I watched as she made her way up the beach with incredible poise, managing to navigate the tricky terrain without so much as a single misplaced step.
“So that’s what we get to deal with,” Hannah said once Katie was out of earshot.
“It’s nice to see that someone wasn’t drooling over that bitch,” Emma said, looking at me. She reached over me to smack Blake on the back of the head. “You’re such a typical guy… you think with your dick.”
“Have you seen what she looks like?” Blake exclaimed.
Michael nodded in agreement. “I know she’s a bitch … but daaaaaaamn.”
“How did you escape her spell, Will?” Blake asked me, furrowing his brow. “Every time she shows up, I remind myself of all the shit she’s put Daniel through. And then I see what she looks like, and I’m a goner.”
What do I say? Oh my God, what do I say? “Um, I guess I’m just more of a personality kind of guy.”
“That’s very respectable,” Emma told me. “And obviously you can tell from her personality that she’s one ugly chick.”
“Well, I mean, she didn’t seem that bad,” I mumbled. “A little … forward maybe. But she didn’t seem like Satan’s bride or anything.”
“Okay, we’re going to pretend that you didn’t say that,” Hannah said. “You’re new to town, so let’s just write that statement off as a rookie mistake. Katie Applegate is a horrendously evil succubus, hell-bent on ruining my brother’s life.”
“Um, anybody want to get in the water?” Blake asked in an attempt to relieve the tension.
“Fine,” Hannah said. “I feel like I need to cleanse myself of Katie’s presence.”
“I can help clean you off, Hannah,” Michael offered eagerly.
Hannah scoffed. “That’s gonna happen.”
“I could use a swim,” Emma said.
Blake all but leaped out of his skin and in an instant was kneeling by her side, a handful of sunscreen at the ready. “May I?”
Emma looked back and forth between Blake and me. Eventually, she groaned and nodded. Blake set to work immediately, tenderly rubbing her skin. He caressed her.
(And the old, Jewish, European village matchmaker deep within me rejoiced and danced the horah when he noticed from the corner of his eye that Emma was smiling.)
“Will, are you coming?” Hannah asked.
I nodded. “Sure. This is like my Seaside City baptism, right?”
“Not quite so holy,” Hannah replied. “You’re a Seaside City virgin, and this is your first bedding.”
“I see …”
I reached for the bottom of my shirt to lift it and reveal the scrawny and horribly unfit, ghoulishly pasty flesh of my slightly chubby stomach and concave chest.
“Mom, my bathing suit is really itchy!” cried a little boy nearby as he ran up to his family, dripping water.
Three other boys ran up behind him, their voices rising in a similar chorus.
“Oh no,” Hannah whispered to herself.
“What?” I asked.
“Sea lice,” she said rather simply.
And sure enough, the children peaked into their bathing suits and seemed to discover an infestation of tiny creatures in there. Off came their suits, and the kids ran about in a panic as their mothers frantically tried to get them under control.
“Well,” said Hannah, lying back down on her towel, hands behind her head, “you good people can enjoy the water. I, however, will remain quite comfortably right here.”
“Me too,” I muttered, secretly glad for the excuse not to shed my shirt and be put to shame next to the bootylicious Jackson boys.
Turned off the idea of swimming by the presence of colonies of sea bugs, we all reclined on our towels and resolved to enjoy the sun.
And we did. I had a good day. I was happy.
Chapter 9
Bringing Home the Bacon
It was Monday, and it was my first day of work.
I thought it would be really exciting, because as a child, I (like most) attributed a great deal of coolness to adults who got to go to work. The whole world of cubicles and suits and water coolers and break rooms sounded so appealing, so wonderfully mature. And I couldn’t be old enough fast enough.
But actually waking up on my first day was somewhat anticlimactic. It was just another day. One, in fact, where I would much rather have gotten to sleep longer.
Instead, I was showered and dressed by seven thirty.
When I came downstairs, I got shot.
Well, it felt like I got shot. Really, Aunt Nellie had just taken a picture of me, using her monstrous flash that burst every time like an atom splitting in two. And though I was blind with little hope of ever regaining my sight again (my mind was already racing to form a to-do list: white cane, Braille lessons, and a guide dog were all urgent needs), a bullet had not in fact pierced my body.
“What’s with the paparazzi?” I asked, blinking uselessly as the backs of my eyelids bloomed with fireworks and swirled with really trippy galaxies of light dots.
“It’s your first day of work! This is a milestone occasion, and I will not let your embarrassment stop me from documenting it extensively. Now, do you think your boss would mind terribly if I followed you around all day? Because I was thinking—”
“Hey, doesn’t that painting course you signed up for start today?” I asked, scrunching up my brow. “Isn’t that a shame? I would have loved for you to come stalk me at work. Shucks.”
“Awful, isn’t it?” Aunt Nellie said, frowning.
“Tragic,” I replied, swooping past her into the kitchen. “Woe is me and my breaking heart.”
As I slaved away, cooking up a bowl of cereal for breakfast, my sight returned by an act of divine intervention.
After breakfast, I ran my dishes under some water and left them in the sink, dashing down the stairs while Aunt Nellie assaulted the back of my head with her camera. I stuffed my feet into my shoes and sprinted out the door, shouting over my shoulder, “Love you. Have a fun day!”
. . .
Upon arriving at Monster Manor Mini-Golf for the second time, I was less frightened … and more embarrassed about the extent of my fright the first time around.
Hannah was waiting for me just inside the door, dressed in the most god-awful getup. She sported a torn-up burgundy vest with brass buttons, and the Monster Manor logo on the breast pocket and back. An old-fashioned bellhop hat completed the look. Her eyes were surrounded by dark makeup so that they looked sunken in.
“Is that the—”
“Uniform? Yes. The eye makeup is my own personal touch.”
“And will I—”
“Have to wear this lovely couture? Yes. And the makeup too. Because I’m technically your supervisor, and I am not having you do some half-assed job that makes me look bad.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, wondering if it mightn’t have been the smartest of ideas to accept a job alongside Seaside City’s resident extrovert and all-around bossypants.
Hannah led me into the staff room, which contained a wall of lockers, two round tables, a few chairs, a tiny refrigerator, some sad houseplants, and oh my God a water cooler!
“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” she asked, sweeping her hand in a wide gesture that encompassed the majestic magnificence contained in the tiny room.
Hannah opened one of the lockers, which bore my name (scribbled professionally onto a wrinkled piece of masking tape), and pulled out a vest of my very own and a hat.
I shrugged into the vest and did the buttons up the front and plopped the hat onto my head. I felt ridiculous, like one of those little organ-grinder monkeys that looks cute but ends up pickpocketing all your money.
“Sit,” Hannah commanded, and I listened to her. She held me down with a firm hand on my shoulder, and before I knew what precisely was happen
ing, she was smearing black makeup all around my eyes.
“Hannah, have I ever told you that I hate you?” I mumbled.
She grinned broadly and took a step back, admiring her handiwork. “Love you too. And you know what? I think eerie-corpse-bellhop is a good look for you; it really brings out your eyes.”
“It looks good on you too,” I told her. “It brings out your inner asshole.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Hannah said, giving me her most creeptastic face. Then she grabbed me by the hand and pulled me from the staff room.
“And so we begin?” I asked.
“Welcome to Monster Manor, the most haunted building Jersey has to offer,” she narrated in an ominous tone, beckoning me to follow her. “We hope that you’ll tell all of your friends back home about what a frighteningly good time you had at Monster Manor … provided, of course, that you make it out alive!”
“Very creepy,” I teased.
“Hey,” she said, frowning and thumping me on the forehead, “this is important. You have to act the part. Got it?”
“Follow me this way,” I croaked, emulating, guiding her toward the front counter.
She grinned. “Very good.”
“Teach me your ways, oh great master,” I begged, winking sarcastically.
“Notebook at the ready,” she warned.
And though I scoffed at first, I later wondered if taking notes wouldn’t have been a prudent thing to do.
Hannah had clearly worked at Monster Manor for a while and was familiar with all the rules, regulations, prices, and procedures. Her mouth spewed an endless stream of information that she repeatedly preached was of the utmost importance. She hardly took a breath, and I grew somewhat lightheaded vicariously through her.
My job seemed to consist of three main tasks, alternated throughout the day:
1. Work the front counter. This was the most complicated of the tasks, because I had to operate the cash register. It was ancient, predating the Neanderthals by my estimation, and its till popped out at the slightest brush of any of the seven triggering keys … always jamming me right where I didn’t really want anything jammed. At the counter, I was to take the customers’ money and, in return, give them each a golf club proportionate to their height, offer them a choice of golf ball color, and hand over a scorecard and tiny pencil. Then I would print out the receipt, the till leaping out to ensure my infertility, and wish them a good game.
2. Patrol the building, keeping an eye on our patrons, ensuring their contentment. This required me to know my way around the building itself. And contrary to my earlier notions about the general sketchiness of the place, I had to admit that Hannah’s tour left me with a new appreciation for Monster Manor. Whoever had designed the place had really gone all out. All the rooms were hung with fake cobwebs and lit with fake candles, lending an appropriately spooky atmosphere for all nine holes of the haunted-hotel-themed course. Customers began with the first hole in the faux lobby, which transitioned into a derelict but formerly glamorous ballroom, then moving into the kitchen and finally the smoking room. Then it was up a flight of creaky stairs to play the final five holes through the different guests’ rooms. Throughout, projections of ghosts interacted with guests, and there were a few monstrous mannequins that popped out of closets and holes in the walls. And, all in all, the customer left thoroughly satisfied.
3. Mop the floors and sanitize the urinals. By far the most glamorous job, it came with a pair of fall 1994 rubber gloves and a lovely apron sure to be seen on Parisian runways in the near future.
After being given the full tour and the speech on responsibility and a bunch of other things that Hannah took way too seriously (including the time limit on bathroom breaks and the necessity of breath mints every half an hour), I was finally deemed ready to work.
We took our places behind the counter and waited for the mad rush of tourists desperate to forgo the sun and heat of the beach for an overpriced game of mini-golf in the air-conditioned darkness.
Despite my doubts, a slow but steady stream of customers began making its way through our door. For the most part, they were families with young children (oftentimes the children were accompanied by only one parent, and judging by the irritated look on the adult’s face, he or she had lost the bet). But there were also some teenagers who came in couples (the kind of couples that do cutesy stuff like playing mini-golf together and that are the envy of every single teenager they come across).
Hannah stayed behind me for my first few interactions with our clientele, keeping a watchful eye over me. At least six times during each transaction, she would whisper to me a comment or a suggestion. Fifteen minutes in, I was sweating under her dictator-like scrutiny. Eventually, she told me that she was going to do the rounds and make sure that everything was running smoothly.
The morning went by without a hitch (take that, Hannah!). I learned after a while to keep the cash register till closed with my hip until I actually needed to open it, and the strategy worked at least 80 percent of the time—sometimes, the machine would still launch a surprise attack.
At noon, Hannah and I were free to go for lunch.
We popped over to a sandwich shop a few stores over from my new place of work, and I enjoyed the time off my feet. Once we had finished eating, we tossed out our trash and headed back to work. Hannah reminded me to use a breath mint, and we were good to go.
With Hannah on counter duty, I spent the afternoon cleaning. I wiped down every flat surface that wasn’t covered in fake spider webs, mopped the floor in the staff room, and then moved on to the dreaded bathrooms.
I started in the men’s room, and with each pass of my rag along the sides of the toilet bowl, I grew to loathe my gender that much more. I mean, seriously, guys! You’re born with all the proper equipment to aim. The least you can do is try. The women’s room wasn’t any better, because I had to empty the receptacle for sanitary napkins. Fun times.
And finally, after a long day of backbreaking manual labor, I was free to leave. Hannah and I traded off posts with the people on the evening shift and went on our merry way.
“Good job, today, Will,” Hannah said. She clapped a hand to my shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without the careful guidance of my supervisor,” I told her, smiling.
She looked at me blankly. “Well, of course you couldn’t have. I taught you everything you know.”
“I was, uh … I was kidding,” I told her.
“I know,” she said. She grinned. “I was too.”
Walking along the boardwalk, I breathed in deeply. The fragrance of seawater, sweat, and deep-fried food that hung in the air was a welcome one. And I enjoyed the fact that I could run a hand through my hair without that horribly humiliating monkey hat.
“Hey,” Hannah said, “do you want to come over to my place for dinner? You can meet my parents and my brother.”
“Oh,” I said, glancing meekly at my feet. “Geez, Hannah, I didn’t know we were that far into our relationship. I’m honored, I suppose. I mean, meeting the folks is the next logical step to marriage, right?”
She laughed. “Gross.”
“What?” I asked. “You and I in sixty years, sitting silver-haired in a rocker on the porch? The image isn’t doing it for you?”
“It’s doing something to me,” she mumbled, clutching at her stomach.
“Your humor, Hannah … it hurts,” I told her.
She slung an arm casually around my shoulders. “It’s all part of being Hannah Clark’s honorary best friend.”
“I can’t seem to recall signing off on that,” I told her.
“It’s all in the fine print,” she said. “Always read the fine print.”
. . .
Hannah’s house was quite charming. It was two stories, with white siding and flowerboxes below
each window. An American flag hung from a post by the garage door, and an unassuming garden was planted out front. The lawn was a healthy green and impeccably trimmed. It looked like the cover of a home magazine, perfect and pristine.
But it was so un-Hannah. I don’t know what I had expected. Something as loud as her personality was, I guess. Dark red, perhaps, with a fuchsia door and a huge neon sign reading “Hannah’s House” crowning the roof.
“It’s really nice,” I told her.
“Thanks,” she replied, smiling fondly. “I love it here.”
As we walked up the front steps, I kept my eyes open for some hidden confetti cannons disguised as shrubbery. But alas, I arrived safely at the door, glad albeit slightly underwhelmed.
“Shoes at the door,” Hannah told me as we stepped inside, kicking off her own shoes and padding into the entrance hall. I shut the front door behind me.
I followed her into the house, admiring the hominess and careful order of everything. I spotted a piano in the living room and itched to dash away and start pounding out a long ballad.
“Hannah, is that you?” A woman poked her blonde head out from the kitchen, her face flushed. “And you brought a friend with you! Perfect! I’ve got something for you to taste for me.”
I looked quizzically at Hannah. She just rolled her eyes and pulled me along by the hand. As we passed through the kitchen door, I was overwhelmed with the intoxicating combination of aromas that filled the air. Hannah’s mother was whirling around the kitchen, checking various pots on the stove and chopping mountains of vegetables on the counter.
“Mom, this is Will O’Connor,” Hannah announced.
Hannah’s mother wiped her hands off on a dishrag, grabbed a spoon, and dipped it into a bowl of creamy soup. Before I had the chance to say anything, she thrust the spoon into my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Will. Now tell me … what do you think?”
As I regarded the spoon and its contents, I thought back to everything they had taught us in elementary school about stranger danger and peer pressure. While they were spending all that time discussing drug dealers in the park, I wish we could have discussed what to do when your friend’s mother is pressuring you into tasting some unknown substance the first time you meet her.
The Big Summer Page 8