I nod, and he throws it up to me underhanded.
“Who were you waving to?” he asks while I kneel to secure the rope to a dock cleat.
“Uh, my friend Lisa. She’s a counselor at Camp Aweelah.”
“That the church camp on Rabbit Island?” He tosses me another rope to tie the stern. I nod. “That must be tough,” he says.
“Huh?”
“Church girls.”
I look up, not sure if I get his meaning. “She’s not my girlfriend.” I’m a terrible liar, and I can feel my face turning hot almost immediately.
He grabs a white T-shirt from the passenger seat of the boat and pulls it over his head. The crisp white against his deeply tanned skin is striking, and I suck in a quick breath of appreciation. I’m suddenly all too aware of my own pale complexion, and I make a mental note to be sure to get more sun this summer. He jumps up on the dock and looks down at me tying the cleat. From this angle I have a clear view of the stitching on the inseam of his cargo shorts. The T-shirt doesn’t quite meet his waistband, and a thin strip of bronze skin is right at my eye level. Wisps of light brown hair converge in a neat line up to where his belly button should be under his shirt. My eyes are stuck on this inch of skin, and when I realize I’m staring, I look down at the cleat instead.
“You were waving a long time, so I figured, you know.” He of fers a hand to help me up. “Hey, don’t sweat it. I’m Jay.”
“Sean,” I say as I take his hand. It is dry and smooth, not a boater’s hand. I want to hang on, but he lets go once I get to my feet.
“Thanks for the help. Maybe I’ll see you around.” He smiles and his teeth match the rest of him, perfect. Then he turns and walks down the dock. At the end he turns around briefly, probably to check his boat. I don’t want him to see me staring, so I pretend I need to tie my shoe.
“Nice to meet you, too,” I say to the toe of my Reebok.
When I look up from my sneaker, Jay has disappeared. I check my watch. I have Ice Cream Orientation in twenty minutes. A week ago, this seemed like a great idea, but now the thought of scooping mint chocolate chip for complaining senior citizens and whining four-year-olds doesn’t necessarily seem better than landscaping in Georgia. But at least I’ll stay cool. Sticking my hands in my pockets, I head down the docks toward the narrow white Victorian at the end of Main Street and my new summer job.
When the Fabulous Renée infamously stormed into town ten years back, she made more waves than the lake in a thunderstorm. First, it was the whole deal with the sign. What makes the Pink Cone stand out from all the other Victorian houses that dot the shores of Bell Cove is the enormous pink ice cream cone that sticks out like a clown nose from the front of the building, pointing passersby to the front door. Locals were furious. There was even a petition to have the sign removed. But Renée knew what she was doing, because that pink sign can be seen halfway across the lake, and it attracted a steady stream of boaters and tourists all summer. The increased traffic on Main Street also meant increased sales for other businesses, and by Labor Day the movement to have the sign removed had died. Now the sign is a landmark embraced by everyone; we call it “Bell Cone.”
But Renée didn’t stop there. She rode her business savvy to a term on the chamber of commerce, where she didn’t make many new friends. She may have gotten her way on the sign, but her idea to attract summer business by hosting a Gay Pride festival didn’t go over so well with the more conservative members of the chamber. She was forced out of the chamber, but the ice cream shop continued to bring customers to Bell Cove. And Renée’s reputation as a crazy lesbian was cemented in the town’s consciousness. Eight years later, and here I am, getting ready to work for the “dyke at the ice cream shop,” as my dad put it.
There are five of us, and I am the only boy. Two of the girls huddle together, sophomores from Lakes Regional, which is two towns over from Bell Cove. They keep exchanging looks and giggling about everything. I hate them immediately. I know one of the other girls by sight. She’s a grade ahead of me at Bell Cove High School, and she’s in the band—flute—I think. She gives me a small smile of recognition when I walk in.
The last girl in the shop is hard to miss. First off, she’s taller than I am, and outweighs my 155 pounds by a good 25 or 30. And most of that extra weight is right in the middle of her chest, which I can’t help but stare at, not because of its ample size, but because she’s wearing a bright orange T-shirt with a picture of a rabbi wearing dark sunglasses. The caption beneath the image is “JEW TALKING TO ME?” And I can’t help but laugh. She’s obviously not a local and I am surprised because usually only the locals take summer jobs. Summer people like this girl are typically on their vacations. The last time I checked, vacation and work were opposites, but maybe this summer girl didn’t get the memo.
“Hi, I’m Becky!” she greets me with enthusiasm. “You must be Sean. I saw the orientation sheet, and there was only one boy’s name on it, so I figure that must be you. Well, if you count Harleigh, I guess there were two boys’ names, sorta, but since Harleigh’s not a motorcycle, I pretty much figured it was a girl Harleigh and not a boy Harley.”
I’m not sure how to respond to this so I just stand there and raise my eyebrows in what I hope is a friendly way.
“So, are you a local, too?” Becky says, gesturing to the others in the room. “They’re all locals. I guess it’s pretty unusual for a summer girl like me to get a job.” She shrugs. “I get a job every summer if I can, otherwise I’d have to spend time with my family, and OMG, bo-ring!”
“Must be nice. I live down the road on Morgan Beach,” I say, and I’m about to add that my family is pretty boring, too, but she cuts me off.
“You live on the beach? That must be great, to just go swimming whenever you want. In New York the best chance we have to swim is at the Y, and who really wants to swim at the Y, you know? I mean, for fun anyway. Most of the time the pool is only open for the old people doing water gymnastics or little kids taking lessons, so it’s not like there’s a lot of chances to swim.”
Becky takes a breath but before she can continue, a voice takes us all by surprise.
“All right, kiddos! Prepare for your fabulous Ice Cream Orientation!” We turn to see a woman dressed head to toe in pink come gliding into the room with her arms spread wide. Held above her head, she has several bubble-gum pink T-shirts emblazoned with the store’s hot-pink logo of an ice cream cone.
Becky throws me an elbow. “I guess she really likes pink, huh?”
“Shh.” I elbow her back and can’t help giggling. “That’s our new boss.”
“I know, the Fab-u-lous Renée,” she says, accenting each syllable. “I met her yesterday. I overheard those girls talking before you got here. I guess she’s a real bitch.”
As if on cue, the Fabulous Renée turns and claps her hands at us. “Enough chitchat, you two! You’re on the clock now. You’re on Renée time!” She starts tossing us pink T-shirts. “Put these fabulous shirts on. You need to look the part.”
One of the two girls from Lakes Regional starts to put the shirt on over the shirt she is already wearing. “You there,” Renée whips around. “What’s your name?”
“Me?” the girl asks.
“Yes, you. I’m not talking to the freezer.”
“Harleigh. ”
“Well, Harleigh, what are you doing?”
“Putting the shirt on. I thought you said—”
“Not over your clothes. You’ll look like a sack of potatoes!”
“Is there a place I can change, then?” Harleigh asks.
“What’s wrong with right here?”
Harleigh doesn’t say anything, just looks at me.
“You’re wearing a bra, aren’t you? It’s just like wearing a bathing suit.” Renée’s tone has gone from manic to mean in about 2.4 seconds.
“It makes me uncomfortable.”
“Well, maybe it makes me uncomfortable to have you working here,” Renée shoots back.
I decide to play hero. “I’ll turn my back,” I say. Renée whirls around to face me and for half a second I think I am getting her wrath next, but instead she smiles.
“Well, well. What a gentleman.”
Harleigh mouths me a silent thank you, and I turn around. We all change, and after about thirty seconds Renée declares, “Fabulous! Now you look the part! Don’t you all look fabulous? ”
I look down at my pink shirt and almost laugh. Renée may have provided me with a way to take care of my Lisa problem. One look at me in hot pink and Lisa should get the picture.
Renée claps her hands again. “Now let me introduce you to your trainer, ice cream scooper extraordinaire, Jay!”
I turn around and look right into the deep brown eyes of my acquaintance from the dock. Somehow he makes the pink shirt look good. I decide it’s the tan.
“Hey, Sean.” He smiles at me.
“Uh, hey, Jay.” I cringe at the rhyme. I want to crawl under one of the freezers. Jay doesn’t seem to notice, though, and walks to the front of our little group next to Renée.
“I’ll take it from here, Renée. You’ve scared ’em enough.”
Renée looks up at Jay and gives him a squinty-eyed smile. Without taking her eyes off him she says, “Listen to Jay here. This is his third summer, and he knows everything there is to know about ice cream at the Pink Cone.” Jay turns and smiles down at her, waiting for Renée to leave. When she doesn’t take the hint right away, he gives her a little wave with the tips of his fingers. Dismissed.
Chapter 3
“You know him?” Becky whispers to me. “Get out!”
“I don’t know him, I just met him, like, ten minutes ago out on the dock,” I say.
“Well, he remembered your name. That’s a good sign.”
A good sign of what? I’m about to ask Becky, but before I can get the words out, Jay starts our orientation.
“All right everyone, listen up,” he says. “Being a good scooper is as much a science as it is an art, but if you just follow my lead you’ll be an expert in no time, and hopefully you’ll have some fun doing it, too.”
“I’d follow him anywhere,” Becky says, shoving an elbow in my ribs.
“Ouch!” I say.
“Baby!” Becky elbows me again, even harder.
“Stop that!”
Jay interrupts us. “What’s going on back there? Sean, you okay?”
“Uh, I’m fine. I mean, if Becky will stop harassing me.”
“Listen, you two, you’ll have to work out your problems on your own time.” Jay gives us a look that says, Grow up, but the corner of his mouth goes up, and I know he is half amused, too.
“Okay,” I say.
“Right, boss!” Becky throws Jay a salute and brings herself to attention.
“And, Sean,”Jay says, “don’t let the girls beat you up.” This is, of course, followed by giggles from everyone else in the room. I roll my eyes, but I can’t help smiling.
The first thing Jay teaches us is how the ice cream is made. He explains that the Fabulous Renée has a farm on the outskirts of town and all of the ingredients used in the ice cream come directly from the farm. He shows us how the cream is mixed with sugar and chocolate or fruit or whatever and put in this big mixer to churn or “cook” for about ten minutes. Then it’s transferred to the deep freezer, which is kept at twenty below zero.
As soon as we walk into the freezer, Becky opens her mouth. “It’s so cold I could cut diamonds with my nip . . . ouch!” I give her a quick stomp on the foot.
“You two again?” Jay says to us, smiling, as he takes down an already frozen batch of ice cream and leads us out of the freezer.
Becky and I are the last ones out the door, and she says, “I think he likes you,” before turning to leave.
“What?” I say to her back. “What? Did I hear you right?” Becky just shrugs her shoulders and follows the others to where Jay is explaining how the frozen ice cream needs to stay on the warming table for about an hour so it will get to “scooping temperature.”
“Why would you say that?” I say under my breath.
“Because he does. Don’t you like him? I mean, I’d be all over him if I were you,” Becky says to me.
“I’m not gay,” I whisper.
“Don’t be silly.” Becky looks me up and down, letting her eyes linger on my pink T-shirt. She finally looks up and pats my shoulder. “Of course you are.”
Jay heads over to a couple of freezer chests in the rear of the shop. He explains to the others that these chests are the backup freezers, where the ice cream waits until it is needed in the freezers near the front of the store. I hold Becky back.
“Why would you say that?” I give her my most serious look.
“Hon, a Jewish girl from New York can just tell these things.”
“You’re wrong.”
“If you say so.” But she doesn’t look convinced. Instead she wraps an arm around my shoulder and leads us back to the group.
By this time, Jay is at the front of the store where the scooping takes place. He explains that the ice cream is kept in two-and-a-half-gallon plastic containers, and each container has fifty scoops of ice cream. By the time he rolls up his sleeves to his coffee-ice-cream tanned shoulders so that he can demonstrate proper scooping technique, he has my full attention. Jay, the ice cream professor.
Half an hour later, Jay informs us that we have thirty minutes for lunch, and when we return he’ll explain how to make all of the sundaes, milk shakes, and banana splits.
“Make sure you save room for dessert,” he says to us on our way out. I’m not sure if I’m imagining things, but I could swear he looks right at me when he says this.
Despite the fact that Becky seems to be able to see right through me, I decide to eat lunch with her anyway. I packed a bag lunch—peanut butter and jelly and a juice box—but Becky leads me down the street to Mr. Mike’s, a gas station convenience store.
Becky grabs a bag of Doritos, a Slim Jim, and a bottle of Diet Coke and takes them to the register. I wonder if Jews are allowed to eat Slim Jims.
“I think this might be my best summer job yet,” Becky says to me while she pays the old man at the counter. His expressionless face never changes as he plunks down her change and turns back to his sports pages. “You have a nice day, too, now.” Becky throws a sarcastic wave over her shoulder as she heads out the door. The man gives a slight nod from behind his paper, but he might have just been falling asleep.
We sit on a bench that looks out at the marina to eat our lunches. “This is going to be way better than dressing up as a taco like I did last summer,” Becky says, popping a Dorito in her mouth.
“A taco?” I ask.
“You know, for one of those fast-food joints. I had to wear this ridiculous suit and hand out flyers for a dollar off a combo meal. It wasn’t so bad except the suit itched like crazy, especially when it got hot.”
“That must have sucked,” I say. I’m dying to ask her about her comment earlier, but I don’t know how to bring it up without seeming obvious.
“Oh, I can make anything fun, for a while anyway,” Becky says to me. “I’ve had at least one summer job every year since I was twelve. The worst one was cleaning out the stables on my uncle’s horse farm. After you spend a summer shoveling shit, you really know how to shovel shit.”
Becky crumples her Doritos bag and aims at a trash barrel sitting by the nearest dock. She shoots, and it bounces off the edge before falling in.
“Two points!” Becky throws her arms over her head in mock celebration.
I laugh at her antics, but I’m thinking about how best to bring up the gay thing. I take a bite of PB and J and chew slowly. Becky puts one end of the Slim Jim in her mouth and uses her teeth to peel back the wrapper.
“Becky?” I say through a mouthful of peanut butter. It comes out more like “buggy,” but I guess Becky knows peanut butter speak because she stops peeling and looks at me.
/> “Yeah?” She can tell I’m uncomfortable. She looks down at the Slim Jim she’s about to stuff in her mouth and a look of recognition crosses her face. “Don’t worry. I’m not kosher,” she says, as if that will make me feel better.
I struggle to swallow my mouthful of peanut butter. “It’s not that,” I say when I have proper use of my tongue again. “I want to know why you would say what you said. About Jay?”
Becky twists on the bench so she’s facing me. “You mean about him liking you?”
I nod.
“Don’t you like him?”
“I told you, I’m not gay.”
“Proof.” It’s half question, half statement. When I don’t answer right away, she bites off the end of the Slim Jim as if this settles everything.
“So now I have to prove that I’m straight? Is this some kind of witch hunt?” I am thinking about when we read The Crucible in English and we learned that in Medieval Europe they tested suspected witches by drowning them or burning them at the stake. The idea was that if the accused was a witch she would use her powers to escape, thus exposing herself as a witch. If she didn’t escape, then she probably wasn’t a witch. Of course, she was also dead.
“Well, do you have a girlfriend?”
I smile. “Yes.” So there.
Becky holds up a hand. “Let me guess. She’s a good Christian girl, wants to save herself for marriage, really into hugs?”
My mouth goes slack, and all I can do is stare at her. Lisa is a good Christian girl, and she is saving herself for marriage. Becky should be a late-night TV psychic. 1-900-BECKY-TELLS-ALL. Only $3.99 a minute.
It’s not like Lisa and I never do anything—I mean, several of our dates have ended on the swing on her front porch with plenty of kissing. She’s tried unbuttoning my shirt a few times, too, and I’ve found my hand inside her blouse on occasion. But no article of clothing has ever been removed, no belts have been undone, zippers have always stayed in place. And that has always been fine with me. It’s been a relief to me that Lisa doesn’t want more—I’m not sure I could give it to her if she did.
If I Told You So Page 3