The Battle of Junk Mountain

by Lauren Abbey Greenberg

  “Excuse me,” says a tall teenage boy with stringy black hair and shiny skin.

  I step aside and he opens the dishwasher. Steam engulfs my face. I can feel my curly hair expanding into a massive frizz ball.

  “I can help,” I say as he starts to unload. I reach in for a white plate, but it’s red hot. “Ouch!”

  The corners of his mouth turn up slightly. He shows me his calloused hands. “Yeah, you get used to it after a while.”

  “Gio!” yells one of the cooks. “Get me the sauce.”

  The boy’s face looks intense as his arms move lightning fast to finish unloading. “I gotta get these dishes out,” he replies. “They’re running low in the dining room.”

  “I’ll get the sauce for you,” I offer. I know exactly what the cooks want. The Secret Sauce they put on the potato salad is legendary around here. I definitely want in on this action.

  Water drips off Gio’s nose. “You’re a lifesaver. It’s in the walk-in.”

  My breath quickens at the walk-in cooler’s shock of cold air, but it feels amazing compared to the heat of the kitchen. I scan the shelves of gallon-sized plastic bins until I spot one with the words SECRET SAUCE written on the front with black marker. It’s on a high shelf, a little above my forehead, and I stand on my tiptoes to reach it. Grabbing both sides, I slide it toward me.

  It wavers. Wobbles. Whoa.

  SPLASH.

  It’s no secret that the sauce now covers my shirt and the entire floor.

  “What’s going on?” Ray pops his head inside. His eyes bug out at the oily, slick mess flooding his walk-in.

  I can’t speak.

  “Are you kidding me?” He grabs his head with both hands—to prevent it from exploding, I guess.

  Gio appears like clockwork with the mop.

  I start to say I’m sorry, but Ray holds up his hand traffic cop–style. “Clean it up.” He exits and I can hear him yell, “She dumped the sauce,” to the cooks. I feel like a complete loser.

  Gio hands me the mop. I dunk it in the filthy water, and the ropey strands hang like wet hair. I make a few stabbing motions at the floor.

  He laughs. “I bet you’ve never mopped a floor in your life.”

  Busted.

  “Give me that.” He grabs the mop and expertly works on the gooey mess.

  Trust me, I’ve never been in love before. But at that moment, I definitely love Gio. I love him for saving my butt.

  • CHAPTER 6 •

  I’D RATHER EAT ICE CREAM

  “I’ve known Gio forever. He’s in Mona’s grade.”

  Poppy sweeps the floor in front of a refrigerated case filled with milk, eggs, pickles, and cheese. After her shift ends, we’ll go to Lolli’s for a double scoop of Moose Tracks ice cream. Her oldest sister, Leanne, who’s eighteen and calls herself the manager, keeps a watchful eye on us.

  “So… what do you think about him?” Poppy asks, leaning against the broom handle. A black bandana secures her thick, wavy hair away from her face.

  “Who?”

  “Gio. Do you like him?”

  Her deep blue eyes egg me on to say yes, but instead I shrug while my gaze drifts to the dustpan.

  She presses on. “He did help you out big-time, mopping up that huge mess. Do you think he likes you?”

  “Doubt it.”

  I wish she’d drop it. When I told her about the most embarrassing day of my life, I was hoping she’d try to make me feel better. A little the bin was too high, could have happened to anybody, or maybe she could tell me about something embarrassing that had happened to her, so we could both be card-carrying members of the mortified club. I didn’t mean for this to be a thing about Gio. For the last few months, Poppy’s texts have been about nothing but boys, boys, boys. It’s like as soon as she finished sixth grade, someone tripped the boy-crazy switch in her brain. I was kind of hoping now that I’m up here she’d give it a rest. Hoping it would be the Summer of Poppy and Shayne. Like always.

  Poppy takes off her apron and rolls it into a ball. “When I was little, I used to hate Gio because he’d call me Poopy.”

  I bust out laughing. “You never told me that.”

  “Because it’s not funny.”

  “It kinda is… Poopy.”

  Poppy sniffs the air. “Speaking of poop, you reek of Secret Sauce. Do you have an extra shirt to change into?”

  Heat creeps into my cheeks. “I wish.” I sneak a sniff of my right shoulder. The smell of vinegar practically punches me in the face.

  “Poppy, go see Mona,” bellows her dad from behind the meat counter. Mr. Quayle is short in size but big in volume, and when he asks you to do something, you better do it. He has no qualms about yelling at his staff because they’re all family. In addition to Leanne, Mona, who’s fourteen, usually works the register. She’s never been particularly nice or mean to me; it’s more like she tolerates me. Like gnats in July. Or brown rice.

  “What?” Poppy says to her sister, her hand on her hip.

  Mona doesn’t even look up from her magazine. She flicks a hand toward the produce section. “Deliveries are in.”

  “I’m off at three. You do it.”

  Mona looks at her watch. “It’s 2:59. You’re still on the clock.”

  Poppy’s mouth drops open, ready to rail, but I hook her arm and drag her away. I figure the more she complains, the longer it will take for us to get out of here. So, while she groans about how she does all the work and Mona gets to read magazines and life is so unfair, I help her unload flats of strawberries and sacks of potatoes. Then we stack a crate of Gala apples into a tall, waxy pyramid.

  A cowbell jangles, announcing the arrival of another customer to Quayle’s Market. But it’s not just any customer—it’s Linc, fully dressed in his soldier costume. He blows past us and makes a beeline for the snack rack.

  Pointing him out, I whisper, “That’s Cranky’s grandson. He and his dad showed up yesterday.”

  Her lip curls in disgust. “The spawn of Cranky. Barf.”

  “His name is Linc or something like that.”

  “So, you’ve met him,” she says.

  “Sort of,” I say, suddenly feeling shy.

  We watch him stuff his arms with bags of pretzel rods and pork rinds.

  “What’s with the outfit?” she asks.

  I shrug. “He’s always dressed like that.”

  Poppy rolls her eyes. “Great, another weirdo on Thomas Cove. He’ll fit right in.” She leans in to me and lowers her voice. “I forgot to tell you, Mona told me some more juicy bits about our Cranky. Apparently, his old house burned to the ground. She says he lost everything. That’s why his new house is practically empty.”

  “Maybe that explains the tent,” I whisper back.

  “What tent?”

  “You haven’t seen it? Cranky makes Linc sleep outside.” As soon as I say it, I feel a little guilty. I have no idea if that’s really true.

  “I told you he was mean,” Poppy says.

  “No doubt,” I say. But it gets me thinking. If I lost everything in a fire, maybe I’d be cranky, too.

  “Daddy, can I have one?” a sticky toddler asks as he reaches for one of our freshly stacked apples.

  Poppy gasps at the same time the boy’s dad says, “Don’t!” but it’s too late. The kid pulls a piece of fruit from the bottom tier and our whole pyramid comes crashing down.

  Poppy looks like she wants to curl up under the broccoli bin and die.

  “I’m so sorry,” the dad says, getting on his knees. “I’ll clean it up.”

  Poppy joins him on the floor. “Don’t worry. Happens all the time.” While the two of them silently collect fallen apples, I peek over my shoulder, expecting to see Linc, but he has disappeared. I poke around each short aisle and find him hiding in the bakery section. A yeasty smell fills my nostrils and my stomach responds with a growl. Linc’s back is to me, so I sneak up behind him and tap him on the shoulder.

  He jumps.

  A blue
cloth, bunched into a ball and secured with a safety pin, falls at my feet with a soft thump. I pick it up, surprised at its weight for such small thing.

  “You dropped this,” I say.

  Fear flashes in his eyes. He grabs it from me and jams it into his pocket.

  “You saw nothing,” he says before he pushes past me.

  “You’re welcome,” I call after him.

  Poppy was right. What a weirdo.

  • CHAPTER 7 •

  DON’T BOTHER ME, I’M ON VACATION

  I’m surprised about how excited I am to go back to work. You would think I’d need more than a few days to recover from making a complete fool of myself, but I liked Katie and even Gio (even though I don’t like him like him). Something about being in that kitchen intrigued me. It was as if we were part of Survivor, deranged and scary, but all in it together.

  Bea said we could take Knot for Sale to the Cod Café today. The thought of arriving by boat makes me feel like a movie star, even though my red carpet will be a stinky wharf that smells of diesel fuel and rotted fish. I dig out a red life jacket from the heap of flashlights, tackle boxes, extra batteries, and crumpled maps. No shocker that Bea keeps the storage bin on Knot for Sale the same way as her house: a complete mess.

  Bea pats the seat next to the outboard motor that hangs off the back of the boat. “Go ahead and start her up.”

  “Me?” I ask, thumb on chest.

  She presses her fingers against her forehead. “Sorry, for a minute I thought you were Grandpa. My mind’s going.”

  “No, let me do it. It can’t be that hard, right?”

  Bea twists her lips while she thinks about it. “You’re probably too young, but what the heck. It is easy, practically dummy-proof.”

  “Awesome.” I slide into the seat and rub my hands together. “What do I do first?”

  “Everything you need is right here at the stern.” Bea grips the long handle attached to the engine. “This is how we steer. You turn the end with your wrist like a motorcycle handlebar to go faster or slower. Now, to start the motor—”

  “You pull the cord, right? I’ve seen Grandpa do it a million times.”

  “Good girl.” Bea drapes a white scarf over her head and ties it under her chin. She puts on her sunglasses and settles into her seat as though we’re going on a Sunday drive in the country.

  I grab the handle and tug at the cord. I’m surprised at its resistance, so I wrap two hands around it and prop my foot against the stern’s wall for balance.

  “Give it a firm pull,” Bea instructs.

  I yank on the cord like Dad does when he starts the lawnmower. The engine whirs with each tug, but doesn’t catch. I keep pulling and pulling.

  “Wait—” says Bea.

  By now, it’s a thousand degrees inside my life jacket, and I’m sweating buckets. I pull again and Bea grabs my arm.

  “Stop!”

  “What’s the matter?” I ask.

  “You’ve flooded the engine.”

  I sink low in my seat. “You said it was dummy-proof. More like proof that I’m a dummy.”

  “Relax. It happens.”

  “So what do we do now?” I ask.

  “We wait a few minutes, then try again.”

  Bea folds her hands and looks at her watch. I pick at my fingernails. Across the cove, Poppy leaves her house and ducks into a car with Leanne at the wheel.

  Bea’s purse rings. She digs through it and removes three pairs of eyeglasses, a stack of envelopes, and a ball of yarn before finding her old flip phone.

  “Hello?… Yes, Ray, I’m on my way.” She steals a glance at me before her gaze returns to her lap. “I see… No, I understand… Be there in a few.”

  She coughs a few times and clears her throat. “Good news. You don’t have to work the boring, old dining room anymore. Ray says you can help in the gift shop if you want.”

  “I’m fired?” First one kicked off the island.

  “I thought you’d be thrilled. You didn’t want to go in the first place.”

  “I didn’t. But I didn’t want to be banned either.”

  “Oh, honey, don’t take it the wrong way. When you’re a little older, and a little more mature, Ray would love to have you back.”

  I know she’s trying to make me feel better, but the words sting. More mature. She pats my knee. “You’ll love the gift shop. Fabulous knickknacks.”

  “No way. I’m not going back there, it’s too embarrassing.” A catch in my throat threatens to turn into waterworks. I swallow it down.

  “What are you going to do then? Your mother—”

  “I’ll figure something out. Please…” This comes out as a whisper.

  Bea checks her watch again. “I better go. I’m late.”

  I get out of the boat as Bea pulls the engine cord. It splutters to life. I help her remove the lines from the dock’s posts, and she gives a gentle push off with her foot.

  I wave good-bye as Knot for Sale putters out of the cove. Once it hits the open waters of the bay, Bea guns the engine and disappears from sight.

  A hush falls over Thomas Cove again with only a squawking seagull left for company. I shuffle up the aluminum ramp at a turtle’s pace, pick at the loose ends of my woven bracelets, and wonder, What now? Then I hear a single splash. And the loudest scream of my life.

  • CHAPTER 8 •

  NO CRABS ALLOWED

  I run toward the commotion and discover Linc pounding a flipped sea kayak with his fists. Even though the tide is coming in, the water’s still really shallow, about knee-deep, but somehow he has managed to soak himself from head to toe. After a few moments of watching his tantrum, I kick off my Keens and enter the water. Cold grips my ankles as I churn against the current. When I reach Linc, he’s shaking out one leg that’s completely entangled in seaweed. His jaw is clenched so tight I’m worried smoke will spew from his ears.

  “I hate the water.”

  “Then why are you in it?” I ask.

  “Because…” He plucks at the rubbery strands, and, once freed, his whole body shudders. “It’s my grandpa’s fault. He said I had to get used to the ocean. No, his actual words were ‘Get off your fat butt.’ He’s so mean. Can you believe he said that?”

  Yeah. I can.

  “He said he’d take me kayaking, so I dragged this huge two-seater kayak all the way down here. But then something broke on his lobster boat and he flipped out and had to leave to buy a new part, so here I am.” He whips his head around. “Uh-oh, where’d the boat go?”

  “I’ll get it.” Water splashes up to the bottom of my shorts as I fetch the drifting yellow kayak. I turn its lightweight frame right-side up and collect the two floating paddles and extra life jacket nearby.

  Linc swipes his hand through his buzzed blond hair and comes up with a sprig of seaweed. He looks at it, makes a face, and tosses it over his shoulder. “Thanks. I thought it would be easy to get in by myself, but somehow I flipped it.”

  “I could help you,” I say.

  He shrugs. “Okay.”

  “I’ll hold the boat while you get in. I’m Shayne, by the way.”

  “I’m Linc, short for…” He unzips his life jacket to show me his wet T-shirt underneath, which features a picture of Abraham Lincoln with the words WWAD: WHAT WOULD ABE DO?

  “Short for Abe?” I deadpan.

  “No, Lincoln.”

  “Right.” I smile, but he doesn’t smile back. “You’re lucky. I was named after an old western movie.”

  Linc juts out his chin. “My dad’s a history teacher and Civil War expert. He’s also a reenactor—he’s touring with his unit right now and will be back in about a month.” He kicks at the water and mumbles. “Wish I could have gone with him instead of getting stuck here.”

  “Are you a reenactor, too?” I ask. “You know, with the clothes and all.”

  “Sort of. Technically you have to be sixteen, but that’s only four years away. Before we came here, my dad took me to Gettysburg f
or the one hundred and fiftieth anniversary celebration. You should have seen the reenactment of Devil’s Den. It was amazing. You know about Devil’s Den, right?”

  My ankles feel numb. The best way to deal with cold water is to either keep moving or get out. “Sounds familiar, but I forget. Are you going to get in the boat or what?”

  He slides into the back seat of the kayak butt-first. He’s about as graceful as a sea lion on a tightrope. “How can you not know about Devil’s Den? What grade are you in, anyway?”

  “Seventh,” I huff.

  “Really?” He shakes his head and clucks his tongue. “Another example of American education going down the drain.”

  “Hey!”

  “Just kidding,” he says, putting his hands up. “I’m going into seventh, too.”

  Any charitable feelings I had toward this guy are quickly evaporating. I slip into the wet life jacket, which feels uncomfortably cold against my thin T-shirt. Then I ease into the front seat and position the paddle horizontally across my chest, my hands a shoulder’s width apart.

  “We won’t tip, right?” Linc swallows hard as he clutches the side of the boat.

  Not so full of yourself now, are you? “Not if you do what I say. Pick up your paddle and watch.”

  I dip the paddle’s flat plastic blade into the water near my toes and push back firmly along the boat until I reach my hip. Then I lift the blade out of the water and do the same thing on the other side. For some reason, the kayak barely moves. I peek over my shoulder and see why. Linc’s not paddling.

  “Hel-lo. This is a two-person effort. I’m not your chauffer.”

  “You said to watch,” he says.

  “No, I meant copy me.”

  “Like right now?”

  My jaw clenches. “I can’t think of a better time.”

  He tilts his head and stares at the shore with a faraway look in his eyes. “You know, this place kind of reminds me of Devil’s Den with all the boulders everywhere. Man, you should have seen it.”

  I frown. “Seen what?”