The Big Summer

by Jamie B Laurie

  I joined the ongoing parade of people heading for the beach, all trudging along sluggishly in the heat. While the sun baked me from above, I waited for the frustratingly slow procession to drop me off at the boardwalk. And then I ducked into the first store to my right, relishing the air-conditioning.

  I took a moment to enjoy the cool air before approaching the bored-looking teenager behind the counter. He eyed the papers in my hand and rolled his eyes.

  “Hi, um—”

  “Hiring was done like two months ago,” he interrupted. “It’s a small town, bro. Summer jobs are gone in the spring.”

  I frowned. “Do you know anywhere that’s hiring?”

  The boy sighed dramatically, like I was asking the hugest favor on the planet. “Don’t even bother at gift shops. We have air-conditioning, so our jobs go fast.”

  “Okay, so—”

  “You could probably try at the restaurants,” he said. “But then again, do you really wanna make fried Snickers bars all day at minimum wage?”

  “I mean—”

  “Trust me, you don’t,” he answered for me. “Like, the only other place I can think of is Monster Manor.”

  “What’s Monster Manor?”

  He chuckled. “It’s this totally lame mini-golf place. You know, with like a haunted house theme? Anyways, the tourists eat it up. You could try there.”

  The boy pointed me in the right direction, and I thanked him for his help. He seemed to find the fact that I tried to shake his hand extremely funny, so I just nodded a few times in embarrassment and left the store.

  I made my way further down the boardwalk in search of the ominous-sounding employment opportunity. I passed a million identical souvenir shops and inhaled the greasy-smelling air that billowed from the restaurants.

  Just as I was about to give up hope of finding the place and accept that the guy at the souvenir store had totally duped me, I found myself standing at the front door of Monster Manor Mini-Golf.

  I regarded the building with a skeptical eye. If the flickering red neon sign above the wooden door and the cobwebs in the windows were anything to go by, this place was going to be ten times sketchier on the inside than it looked on the outside.

  Sighing, I decided to stop judging the book by its cover. I pushed through the squeaky-hinged door and was swallowed into the hellishly black shadows inside.

  It was disorienting; the whole building was lit with an eerie mixture of strobe lights and fake candles. Actually playing golf seemed almost impossible.

  I slowly advanced toward the front desk, flinching as hidden speakers assaulted me with sound effects of deep laughter and heavy footsteps. In the gloom, I made out the form of a girl behind the counter.

  “Welcome to Monster Manor,” she murmured throatily, beckoning me with a creepy hand gesture. As I approached, she flicked on a small lamp, and I shielded my eyes at the sudden light.

  Blinking to clear my scorched retinas, I could actually make out the girl’s features. “Hey, it’s you! Um, Hannah … right?”

  “Would you look at that,” she said. “Small town, huh? If it isn’t my favorite newbie Seaside City resident.”

  Not quite sure what to say, I asked, “So, um, what’s up?”

  “Oh, just working at the dream job. Same old. What’s new with you, kid?” She was grinning at me in an odd way. I think she drew pleasure from the anxiety I felt talking to people my own age.

  “Well, I’m actually looking for a job,” I mumbled. “This guy at a souvenir shop said I should try here.”

  She laughed. “I think it’s only appropriate that, as your official Seaside City welcoming party, I try to hook you up with something.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, let me go talk to the boss.”

  Hannah popped out from behind the desk and disappeared into the shadows. This place was majorly sketchy. While I waited, I shied away from a pair of luminous yellow eyes that peered at me from a hole in the peeling wallpaper.

  When a hand settled on my shoulder, I let out a squeaky yelp. I may or may not have also wet my pants. Whipping around, I glared at Hannah. She was holding back the laughter, grinning naughtily. “Mr. Sabatini is ready to see you now. His office is just back there.”

  “Thanks,” I said curtly.

  I left Hannah and her sick sense of humor behind and delved into the dark. I was surprised to find a very normal-looking door in the darkness, rather than a half-eaten corpse or a terrifying demon. Cautiously, I knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” came a muffled voice, and I twisted the brass doorknob and stepped inside.

  Comparatively, the manager’s office was the epitome of normal. Brightly lit, painted a muted tone of yellow, aging desktop computer, filing cabinets, and a mess of scattered folders and papers littering the desk.

  In the commander’s chair sat a pudgy, balding man wearing a green polo shirt tucked into the straining waistband of his jeans. He gestured for me to take a seat in front of him, which I did, and then he leaned far back enough in his chair that I could see the indent of his cavernous bellybutton through the taut fabric of his shirt.

  “So,” he grumbled in an incredibly deep voice, “you’re Hannah’s friend.”

  “Uh, I guess you could say that,” I replied.

  “Looking for a job?”

  I nodded. “Yes, sir, I am.”

  Then I remembered Aunt Nellie once telling me that the initial handshake can make or break a first impression of an employer. It seemed silly, considering that I had already taken a seat … so of course I still stuck out my hand.

  Mr. Sabatini groaned as if having to lean forward to complete the necessary formality was equivalent to back-to-back triathlons. Although, for a man in his shape, I’m not sure if that was such a far stretch.

  After crushing my hand, he asked, “You got a girlfriend, kid?”

  “Uh, no.” I looked down at my lap uncomfortably.

  He made this strange sound that was a cross between laughter and gargling mouthwash. “Good! I’m telling you, these women are something else.”

  “Oh,” I said, not sure how to respond.

  “My wife, Isabelle,” he mumbled, cocking his head in the direction of a picture of him and a woman with platinum-blonde hair, “is gonna put me in an early grave, I can tell you that much.”

  Privately, I thought that it was more likely that his probable daily diet of hoagies, soda, and cannoli would kill him faster than any woman could.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

  He gurgle-laughed again. “Me too, kid, me too.”

  And then he launched into a lengthy anecdote about how he had forgotten their anniversary and how Isabelle had been expecting a big dinner and a nice piece of jewelry because after all it was their thirtieth. From what I understood of the story, there had been a lot of shouting and angry phone calls and more than one woman called Mary.

  “So,” Mr. Sabatini said, “I tell her next year I’ll take her on a nice vacation to Hawaii or something, and she says that there better be some diamonds waiting for her when she gets there.”

  “That sounds like it’ll be nice,” I offered, because really I was entirely lost and uninterested.

  “Sure it’ll be nice! So long as I find the money to do it. I’m starting to think hiring a hit man would be cheaper, if you know what I mean! What do you think, kid?”

  I stared at him. “Um …”

  “You don’t have to answer that.” He chuckled. Mr. Sabatini leaned even further back in his chair, and it shrieked in protest. “So let me take a look at your résumé, kid.”

  He scanned over the paper far too quickly to actually have digested any of the information. Mr. Sabatini nodded once or twice, worked his jaw, and closed his eyes.

  “Do I qualify, sir?” I asked after a long moment.

&
nbsp; “No previous work experience?”

  “Um … no?”

  “Good with people?”

  “Definitely,” I lied.

  “Fast learner?

  “Very.”

  He opened his eyes and shrugged. “Business is gonna pick up now that summer’s getting into full swing. It’d be good to have another kid on the team. Hmmmmm …”

  “So, um, does this mean I have the job?”

  Mr. Sabatini let out a long sigh. “Sure, kid. You start Monday morning. I’m putting you on Hannah’s shift so she can show you what to do.”

  “Thank you so much, sir,” I replied happily. I shook his hand one more time and, as I was opening the door, turned around and said, “I hope your wife goes easy on you.”

  As the door to the office closed behind me, I heard that incredibly disconcerting laughter.

  “What’s new with Isabelle?” Hannah asked as I passed the front desk.

  “What?”

  She laughed. “What’d he tell you about his charming wife?”

  “Oh, does he do that with everyone? I thought that maybe I was just special.”

  “Heavens no,” Hannah told me. “He likes to make sure someone can handle him unloading all his problems onto them before he hires them. So did you listen well?”

  I flashed her a big smile and a thumbs-up. “I start on Monday.”

  “That’s so great!” Hannah smiled. Then she checked her watch. “I’m done with my shift at noon. How about you meet me at the Eighth Street boardwalk ramp then, and we’ll get to know each other a bit better?”

  “Um, sure,” I answered.

  “Awesome! See you then, my dear coworker.”

  . . .

  “Hey!” Hannah called out to me, strolling down the boardwalk. I was sitting by the ramp, letting the sun melt me into a puddle.

  I smiled. “Decided to show up, huh?”

  “Of course! Why?”

  “Because you’re twenty minutes late,” I told her.

  She merely shrugged, as if this was of absolutely no consequence. “Only a small speed bump in our journey together as friends. I was testing your patience and commitment.”

  “Did I pass the test?” I asked, picking myself up off the ground.

  “Just barely,” she mumbled. “Come on, Will, and allow me to show you my beloved boardwalk.”

  We began to walk at a leisurely pace.

  “Have you lived here all your life?”

  “No,” she replied. “My family’s originally from Virginia Beach, but we ended up moving here when I was seven. And where is it that you hail from?”

  “Bridgeport, Connecticut,” I told her. I cheered weakly, “Born and raised.”

  “And how old are you, William?”

  I laughed. “How old do you think I am?”

  “That’s a hard one,” she said, considering the question. “You’re stuck in that awkward place between looking like a ten-year-old whose balls haven’t dropped yet and a majorly nerdy college student.”

  “Oh,” I said, bewildered. “Wow. You’re, um, fairly to the point, huh?”

  “Every day of my life,” she replied. “But I’m just screwing with you; you’re cute enough, kid.”

  “You can’t keep calling me a kid,” I muttered indignantly.

  She tilted her head to the side. “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Ha. I’m seventeen. I win.”

  We continued along the boardwalk, and she pointed certain things out to me:

  “If you ever want to get your hair braided or put into cornrows, this is definitely the place to do it.”

  “The slices of pizza here are bigger than your face!”

  “I set the high score on the last skee-ball machine on the right in this arcade … two years ago. And I’m still the reigning queen, thank you very much.”

  After a while, we stopped at a breakfast place (apparently, they made the best waffles outside of Granny’s kitchen).

  “A little late for breakfast, don’t you think?” I asked.

  “Let’s just say it’s brunch, okay?”

  I sat down across from her in a booth, and she ordered us each a plain waffle and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

  “So tell me more about yourself, Will.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Your favorite color.”

  I giggled with extreme femininity and choked it back into a hiccup-burp. “Really?”

  “Yeah,” Hannah replied. “You can tell a lot about a person by their favorite color.”

  “Mine’s green.”

  She closed her eyes and bit her lip, the gears in her head clinking audibly. “I suppose that’ll do.”

  “Phew, I passed another test.”

  “Indeed you did. Now seriously, though, what’s your deal?”

  “I’m … well, I’m … uh …” I shrugged. “I don’t know. What am I supposed to say?”

  “Spill your soul, Will O’Connor, and bleed your passion. Explain to me your joie de vivre, what makes you tick,” she whispered conspiratorially. “Let your new friend in. What are you doing in Seaside City, New Jersey?”

  I wondered what exactly I should say. What percentage of the truth was appropriate to share with a virtual stranger, no matter what she claimed to be: best friend or Siamese twin?

  I considered inventing a totally fake life. Maybe I was a super-cool movie star/heartthrob going undercover for a summer of normalcy. Maybe I was the son of a specialized marine biologist, helping him/her collect samples of plankton or sand crab. Maybe I was a psychopathic serial killer. Okay, maybe not that last one.

  But that wasn’t really the point of The Big Summer, was it? The point was to be myself and have others like me for who I was. The whole objective was not to change based on what I deemed others would like, but to like myself enough for others to take notice and reciprocate.

  No, I had to tell the truth.

  “Can I tell you everything?” I asked her, pleading with my eyes. The promise of a true friend sounded so appealing. “Seriously.”

  She immediately dropped the sense of sarcasm that pulled at the corners of her mouth and twinkled in her eyes, all business and trustworthiness. “Absolutely.”

  “I … needed an escape. Everything was wrong in my life; I didn’t have a single thing going for me. So I decided to change that. I have a plan, a summer bucket list, you could say. Twenty-two goals. And when I complete them, I’m going to be happy.”

  Hannah smiled genuinely and reached for my hand. “You know, Will, I think that’s really cool.”

  “Thanks,” I replied.

  “And I’ll help you in whatever way I can. You’ve passed the interview process with flying colors! And I think you’ve just earned yourself an official summertime best friend.”

  I smiled. Having a friend (the singular would surely lead to the plural) was a crucially important step in The Big Summer … not just because the List said so, but also because I really needed one. Having her offer to help me become happy made my heart soar. It was one thing for Aunt Nellie to offer her help (and her money), but it was another thing entirely for a friend to offer the same.

  “I’d like that,” I told her.

  “Cool, we’re a team!” Hannah declared.

  With perfect timing, two celebratory plates of waffles descended onto our table in recognition of our unity. The waitress plopped down a bottle of syrup. I thanked her and reached for the bottle, but Hannah’s hand shot out to stop me.

  “Monica,” Hannah called the waitress back over, “seriously?”

  “What?” the waitress asked, rolling her eyes and cracking her gum.

  “I come here like three times a week. And this time I brought a guest, someone totally brand-n
ew to town. Monica, you disgrace the good name of your establishment’s waffles by bringing us fake syrup.”

  “Fake syrup?”

  “I want the real stuff, bled from Canadian trees.”

  “Hannah …”

  My new best friend pouted. “I’m such a loyal customer.”

  “Fine,” Monica replied, rolling her eyes.

  A moment later, we were presented with what was apparently real syrup, contained in a shiny glass bottle. Hannah grinned, having gotten her way, and thanked the waitress. Then she spilled a generous amount of syrup all over her own waffles before dousing mine.

  “Now,” she told me, “you can truly enjoy the best waffles Seaside City has to offer.”

  She was, admittedly, right. They were amazing waffles, made so much better by the imported syrup. Fairly soon, our plates were scraped clean.

  Hannah patted her stomach contently. “You can practically taste the moose droppings and metric system, huh?”

  “Thank you, Canada.”

  “Yes,” Hannah agreed. “God bless Canada.”

  When Monica came back, Hannah ordered a side plate of bacon as an after-breakfast snack. The steaming plate arrived, and Hannah delicately plucked a strip from the pile, offering some to me.

  “What’s another couple of pounds, huh?” she muttered with a sarcastic eye roll.

  I didn’t know what she was talking about; Hannah was as slim and bikini-ready as any other girl I’d seen around town. I told her as much, and she laughed. “I’m just kidding.”

  We paid for our own meals, and Hannah made sure to leave an extra good tip for the waitress that had made our Canadian meal possible.

  “Tell me about yourself now,” I said as we continued our stroll down the boardwalk.

  “Well,” she started, “I live with my mom and dad, who are great. My twin brother got this fancy-shmancy scholarship to a private boarding school in New York, but he comes to stay with us during the summer. Actually, my dad’s coming home with him this afternoon.”

  “Cool stuff,” I said. “But you must miss him like crazy during the year.”