The Summer of Lost Wishes

by Jessa Gabrielle

  “You’re not funny,” he says. “I was a waiter, and it wasn’t the kind of restaurant that would even own a fish costume. They were more like that place over there, a little more high-end.”

  He points ahead at Sharktooth Seafront. The exterior walls are wooden like a surf shack on the beach, but the logo is sparkly and gold with elegant cursive writing. I bet they have oak floors and an illuminated bar that glows orange to match the golden vibe. Mom will probably celebrate her new business venture at a restaurant like that, somewhere expensive and showy.

  “The tips were good,” Rooks says. “But when you work with a higher clientele, you have a much tougher standard to live up to. I never quite fit in with the country club kind of people, you know?”

  “So did you quit?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “No, I was fired,” he says. “I don’t know what she’s heard, but I see the way your mom looks at me – like I’m the worst possible person for her daughter to be hanging out with.”

  Maybe Mr. Carter told Mom about Rooks and the job termination. That could be why she thinks he’s a bad influence, that maybe he’ll cost me a corporate position someday if I don’t stop hanging out with him right now.

  But I doubt Mr. Carter would’ve thrown his own son under the bus like that. Maybe it’s just rumors and gossip. This town seems to have mastered that over the last half-century.

  “I wouldn’t read much into her,” I tell him. “She’ll come back to reality eventually. Right now, she has this idea in her head of what our lives will be like here, and she’s determined to create this picture-perfect image.”

  “And I don’t fit into that picture, right?” he asks. “Because I’m a troublemaker who is going to be a bad influence on you and cause all the cool kids to shun you?”

  I don’t even know what to say to that. Mom doesn’t really hide her lack of approval, but she doesn’t actually do or say anything rude to him. She says that Mr. Carter is a nice man who has been ever-so-kind to help us out but that he has a typical teenage son who needs to get his act together and grow up.

  “It’s not that,” I say, even though it’s exactly that.

  “Piper, c’mon. I’m not dumb. I know she thinks I’m not good enough to hang out with you. I’m not part of the right social circle. You can say it,” he says.

  It’s almost as if he’s mad that I’m trying to be nice about it.

  “What kind of trouble did you get into?” I ask instead. “She said you were sent to your dad for the summer because of something you did. So what did you do?”

  He tosses his head back, almost humored. “It’s the dumbest story ever,” he says. “It was stupid. The entire thing was stupid.”

  He motions for us to turn at the corner of the sidewalk, so I let him lead the way. This block stretches down to the beach and a long string of fishing docks. Boats of different sizes linger in the water as crews of workers rush around, hauling in today’s catches. A thick white chain with an “authorized personnel only” sign blocks the fishing docks from the tourist fishing piers. I glance away. Fresh seafood is great, but I don’t exactly want to watch the freshness be brought in from the water.

  The sidewalk merges onto the small fishing pier down behind the restaurants. A mild breeze sweeps off of the water. Rooks glances at the fishermen but nods in the other direction, toward the beach and away from the businesses.

  “I worked at this seafood restaurant, The Captain’s Table, that’s crazy popular back home,” Rooks tells me as we stroll toward the sand. “They have a contract with a lobster fishing company that imports fresh lobster weekly, so it’s always packed.”

  He describes the restaurant as one of those mom-and-pop kind of places that became locally famous because of their menu. Anyone who vacations nearby makes reservations at The Captain’s Table because nowhere else in the state of Florida has this good of lobster.

  “It wasn’t so bad when I was a kid, but as they grew and more business came in, it turned into one of those gimmicky lobster-themed places. So lame,” Rooks says. “They had this huge wooden lobster cut-out made for them. It’s like five feet tall, painted red, with this big stupid smile, and it stands out on the grass. It looks like a drawing off of the kids’ menu.”

  I shield my eyes from the sun as I look toward him. “Did you hurt the lobster?” I ask.

  He cracks a smile. “Not exactly. I was supposed to work one weekend, but my mom called me before I went in and said she was at the hospital. I called into work, like anyone would do, and then I went to the hospital to check on my mom because at that point, I didn’t know what had happened,” he says.

  I slip my flip-flops off before we continue on through the sand. Large sand dunes separate the back patios of the restaurants up the hill from the beach. In the distance, there’s another pier and a snowcone shop on the actual beach.

  “When I got to the hospital, it was actually her boyfriend, not her, who had been admitted,” Rooks continues. “He burned himself on his motorcycle trying to repair something before it had cooled off.”

  “So they fired you for not being at work?” I assume. “Can they even do that if you called in with a family emergency?”

  Rooks shrugs. “It’s not always that simple,” he explains. “My boss called the hospital to see if my mom was there, and she wasn’t a patient, so he accused me of lying and that was it. I was pissed, but I didn’t do anything about it...yet.” He pauses for dramatic effect before the word ‘yet.’

  The ocean waits before us, pulling the waves back out to sea and stretching the shoreline out like the beach needs to yawn. It’s still fairly early in the day, but families are already scattered across the sand with large umbrellas, picnic baskets and coolers, and plastic pails for building sandcastles.

  “Everyone knew I got fired, and my boss didn’t like me or my friends. It’s a small town, and we’re not the small town heroes,” he says, raising his hand up to his forehead to shield the sun as he looks out over the water. “We were the ones who worked at the restaurant, not the ones who can afford to eat there.”

  A large boat drifts in the distance. If it weren’t for the billowing sails, I’d have thought it was one of the restaurants’ boats. It looks like a pirate’s ship. I almost ask Rooks what it is, but I don’t want to interrupt his story.

  “I did what I was supposed to do. Black pants, white button-up shirt. Yes ma’am, no ma’am. I can play the part when I have to, but I am who I am, you know?” he asks.

  He wouldn’t believe me if I agreed. He doesn’t know me. Not really. He doesn’t know who I was in Tennessee or who my friends were or what my social status was. He doesn’t know what kind of house we lived in or where my mom worked. All he knows is that we’re the new people in town who bought the legendary cottage next door to his dad’s house. My mom’s new career will be launching soon, and my life will be reinvented as a Florida girl in flip-flops rather than the Tennessee girl in boots.

  But I do get it. I know what it’s like to play a part. I sort of feel like I’m playing one right now. The gossip surrounding my new home automatically makes me interesting by association, and I’m so far from interesting.

  He stops in the sand, away from the crowds of beach goers and tourists.

  “I’m still waiting to know how the lobster fits into all of this,” I say.

  He smirks. “Right. The lobster. My mom dragged me to church with her that weekend, because that’s what you do when you have a troublesome kid who really isn’t trouble,” he says. “The preacher’s sermon was about ‘teaching today’s youth about manners and respect.’ His words, not mine. But he went too far with it. He made eye contact with me a lot – enough to make people look back at me – and he said that lying to your employer begins with lying in your home. I was pissed.”

  The pirate ship glides across the water, slowly moving back toward the other side of the fishermen’s docks. I wonder if it’s one of those glass-bottom boat tours. Maybe they ride out and look for shar
ks the way most boat tours look for dolphins.

  “He basically called you out in front of the entire church then,” I say, bringing my attention back to Rooks.

  He nods. “It was stupid. But that’s when Clay, my friend back home, decided we should just get even. The hell with manners and respect. It was one of those moments where I was like, if you want to make an example out of me for something that was beyond my control, then I’m going to go all out so you’ll have something real to tell people,” he says. “So we stole the lobster. Clay dressed it in lingerie, and we staked him into the ground in front of the church.”

  He explains that he and Clay both knew where all the cameras were from working at the restaurant, so they knew how to avoid them. With no way to identify the people in charge, The Captain’s Table and the church couldn’t press charges.

  “Obviously they knew,” Rooks says. “Everyone knew, but no one could prove it, and we sure as hell weren’t going to confess. But my mom knew, and she said it was too much to deal with and maybe Dad could get me back in line this summer.”

  I nod along as he speaks. “Is that what he’s doing then? Hard labor working on the Calloway Cottage to teach you a lesson?” I ask. I hope he knows I’m joking.

  “Let’s walk,” he says, pointing ahead toward the crowds of people. “We’re going to walk down to the next block and back up to the downtown area.”

  I trudge along with him, wondering if maybe my hard labor remark was taken too seriously. Maybe I should apologize. I didn’t take him as the type to be easily offended, but in all reality, I don’t truly know him any more than he truly knows me.

  “I’m not a bad guy,” he finally says once we’re out of earshot of the kids playing in the sand. “I really do stay out of trouble for the most part. I had to for baseball. If my grades dropped or I got in trouble, in or out of school, then I was benched, so I really did behave myself. Dad knows that, though. He’s cool about it. I screwed up. I know it. But it’s over and done. I’m allowed to mess up every now and then. And that’s how often it is – just every now and then.”

  A weathered wooden fence lines the bottom of the sand dunes, barely high enough not to be swallowed by the sand itself. It trails along until it meets the old wooden steps that lead from the parking lot down to the beach. Rooks holds his arm out, motioning for me to walk ahead.

  Sand is tucked into every nook of the steps. It’s going to take a while to get used to tracking sand behind me everywhere I go. I keep my beach bag close to me like a protective momma turtle watching over her eggs. I glance back at Rooks when we reach the top of the steps.

  “Well,” he says, looking ahead at the downtown block. “Now you know my story. I’m a liar and a lobster thief. Still want to hang out with me?”

  Chapter Eight

  At the far end of the downtown strip, there’s an old red and orange Spanish-style building with arched windows. The words Casa Garcia are scrolled in cursive letters over the door. A large cactus stands on either side of the entranceway.

  “That’s where we’re going,” Rooks says, pointing to the Mexican restaurant. “Hector’s family owns it, and that’s normally where I find him before he goes into work. I met him last summer. He’s basically my only friend here.”

  We wait for a red light and cross at the crosswalk. For a small town, it surprises me that they have one in place, but tragedies bring out tourists. Everyone wants to see places like this for themselves. And the seafood probably doesn’t hurt matters.

  I keep close to Rooks as we make our way into Casa Garcia. A young Hispanic girl greets us in the foyer, but Rooks quickly tells her that he’s just looking for her brother.

  Twinkle lights line the ceiling in every room, casting a festive glow over the guests. Colorful woven table runners line the surface of each table in the restaurant. Small pots with succulents and cacti plants serve as centerpieces. I really like the western desert kind of vibe in the middle of a beach town. I will have to bring my mom here just to see the look on her face when she sees there aren’t any seahorse statues or shades of blue in the paint scheme.

  “This is my favorite place to eat in Coral Sands,” Rooks informs me. “I can do without the shrimp and sushi. I don’t need lobster or catfish. Give me salsa and tortilla chips, and I’ll make a freaking meal of it.”

  My stomach attempts to growl, like it’s not quite sure if it’s actually hungry or just loves the sound of tortilla chips and salsa right about now.

  “So did Hector not want to go into the family business?” I ask.

  Rooks shrugs. “He helps out sometimes. If it’s a holiday or there’s something going on in town, he’ll jump in, but depending on tips isn’t always the ideal job. At least he’s guaranteed a certain pay at the boat tours,” he says.

  Boat tours? My nerve endings tingle with excitement. I’ve never been on a boat – not like a real boat. Those rowboats and lakes back home do not count toward actually being on the water. If you have to grab an oar, it’s not enjoyable. I would never tell Mom that, though. She’d get too much pleasure out of hearing her Tennessee daughter complain about it.

  “Is that where we’re going later?” I ask, trying not to sound too hopeful.

  He smiles. “Don’t get too excited. You haven’t actually seen the boat he works on,” he says.

  I don’t have a chance to inquire.

  “Rooks Carter,” a Hispanic guy says, approaching us. He’s about our age, so I figure this has to be Rooks’ only friend in Coral Sands. “When did you get back here?”

  “A few days ago,” Rooks says. “I’m staying with my dad. This is Piper, our new neighbor. We’re helping redo her house.”

  Rooks motions toward me and then introduces the guy as Hector Reyes. But Hector doesn’t say anything. He stares through me, like I’m not even real. It lasts for a few too many uncomfortable seconds.

  “Calloway Cottage, huh?” Hector says when he finally decides to speak. “Does it need a lot of work? I mean, I figure since it’s just been sitting there for half a century, it probably needs some major work, right?”

  Well, that’s a new one. People stare. People are amazed. People think we’re weird. But he’s the first to assume the house is decaying. Believe it or not, the Calloways didn’t just let the house fall in on itself. It’s in pretty good condition, all things considered.

  I quickly shake my head. “It’s really not that bad,” I say, doing all I can to keep any defensiveness out of my voice. “Just needs some updating. Any major renovations are just because my mom wants them, not because they’re necessary.”

  “Anyway,” Rooks interrupts. “I was going to ask if you’re working later today. I didn’t want Piper to miss out on the experience of you in full costume.”

  Hector narrows his eyes. “Unfortunately,” he says. “You coming to the sunset tour?”

  Rooks nods. “It’s the best time of day for it,” he says.

  After browsing half the shops downtown, talking about Rooks’ baseball season, and enlightening him with stories of the boring things I used to do in Tennessee for fun, we make our way down the docks at Moonlight Harbor. The sun breathes fiery red streaks across the blue and white clouds, like it’s trying to set the sky on fire before fizzling out for the day. It’s an eerie kind of pretty, sort of like the Calloway Cottage.

  “Which boat does Hector work on?” I ask, rising up on my tip toes to see the signs on the ticket booth.

  “The Dragon’s Jewel,” Rooks says. “It’s the one you probably saw earlier today. Huge white sails. It’s hard to miss.”

  He steps up to the counter and asks the girl for two tickets for the evening boat tour. A retired couple waiting behind us says something about having to bring their grandkids out here sometime, and now I’m a little unsure about this boat ride.

  “So we’re going on the pirate ship?” I assume as Rooks hands me a ticket. There’s a cartoon parrot with a patch over its eye.

  “I promised you a gimmick, didn’t
I?” he asks, trying to keep a straight face. “It’s not so bad. They really do take the same route as the dolphin tours, and they sail out toward Lighthouse Rock a.k.a. Shark Island a.k.a. the one place I know you’re dying to see as close up as you can. Am I right or am I right?”

  “You’re arrogant,” I tell him. “But you’re arrogantly right.”

  A proud smirk sneaks onto his face, but he doesn’t boast any more than he already has. Instead, he leads the way down the docks toward The Dragon’s Jewel. A long line stands before us – mostly kids and parents.

  “Let me guess,” I say, hoisting my bag onto my shoulder better. “This is the family-friendly kids’ ride, right?”

  I’d have much rather taken the actual dolphin tour earlier today. At least then it wouldn’t be pirate-themed or have three dozen small children bouncing around hoping they get to play captain or look for treasure at some point during the ride.

  “It’s really not bad,” Rooks repeats. He runs a hand through his hair, almost frustrated with his decision to bring me out here. “I promise. It’s a good tour, and it’s hilarious seeing Hector dressed in his pirate costume. That alone is worth the price of the ticket.”

  The kids ahead of us giggle and squeal with excitement while I cling tightly to the bag over my shoulder. Something about touring near Shark Island makes me feel like these letters will magically disappear from my bag – or that Seth’s and Hanna’s spirits will rise from the waters and pull the massive ship under in retaliation.

  Rooks leans in and speaks so only I can hear him. “We’ll sit toward the back if it makes you feel any better,” he whispers. “You know, not so many excited kids.”

  After the twenty-minute wait, inching along the docks toward the ship, we come face-to-face with a girl in a white long-sleeve shirt with a black leather vest over it. A white bandana is wrapped over her hair. A black treasure chest logo with the white words ‘The Dragon’s Jewel’ are scrawled over it in cursive writing. A red diamond serves as the apostrophe in Dragon’s.