I force myself to look down, but now the eggs on my plate resemble a pile of vomit. Judah’s wearing his McConnell Landscapers jacket with dirt stains on the elbows. I didn’t notice him this morning, tending to the sports fields, but he must have been here, making sure the vast expanses of grass were manicured to perfection beforethe kids arrive. Landing the Alpine Lake contract this year was the best thing that happened to the McConnells, Judah told me once.
His frown deepens and he turns back to Stu. They’re talking quietly, but Stu’s brow narrows and he lifts a hand, extending his pointer finger directly at Judah’s chest. Judah takes a step toward Stu, his mouth forming a snarl.
“The check’s late, Stu,” he says, his voice carrying throughout the dining hall. “Really fucking late.” But before he can keep going, Mellie stands and puts her hand on Stu’s shoulder. In an instant, Stu’s demeanor changes. He straightens his back and the muscles in his face relax. He says something under his breath, and Judah shakes his head and throws up his hands. Like he’s mad he has to be here, like he’d rather be off fly-fishing with Heller and his buddies, cracking open cans of beer and planning their next backpacking trip.
“That the new landscaper dude?” Imogen asks loudly, waving a French toast stick in the air.
“Yep.”
“Stu looks pissed,” Imogen says. “Probably because he’s been messing up the grass.”
“What?” I ask. Maybe I misheard Judah.
Imogen shrugs. “The baseball field’s super long and uneven. Tommy was bitching about it, saying the kids are gonna get ticks.”
“He kinda looks like that guy from the bar,” Ava says.
“That’s his dad,” I say.
“Strange.” Imogen turns back to her plate, not waiting to see Judah storm off, the side screen door slamming behind him.
I whip my head around the room trying to find my parents. But they’re not here yet. My chest tightens and I wonder for asplit second if Judah’s presence had something to do with me. But I know I’m being paranoid. They were probably arguing about how many coats of paint the sidelines on the soccer field need or the uneven grass. Judah is a perfectionist when it comes to his work, like his son. Maybe he hates being told he messed up. Also like his son.
A paper straw wrapper hits me in the forehead. “Hellooo,” Ava says.
I turn back to her. “Sorry, what did you say?”
She rolls her eyes. “Isaidare you ready to set up the docks today? My arms arestillsore from yesterday’s manual labor.” Ava massages her biceps and pouts.
I nod and look down at the puddle of sticky syrup spreading across my plate. “Ready for anything,” I say. I have to be.
CHAPTER 8
Then
Being chosen by Heller was like being given a key to a secret version of Roxwood I didn’t know existed. Saturdays that I had previously spent studying and catching up with Imogen and Ava were now packed with plans—hockey games, bonfires, hikes in the Green Mountains.
There were after-school pancake runs to the diner with the hockey team and sunsets seen from his inflatable gray dinghy, powered in circles around the lake. There were meals at the McConnell kitchen table, where Heller’s dad, Judah, would ask me about working for Stu and Mellie and muse about how if he had only gotten the landscaping contract earlier, Heller could have gone to Alpine Lake, too. There were knowing winks from Heller’s mom as she filled up the wineglass in front of my plate and sent me home with doggy bags full of leftovers.
There were lazy evenings with my family, where Heller would twirl my mom around to Queen in the living room. Where he would politely ignore the fact that we kept the house at a cool sixty-five degrees to avoid astronomical heating bills, and pretend not to hear Dad on the phone with the bank, whispering in hushed tones about overdraw fees and bounced checks.
There were Sunday strolls to Café Cloud, where Heller wouldbuy me fudge brownies because he knew they were my favorite, and tell me about his part-time job at the clerk’s office where he had worked since he was thirteen years old, filing paperwork for the town. There were sloppy, desperate kisses near our lockers, even when he knew his friends were looking. And there were frigid nights where we lay naked under a handmade quilt, our bodies pressed together, eager and hopeful, our whole lives stretched before us.
CHAPTER 9
Now
There’s nothing better than being a lifeguard—pulling on the red one-piece with the white cross on the chest and throwing on a pair of plastic sunglasses that sayAlpine Lakealong the side. It’s a sign you made it, that you pushed your body to the brink taking the dreaded lifeguard test. Only half of us from last summer passed again. Being a lifeguard means you’re disciplined and strong, respected and worthy. All the things I wasn’t at Roxwood High.
But it also means you get to skip out on things like kitchen cleanup duty and laundry shifts. Instead, you have unfettered access to the waterfront.
After announcements, the head guard, Ray Levin, hands us each a set of keys that unlock the swim hut, the motorboats, and a special set of lifeguard golf carts. The counselors who run tennis and special events barely get sheds for their equipment. We get the world.
Imogen spreads sunscreen across my back and pats me gently when she’s done. “My turn.”
I take the bottle from her hand and repeat the motions, looking out over the waterfront, our domain. It’s hot now, the afternoon sun beating down on us after a few hours spent threading the buoys for the lap lanes in the shallow end. But now it’s time to anchor the docks, the most arduous task of waterfront setup.
“Goldie, you’re on the left dock today,” Levin calls. He’s got a few worry lines etched into his face, but he’s still as chiseled and muscley as he was back when I first met him a decade ago. I totally get why Meg’s into him. I’d guess he’s twenty-five, but he always pretends to be older, especially since he became head guard. Levin’s a lifer. Started coming here when he was eight, back when Mellie had no gray hairs and the state-of-the-art Lodge was only a construction site. Rumor has it he was a good kid—not the kind to go on midnight raids or participate in senior pranks. He became the kind of counselor you could go to when you were homesick, but not one you’d ask to pick you up a slushie on his night off.
