“I could—”
“I mean, I’m going to have to find a freaking white shirt and a bow tie and suit up myself tonight if this keeps up. Thank god it’s Monday and not Friday—”
I let her talk for another minute or so, the words coming out in a tumble. I don’t want to get on her bad side by interrupting her. I need this job. I need the money, I need to fill my time, and I need to distract myself from the bridge between my new life and my old one that seems to be smoldering behind me.
I hear a moment of silence on the other end of the line. Libby must finally be taking a breath, so I jump in.
“I’m calling about the server job,” I say. “I would like to do that job.”
“Oh! Well, great! Haven’t you just answered all my prayers? Can you be down here at noon for an interview?”
“I’ll be there.”
* * *
Libby’s office looks just like she sounds on the phone. That is to say, it’s crammed full of information with only a vague attempt at organization. Not that she has much choice. The space seems to be a former closet of some kind. From the linoleum tile, windowless walls, flickering neon light, and vague scent of industrial cleaner, I’d say this used to belong to housekeeping. Now it houses a small wooden table that’s attempting to be a desk, one battered rolling office chair, and a metal folding chair that’s listing to one side. The walls are covered with those plastic slots that hold flyers and brochures, the kind you usually see in a guidance office.
“I could ask you if you have experience, but the truth is it doesn’t matter. So long as you can smile and not drop drinks in someone’s lap, you’re golden. And honestly, I can train you out of the drink dropping in a night,” Libby explains. She blows a frizzy curl out of her eye, but it falls right back.
“I’m a hard worker,” I tell her, which is basically my only serving qualification. “And I’m not into live music or living history.”
“Good,” she says. “Sorry that we don’t have anything better available.”
“Better?” I ask.
“Yeah. You know, pool, tennis, kids’ camp. Most of the island kids want those jobs, but you sort of missed the boat on those.”
I nod. Spencer had said as much at the fund-raiser. Frankly, I’d be happy doing just about anything for twelve dollars an hour, and with the prospect of tips, I don’t care a bit if it involves wearing a bow tie. Not that I’m looking forward to working in the dining room. Hauling around heavy trays and coming home covered in the daily special is not really how I was hoping to spend my summer, but hey, it’s better than working at a drive-through.
Libby reaches into one of the slots on the wall behind her desk and pulls out a collection of forms.
“Fill these out, and then you can get started tonight, if that works.”
She’s searching through the mess on her desk for a pen when I hear someone stomping down the hall outside the office. I look over my shoulder just in time to see a tall, thin blond girl appear in the doorway, a look of pure, unadulterated rage on her face. She’s wearing a crisp white polo shirt bearing the logo of the Island Club over her heart and a khaki miniskirt, a pair of sparkly flip-flops on her feet.
“I cannot do this. I told you I couldn’t do kids’ camp. I told you I don’t do children. I told you I wanted to work at the pool. But did you listen? No! And now look at this!”
The girl reaches back for the end of her ponytail and shakes it, hard enough that it takes me a minute to see what she’s talking about. Actually, I smell it before I see it, that sickly sweet, fake grape scent, which is emanating from a wad of gum that is tangled in her hair.
“I quit, effective immediately, so I can make an emergency visit to my stylist, and Abel Marcus’s mother will be writing me a check!” And then without another word, she pivots on her heel and stomps away.
Libby turns back to me and plasters a bright smile on her face, though the sheer panic in her eyes betrays her.
“Okay, so we have an opening at the summer camp. Elementary schoolers. You interested?”
It takes me less than five seconds to say yes, and that’s before I find out that the camp jobs pay a whopping eighteen dollars an hour. A little grape gum doesn’t scare me.
The acceptance is barely out of my mouth before Libby is pulling a walkie-talkie from a charger on her desk. “Annie? Can you meet me in my office once you get the kids settled?”
There’s a crackly bit of static before a voice comes back over the speaker. “Will do.”
“You fill these out, and Annie will be here shortly. She’ll give you a little orientation. Unfortunately, I can’t let you start right away, since you’ll need a background check for camp. Probably not tomorrow, but maybe Wednesday?” I nod. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go make sure the rest of my servers are showing up tonight.”
She leaves me alone to fill out forms. I finish quickly, and with nothing else to do, I pull out my phone and start scrolling through SocialSquare. Right away I spot a shot of Lainey. She’s leaning over an enormous pepperoni pizza. Waylon is there and Gwen. And sitting next to Lainey is Ali. They’re all grinning and giving thumbs-up to the camera, which Waylon is holding out in front of them. The tag says they’re at Gino’s Pizza, the photo taken last night. I thought Ali had to work. Before I can talk myself out of it, I comment, “Looks fun!” And within seconds, my phone buzzes with a reply from Lainey.
Wish you were here! Last-minute pizza date isn’t the same without you: (
Last minute. Which I can’t do because I live all the way the hell out here.
A blond head pops around the doorway, catching me mid-frown. “Hey, I’m Annie. Your tour guide?”
Annie is tall but stocky, like she plays a contact sport. She’s also wearing the white Island Club polo, hers with khaki shorts and a pair of sneakers. She looks friendly, or at least more friendly than the last girl who stood in this doorway.
“Yeah, I’m Maritza.” I stand and shake her hand. “I’m the new camp counselor.”
“And not a moment too soon,” she replies wryly.
“Yeah, um, I saw the other girl. She seemed … fun.”
“Aubrey is the worst. I should totally buy Abel a bag of Skittles for the favor he did me in getting rid of her,” she says, cocking her head to get me to follow her out into the hall. “So, have you been to the Island Club before?”
It’s a simple question, but one that’s definitely loaded. I can hear it in her voice. If the island kids are the ones who usually take these jobs, and the island isn’t that big, then Annie would know me (and whether or not I’d been to the club before). But since she doesn’t know me, I’m from somewhere else. I’m an outsider.
“Once. For the clinic fund-raiser the other night,” I explain. “I just moved here.”
“Well, welcome to Helena. Which house?”
“End of Bayshore? I’m staying with Kris Stokes,” I say, because Kris seems like the kind of person most people around here know.
“Oh, that’s great! Kris is great. Is she your aunt or something? Wait, I’m sorry. Don’t answer that. I’m trying not to be so nosy. My friends are always telling me I’m hella nosy.”
And I let it go at that, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Helena Island, it’s that someone else is bound to fill her in.
“Okay, well, let’s go for the grand tour, shall we?” We set out from the office. “You’ll spend most of your time in the kids’ clubhouse behind the pool, but members tend not to designate between anyone’s jobs, so if you’re wearing the logo, you’re gonna get asked questions.” She taps at the little palm tree on her polo shirt.
As I suspected on the first night we pulled up to the Island Club, the property is a little bit like Mary Poppins’s bag. It’s much bigger than it looks. She shows me the main dining room and the kitchen, where I learn that if I show up post-banquet I can raid the buffet leftovers, but not a moment before or Pablo, the head chef, will totally go ballistic. She shows
me where the member locker rooms are, just down from the small spa, where apparently people go to sit in a roomful of hot steam (which pretty much sounds like walking outside in August in Florida, but I guess it’s only good if you pay for the privilege?). The golf pro shop is at the far end of the building, opening up onto the first hole of an expansive golf course.
“That’s, like, its own kingdom, so don’t even worry about going over there,” Annie tells me, and I don’t understand what she means, but from the look of all the stern older men in starched polo shirts strolling around, I’m happy to avoid it.
When we get to the tennis courts, I spot a familiar face on the bench just outside the fence, hunched over on his knees, his head in his hands.
“Ryan, where’s your brother?” Annie asks him.
Ryan rolls his eyes and points to the far court, where Spencer is hitting balls at a gaggle of adorable little kids in tennis whites. “His lesson is going over, even though I told him camp gets out at twelve thirty. He never listens to me, though.”
“Sorry, bud, that’s how it goes for the little brother,” Annie says, ruffling his hair.
“How would you know?” Ryan grumbles. He’s clearly in a mood.
“Because I’m the little sister,” she says. “Same rules apply.”
We leave them behind, but I can’t stop myself from glancing back at Spencer on the court. He’s showing a little boy how to grip his racket. And even though the boy takes a wild swing and sends the ball sailing three courts away, I see Spencer smiling and patting him on the back before making a few adjustments. Once we’re around the corner, Annie shakes her head and sighs.
“Poor Ryan. He’s mostly pissed that his dad said no to golf camp,” she explains. “He’s totally an outdoor kid. He’s got zero interest in the arts and crafts and theater stuff we’ve got going on at the general kids’ camp.”
“Why won’t his dad—?”
Annie holds up a hand to stop me mid-question, like it’s one that everyone’s been asking. “It’s not even worth it. I just try to keep him moving as much as possible so all that energy doesn’t explode all over the rest of the campers,” she says. “Of course, that means that my co-counselor needs to keep a good eye out on the rest of the kids, which is why Aubrey wound up with gum in her hair.”
“She wasn’t watching?”
“Oh, she was watching,” Annie says, rolling her eyes and gesturing to the pool, now in front of us. “She was watching the lifeguards set up the lounge chairs for the afternoon.”
There’s a collection of buff, shirtless guys in red swim trunks standing around the pool, their skin tan, their hair sunlit, fashionable sunglasses giving them all the look of movie stars trying to avoid paparazzi. They’re stationed at various points around the pool and have their eyes out scanning the water like they’re searching for the last survivors of a shipwreck.
“Pool dudes take themselves way too seriously,” Annie explains, shaking her head. “It’s worse than golf.”
We take a quick jaunt down to the beach, where Annie introduces me to Ray and Dave, two aging hippies with skin that looks like beef jerky who manage the cabana and beach chair rentals. We pass Ryleigh, she of the metallic dress and distaste for dill, this time in a red bathing suit and sunglasses, perched on a lifeguard chair, scanning an empty ocean. I guess when most of the people on the island have their own private beach, there’s not much need for the one at the country club (“Best job on the island!” Ryleigh drawls as she pulls a magazine out from under her chair).
We finish up the tour in the staff lounge, a room barely twice the size of Libby’s tiny office, only this one has a single window and a couch crammed into it.
“Time clock,” Annie says, gesturing to a keypad on the wall by the door. “Your ID number will be your Social. Don’t forget to clock in and out; otherwise, you have to fill out a correction form with Libby, and she’ll make you sit in her office and listen to her complain for at least fifteen minutes as penance.”
I’m double-checking my forms when Spencer wanders in. The staff lounge is so small that his lanky frame takes up my exit, and I end up plopping down on the couch to wait for him to clock out.
“Where’s Ryan?” Annie asks.
“What?” Spencer glances up, his hair sweaty and clinging to his forehead. “Oh, uh, he’s waiting for me out by the court.”
“Spencer! You’re not supposed to leave kids unattended.”
“He’s not a kid. He’s my brother.” Spencer goes back to squinting at the keypad, entering his ID number like he’s solving a complex equation.
Annie sighs. “Hey, are we doing food tonight, or no? Because last time I didn’t eat before, and there was no food and it was bad news for me.” It takes me a second to realize she’s talking to Spencer and not to me.
“I think Eli said he’s picking up pizza.”
“Thank god,” she says. She crosses the floor and playfully hip checks Spencer away from the time clock, then seems to remember that I’m there. “Oh, Maritza, are you doing anything tonight?”
I shake my head. “Not that I know of.”
“Great! We’re getting together out at the Pen. You should come.”
I’ve never heard of the Pen or Eli, but since my friends are all hanging out without me, I need to make my own plans; otherwise, I’m just going to be sad and pathetic and lonely. Thanks, Mom.
“Yeah, that sounds great,” I say. “But I don’t, uh, I mean … where?”
“Oh, the Pen is this spot on the southern tip of the island. There’s this little peninsula, so we call it the Pen. Eli tried to make the Fjord happen, but it didn’t stick.”
“Can I bike there?” I ask.
Annie bites her lip, contemplating the distance. “It’s kinda far, and in the dark, the roads out there can be a little sketch,” she says, and then her whole being lights up with the glow of an idea. “But oh! Spence can drive you!”
She elbows him, and Spencer looks up, first at Annie, then at me. He looks barely present, and I’m not sure he’s actually heard any of the conversation that’s been happening around him.
“I don’t know,” I say to Annie, not wanting Spencer to get voluntold to be my chauffeur.
“Oh, come! Avery and Bennett just got back together, so there probably won’t be any crying this time. It’ll be fun!”
I glance at Spencer, who nods. “Yeah, I can totally drive you,” he says. “It’s cool.”
I almost—almost—believe him. But even if it is a forced offer or a pity offer, I’ll take it.
“Yeah, okay. That sounds fun.”
“My house at seven,” he says, and then he’s out the door and gone.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I arrive at Spencer’s house right at seven and am met by Ryan. He flings the door open, his hair stuck up at all angles, a temporary tattoo on his right arm, just above where the rest of his arm should be.
“I can juggle!” Ryan declares, as if I’ve come over just to find out if this is true. He has three small, multicolored balls clutched in his right hand. He immediately starts tossing balls into the air in a carefully paced rhythm. I expect them all to bounce to the floor, not because he only has one hand, but because in my experience most people, especially small children, cannot juggle. Anytime you hear the phrase I can juggle, you’re about to get hit in the face with a ball.
But to my surprise, the balls arc through the air, coming down with just enough time between them for Ryan to pluck them from the air and toss them again. Up and around they go, until finally he gives one a slightly-too-hard toss and it bounces on top of his head before landing on the floor.
“That’s amazing!” I exclaim, and there’s barely any forced enthusiasm there. I really am amazed.
“Percy Andrews can juggle one-handed, which I can obviously already do. I only have one hand.” He shakes his left arm, as if this is new information for me. “I’m gonna have to learn to, like, one-footed juggle or something if I wanna beat him.”
I figure he’s joking, but he furrows his brow like he’s seriously considering the logistics of juggling with one foot. Then he nods like he’s accepted the challenge and is on his way to formulating a plan. He runs off without a word.
I’m only left standing alone in the foyer for a moment before Spencer appears at the top of the stairs. He’s wearing a pair of gray shorts and a loose, long-sleeved rugby stripe shirt, the collar sticking up part of the way in the back. His hair is a puff of cowlicks and curls, with obviously no attention or product paid to it. He takes one look at me in my cutoff shorts and tank top and frowns.
“Did you bring a sweatshirt or anything?”
I shake my head.
“It can get kind of cool down by the water at night,” he says.
It can get kind of cool in here, I want to say, reacting to his chilly delivery.
He reaches into the hall closet and pulls out a navy zip hoodie with a white crest screen-printed on the back. THE HARPER SCHOOL, it says. I wonder if it’s his, but as soon as I gather it in my arms, I know it is. There’s the smell of salt and sand and a hint of pine that I didn’t realize was all Spencer until just now.
“Thanks,” I say, tucking it under my arm.
I hear heavy footsteps falling, and Spencer springs into action, grabbing my elbow and guiding me toward the door. “We should go,” he says, his voice suddenly library quiet.
“Spencer?” a deep voice calls from the top of the stairs. It’s Spencer’s dad. I recognize him immediately, even though we’ve never met. He looks like one of those age progressions of Spencer and Ryan. Same blond hair, only the cowlicks and curls have been tamed by a short haircut and some kind of shiny product. And Mr. Ford’s face is more severe. Sharper angles. Harder and more hollowed out.
“Don’t forget about tomorrow,” he says, but his gaze is mostly on the small screen in his hand. “I want you in a clean shirt. Ironed.”
“Yes, sir,” Spencer says, giving a two-fingered salute.
Despite his lack of eye contact, Mr. Ford catches the gesture and glances up from his phone. “That’s right, get it all out of your system now. I don’t want any attitude with Coach V.”
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