Unforgettable Summer Page 18

  Hayden and I laughed and ran out onto the porch together, holding hands. I knew exactly where we were heading.

  “You know, you could sell that piece of paper on eBay,” I told him as I hopped off the boardwalk. I slipped off my shoes and left them in the sand. “Except that I’m not going to let you, because I’m going to save it.”

  “So how have you been?” Hayden asked as we walked toward the water.

  “Fine. Bored. You?” I asked. “How was the visit at home?”

  “We got some stuff sorted out. And I told them all about you.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I did. They’ll be here next week to visit,” Hayden said. “You can try to talk Grace out of her gothness.”

  “What? No way. I want her to like me,” I said.

  We stopped at the water’s edge. We were both still wearing our catering uniforms. “So,” Hayden said.

  “So.”

  “Same as usual?” he asked.

  “With a twist,” I said. I reached up and put my arms around his neck, pulling him closer for a kiss.

  Then, when he was really getting into it, I broke away and sprinted into the water.

  “Hey! No fair!” He rushed in after me, diving under a big wave that was about to break. Hayden came up for air and dove again, this time tugging at my ankle. I held my breath and went underwater, too, and just as I did, my pager started to buzz. Underwater. Completely submerged. I pulled it out of my pocket to show Hayden, and he smiled, little air bubbles coming out of his mouth.

  Miss Crossley wouldn’t believe me even if I told her the truth about where I’d been when she paged me. So I wouldn’t bother to tell her. Besides, it had to stop beeping soon. Right?

  Better Latte Than Never

  Coffee Wench

  It’s my fifth day of summer vacation and I’m about to be killed by a Doberman.

  This isn’t the way I would have chosen to go. Having my legs gnawed off, just because I have to skate to work at Gas ’n Git. No one else is out here at 5:30 in the morning; no one will find me until after 6:00. I’ll bleed to death from multiple puncture wounds. I’ll come down with rabies and froth at the mouth, like a human cappuccino machine.

  The dog charges out of his yard, high jumping the fence, when he sees me coming down the street. Then he races behind me, trying to nip at my heels. I don’t know why he’d want to do that, unless he’s not fond of his teeth. These heels are dangerously large; there are wheels attached to them.

  Where is this dog’s owner? Where are the dog police?

  I try to decide whether I should brake and scare him with the loud noise of my screeching worn-out rubber heel, or whether I should speed skate to the end of the block, but that’s probably impossible because there are so many large cracks in the sidewalk that I’d end up flat on my face. All I know is that this dog wants to kill me. Or just maim me, maybe. This is the third day in a row he’s pursued me like I’m breakfast.

  I can’t skate down the other side of the street, because there’s no sidewalk over there. I’d take another route, but there are no other routes—unless I go about five miles out of my way, which I’m not doing at 5:30 a.m. I probably shouldn’t even be out here this early by myself, but it’s the only way I can get to work and I have to work mornings because this is the only shift I can get at the only job I can get.

  The phrase running out of options comes to mind.

  The phrase pepper spray also comes to mind.

  There must be a town ordinance against this. Even Lindville has standards for keeping dogs from killing innocent girls on in-line skates.

  Suddenly the Doberman loses interest in me and runs back toward his yard, jumping back over the fence.

  I adjust my courier bag and helmet and focus on the street again. Another day, another near death by Doberman. This is the type of summer I’ve always dreamed of.

  Later that morning, I’m standing behind the counter at Espress-Oh-Yes when the world’s worst coffee breath walks in.

  I’ve only been working here for three days and already I recognize him, a guy in a pinstriped suit who is as jittery as a hummingbird. He is tense, he drives a silver Lexus and parks next to the side door in a No Parking area, and he orders the Premium Morning Blend, Tanker size, at about 6:50 a.m. Then he comes back later, intermittently, throughout the day, the way headaches do sometimes.

  I work at a mini coffee shop that’s inside a gas station, so all of the sizes are linked to the automotive world: Coupe, Sedan, SUV, Tanker. The coffee machines are shaped like gas tanks. They have pumps and little black rubber hoses that dispense hot beverages instead of flammable liquids. I wear an apron that has a black-and-white checkered-flag pattern, and a red plastic name tag that’s shaped like a sports car.

  It’s just one more reminder that I’m not allowed to drive. My parents confiscated my license a few months ago, because I had two accidents and totaled the station wagon that they gave me when they bought a new sedan for my father’s realty business. I’m spending my summer paying them back for all the auto body work over the past year. My parents say they don’t trust me, and their insurance rates are through the roof, and would be even higher if they kept me on the policy. “You’ve become too much of a liability,” my father told me as he stashed my license somewhere in his desk.

  Let me tell you. There’s nothing more annoying than working at a coffee shop inside a gas station—and not being able to drive. Especially when you want to drive far, far away from here.

  I pour the guy’s coffee and shuffle him down to the cash register, inhaling deeply and then holding my breath, which is hard to do when you’re supposed to greet the customer and tell him how much he owes. Good thing I have a lot of practice at holding my breath, because our town smells pretty bad sometimes, due to having some extremely large cattle feedlots nearby. We actually have an “odor hotline” here in Lindville, and some days the phone has to be ringing off the hook. The combination of manure and slaughterhouse aromas makes this a very fragrant place to live.

  “One forty-nine,” I say, then I stop breathing again, close off all intake valves: nose, mouth, even skin. Close the pores! Like it’s a ship or a sub going down. Batten down the hatches. Whatever batten means. It sounds like a mistake I’d make on a vocabulary test; the past tense of to bat.

  “What do you think of the nice bright sunshine this morning!” Coffee Breath says.

  “Mm,” I say as I hand him his change and he drops two quarters in the tip cup. “It’s, um, nice. And bright.” Exactly. Do not inhale, do not inhale, I tell myself.

  “You know what? I think we’re in for a long, hot summer. I guess we’ll be switching to iced coffee pretty soon, right?” He laughs as he puts the top on his Tanker.

  Either iced coffee or an oxygen mask, I think. His laughing expels a lot of breath, proving once again that he drinks coffee at home before he comes here. I take a huge step back and nearly trip on the black rubber floor mat.

  “Take care, see you later!” he calls as he heads for the door.

  “Thanks, good-bye!” I breathe deeply. Finally. Oxygen. I drink a shot of cold water to try to clear out the porous cells in my throat. It’s a curse to have such a heightened sense of smell, it really is.

  We have this jar next to the cash register and it’s piled high with fruit candies and mints, just for people like him. But he won’t take one, will he? He just drives off to wherever he goes every day, where he can torture more people with his breath.

  Fortunately, there’s a lull and I sort of collapse against the wall as I wait for the next customer. I need time to recover. I wish the truck driver who wears strong cologne and always has minty-fresh breath would come in.

  “So what horrible thing did you do to end up here?” the boy behind the cash register asks me as I push back my hair and retie my Espress-Oh-Yes apron. He rings up car washes and bottled soda, reads music magazines from the store newsstand, and turns up the store radio really loud whenever a U2 song
comes on—if our manager’s gone, that is. He’s usually so busy reading or writing in a notebook that he doesn’t talk to me. He’s lucky because he doesn’t have to wear the checkered-flag apron—just a red polo shirt with the Gas ’n Git logo.

  “What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything,” I say.

  I think he’s trying to look like Bono, but he just isn’t that good-looking. I’m sorry, but it’s true. He’s wearing blue-tinted plastic glasses like Bono’s and has longish brown hair brushed back like Bono’s. But he’s got a crooked nose and I think he’s trying to grow a mustache. I’m not sure, though—it could just be lint. Doesn’t he realize that Bono is mustache free? Or is he going for the stubble look? Anyway, the Gas ’n Git polo shirt seriously interferes with this attempted rock-star look.

  “Come on,” he says, and I can swear I hear a slight, fake Irish accent in his voice. “Give me a break. You’ve got to have a story. People don’t end up working here without a story.”

  He’s right. I do have a story. But I’m wondering, if that’s true, then what is his story? I’ve never seen him around town, until I got this job. He seems too old for high school, but only by about a year. So where did he come from? What’s he doing here?

  “Well, if you’re not going to share the details, then could you at least explain your name tag? Are there typos? Because I don’t think I’m reading it right,” he says.

  “It’s Fleming.”

  “Fleming?” He can’t quite comprehend it. Most people can’t. “Is that your first name or your last name?”

  “First,” I say. I don’t bother to explain that it’s my middle name—that I was named for Peggy Fleming, the American figure skater who dazzled the world wearing chartreuse and won a gold medal in the 1968 Winter Olympics. Peggy Fleming inspired my father to get into ice skating, so he named me after her. And then he was on a roll with the concept and decided to give my brother and sisters figure skaters’ names, too: Torvill and Dean, the almost-five-year-old twins, and then there’s my little sister Dorothy Hamill Farrell, who’s three. My mother is pregnant again, and who knows what name they’ll choose this time.

  Some people think these skaters’ names are really cute—like my parents and grandparents—but I don’t. It’s really hard to walk around with an Olympic champion’s name. People tend to expect things of you, and if you don’t deliver . . .

  Also, nobody else my age has the name Peggy.

  No offense, Peggy Fleming. My dad, Phil Farrell, creator of the not-so-famous Farrell Flip, still worships you, and I think you’re incredible, too. And no offense to all the other Peggys, or Peggies, of the world. I just don’t feel like a Peggy.

  I also don’t look anything like Peggy Fleming. We’re complete opposites. She has beautiful long brown hair and blue eyes. She’s petite and graceful. She’s a gorgeous, artistic skater, and a very knowledgeable and entertaining commentator.

  Me? I have long, wavy sandy blond hair, green eyes, freckles, I’m five foot eight, and I haven’t ice skated well—or much at all—since the eighth grade. Enough said.

  “Fleming. Interesting,” the guy says. “Anyone ever call you phlegmball?”

  “No,” I say. “But thanks for asking.”

  He frowns at me. “Do you go to Franklin?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Oh. So you go to Edison?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say.

  He stares at me for a minute and is starting to look irritated. “You know, you’re incredibly talkative. People really love that in a coffee wench. I bet you’ll score lots of tips. Oh, yeah. You’ll be rich in no time.”

  I don’t answer him.

  “Well, thanks for asking, Fleming. My name’s Denny,” he says. “But my best friends call me Perkins.”

  I smile. “Really?”

  “I was just kidding,” he says as he takes a customer’s credit card.

  I decide to ignore his joke, even though it is sort of funny. “Where do you go to school?” I ask.

  “I’m between schools,” he says.

  This sounds interesting. I’ve heard of being between jobs, and between boyfriends. But between schools? Is he taking a year off? Or was he kicked out? “Well, where did you go to school?” I ask.

  “I’m a proud graduate of New Horizons Day Care,” Denny says. “After that it all went downhill and turned into a bland mix of study halls and very scarring marching-band experiences.” He shudders, making a face.

  “You? Marching band? I can’t picture it,” I say.

  “Neither could I. Quit the Franklin Mustangs’ finest after freshman year,” he says. “Started focusing on real bands. Now I write music. Well, not music exactly—songs. Lyrics. And some poetry.” He pushes a strand of hair behind his ear.

  The gas station poet, I think. Great. Does he write epics about unleaded? “So . . . are you ever going back to school?” I ask.

  “I took the last year off, after graduating. I’m supposed to start college this fall,” Denny says, “but I don’t know if I’ll go.”

  “Really? Why not?” I ask.

  “Do I need classes?” Denny shrugs. “I don’t know. I think I’m doing okay on my own.”

  “Working here is okay?” I ask. In what universe? I’m about to ask him where he’s going to college when the place gets really busy again.

  I’m starting to get into the rhythm of the espresso machine when Mr. Stinson, owner of Western Wear Bonanza in the mall, comes in. Despite the heat, he’s wearing corduroy pants and a beige wool cardigan sweater with wood buttons that look like Brazil nuts. It’s like he’s never really left England. Mr. Stinson has terrible vision, even with his giant tortoiseshell glasses on. Maybe he won’t see that it’s me, I think. Maybe the obnoxious apron will distract him.

  I keep my head down. “What would you like this morning?” I mumble.

  “Yes, hello, I’d like . . .” Mr. Stinson is about to order when he realizes that it’s me standing behind the Muffins of the Month. “You,” he says, glowering at me.

  “Hello, Mr. Stinson,” I say politely. “How are you?”

  “What is the likes of you doing here?” he asks.

  It’s a long story, I think. And you know part of it. “What can I get you?” I ask, still trying to be friendly.

  “Well, now, let’s see. How about if we start off with a check to pay for the damage you did to my store window? And then perhaps you could return the belt you stole, and the leather bag . . . well, the list goes on, doesn’t it?”

  “I didn’t steal anything,” I say. “I bought all those things with my employee discount—”

  “Which I never should have extended to you. It was a privilege, not a right. Do you understand the difference, young lady? And then there’s the small matter of a smashed window.”

  “Um . . . I thought your insurance covered that,” I say.

  “There’s a little item in insurance called a deductible. I don’t know if they bother to teach you that word in dreadful American high schools, but the word is deductible.”

  I want to fire wooden stir sticks at Mr. Stinson. Do I know the word deductible? It’s why I’m working here—it’s why I’m standing here asking for his coffee order.

  But Mr. Stinson and I have had this argument a few times before, so I decide to move on. “So. Would you like some tea this morning?” I ask.

  “Do you know, you absolutely ruined my Christmas season.” Mr. Stinson’s bushy eyebrows are twitching in time to the song on the radio. “You left me high and dry. You—oh, never mind, my blood pressure’s high enough without this—without coffee—without seeing you. In the future, I’ll find somewhere else to purchase my petrol.” He shakes his head and grabs a bottle of juice, heading for Denny’s register, not even dealing with me.

  As if I’m going to be so hurt that he won’t fill his tank with our gas—excuse me—petrol.

  After he leaves, Denny turns to me with a sort of smirk on his face. “So. That’s how you ended up here.”<
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  “What?” I say.

  “You’re the one who sent the bronc-riding Santa Claus mannequin flying into his store window,” Denny says. “I saw that in the newspaper.”

  Not much happens here, yet I’ve been in two Lindville Gazette headlines so far, and I’m only sixteen.

  Denny nods. “Impressive. But what was the bit about the stolen leather items?”

  “I didn’t steal anything,” I tell him.

  “Come on, Fleming. Face facts. You’re a shoplifter with a leather fetish. Just admit it. You know, because once you own up to it, you can get help.”

  “I didn’t shoplift, and I’m not into leather!” I protest.

  “Then what was he talking about?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s what they all say.” Denny is trying to build what looks like a log cabin out of rolls of peppermint Mentos.

  “Who says that?” I mutter.

  “Hey, this place is a haven for former offenders, don’t worry,” Denny says. “Kelly? Hacked into computers. Rick? Embezzled money from a bank. And our manager, the fair Jamie? Guilty of identity theft. She screwed up, though, and chose a really bad identity.”

  “You’re joking, right?” I say. “You are joking.”

  Denny’s house of Mentos collapses and a couple roll off the counter to the floor. “Only a little,” he says as he picks them up and puts them back into the display rack.

  “What about you? What’s your offense?” I ask. Besides that thing you call a mustache and the fact you’re putting floor-lint-covered candy back on the rack.

  “I have done nothing,” Denny says. “I’m just here to counterbalance the rest of you people. But let’s just say we’ll be counting the coffee beans from now on, okay? And I for one will be keeping a closer eye on my wallet, not to mention my cash drawer.”

  I glare at his black leather wallet, which is hanging on a metal chain from his pocket. Denny rides a motorcycle and thinks that gives him dispensation to wear certain kinds of clothes and accessories.

  “Don’t worry,” I tell him. “I’m not interested in your wallet. Believe me.”