The Big Summer

by Jamie B Laurie

  “Much better,” she said, content.

  Driving through the town, I couldn’t help but admire the beauty all around me. The houses and businesses were so … pretty. With siding in shades of pastel, inviting window displays, and open drapes, I really did feel welcome … even if there weren’t any people slithering out of the grass to come smile at me.

  “It’s really nice,” I said.

  “Agreed. I can work with this.”

  I chuckled. “Oh you can, can you?”

  “I suppose it’ll just have to do,” she drawled and started laughing. “This is going to be really fun, kiddo. I can tell.”

  As we drove along Main Street, I looked to my right down Sixth and saw the boardwalk and ocean. I got butterflies in my stomach; we had actually arrived.

  “Right. Turn. Ahead … Onto. Eighth. Street,” our GPS mumbled in her usual clipped voice that was reminiscent of a drowning iPhone.

  “Thanks, Mom,” Aunt Nellie said. She called the GPS “Mom” because her mother, my grandmother, offered advice every moment of the day that she was not literally muted by sleep—and even then, we sometimes speculated, she would voice her opinions. And when driving with my grandmother, she was in your ear telling you where to turn, how badly you were driving, and how you were endangering everyone in the car.

  Aunt Nellie made a very nice—in my opinion—turn onto Eighth.

  The little dot that represented our car on the GPS screen drove closer to the checkered flag until the electronic voice warbled like a walkie-talkie being waterboarded. “You. Have. Reached. Your. Destination … On. Right.”

  We pulled up in front of a three-story building and parked at the side of the street. I jumped out onto the sidewalk, and Aunt Nellie joined me.

  “Hey, kiddo … I think Mom’s a little bit confused,” she said, gesturing to the building.

  The bottom floor of the building was a store, with a sign stenciled above the door that read: Hecate Tattoo Parlor.

  “Um, we’re renting the upstairs apartment from the guy that runs this place,” I said, avoiding looking at her. “Didn’t I tell you that?”

  “I think you forgot to mention it,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “Oh, that’s weird.” I coughed. “Anyways, I guess we should go talk to him about getting the keys.”

  She nodded. “Lead the way, Mr. Big Summer.”

  Chapter 4

  Seaside City: The Town of Smiles

  Stepping into the tattoo parlor was like tumbling into a death-Satan-thrash-heavy-metal version of Alice in Wonderland. I’m really not joking.

  The black walls were graffitied and splattered with neon paint. Pictures of very creepy monsters hung all over the walls, along with a generous amount of what seemed to be demonic symbols thrown in for good measure.

  Lined against one wall was an army of nude mannequins, all painted in fluorescent pink, orange, and yellow. They had pierced nipples and collarbones and wore striped ties and fedora hats over their severed necks. Casual-smart.

  Overall, the Hecate Tattoo Parlor was an eclectic garage sale of various paraphernalia belonging to several dark and underground factions of human subculture.

  In the middle of it all, seated at the front desk (which held a computer plastered with literally millions of stickers), was the King of Krazy himself.

  The man was very fat and wore baggy, black sweats and a jumbo-sized, black T-shirt. His hair was an inky lion’s mane that wrapped around to form a carefully styled beard paired with bushy sideburns and wild eyebrows. His ears must have weighed more than his head, loaded to overcapacity with earrings and spreaders.

  “Um, hello,” I said, stepping cautiously deeper into the shop. I got the vague feeling that the lights were going to shut off completely and that pounding screamo music would begin to play to drown out my screams as vampires and demons and the like materialized out of the carpet to eat mine and Aunt Nellie’s souls.

  “Ah,” the man behind the counter said, “you must be William O’Connor.”

  “Uh, Lysander?” I asked, wondering if this was in fact the man I had been in contact with for weeks via e-mail about the apartment.

  “The very same.” The strange man heaved himself out of his chair and waddled toward us. He stuck out a big, meaty hand, and I shook it. He smiled a kind smile, which surprised me, and introduced himself to Aunt Nellie. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

  “Likewise,” she said uncertainly, but nevertheless shook his hand.

  “Let me just say right off the bat that your son here has been so polite in all his e-mails. You certainly raised him right.” Lysander flashed her a charming smile. He spoke with an accent I couldn’t quite place, like British and Australian tossed into a blender together and left on purée.

  “Thank you, I—”

  “I’m her nephew,” I interrupted.

  Aunt Nellie sucked in a little breath and said softly, “Yes.”

  Lysander nodded. “Oh that’s right, you mentioned that. My mistake.”

  While Aunt Nellie and Lysander settled into easy discussion, talking about the rent and the rules of the building, I was beating myself up inside. Why did I have to say that, that she wasn’t my mother? She looked so upset.

  “Here you are,” Lysander said, tipping a keychain into Aunt Nellie’s outstretched hand. “The door to the apartment is just around on the side of the building. I’m down here during work hours if you need anything.”

  “Thank you very much,” Aunt Nellie said, shaking his hand again, this time with more vigor.

  “Enjoy yourselves,” Lysander said and clapped me on the shoulder, “and make the most of the summer.”

  . . .

  Stepping into the apartment, I was punched in the nose by the overwhelming smell of grandmother. Cleaning products, old fabric, lilac-scented air freshener, mothballs … I wondered if perhaps we would find a kindly old woman knitting in a rocking chair, a plate of freshly baked cookies by her side.

  The apartment was townhouse-style, with a cramped flight of carpeted stairs leading up to the main floor. I left my shoes by the door on the small mat and led the way upstairs.

  The main floor consisted of the living room (equipped with an old TV), a kitchenette wallpapered in an ugly shade of mustard yellow, and a small bathroom off the hall leading to one of the bedrooms. Up a second flight of stairs was the top floor, which must have included the advertised second bedroom and bathroom.

  The apartment was a shrine to the sea, a monument to all things marine and an obelisk of the ocean. Poseidon would feel right at home with the style of décor, and I could have sworn I heard the Little Mermaid singing in the other room (probably in the bathtub).

  “Wow, it’s … uh …” Aunt Nellie glanced around, searching for her words.

  I nudged her arm. “It’s ship-shape, huh?”

  The walls were decorated with driftwood wreaths and photos and paintings of beaches and boats. Bowls overflowing with seashells acted as centerpieces for every flat surface. The sofa and curtains matched—powder blue and dotted with tiny anchors, starfish, and waves.

  “You take the room upstairs, okay, kiddo?” Aunt Nellie suggested. “I’m good downstairs.”

  “All right,” I replied, starting for the stairs.

  “Take five to look around, and then we’ll bring all the stuff in, cool?” she asked. As I headed up the stairs to the top floor, I heard her mutter under her breath, “Those curtains have to go.”

  . . .

  After hours of work, the apartment could be deemed habitable. We lugged Aunt Nellie’s armchair up the narrow stairs, panting and sweating. Still, she seemed quite pleased when it finally sat by the coffee table in the living room.

  My bedroom on the top floor, with its en suite bathroom, required a major facelift. I pulled down the paintings and hid them in the closet to fr
ighten away the closet monsters with their Walmart-sale-bin beauty. I traded in the ugly bedspread for my own blue plaid comforter and gray sheets. I covered the walls with movie posters, replaced the ocean-themed knickknacks with my books and less-nautical thingamabobs, and set up my keyboard by the window.

  I also unfolded the List and taped it up on the wall by my bed, leaving a black marker on the bedside table to use for crossing things off. Hopefully, I could get the ball rolling soon.

  After I finished setting up my room, I went downstairs to see how Aunt Nellie was doing. As I might have expected, she was already wearing her pajama pants and an old tie-dye shirt. She was in the kitchen, making herself a cup of her favorite tea: Peach Tranquility.

  “All unpacked?” I asked, settling onto a stool at the breakfast bar.

  She drew a hand across her forehead like the drama queen she was. “Oh, woe is my poor, aching back. The moving has proved too hard for me; just go on without me.”

  “Somehow I think you’ll survive.” I chuckled.

  Aunt Nellie pulled the teabag from her mug, dropping it with a satisfying thunk into the garbage can. “Once I work up the motivation, I’ll go return the U-Haul. And then, since apparently teenage boys require food and for some reason it’s my responsibility to provide it for you, I’ll get some groceries.”

  “Sounds good,” I told her.

  “And you,” she said, prodding a finger at my chest, “are going to go meet some people.”

  “What?” I demanded. “Already?”

  Aunt Nellie nodded. “You’ve gotta start somewhere, kiddo. Check out the boardwalk, talk to some kids your age, make some good friends.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah.”

  “What’s the matter?” she asked, sensing my reluctance.

  I shrugged noncommittally. “Nothing.”

  “Come on, spit it out.”

  “It’s just … I’m scared. I want people to like me, but I’m worried they won’t. My old friends didn’t. It makes me feel like I’m not … likeable. I don’t know; it’s dumb.”

  “No,” Aunt Nellie said, grabbing my hand in hers and squeezing tight. “No, it’s most certainly not dumb. I think you’re so brave for doing this, and you have to believe me when I say that you’re a genuinely awesome guy. And people would have to be either totally blind or brain-dead not to see that. Okay?”

  “Thanks,” I whispered.

  “Now go make friends,” she said. “And kick some ass.”

  Encouraged by her words, I picked my sorry-ass behind off the stool and made my way to the top of the stairs. Then I turned around. “Uh, Aunt Nellie.”

  “Yeah, kiddo?” she asked, sipping at her tea and cursing as it burned her lips.

  “You’re not seriously going to go to the grocery store dressed like that, are you?”

  “Why?” she asked. “What’s wrong with this?”

  “Nothing exactly wrong, per se …”

  “Oh,” she said. “I get it. Am I not cool enough for you? Are you embarrassed by your crazy aunt and her pajamas?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Fine!” she exclaimed, sweeping out of the room. “I’ll change.”

  “Love you, Aunt Nellie! See you later!”

  . . .

  The boardwalk was quite close to our apartment. It was barely five minutes on foot down Eighth Street. And it was gorgeous!

  Stretching far off into the distance in either direction, it was six lanes wide. I say “lanes” because it was divided for pedestrians, bicycles, and surreys (a kind of peddled carriage, I later found out) travelling in either direction. Of course, it was a totally unorganized free-for-all.

  Beyond the boardwalk, down a few steps, was the beach. It was filled to capacity, the sand barely visible to me underneath a layer of colorful umbrellas and sunburned vacationers.

  As I watched all the people go by from a safe spot at the entrance to the boardwalk, I wondered what the best way was to approach someone my age and become his or her friend. I then realized that I first had to find people my age to befriend.

  I debated which direction to start walking in but was rushed into a hurried decision as a seagull dropped a bomb directly to my left. Needless to say, I started walking to the right.

  While passing eight hundred million stores selling “I’m a Jersey girl” T-shirts (among other fouler ones), snack shops advertising deep-fried everything, and pizza restaurants, I scoured the boardwalk for my new BFF.

  A trio of goth kids passed me by, lacy parasols blocking the sun from stinging their ghostly skin and cracking their eyeliner.

  Then there were the two guys with chiseled faces, golden skin, and abs that did sit-ups all on their own with every step taken. I felt my self-esteem shatter a little bit further.

  Distracted, I bumped into a girl in a bikini top. We both stopped in our tracks, and so caught up in my fantasy that friends could be made as easily as when you’re in preschool, I smiled. “Hi!”

  “Watch where you’re going,” she whined and stalked off.

  Admitting temporary defeat, I found a small café and opened the door, reveling in the blast of cool air-conditioning that churned inside. I stood in the short line, waiting my turn, and noticed two girls around my age sitting on the other side of the cafe.

  One of the girls was gesturing animatedly to her friend, pausing every few seconds to brush a strand of her wavy blonde hair back. Her friend across the table, a round-faced Asian girl, seemed entranced by what the blonde was saying.

  “Next in line, please,” said the college-age girl behind the counter. “What can I get you, kid?”

  “Uh, iced tea and a chicken Caesar wrap, please.”

  I waited while she pulled a wrap from the display case and folded it up in some red paper. She grabbed my drink from the fridge behind her, and I handed her some money.

  “He’s in love with you, Emma!” the blonde girl exclaimed quite loudly, prompting everyone to turn around and look at her. She winced and put up a hand in apology. “Sorry, folks.”

  “Kid,” the cashier said, handing me my change. I dropped a few coins in the tip jar and chose a seat by the window.

  I unwrapped my food and started eating, admiring the carefully balanced ratio of chicken to lettuce to parmesan to Caesar dressing. A thoroughly A+ wrap. Good job, café people.

  As I was enjoying the perfection that was my wrap, I glanced across the room at the pair of girls talking and caught the eye of the Asian girl. She quickly looked down at the table, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. I watched as she mumbled something to her friend.

  Then the blonde, making no effort to hide her actions, turned to stare at me, picking me apart with her eyes. I was powerless to look away; the witch had hexed me, and I couldn’t move.

  The blonde looked back to her friend, shrugged, and nodded. Then she said something that the other girl clearly didn’t like, given her animated hand gestures. And then, the blonde stood up and walked purposefully … directly toward me!

  My eyes darted around, searching for a way out: a teleportation device, perhaps, or the entrance to an underground zombie apocalypse bunker. Sadly, it seemed as though my brain was in serious danger of being eaten.

  “Hey,” the girl said. She was pretty, with thin features and a scattering of freckles from the sun.

  I croaked, “Um, hi.”

  “Just moved into town?” she asked, narrowing her grayish eyes.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “How’d you know?”

  “You’re in here and alone. A one-weeker would be out on the beach with their friends.”

  “You’ve figured me out, I guess,” I told her. “I moved here for the summer with my aunt.”

  “Hmm,” she said, looking me over. “Cool.”

  “I’m Will O’Connor,” I offered.

  “
Well, it’s been a pleasure, Will O’Connor. I’m Hannah Clark. As a fulltime resident of Seaside City, allow me to welcome you officially to our humble town.”

  “Oh. Um, thanks.”

  She winked at me. “See you around, kid.”

  And then Hannah was gone, weaving between the tables in the café and settling back in across from her friend. The girls began talking as if nothing at all had happened.

  As I finished my lunch, I wondered if Aunt Nellie would consider making an acquaintance a success.

  Chapter 5

  God Bless Canada and the Tale of Isabelle

  Our first morning in Seaside City, I woke up to a cloudless sky. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I stood by the window and looked out at all the action. It was barely eight o’clock, and already droves of people were heading for the beach. They looked like a caravan of gypsies, draped in colorful towels and pushing their overloaded beach carts.

  “What’s the plan for today?” Aunt Nellie asked me once I had stumbled downstairs.

  “Look for a job?” I yawned.

  She laughed. “Help your aunt bring home the bacon, huh?”

  “Something like that,” I muttered, opening and closing the unfamiliar cupboard doors as I searched for the cereal.

  “My little guy’s all grown up and going off to work,” Aunt Nellie said with a grin. “I’m starting to feel old!”

  “Technically, I don’t actually have a job yet,” I told her, pouring some Cheerios into a bowl. “You can start feeling old when I start paying taxes.”

  “I would keep the smart-mouthing to a minimum if you get an interview.” She grinned, bumping me playfully on the shoulder.

  “Noted.”

  And then Aunt Nellie launched into a whole spiel about the importance of good first impressions. I had to find a balance between assertiveness and being polite, all while acting professional and personable. More than anything, her tips were stressing me out.

  Eventually, I managed to escape the lecture on skillful job-hunting. I showered and dressed as formally as was possible for beachwear (khaki-colored shorts with an unwrinkled T-shirt). Aunt Nellie demanded a kiss on the cheek as I left the house with a stack of résumés.