I know for a fact they’re a tough bunch. Avery reminded me that Earl had to get express approval from this overseeing body to make renovations to the snack shack to accommodate the new digital projector the year we started there. Little did we know our boss had sold his pride and joy to the devil in the diamond-encrusted wristwatch to make it happen.
“They’re only a review board. Whatever they recommend will go up the chain to Borough Council, and they’ll have the final say. Mr. Haverford has too many friends in high places.” His sigh is all-encompassing. “Perhaps it’s for the best. I’m getting up there in age. It is probably time for me to retire.”
“Come on,” I jockey. “You’ve still got a few good years left in you, Earl. That place gives you life and purpose. It gives a lot of people life and purpose.”
I whip out my phone and pull up the social media accounts. Even though Derick made them with murky intentions, their reach is undeniable. I show Earl the follower counts, the voracious emojis. It’s all evidence in the case to try to stop this.
“Were you and Derick publicly flirting in the comments section this whole time?” Earl shows me a particularly damning Twitter thread between @WileysDriveInWV and @RolandOnTheRiver14. I snatch the phone back to distract from my reddening face.
“That’s…” I stammer. “No, that’s nothing. That’s not the point.”
Though maybe thatisthe point.
The care and craft Derick put into the video and photo edits are enough to make me pause. Would someone with solely devious ulterior motives have been doing such a good job rebranding the place they were helping shut down?
I don’t have time to entertain that thought right now.
Earl lights up with a half laugh and a full smile. “Even so, it’s not like I have a line of inheritors waiting.” Earl never dated, never married, never had kids. I never asked about it. Nobody did. He moved through the world a mysterious boss whose life didn’t extend much beyond our fences.
I don’t think he regrets any of that, but I do think there’s a small guilt that lives inside him, that nags him every now and then. One that makes him wish he could do what his father did and gift the family business. Continue the legacy in this small way.
“We’re family,” I tell him with immediate certainty. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot since the promotion and since meeting Alice.” She perks up at the mention of her name. “I want to do what you do, Earl. I want to run the drive-in. I want to keep that legacy alive. I know that’s not feasible right now. I don’t have the money or the credit or the know-how, but I’ll find a way. I can’t do that if we let that man in there”—I point toward the redbrick building towering over us—“bulldoze it down. I want a proper chance to take over. Help me get that. Please.”
Earl’s so-called sniveling starts back up. He’s crying but not hiding it this time, and I take that as a good sign. “Do you really mean that, kid? What about your fancy degree?”
“What about it? I got it because I wanted a life focused on the movies. Overseeing the lot would give me that and time in the off-seasons to do research and write or whatever else I plan to do.” The drive-in means too much to me and yeah, I couldn’t stay manager forever, but owning a spring-summer small business could be a fulfilling part of my future. Abruptly remembering the time-sensitive meeting, I check my phone. “If you’re able, let’s get back in there and give that board a piece of our minds.”
Earl doesn’t hesitate for one second. “Give ’em hell, kid.”
“Huzzah!” Alice yells, leading the charge up theRocky-esque steps. I can almost hear the theme song pounding around in my ears, pumping me up for my grand entrance.
Only it’s not grand. And it’s barely an entrance. The doors to the meeting room are wide open, and nobody seems to notice when we shuffle in.
Ahead of us, there’s a dais where name plates and microphones are set up. Behind the nine members—among them a building inspector, a real estate broker, and a licensed architect—are paintings depicting Willow Valley historical scenes, done in ambers and leafy greens with fine brushstrokes. Flags hang on golden poles in the front corners.
Mr. Haverford appears to be finishing up his presentation; the 3D picture of his ugly, proposed parking structure disappears from the screen off to the side. Satisfied, he clicks back into his perfect family unit, and my eyes wander until they land on the last pair of long legs in the lineup:Derick’s.
The sight of him stops me dead in my tracks. I didn’t think he’d show up to this. He’s wearing the maroon blazer from the day at the restaurant, his floral tie again slung too low around his neck. Despite the hurt, my whole body still responds to his gravitational pull, this primal urge to be comforted by him when I need him most.
Hard to reconcile when he had a large hand in that hurt.
Carl Goldstein, the architect among the pack, calls the room to order with a gavel and makes a motion for public comments on items included in today’s meeting. The others “second” the motion.
My heart jumps into overdrive when I raise my hand.
“Hi, my name is Wren Roland. I am one of the current managers at Wiley’s Drive-In.” As soon as I speak, Mr. Haverford turns in his chair and grimaces. His disdain radiates off him in almost visible heat waves. The rest of the family is slow to turn, and Derick remains forward facing, my voice obviously already too much for him. “I’m here to say that the Any Weather Transportation proposal should be shot down. The historic significance of the 1934 architecture and the community value of the drive-in can’t be overlooked. It’s an integral part of our historic district and one of the oldest operating drive-ins in the country. If you help steamroll our summer haven to make way for a parking lot, you’re doing a grave disservice to the legacy of the movie business and to the preservation of our great town.”
Alice claps loudly for me. It almost covers up Mr. Haverford’s groan and Mrs. Haverford’stsks. The board members’ faces all seem to shift in agreement. They are staunch preservationists, after all.
They are about to move on to someone else when Earl bolts up. “My name is Earl Wiley, the owner of Wiley’s Drive-In, the current lessee of the lot, and I second the motion made by the kid.”
“You don’t need to do the motion thing. That’s just for us,” Carl says with a thunderous laugh. The man keeping the minutes makes a big show of jotting down the joke, as if they’ll get another laugh out of this later.
“Mr. Wiley, I thought we were in agreement when we spoke last. You said you understood,” Mr. Haverford says, getting heated. Whatever goodwill these two shared in the past has gone out the window.
“I’m singing a different tune today. Sorry, Dan,” he says, using the shortened nickname to get under Mr. Haverford’s skin. From Mr. Haverford’s ruddy complexion, it looks like it worked.
“Anyone else from the public care to comment on the record?” asks Mr. Goldstein.
