get something small, just to tide me over until lunch.

There was nobody behind the counter, and the man in the Phillies cap didn’t seem too pleased about that, as he kept whacking the small silver bell on the counter loudly, in between mutterings about shoddy service. I took a step closer to check out what looked like a raspberry coffee cake, when I noticed, lying on the glass-topped counter, a pencil across it, that morning’s Pocono Record, folded to the crossword section. I took another step closer, trying to see if this person had had any more luck that I had with 19 across. As I leaned over, the man whacked the bell once more, hard, and a voice came from the back.

“Just a moment!” the voice called. “Be right with you.”

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“I won’t hold my breath,” the man muttered, turning to me for agreement. But I had frozen in place. It was a voice I recognized. I glanced at the door, wondering if I had enough time to make it out without being spotted. I was thinking that I just might, when the metal door behind the counter swung open and Henry stepped out.

Chapter eight

HENRY JUST STARED AT ME, AND I LOOKED BACK INTO HIS GREEN eyes, feeling the sudden urge to break into hysterical laughter, because it was beginning to seem like I couldn’t turn around in Lake Phoenix without running into him. The man looked between us, frowned again, and whacked the bell once more.

This seemed to snap Henry into action. “Sorry about that,” he said quickly, as the man harrumphed. “What can I get you?”

“Been waiting out here,” the man grumbled. Now that he had someone to wait on him, rather than ordering, he appeared to want to use his time to complain about the lack of service.

“Sorry about that,” Henry repeated, with the exact same inflection, and I could feel myself start to smile. To hide this, I bent down to look in the case, where there were rows of small iced cookies, cannoli, and brownies. But only half my attention was on the (admittedly delicious-looking) desserts. I snuck a glance at Henry as he nodded, appearing to listen as the man vented at him. He was wearing a light green T-shirt with his jeans. It had the Borrowed Thyme logo in black across the front and a dusting of flour on one shoulder. I realized I was surprised to see him working there, which was fairly ridiculous, since I clearly knew nothing about him now. But when I’d known him before—and seeing him in the woods had confirmed this—Henry had always seemed most comfortable outside. And on the rare occasions over the last few years when I let my thoughts drift back to Lake Phoenix and the people I’d left up there, I’d always imagined Henry doing something outdoors.

The ding of the register brought me back to the present, as Henry handed the man his change and slid a green bakery box across the counter. “Thanks,” he said, his tone still blandly professional. “Have a nice day.”

“Yeah,” the man grumbled, taking the box and heading out of the shop. It wasn’t until I turned back to the counter that I realized it was just me and Henry, alone in the bakery.

I looked at him, then down at my outfit, wishing for the second time that day that I had pulled myself together a little bit more. But then I dismissed the thought. He’d already seen me straight out of bed, scratched up in the woods. And anyway, it seemed like Henry had some blond girlfriend. Not that I cared about that.

“So,” Henry said, shaking his head. “I think we should stop meeting like this.”

“Do you work here?” I asked, then immediately cursed myself for my stupi***y. Of course he worked there. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be standing behind the counter, waiting on irascible Phillies fans. “I mean,” I corrected immediately, trying to make it sound as little like a question as possible, “you work here.”

“I do,” Henry said, and I could see a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. Clearly, my attempts at correcting my blunder syndrome had not been successful. “It’s my dad’s bakery.”

“Oh,” I said, not quite able to conceal my surprise in time. Henry’s father, from what I remembered, had been like mine, one of the many fathers in suits getting off one of the buses on Friday nights, briefcase in hand. I glanced around the bakery, trying to reconcile these two things, and failing. “But,” I started after a moment, “I thought he used to do something with banking?”

“He did,” Henry said, his tone clipped and final, and I immediately regretted asking my question. His father had probably lost his job, and Henry didn’t need me to point this out. “He says it’s the same principle,” Henry added after a moment, his tone softening a little. “Still trying to get the dough to rise.” I groaned at that—it was the kind of joke my father would make—and Henry gave me a tiny smile in return.

Silence fell between us, and then Henry stuck his hands in his pockets and cleared his throat. “So what can I get you?” he asked, back to sounding detached and professional.

“Right,” I said quickly, realizing that I was a customer in a shop, and the fact that I was supposed to know what I wanted should not have been such a shock to me. “Um…” I saw a platter of cupcakes with multicolored pastel icing, and I immediately looked away from them. Cupcakes reminded me all too much of my birthday, the slapdash celebration, the news about my dad. Searching for something—anything else—I tapped on the case in front of the next thing I saw. “A dozen of these.” I looked closer and saw that what I’d just pointed to were, unfortunately, oatmeal raisin cookies. I hated oatmeal in all forms, but especially when people tried to dress it up as a dessert; Gelsey refused to eat raisins, and none of the rest of my family had ever been huge fans. I had just ordered a dessert that nobody at our house would most likely eat.

“Really.” Henry didn’t exactly phrase it as a question, and he raised his eyebrows at me. “Oatmeal?”

I just stared at him for a moment. There was no way Henry remembered that, five years ago, I hated oatmeal cookies. It just wasn’t possible. “Yeah,” I said slowly. “Oatmeal. Why?”

“No reason,” he said as he took down another green bakery box from the shelf behind him and began transferring in the cookies two at a time. “I just didn’t think you liked them.”

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“I can’t believe you remember that,” I said, as I watched the bakery box slowly fill with the World’s Worst Cookies.

“My dad calls me the elephant.” I just looked at him, not at all sure what to say to this, when he explained, “They’re supposed to have really long memories.” He reached toward the front of the tray to get the two remaining cookies. “I don’t really forget a lot,” he added quietly.

I was about to nod when the double meaning of this hit me. Henry hadn’t forgotten the kind of cookies I hated five years ago, but that also meant he hadn’t forgotten the other things that I had done.

He’d put all the oatmeal cookies into the box, and he straightened up and looked at me. “Only had eleven,” he said. “Can I give you one chocolate chip instead?”

“Yes!” I said, probably a little too eagerly. I thought I saw him smile as he bent down again and placed the lone chocolate chip in the box, tucked in the lid, and pushed it across the counter to me. He rang me up, and I noticed when he gave me back my change, he held the bills at the very ends and dropped the coins into my palm, as though he was trying to make sure that we didn’t make any accidental contact. “Well,” I said, when I realized there was nothing to do except take my bakery box and leave, “thanks.”

“Sure,” he said. His eyes focused on my shoulder, and he frowned slightly. “What’s with the shirt?” he asked, and I saw he was looking at my canvas bag, which had one of my new employee T-shirts peeking out of the top.

“Oh,” I said, pushing it down a bit farther, “I just got a job. Beach snack bar.”

“Really?” he asked, sounding surprised. It was definitely a question this time.

“Yes,” I said, a little defensively, until I realized that he would have no idea that I’d never had a job before and would therefore be somehow unqualified. “Why?”

Henry took a breath, about to answer, when the shop door opened and two women who looked around my mother’s age came in, both wearing caftanlike cover-ups and sandals. “Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

The women were now standing behind me, peering into the bakery cases, and I knew that it was time for me to leave. “See you,” I said, picking up the green box.

“Stay out of the woods,” he replied, smiling faintly.

I met his eye for a moment, and I wondered if this was an opening, if I should just bite the bullet and apologize for what I’d done. Not that we’d ever be friends again, but we were neighbors. And it might make things a little less strained—or at least allow me to feel like I could venture out to the dock again.

“Was there something else?” Henry asked, but not unkindly. I could feel the women’s eyes on me, waiting for my answer. But I had been a coward then—it was what had caused the whole mess—and it seemed that I was a coward still. “No,” I said, as I stepped aside to let the women order the coffee cake they had been debating about. “Nothing else.” I turned from the counter and left, walking back into the heat of the afternoon.

My father was leaning against the Land Cruiser when I reached him, a paper Henson’s Produce bag between his feet and a plastic bag of licorice bits in his hand. They were for sale by the register, and whenever my father was in charge of picking some produce up—or able to intercept one of us before we went—he put in his order for a bag, the black licorice only. His particular views on this had only become more deeply entrenched when Warren had told him the fact that red licorice isn’t technically licorice at all, as it’s not made from the licorice plant.

“Hey, kid,” he said as I approached, smiling at me. “What’s the news?” His eyes landed on the bakery box, and he smiled wider. “And what did you get?”

I sighed and opened the box. “Oatmeal cookies,” I said a little glumly.

“Oh.” He peered down into the box, his brow furrowing. “Why?”

“It’s a long story,” I said, not wanting to admit that it was because my ex-boyfriend had flustered me. “But the news is that I got a job. I start tomorrow at the beach snack bar.”

My father’s smile returned, real and genuine and happy. “That’s great, kid,” he said. “Your first job! It’s a milestone. I can remember—” He stopped short, his eyes squeezing shut as a spasm of pain flashed across his face.

“Dad?” I asked, stepping closer, hearing the fear in my voice. “Daddy?”

My father’s face twisted again, and he grabbed his back with one hand, the bag of licorice bits falling and spilling onto the ground. “I’m okay,” he said through clenched teeth. I didn’t believe him—his eyes were still tightly closed and I could see perspiration beading on his forehead. “I just… need a second.”

“Okay,” I said. I gripped the bakery box tightly, looking around the street for someone who might help us somehow or tell me what I should be doing. I could feel my heart pounding, and wished that my mother was here, that I wasn’t alone with this.

“You all right?” The redhead I’d seen through the window was standing in the doorway of Doggone It!, watching my father, her expression concerned. She held a cordless phone in her hand. “Do you need me to call someone?”

“No,” my father said, his voice a little strained. He opened his eyes and took a folded white handkerchief from his back pocket, passing it quickly over his forehead. My father was never without one; they got washed with the rest of his laundry, and when I was really stumped for gift ideas—or really broke—they were what I gave him for Father’s Day. He returned the handkerchief to his pocket and gave the girl a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m fine.”

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“Okay,” the girl said, nodding. But she didn’t move from where she was standing, instead keeping her eyes on my father.

My father turned to me, and I noticed he looked much paler than he had only a few moments ago, and his breathing was labored. “Didn’t mean to scare you, kid,” he said.

I nodded, and swallowed hard, not sure what exactly had happened, or how to address it. “Are you,” I started, then heard my voice falter. “I mean…”

“I’m fine,” my father said again. He reached down to pick up the Henson’s bag, and I noticed that his hands were shaking. He took out the key ring and headed to the driver’s side, the keys jangling against one another in his trembling hand. Without realizing I was going to do it, I took a step closer to him and reached out for the keys. He looked at me, and a terrible, resigned sadness swept over his face before he looked away.

He let me take the keys from his hand, then walked around to the passenger side of the car without a word. As I unlocked the car, I looked down and saw the scattered licorice bits at my feet, the plastic bag trapped under the tire of a minivan two parking spots away. I climbed into the car and reached over to open the passenger door. I caught a glimpse of the girl, still standing in the door of the pet shop. She raised a hand in a wave, and I nodded back, trying not to notice that she still looked worried.

My father settled himself into the seat a little more gingerly than he had only an hour ago. I dropped the bakery box and my bag in the backseat and moved my seat way up—even though I knew how tall my father was, this never seemed as clear as when I was attempting to drive a car he’d been in before me, and my feet couldn’t even reach the pedals. I started the car, and we drove in silence most of the way home, his head turned to the window. I didn’t know if he was still in pain. But for whatever reason, I couldn’t seem to form the words to ask him. After we’d had the dining room conversation on my birthday, we had talked very little about the realities of his illness. And I hadn’t really tried. He clearly wanted to pretend that things were just normal—he’d said as much—but in moments like this, everything that we hadn’t said seemed to prevent me from saying anything at all.

“Did you see the name of the pet store?” I asked after driving in silence for as long as I could stand it. I glanced over and saw the corner of my father’s mouth twitch up in a small smile.

“I did,” he said, turning to look at me. “I thought it was a little ruff.” I groaned, which I knew he expected, but I was also feeling a wave of relief. It seemed like the air in the car had become less heavy, and it was a little easier to breathe.

“Wow,” I said as I made the turn onto Dockside. “You came up with that one without taking a paws.” My father let out a short laugh at that, and gave me a smile.

“Nice,” he said, which was the very highest compliment he gave, pun-wise.

I pulled the car in next to my mother’s and shut off the engine, but neither of us made a move to get out of the car.

“It really is good news about the job,” my father said, his voice sounding tired. “Sorry if that got lost in…” He paused, then cleared his throat. “Everything.”

I nodded, and ran my finger over a spot on the steering wheel where the leather was cracked and could probably be coaxed to come off, if I worked hard enough at it. “So,” I started, hesitantly. “Should we… you know… talk about it?”

My father nodded, even as he grimaced slightly. “Of course,” he said. “If you want to.”

I felt a flare of anger then, as sudden and unexpected as if someone had set off a firecracker. “It’s not that I want to,” I said, hearing the sharpness of my tone, regretting it even as the words were spilling out of me. “It’s just that we’re all here, we’re all up here, and we’re not talking, or…” I seemed to run out of words and anger at the same time, and was left with only a sinking feeling in my stomach, since I knew that the last thing I should be doing was yelling at my father. I started to take a breath, to apologize, when my father nodded.

“We will talk,” he said. He looked away from me, straight into the screened-in porch, as though he could see the time in the future when this would be happening. “We’ll say… all the things that we need to say.” I suddenly found myself swallowing hard, fighting the feeling that I was on the verge of tears. “But for now, while we still can, I just want to have a little bit of a normal summer with all of you. Sound good?” I nodded. “Good. The defense rests.”

I smiled at that—he used the legal expression whenever he wanted to declare a subject closed—but I couldn’t push away the question I’d had ever since he’d been diagnosed, the question that I somehow never felt I could ask. “I just…”

My father raised his eyebrows, and I could see that he already looked better than he had a few minutes earlier. And if I hadn’t known, if I hadn’t seen it, I might have been able to pretend that it hadn’t happened, that he was still fine. “What is it, kid?”

I felt myself smile at that, even though I still felt like I might start crying. This was my dad’s name for me, and only me. Gelsey was always “princess,” Warren was “son.” And I had always been his kid.

As I looked back at him, I wasn’t sure I could ask it, the thing that I’d been wondering the most since he’d told us, sitting at the head of the dining room table. Because it was a question that went against everything I’d always believed about my father. He was the one who checked for burglars when my mother was sure she heard a noise outside, the one we yelled for when confronted with a spider. The one who used to pick me up and carry me when I got too tired to walk. The one I’d believed could vanquish dragons and closet-dwelling monsters. But I had to know, and I wasn’t sure I’d get another chance to ask. “Are you scared?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. But I could tell from the way that his face seemed to crumple a bit that he had heard me.

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He didn’t say anything, just nodded, up and down one time.

I nodded as well. “Me too,” I said. He gave me another sad smile, and we sat there together in silence.

The shuttle bus rumbled up the street and passed our driveway, coming to a stop in front of the house next to ours, the CUT TO: SUMMER house. A dark-haired girl in an all-white tennis outfit got out, looking, even from this distance, fairly disgruntled as she stomped off the bus and up her driveway, soon obscured by the trees that separated our houses.

“Was that it?” he asked, after the girl had disappeared from view and the shuttle bus had moved on.

“That’s it,” I said. Then he’d reached out and ruffled my hair, resting his hand on the top of my head. And though we were certainly not a touchy-feely family, without even thinking about it, I leaned closer to my father, and he wrapped his arm around my shoulders, pulling me into a hug. And we stayed like that for just a moment before we both moved apart, almost at the same time, as though we’d agreed upon it beforehand. I slid out of the driver’s side, opening the back door to retrieve my bag, the bakery box full of unfortunate cookies, and the Henson’s Produce bag, which my father let me take.

We were heading up the steps to the house, my father leaning on the railing when he stopped and turned back to me, a smile starting to form that made him look less tired. “Metamorphosis,” he said. I frowned, trying to make this make sense. “A thirteen-letter word for change,” he continued. He raised his eyebrows at me, pleased with himself.

“Maybe so,” I said. I saw the abandoned crossword lying on the table, and I wanted to run over to it, see if it was the answer I’d been looking for. “Let’s find out.”

Chapter nine

“GELSEY!” I YELLED IN THE DIRECTION OF THE house. “LET’S GO!” I was standing in the driveway, keys in hand, where I had been for the last ten minutes. I checked my watch and saw that I really should have left by now. Though I had no actual job experience, I had a feeling that that showing up late on your first day of work was probably frowned upon. The plan had been for Gelsey to bike to her first tennis lesson this morning. But her bike (technically, my old bike that was now too small for me) turned out to have a flat tire, and then Gelsey had some sort of meltdown, so it had fallen to me to drive her.

The front door slammed and she stepped out onto the porch, my mother right behind her. I noticed my mother stayed in front of the door, almost like she was blocking it, lest Gelsey try to make a break for it and run back inside. “Finally,” I said. “I’m going to be late.”

“You’ll be fine,” my mother said. Gelsey just glowered at me, as though I was somehow responsible for all this. My mother smoothed down Gelsey’s hair and straightened the sleeves of her white tennis dress, one that had been mine when I was her age.

“Are you ready?” Gelsey asked, as if it had been me who had been holding us up all along. She pulled herself away from my mother and stomped down to the driveway.

My father, shielding his eyes, came forward a few steps from the garage, where he’d been fixing up our bikes since most of them hadn’t been in a fit con***ion to ride. “Have a good first day, you two,” he called. “And when you come back, I’ll have the bikes all ready. So you both should be able to ride tomorrow.”

“Great,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic about this while also trying to remember how many years it had been since I had ridden a bike.

“Have fun,” he called. “Do great things.” I turned back to wave, but he was already heading for his workbench, reaching for an air pump, humming tunelessly to himself.

“Can we leave already?” Gelsey asked, her voice heavy with disdain. I was about to throw disdain right back at her—maybe paired with a lecture about how it was her fault we weren’t leaving until now—when I realized we probably didn’t have time.

“Good luck,” my mother called from the doorway, smiling at me. I wasn’t sure if she was talking about my first day of work or about me getting Gelsey there in one piece, but I gave her a halfhearted smile back, then opened the driver’s door and climbed into the car.

I started the engine, trying not to panic when I saw that I had only seven minutes to drop my sister off at the Rec Center and get myself to the beach—not to mention that I’d received only the vaguest instructions from Jillian as to who I was supposed to talk to when I got there. So as soon as I’d reached the end of the driveway and passed out of sight of my parents, I stepped hard on the gas, now driving much faster than the WE LOVE OUR CHILDREN… PLEASE DRIVE SLOW! signs that dotted the road recommended.

Gelsey looked over from where she had been glaring out the window and glanced at my speedometer. “Speed much?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d been ready on time,” I said, hugging one of the curves as we barreled down Dockside Terrace. “I was about to leave without you.”

“I wish you had,” Gelsey said as she slumped back in her seat. I came to an abrupt stop that jolted us both forward, then picked up speed again as I headed toward what we had always called Devil’s Dip. It was a huge hill that dropped sharply, then went up again just as sharply on the other side, creating a giant U shape. The Dip had been my Waterloo when I’d been learning to ride a bike, and it hadn’t gotten any less steep with time. “I really thought Mom was bluffing. I can’t believe she’s making me do this.”

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“Tennis isn’t so bad,” I said as we coasted down the hill and then back up the other side, while I tried to remember my own long-ago lessons. I had never loved it like my father and Warren, and hadn’t ever hung around the Tennis Center, working on my backhand on the practice wall the way that other kids had.

“Really,” Gelsey said flatly.

“Really,” I said, remembering how Lucy and I had spent very little time playing tennis, and most of our time talking. “It’s mostly just hanging out with your friends, with a little tennis mixed in.”

“Friends,” she repeated softly, looking out the window again. “Right.”

I glanced over at my sister before looking back at the road, regretting my word choice. Gelsey had never made friends easily, and had never had a best friend that I’d been aware of. It probably hadn’t helped that she had spent all of her waking hours, until now, in the dance studio. But Gelsey also didn’t do herself any favors, especially because whenever she got nervous, she masked it with haughtiness or disdain. “Look,” I started, a little uncertainly, glancing over at her, “I know it might be hard at first, but—”

“Taylor!” Gelsey’s voice was suddenly sharp. I glanced back at the road and then slammed on the brakes, hard, causing a loud screeching noise.

There was a girl on a bike directly in the middle of the road. She was riding fast, steering with one hand, the other holding a phone to her ear.

“Jesus,” I muttered, my pulse pounding hard, as I checked the other lane, then gave her a wide berth. As we passed her, Gelsey leaned over and honked my horn. “Hey!” I said, pushing her hand away. The girl swerved, her bike wobbling dangerously for a second before she righted it and glanced at the car. In an impressive move, she transferred her phone to her ear and gripped the handlebars with her opposite hand, so that the hand closest to my car was free to give us the finger. Her face was obscured by a curtain of dark hair, but there was no question as to how she felt about us at that moment. As we drove past, I looked back and saw her in my rear-view mirror, becoming reduced to a dot in a purple T-shirt.

“Don’t do that,” I said as I swung into the recreation complex parking lot.

“She was taking up the whole road,” Gelsey said. But her voice didn’t sound nearly as confident anymore as I pulled to a stop in front of the main entrance. The building looked exactly the same, a tall wooden structure with LAKE PHOENIX RECREATION CENTER carved into the awning. Just beyond the entrance, you’d have to show your badge to the employee inside to access the pool and tennis courts.

I looked at my sister and saw that her hands were gripping the straps of her tote bag so hard that her knuckles had turned white. She glanced over at me and I realized that she was scared. I knew it was probably up to me to say something, something encouraging and big-sisterly, but I had no idea what that would be.

“I should go,” Gelsey said after a moment, taking a deep breath and pushing open her door. “I’ll call Mom for a ride home, or walk, or something.”

“Okay,” I said. “Have fun.”

Gelsey rolled her eyes hugely at that, got out of the car, and walked up to the entrance stiffly, like she was facing a firing squad and not a tennis lesson. I looked down at the clock, cursed, and put the car into gear. I peeled out of the parking lot, now officially five minutes late for my first day of work.

I hadn’t gone to the beach since I’d been back, but as I got out of the car, I could see it hadn’t changed much. There were picnic tables and benches on the grassy area nearest to the parking lot. A small incline (there was a set of steps if you didn’t want to roll down the hill, as I’d been fond of doing when I was around eight) led down to the sand. The beach wasn’t very full—there were only a handful of towels and blankets spread out, with some families and sunbathers staking their claims. A few ambitious kids were already mid–sandcastle construction, but the water was free from swimmers. When I saw the tall white lifeguard’s chair perched at the edge of the water was empty, I realized why there was nobody swimming—the lifeguard wasn’t on duty yet. The far right side of the beach was the marina area, with sailboats up on their wooden pallets, and kayaks and canoes stacked in wooden structures. The lake was the main feature, stretching out almost as far as you could see. A large wooden raft, complete with ladder, was anchored beyond the roped-off swimming section that kids weren’t supposed to go past, and the bobbing round yellow buoys by the raft demarcated where adults were supposed to stop. The lake was bordered on all sides by pine trees, and the three islands scattered across it were also covered in them. The sky above the lake was clear and a bright blue, with wispy clouds streaking across it. Looking back, it sometimes seemed like I had spent all my childhood summers at this beach. The pool had never held as much charm for me, with its rough concrete and smell of chlorine. The beach had always felt like home.

“Are you Taylor?” I turned around and saw a short man with a very red face, in his forties or thereabouts, wearing a Lake Phoenix polo shirt and squinting at me.

“Hi,” I said, hurrying over to him, trying to simultaneously smooth down my hair and come up with an excuse for why I was late for my first day of work. “I mean, yes.” I held out my hand to shake his—the night before, Warren had given me a tutorial on making a good first impression, and he seemed to rank a strong handshake very highly—but the man was already turning and walking down the steps toward the snack bar, gesturing for me to follow him.

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“Fred Lefevre,” he said over his shoulder. “This way.” The snack bar was in the building that was adjacent to the Clubhouse, where the bathrooms, equipment rooms, and administrative offices were, and Fred headed through this building’s open doorway and to an office marked BEACH DIRECTOR. He pushed the door open and motioned me in, but as soon as I crossed the threshold, I stopped short.

There were fish everywhere. None alive, but stuffed and mounted fish were affixed to most of the available wall space, and a fishing calendar hung behind the desk, the surface of which was covered with framed pictures of Fred holding up huge trophy fishes. There were tackle boxes and fishing poles scattered all over, and as Fred took the seat across from me, behind his desk, I noticed that he had the permanently sunburned look of someone who spent most of his time outside. Fred leaned back in the squeaky leather chair, the kind on wheels with casters, and looked across the desk at me. I immediately sat up straighter on the metal folding chair that was cold against the backs of my legs. “So,” he said. “You’re our late hire.”

I wasn’t sure if he meant that I had been hired late, or if he was talking about the fact that I’d been late for work today, so I just nodded. Fred picked up the frame closest to him and gazed at it for a moment before turning it to face me. In the picture, Fred held up on his line a fish that looked almost as tall as he was. “Know what that is?” he asked. My knowledge of fish was pretty much limited to what I got on seafood menus, so I just shook my head. “It’s a threespine stickleback,” he said wistfully. “Isn’t she a beauty?”

“Mmm,” I said with as much enthusiasm as possible.

“That was two years ago,” he said, setting the picture down, continuing to stare at it. “I haven’t caught one as big since. And that’s why you’re here.”

I blinked at him for a moment, then glanced at the picture of the large, disgruntled-looking fish, as though it would somehow help me out here. “Um, what?” I asked.

“I like to fish,” Fred said, tearing his eyes away from the stickleback and looking at me. “And June and July are my peak fishing months. And I can’t put in my time on the lakes if I have to be micromanaging this place.”

“Okay,” I said, still waiting for an explanation of how I fit into all this.

“So I put in a request with Jillian for one more employee,” he said. “Someone here who can do what needs doing. Mostly the snack bar, but I also need someone to help figure out the movie-on-the-beach nights. Last year, they were…” He paused for a moment. “Not a success,” he finally concluded. “Basically, I need to be able to be away from this place and know that everything is going to be covered. So that’ll be you. Sound good?”

“Well,” I said, turning over my job description in my head. It wasn’t that it sounded bad—it was only that I wasn’t sure I was qualified to do any of it. “It’s just—”

“Good!” Fred said, standing up, this meeting apparently now over as far as he was concerned. “Let’s say four days a week. I’ll let you work out the schedule with the others, figuring out where the holes are.”

I stood up as well, out of instinct, since he was looming over me and clearly wanted me to leave his fish-bedecked office. “But—”

“The job’s very easy, Taylor,” he said, coming around to join me on the other side of his desk, and then opening the door for me, in case I still wasn’t getting the hint that I was supposed to leave. “Just make my life simple. I want to fish. And I want to fish undisturbed. So if you can help me make that happen, you’ll be doing great work. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said, taking a step out of his office, then another one, as he began to ease the door shut. “But where should I—”

“Start at the snack bar,” he said. “See what needs doing. Welcome aboard!” With that, he shut the door firmly in my face.

I looked around, and seeing no other options, headed to the snack bar. I had only ever approached it from the front, after scrounging quarters and pennies, or finding a crumpled, sandy dollar bill in my beach bag, usually to get a Cherry Coke or a frozen Milky Way to split with Lucy. But down the hall from Fred’s office there was a door clearly marked SNACK BAR EMPLOYEES ONLY, so I took a breath and pushed it open, hoping someone in there could tell me exactly what I was supposed to be doing, preferably without fish anecdotes.

From the other side of the counter, the snack bar was fairly small and cramped. The soda fountain lined the one wall, along with a large silver refrigerator and two freezer cases. Behind that was a grill and fry station. There were shelves displaying the chip options and posters showing the ice-cream bars available, and there were individually wrapped pieces of candy, on sale for a quarter, on the counter.

“Don’t. Move,” a voice from behind me said. I whirled around and saw a guy sitting on the counter, perfectly still, a rolled-up newspaper raised above his head.

I had thought I’d been alone in the snack bar, and my heart was beating hard from the shock that I wasn’t. “Hi,” I stammered when I’d gotten some of my composure back. “I’m—”

“Shh,” he hissed, his voice low and steady, still not looking at me. “Don’t scare it away.”

I froze, and tried to see to what he was raising his newspaper at, but could only see the empty counter. I suddenly had a horrible fear that made me not only want to move—and fast—but also jump up on the counter with him. “Is it a mouse?” I whispered, feeling my skin begin to crawl. If it was, I didn’t care about what he said, I was getting out of there as soon as possible.

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“No,” the guy murmured, concentration still on the counter. “It’s a fly. He’s been taunting me all morning. But I will have my victory.”

“Oh,” I said quietly. I shifted from foot to foot, wondering how long this was going to go on—and also what we were supposed to do if any customers came. In the silence that soon fell between us, all his concentration focused on the fly, I took the opportunity to look at the guy. Something about him was ringing long-ago bells of recognition. It was hard to tell because he was sitting, but he looked short and somewhat stocky. He was wearing nerdy-cool glasses and had close-cropped brown hair. “I’ve almost got him,” the guy suddenly whispered, leaning forward, newspaper poised. “Just don’t move, and—”

“Oh, my God!” The door to the employee entrance was flung open with a bang, causing both me and the guy to jump, and the fly presumably to make his escape. A girl breezed past me and the guy, hanging her purse on a hook around the corner, talking loud and fast. I caught a glimpse of long dark hair and a purple T-shirt, and a feeling of dread crept into my stomach. “You are not going to believe what happened to me this morning. I was just riding into work, minding my own business, when this absolute idiot—” The girl came back around the corner to face us, and froze when she saw me.

I did the same. Standing in front of me was the girl in the purple shirt, the one whom I’d almost run off the road this morning, the one who’d given me the finger.

Who also happened to be Lucy Marino, my former best friend.

Chapter ten

I JUST STARED AT LUCY. AS WITH HENRY, IT TOOK MY MIND A second to reconcile her twelve-year-old appearance with the current version. Lucy and I had been around the same height when we were kids, but it seemed like she hadn’t grown nearly as much as I had, because she was now a good four inches shorter than me, and curvy, like we’d both once hoped to be. Her hair was still dark brown and shiny, but what had been an unruly mass of curls was now sleek and straight. Her olive-toned skin was already tan, and she was wearing expertly applied makeup, clearly at some point in the last five years having moved on from our clumsy first attempts at eyeliner.

Lucy blinked at me, then narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. “What the hell are you doing here?” she asked, sounding equal parts baffled and angry. The guy on the counter looked to me and raised his eyebrows.

“I… um,” I started. I gestured behind me in the direction of Fred’s office. “Fred told me to come in here. I’m working here now.”

“Really.” Lucy didn’t phrase it as a question.

“Really?” The guy on the counter did. He hopped off and relinquished his weapon, dropping the newspaper on the counter.

“Yes,” I said, without as much conviction as I would have preferred, since I was beginning to wonder if this was really such a good idea. And it hit me a moment later that Lucy’s presence at this job explained Henry’s hesitation when I’d told him I was working here.

“Excellent,” the guy said. “Reinforcements.” He held out his hand and shook mine a little too firmly, maybe having read the same book as Warren. “I’m Elliot.”

It clicked into place then. I could suddenly see him, at ten, even stockier and shorter, with glasses that weren’t nearly as fashionable, hanging out by the pool snack bar, one of those kids who always had a deck of cards and was constantly trying to get some kind of game going. He’d been primarily Henry’s friend, but sometimes the three of us would hang out, especially when it was raining and there was nothing else to do.

“Taylor,” I said. “Do you…?” I paused, suddenly realizing how pathetic it was to have to ask someone if they remembered you.

“Oh,” Elliot said, eyebrows flying up. “Taylor.” He glanced at Lucy, then back to me. Lucy was looking straight ahead, glaring out at the water, as though even the sight of me was too much for her to take. “Sorry I didn’t recognize you. It’s been a while, huh?”

I nodded. “It really has,” I said. Silence fell among us all, and then Elliot cleared his throat.

“Welcome,” he said. “Are you going to be working the snack bar?”

“Kind of,” I said. I looked over at Lucy, catching her eye for a second before she looked pointedly away again. “Also doing something with the movies…” My voice trailed off, and I realized just how little I knew about what this job would entail.

“I guess Fred finally got his fishing employee,” Elliot said. Lucy only shrugged, and Elliot turned to me. “He’s been trying for years. But rumor is that he started dating Jillian in the office, which I guess gave him some kind of pull.”

“Don’t you have a lesson?” Lucy asked, glancing up at the round wall clock hanging crookedly above the microwave.

Elliot looked down at his watch, which I saw now was big and plastic and practically took up his whole wrist. It looked like a diver’s watch, and like it would be capable of withstanding much greater depths than Lake Phoenix. “In ten,” Elliot said with a sigh. “Unfortunately.”

“Lesson?” I asked. In my peripheral vision, I saw Lucy roll her eyes. But since my introduction to this place had been so vague, I was desperate to get what information I could from the one person in the snack bar who seemed willing to talk to me.

“I teach some sailing lessons, plus working snack bar,” Elliot said to me. “We all kind of overlap here. And today is my day for the advanced beginners, who seem to be allergic to retaining any sort of knowledge.” He started to head out the door, then stopped and turned back to us. “If you see the fly,” he added gravely, “avenge me. Okay?”

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Lucy nodded in a distracted way that made me think he said things like that a lot. When Elliot stepped back out and the door slammed behind him, Lucy turned to face me, arms still folded, her face inscrutable. “So,” she said after a long moment. She leaned against the counter and studied me in silence. “You’re back.”

“I am,” I said, my voice sounding a little shaky. I was feeling off-balance, and had realized that no matter what I might look like now, some things were still the same. I still hated confrontation. And Lucy thrived on it. “Just… recently.”

“I heard,” she said. I blinked, and was about to ask from whom, but something in her expression stopped me. I realized that it could have been from any number of sources, Jillian included. Lake Phoenix was small enough that news tended to travel fast. “I just didn’t think I’d see you,” she continued, arching one eyebrow at me, something she’d always been able to do and that I could never get the hang of. It used to make me incredibly envious, since whenever I tried to do it I just looked like I was in pain. “And I certainly didn’t think I’d see you here.”

I stuck my hands in the pockets of my shorts and looked down at the scratched wooden floors. I could feel the restlessness in my legs that was my body’s way of telling me to get out. I glanced to the door for just a second, considering it. “If it’s going to be a thing,” I said after a moment, “I can leave. See if I can get placed somewhere else.”

I looked up at Lucy and saw a flash of hurt cross her face before her more blasé expression returned. She shrugged and looked down at her nails, which I noticed now were painted a dark purple, and I wondered if she’d matched them to her shirt. The Lucy I’d known certainly would have. “Don’t do it on my account,” she said, her voice bored. “I don’t really care.”

“Okay,” I said quietly. I took a breath and started to say what I probably should have said right away—what I should have said to Henry as soon as I saw him. “Lucy,” I started, “I’m really—”

“Can I help you?” Lucy hopped off the counter, and I turned and saw a customer at the window, a harried-looking mother with a baby on her hip. The top of the kid’s head just cleared the wooden counter, his eyes fixed on the bowl of individually wrapped Star-bursts and Sunkist Fruit Gems.

“Yes,” she said. “I need two waters, an order of fries, and a Sprite with no ice.”

Lucy punched the total into the register and turned back to look at me. I moved uncertainly over toward the cups, my hand hovering near them, but otherwise totally unsure what to do. “Go get Elliot,” Lucy said, shaking her head. “You don’t know what you’re doing.” She turned back to the woman and deftly moved the candy bowl away just as the kid made a grab for it. “Nine twenty-nine,” she said.

I pushed open the door and closed it fast behind me, stepping into the hallway. The whole interaction had shaken me. For some reason, I felt like I was on the verge of bursting into tears, so I was glad to have a minute to walk it off. I knew Elliot had ten minutes before his lesson, so I didn’t have long to find him. I started by looking for Elliot in the few rooms in the building—but I found only an equipment shed, piled high with life preservers and buoys, and a supply cupboard with plates and cups and syrup bags for the soda machine. Fred’s door had a GONE FISHIN’ sign attached to it—no help there. I was beginning to panic, knowing the longer I took, the madder Lucy was getting, when I saw Elliot sitting on the grass near the bike racks, next to a curly-haired guy playing guitar. There were about ten life preservers arranged in a circle, but no kids there yet. Incredibly relieved, I hurried over and started speaking before I’d even reached him. “Lucy needs your help in the kitchen,” I said, as Elliot looked up at me and the guy with the guitar paused mid-chord. “I don’t really know what I’m doing yet.”

Elliot raised his eyebrows. “But she can show you, right?” he asked. “Luce is great at training. She taught me everything I know.”

“Oh,” I said, glancing back to the stand, thinking about how she’d hustled me out, clearly ready to be rid of me. “Well,” I said, “I don’t think that she really… um… wanted to.”

“Right,” Elliot said, nodding. He gave me a sympathetic smile and pushed himself to his feet. “Well, I guess you can’t blame her, right?” He started to head toward the snack bar before I could formulate a response. “Oh,” he said as he turned back to me for a second, pointing at the curly-haired guy, “Taylor, that’s Leland. Leland, Taylor. She’s new.” With that, he hurried toward the building, and a moment later, I heard the door bang shut.

Leland looked tall, with pale, freckled skin and sun-bleached hair that seemed like it might not have been combed too recently. He strummed another chord and then glanced up, giving me a sleepy smile. “Hey,” he said. “You a lifeguard too?”

“No,” I replied. “Snack bar.”

“Cool,” he said as he strummed a few more chords, lingering over the last two strings. As I watched him play, it seemed a little incongruous that this guy, with his chill, spaced-out vibe, was a lifeguard. It wasn’t what I had expected.

“Speaking of,” Leland said, unfolding his long legs and standing up, “I’d better get to work. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” He shuffled down toward the beach, not seeming like he was in any particular hurry.