Also, there are water snakes everywhere.
The snakes are hard to get used to especially when you don’t live here all of the time. They aren’t poisonous or aggressive but they are environmentally-protected and are literally dripping like scaly icicles out of every pier and rock outcrop on the island, including the ones out back of my dad and Melody’s house.
I sit cross-legged on the edge of the pier and look out at the water to consider my options. It would just be easier to work at the sports store with my dad. He would only pay me minimum wage, though. Then, also, because I’m too young to work behind the counter and sell firearms, I’d be relegated to cleaning boats or handling bait or something equally disgusting.
So. Not. Glamorous.
Not that I’m a princess or above getting my hands dirty, I was just hoping for a job with a little panache to it this summer—like, I don’t know, perhaps that carhop job at the Auto-Ra-Ma that got flushed down the toilet for me. I mean, I’m supposed to be wearing a retro mini-skirt and fishnet stockings all summer. I’m supposed to be rolling up to people’s cars while they watch horror flicks and order milkshakes. Collecting tips out the wazoo. I’m not supposed to be loading bait alongside my dad. And then he probably wouldn’t give me more than about ten or fifteen hours. I need more than a handful of hours a week. I need as many hours as I can get.
Huffing and squinting, I look over the lake, south east, toward the mainland in the distance. On clear days, you can see the roller coasters and Ferris wheel of Cedar Point.
Now, that’s a summer job.
Brandon Wright is probably loving life right now. He’s getting paid to draw at an amusement park and live in a dormitory.
I take a bite of my turkey wrap, not expecting much because it was the cheapest wrap on the menu, but it’s actually not half bad. There’s a hummus spread on it and suddenly I’m ravenous.
Ravenous and jobless.
Lindsey has a fantastic summer job, too. She’s been asked to help coach at a sports day camp for middle-schoolers because she’s so good at volleyball. Like, full-ride-to-a-major-university good at volleyball. Volleyball is Lindsey’s “thing.” Kind of like drawing is Brandon’s thing, and being outdoorsy is my dad’s thing, and being independently wealthy and Cinderella-perfect all day long is Melody’s thing. Even my crazy mom has a thing. A sick obsession with dolls and figurines is theoretically still a thing, right? I finish my lunch and then toss my apple core down to a school of goby fish.
I have no thing.
Jules Callia Bell is as thing-less as they come.
I sit and worry that I’m a broke-ass, dull, thing-less bore of a human being. Then I pull out my phone again not expecting anything because it’s like panning for gold trying to get a few signal bars to pop up around here. But it registers a strong signal and it’s not roaming so my dad won’t get charged a hundred dollars if I call someone for five seconds or get on the Internet.
There is a message from the loan officer at the bank so I call back and pretend I’m my mom again. I ask for clarification on “the hardship request” and tell him I don’t have the papers in front of me. I give him my address and name and he looks up the records that way. He basically tells me that filing a hardship is where you present your case for being a poor person in need of modified payments. He tells me that the Envelope of Doom is not the first time I’ve been notified and so a hardship is probably not an option for me at this tremendously late juncture. Basically, I have ninety-days to pay up or shut up, he says. I’m paraphrasing here, he’s not that crude about it, but he’s not a very sympathetic person. I get teary and he huffs at me like: “Save it sweetheart, I’ve heard it all.”
Then I accidentally drop the word “she” instead of “I.”
He immediately picks up on it and asks for my social security number which makes me panic and hang up.
I leave Lindsey a message about it all. She’s working so texts back quickly that she’ll look into what a hardship means and get back to me tonight. She tells me to cheer up and attaches a picture of her hot co-worker Terrence at camp that she snapped when he wasn’t paying attention. And then there are three messages from Melody, asking when I’ll be coming home, each one getting more fretful than the last.
Still no calls from my mom.
I call her but she still doesn’t answer. I leave another message. A more even-tempered, sane one. Hi, it’s your daughter, again. Julianne. Call me, please. I start to grow worried about her. She’s never gone this long without calling me back.
When I scroll through my old calls from yesterday, to see if maybe I missed one, Brandon’s number pops out making my pulse quicken. I skip over it and move onto Facebook for a while. I kill time liking, loving, and lol-ing until four o’clock when I’m sure my dad will be home from work. I don’t want to have to be alone with The Step Melody.
“Oh, god. Where have you been? You’ve been gone for seven hours!” Melody says when I walk into the house. She and my dad are standing next to each other in the living room. Melody looks worried but my dad looks ticked.
“I was looking for a job? Like I said I would be?” I say, dropping my bag onto the floor, and pulling a face like she’s just asked the stupidest question in the history of questions.
“Why were you gone so long?” my dad says. “This is not a big island, Julianne.”
“I called all the places on the island where you might have gone,” Melody says. “The cafe said you left hours ago.”
Okay, now I’m getting irritated. Despite what Melody and my dad think, I am not seven. I have practically raised myself these past few years and now they’re going to waltz in and take over my every waking moment? I’m almost eighteen! I look at Melody, standing there in her J. Crew sundress, her perfectly toned arms crossed. She has sat around this house all day and in her useless, rich, island slum lord boredom, gotten herself, and now my dad, all worked up over nothing.
“I went to the bird sanctuary and hung out for a few hours, what’s the big deal?”
“The big deal,” my dad says, “is that you need to check in. It’s called being courteous and responsible. You have a chronic medical condition, Julianne. We need to know where you are and that you’re okay.”
My spine straightens and my chin lifts a bit at his choice of words. Chronic. Medical. Condition. I don’t like being referred to that way. It makes me feel weak, like I’m defective somehow.
“I brought my supplies,” I say, “I had a good lunch and dosed properly. I’m fine. And, well, my phone doesn’t work here so I can’t check in.”
It’s true. How am I supposed to “check in” when I’m living on Gilligan’s freaking Island? Beat on a drum? Send up a signal flare? My phone doesn’t work. (Okay, it works at the bird sanctuary, but they don’t need to know that…)
“Yes, I realize that,” my dad says, cocking his head. “That’s why, from now on, you’ll be carrying this whenever you leave the house.”
He reaches out, takes my hand, and slaps a walkie-talkie into my palm.
Crap. He sells them at the shop. I forgot about these.
“They have a five mile range,” he says. “The island is only three. So, we won’t be having this discussion again.”
He looks at me with that parental And-I-Mean-Business scrunch-brow.
I glare over at Melody. It steams me when she doesn’t look away. After a moment I sigh and nod at my dad.
Fine. They can have this one. It’s only two more months or so.
My dad’s face relaxes a bit.
“Alright, then,” he says and then the two of them walk to the kitchen to get dinner started.
I go upstairs and Skype Lindsey to vent to her quietly and unsour my mood for dinner. As usual, Lindsey listens and tells me how right I am. We talk about the foreclosure mess and she tells me that it’s going to be tricky fixing the situation without Christine showing up to the bank for some up-close-and-personal begging. I may have to drag her in there by the hair, I think.
But for now, I need to get a job. That part is not in question.
Money is needed and fast.
Lindsey tries to divert my attention a bit, lighten things up, so says things to make me laugh; tells me horror stories about her first day coaching at middle school volleyball camp. We swoon over more pictures that she’s taken of Terrence when he wasn’t looking. We have a full-on hash about it, dissecting and analyzing his thick, black hair, his bronze forearms, and his excellent choice in athletic footwear.
During dinner, which Melody informs me will be ground moose lasagna with an organic beet salad, thirty-five carbs, my dad asks how my job hunting went.
“Not good,” I mumble. “I’m going to try Put-in-Bay tomorrow.”
“I can ask around,” my dad says, taking a bite of his moose-meat lasagna, “Wow, this is good Melly—,” he mumbles out the side of his mouth. “—or you can always come work with me at the shop.”
I stab at a beet. “How many hours would you give me?”
“A couple days a week?” he says. “About ten or fifteen.”
Yep, just like I thought.
“I need more than that,” I say.
“Why do you need more than that?” he says. “It’s just spending money. You should be relaxing and enjoying your last summer of true freedom. Once you graduate, it’s on. College is no joke.”
I think about telling him why I need more money, about the Envelope of Doom, but then quickly erase the thought. I still may be able to fix this mess without dragging him and Melody into it. If I work all summer and then also dump my mother out of her recliner, get her to file the hardship thing and force her to get a job, we could dig our way out of this, I know it.
Then a quick-fix solution hits me like a meteor trailing gold coins and diamonds.
“About college,” I say. “I know you said you have a fund for me. One you’ve been keeping since I was little. How much is in it?”
His eyebrows go up.
“Enough,” he says, cutting his lasagna, frowning. “You were thinking Ohio State last time we talked about it, right?”
“Well, what if I commuted to Cleveland State?”
“You mean if your mother cleans the place up and you continue living in Lakewood, right? Because you’re not going back there, Julianne, if she doesn’t. And if you stay here, the nearest school is Toledo and the ferry doesn’t run in winter. It’s not feasible. Plus, I thought you’d be excited about dorm life.”
“I’m just not sure yet is all,” I say. “I just want to know my options. Like how much money do I have to work with?”
He pauses then sighs.
“Eighty-thousand,” he says. “More than enough for four years at a state school.”
Eighty-thousand dollars! Holy shit! I want to start hopping up and down in my seat, fast-clapping like a fool while screaming Yippee!
“So if I commute, what happens to the rest of it? Is it mine? Can I use it?”
I try to restrain my enthusiasm but my heart is ready to explode with relief and happiness. It’s like a bank vault door just appeared in front of me with Julianne’s Money written on it in shiny, golden letters. I just have to find a way to crack the code and grab it all up.
“We save it for a wedding or for down-payment on your first home,” he says. “A move to a new city, a better car, medical emergencies, whatever your adult life calls for. Why the sudden interest in money, Julianne?”
“Uh…,” I say, stalling.
His eyes go wide. His brain synapses start fusing together into the shape of light bulb floating over his head. He’s so onto me.
“Is your mom in financial trouble?” he says, setting his fork down. “I remember her spending habits well. She has no restraint. It’s a good part of the reason that we—,” he shakes his head, cuts himself off. “Did she ask you to ask me for your college money?”
“What? NO!” I say, because she would never. What kind of person does he think she is? She’s got her problems but she’s not that cut-throat selfish. This is all my idea.
My heart sinks. I settle into my seat, stab at my beets some more.
We all sit and swim around in the awkwardness for a few moments.
“Fine. I’ll try mini-golf and ice-cream tomorrow,” I say, flatly. “It’s not Cedar Point, but—,”
“You tried Cedar Point?” Melody asks, glomming onto the new topic while pouring a glass of tea. The tea has lemon rings floating in it and is in one of those round crystal pitchers. It’s Lipton-commercial-perfect just like her.
“No. It’s too far,” I say. “I’ve already priced it. It would cost a fortune to take the car over every time I worked.”
We all concentrate on our lasagna which I’m loathe to admit is amazing.
“But what if you didn’t have to take the car?” Melody says.
“I need the car. The park is a fifteen minute drive from the ferry. I can’t walk that, or even bike it. Plus, what if it rains?”
“But if you had a ride to the park, would you want to work there?” she asks.
“Well, yeah,” I say. “Who wouldn’t want to work there? It’s an amusement park.”
My dad glares at me. Melody takes a sip of her tea.
“Let me see what I can do,” she says. “My friend’s niece works there in the human resources department. She’s a college student but stays with Mabel in the summers. They live on Catawba right off the ferry landing. No guarantees but I might be able to get you in.”
“Okay,” I say, “If you don’t mind, I mean.”
“I don’t mind,” she says.
After a few moments, my dad chimes in.
“Fine. I can get you a frequent floater pass. Not for the car, but for yourself. I’ve done them favors in the past. Brought them parts when they were dead in the water, loaned them skis, different stuff. Don’t worry about the pass.”
A ping of gratitude toward Melody registers in my heart.
She’s not a monster. I already said that.
9.
I’ve been on the island a full week now and it’s been an exercise in measured torture. Everything is so quiet and low-key that it’s starting to soften my brain. A person can only ride a bike, bird watch, and suntan so much before the days start blending together into one big Middle Bass Groundhog Day. All I’ve done is stare at my phone and wait to hear from my mom. If she doesn’t call me back by tonight, the first day off I get, I’m driving home to personally strangle her.
I went for an interview yesterday. Today is my first day at Cedar Point and I’m scheduled to work every day for the next week.
Also, I can pick up even more hours if people want to give up shifts. And it’s fifty cents more than minimum wage. If everything goes according to plan, I figure between what I’m making at the park, what my mom might be able to make if she gets a job right away, the child support and alimony, there should be enough to stave off the repo man at least for a while. With the hardship clause or whatever.
My dad hasn’t mentioned stopping child support or alimony payments.
I don’t know if he’s thought of it, cutting her off in that way. It would probably be a hassle, getting an attorney, going back to court and whatever, only to have to turn around and start the payments back up again when I return home at the end of August.
Anyhow, I’m meeting that girl that Melody knows at her apartment. She’s agreed to carpool with me. Her name is Dana. She’s the girl who was sitting at the front desk when Brandon and I got scolded by the Human Resources Director, Alberta Biddleton. Alberta didn’t remember me, thank god, so hired me on the spot.
Alberta. Biddleton.
The name alone gives me a shiver.
Alberta is in her fifties, I’d say, which is old but still too young for a name that disagreeable. It fits her perfectly though, because she has this whole, sharp-talking, angry drill sergeant aura about her. While I was waiting for my interview, she was running poor Dana ragged and berating her for wearing black nail polish.
&n
bsp; I will be a “sweep,” meaning a person who walks around wearing a cute yellow bibbed overall uniform and matching hair bow, sweeping up trash and giving directions to park guests. Sometimes, as needed, I will also skim one of the many duck ponds and decorative waterways that snake through the park. Not glamorous, but beggars can’t be choosers.
Plus, there’s the Brandon Wright factor…
I get off the ferry in Catawba and head down to Dana’s house. While I walk through the ferry parking lot, I pull out my cell and call my mom again. She doesn’t answer so I leave her another message. I called her twice last night from the landline but got no answer. I make excuses for her in my mind and imagine that she’s too busy cleaning up the house to take my calls but then I think back to our epic cleaning day fail with that organizer lady and my stomach gets knotted up. I want to believe in her, believe that she’s going to come through for me this summer, but it’s hard. She knows that I know about the foreclosure and she’s still not calling me? She’s leaving me to unscrew things by myself? Whatever, all I can do is keep moving forward. Start working my ass off and see what happens.
Dana’s place is a little farther walk than I anticipated so I’m starting to sweat and my bag is growing heavier by the minute. Melody acted like I was headed into the wilderness for an extended camping trip this morning and loaded me down with a week’s worth of fruit cups, granola bars, deer jerky, juice boxes, and a ton of other things. And then my dad made me take a three day supply of my long-acting insulin even though I’ll be home in plenty of time to take it.
“You will not leave this island without a three-day supply, J-bear,” my dad said. “You never know what will happen.”
I thought, ugh, is this the same person that moved almost three hours away from me five years ago? I got this, dad, trust me. But I didn’t say anything. He’s been awfully pushy these days when it comes to me so I don’t want to stir the pot and have him yank the Cedar Point rug out from under me; tell me I can’t work there or something.
Doll Hearts Page 8
