The Dead of Summer, page 6
“Help! Help me!”
It’s the only thing I can think to yell as I nearly tip off the bike. Two officers standing nearby head over. A man and a woman. It’s a testament to my escape record that I don’t know their names, but from the way they regard me, I can tell they absolutely remember me and my childhood antics around town. Their radios squawk and crackle.
“Are you okay?” one asks.
“Something is wrong with my aunt. She’s … she’s sticky.”
This gets a laugh.
“I’m serious! She was sticky, and weird, and she tried to hug me.”
“I’ve got one of those,” says one officer. The amusement has already faded. Clearly, they’ve had a rough morning with the storm cleanup. “Listen, we’re in the middle of something here, but if you’d like to open a report, you can head down to the station.”
“Don’t,” the other officer interjects. “It’s a circus down there, and we don’t need any more clowns. Just let your aunt sleep it off, kid.”
“But she needs a doctor!”
“Then bring her to the clinic.”
“I can’t. I locked her in the pantry.”
The officers exchange a look. I rush to explain. “I mean, I unlocked it, but I think she’s still in there. For her own safety. She needs help.”
The officers are distracted by chatter on their radios. I don’t catch it, but something causes them to quickly get into their cruiser and turn the lights on. Before they go, the one driving says to me, “A word of advice. The clinic is a mess right now, too. Whatever it is, you’re better waiting it out at home. Trust me.”
The siren blares to life and they scream off. The conversation was so short that the wheels of my toppled bike are still spinning. I heave it upright and point it toward Scuttlebutt’s—Willy’s bar. Even amid the mayhem, there’s one rule that never breaks on Anchor’s Mercy, and that’s the rule of brunch.
* * *
I was right—despite the wreckage, brunch is very much still on in the downtown restaurants—but I was unfortunately right. Downtown is a riot of whining children, red-faced parents, and screaming generators. Most surreal of all are the pods of bachelorette parties clinging to the storefronts like fish eggs, sparkly and seething, ready to hatch with resentment.
Scuttlebutt’s is a madhouse of waiters running between tables, trying to put down trays of drinks and plates of food. At the patio entrance, a familiar group of ladies comforts a white-clad bride-to-be who has sat on the ground and kicked off her heels. “Am I not a good person? Do I not deserve drag brunch?” She poses the question, and the girls are quick to shake their heads. The bride grabs at her redheaded friend. “Dakota, are you sure you made the reservation?”
Dakota! Poor Dakota. She holds up a phone as proof to the drag queen at the hostess stand. The drag queen is a mountain of muscle wearing a sequin tube top and the tiniest pussycat wig I have ever seen. Immediately, I feel safe.
“Ollie?” The queen brushes Dakota aside and wraps me in a hug.
“Hi, Hunky.” I hug back. Hunky Dory has worked at Scuttlebutt’s forever. I knew coming here was the right thing to do.
“Have you seen my mom? She might be wearing a blue wig.”
“I always thought she looked nice in blues. Haven’t seen her, though. How’s she feeling?”
“Is Willy here? I need to talk to him.”
“No Willy, but I can do you one better.” Hunky points her lips skyward.
On cue, feedback from a microphone cuts through the din and all eyes turn to look up at a cherry picker reaching over Main Street. A drag queen has scaled the machine. Not just any drag queen, but the only drag queen who stands a chance of corralling this disgruntled crowd.
“Goooood morning, campers! My name is Wendy Pretendy, and have we got a show for you!”
Wendy Pretendy is a legend for reasons that are about to become obvious to all who watch her. She wears a neon-pink cow-print dress and twin pigtails the color of cartoon lightning. All it takes is a wave of her gloved hands (glittering nails have been glued to the outside of the gloves, because that’s drag, baby), and the crowd is captivated.
“Everyone will get brunch,” she shouts into her megaphone. “But there will be no pushing, pulling, fighting, or whining in the brunch process. Am I clear?”
The crowd is silent. Scolded. Sullen. Wendy rewards them with a glorious smile. “Now, who’s ready to dance? Hunky, hit it!”
Hunky rushes to a speaker system just inside the door, and with a crackle, disco music blares to life. Wendy’s outfit has a lasso that should just be for show, but to everyone’s surprise the rope works quite well as she uses it to lower herself to the road. The crowd gathers around her, captivated, as she spins and dips. People start to shell out dollar bills, casting them at Wendy’s feet.
“Do we have any birthday girls?” Wendy asks through the megaphone.
“Woooo!” A flock of girls stumble to the front of the crowd. Wendy Pretendy gives them their obligatory, saucy wiggle. Her show is working—the tension around Scuttlebutt’s has turned to excitement as a party atmosphere takes over. Wendy’s song finishes and Hunky Dory takes her place, treating the onlookers to a ballad right in the middle of the road.
“Ollie Veltman, party of two!” Wendy calls out into her microphone. I meet her at the hostess stand, and the second she sees me, she knows something is wrong. She pulls me to the back hallway where it’s a little quieter. Alone, she drops the Wendy Pretendy act, and I’m talking to Willy.
“Ollie, where have you been? What’s wrong?” Even with the clown-white makeup and painted-on smile, Willy’s concern is instantly clear.
“My phone died, I just woke up. And our aquarium exploded, and Aunt Maddie … she … attacked me.”
“Maddie? Attacked you?”
I hear how unbelievable that sounds, and I guess technically I attacked her with the treasure chest. And I kicked her pretty hard, too. “She was trying to hug me,” I try to explain. “But she was crying, and drooling, and she was so sticky.”
Waiters dash from the kitchen with trays tipping dangerously with food. Willy lowers his voice. “Ollie. Darling. If I had a nickel for every sticky lady who got into my personal space, I wouldn’t be trying to run drag brunch through the apocalypse. Give your aunt a break. No one is at their best right now. The whole island is a mess. Speaking of, Hunky’s number is about to end and I’m on next.”
“W-wait!” I stammer. “Have you … have you seen my mom?”
Willy squeezes my hand, maybe hearing the guilt in my voice. “Have you checked the shell shop?” he asks gently.
This is code for Slipper Shell Beach, where Gracie always goes to explore the tidal pools when she’s feeling down. She was there a lot last summer, collecting, scrubbing, and listening to each shell sing before placing it on a shelf, or a bedside table, or—if they were especially unique—in the aquarium. It’s the obvious place to look.
“That was quite the fight you two had last night,” Willy says. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head. I don’t need to add to the chaos here. Willy looks at me with an inescapable sympathy that makes my skin itch all over again. Thankfully, Hunky’s song is reaching its big finale.
“Ollie. Listen. Whatever’s going on, you don’t need to handle it all alone. That boy last night seemed nice, but I think it’s time you went and found Bash and Elisa.”
I cling to the wall behind me. “Can’t I stay here?”
Willy’s makeup crinkles around his kind eyes. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking, but he finally says, “If that’s what you want. But you’ll have to make yourself useful. You remember how to take brunch orders, right? And you remember what to say if anyone asks how old you are?”
I stand at attention and recite my line: “I got bumped in the head by a lobster trap and ever since then I don’t remember.”
“Bingo. Go get yourself cleaned up in the back. We’ve got some major pretending to do. ”
With that, Willy transforms back into Wendy Pretendy and sashays away. I retreat past the kitchen, to the closed-off rooms at the very back of Scuttlebutt’s. It’s a large, low-ceilinged dance club decorated with buoys and old boat parts. At night it’s a blitz of disco lights, but right now it’s so dark I have to prop the door open to let a trickle of midday sun in so I can see. I rummage around below the bar until I find the scary-looking cleaners and a rag, then I scrub at my neck and hands until my skin is raw and red, and I finally feel clean.
In the dark I relax enough for Willy’s reaction to make sense. Am I overreacting? Maybe I just feel bad—about hitting Aunt Maddie, about yelling at my mom, about avoiding Bash and Elisa. My cheeks burn. It seems like I’m finding reasons to run from everyone these days. I toss the rag down and march back through the cacophony of Scuttlebutt’s, not sure what to do. Then, in the street, I see a flash of bright blue hair.
Gracie!
By the time I’m outside, she’s vanished. My heart hammers in my veins and I realize I’m not even sure what to say. I find myself watching a mom wiping at her small child’s face, dabbing away tears that are stringy with snot. They shine, too, like oil on water.
I shiver, remembering Maddie. I can’t go home. Not yet. And I can’t face Gracie, either. I could hide out here, but sooner or later Willy or Wendy Pretendy is going to make me face my feelings.
Gracie’s voice speaks through my frantic thoughts. The only ship that’s ever unsunk is the friendship.
I grab my bike.
It’s time to face the Pizza Monster.
Compared to Scuttlebutt’s, Pizza Monster is disconcertingly quiet. No lights, no music, certainly no drag queens enforcing peace upon the kitsch-cluttered patio. I would call out hello, but I’m afraid the many little monsters decorating the storefront might all turn to me at once. Dolls sit in the trees. Metal sculptures twist from the ground. Grimy plaster cherubs scale the roof. They’re called offerings. People bring them from all over the world, adding to Pizza Monster’s reputation as a haven for misfits. Quiet as it is, it’s like peering into a graveyard. Still, the glass doors of the shop are propped open. Someone—or something—is home.
I step inside, listening for life. Nothing has changed in here, either. It would hurt to see it all again if it wasn’t already so painful to be back. For months, even the smell of oregano has made me anxious, yet here I go, diving right into the beast itself. I scan behind the counter until I spot the massive, dome-shaped oven. Since before I was born, it’s been stylized to look like a giant, roaring monster, with horns and eyes and even pizza-shaped teeth bordering its mouth, the oven entrance … which is glowing? Before I can back up, the mouth lets out a smoking belch, and a boy stumbles into view.
“We’re not open yet—”
Bash sees me and halts. In the past year he’s gone from skinny to sturdy, just like me. The shape of his jaw flirts with manhood, but the wound is still there. The one I slashed into him myself. He shrinks back as though he can hide behind the pizza monster. We both jump when another person enters from the back room holding a stack of boxes.
“The fridge is still cold, but we better use up what we’ve got,” says Elisa. “No telling when the power’s coming back, but we should be able to get through today. Thank god the oven is wood fired.”
Elisa sees me, and the boxes drop to the floor. It’s a punch in the gut to see how much she looks like her mom now. Beautiful, guarded, intelligent. Her light brown eyes are huge as she looks me over, then they narrow with fury. The anger makes her freckles practically glow in the dim light.
For the first time in months, the Suds are all in one place.
* * *
At my high school on the mainland, I didn’t have any friends. I didn’t even notice. Willy pointed it out to me on one of his visits, and I shrugged. You should have someone nearby to talk to. I’m sure Bash and Elisa will understand if you make a new friend, Ollie, he joked. When I went quiet, his humor turned to genuine concern. Wait, you haven’t been talking to Bash and Elisa, either? About any of this?
I hadn’t said a word. For weeks their texts had gone unopened, their calls ignored. Finally—blessedly—the calls and texts stopped. Of course I felt horrible, but I also felt relieved. If they knew what was happening, they would try and lift me up, but I only wanted to sink. I thought that if I sank far enough, they might just forget about me and let me go. The Ollie they knew was long gone by then, anyway.
Then, one rainy October afternoon, Bash and Elisa showed up at our door. I remember thinking they should look different, even though it had only been a few months. Time, for me, vanished in every blink. Their sameness disgusted me. I couldn’t even look at them.
Can we come in? Elisa asked.
The apartment was a mess. My fault. There were pizza boxes stacking up. My fault. There were pills that needed sorting in Gracie’s pillboxes. My fault. If my friends came in, they would realize I was not on vacation, and that my mom was very, very sick. My fault. Then it would be true. Then she would die.
My fault.
We miss you, Elisa said when I told her it wasn’t a good time. Bash rocked on his toes. He had a small plastic container tucked under his jacket. Inside was our pet hermit crab, which I guess I also abandoned when I left. Even though he had brought it all the way to me on the mainland, he now seemed intent on protecting it from me. All he could manage to say was Your aunt said—
Elisa elbowed him. He started over. We miss you, Ollie. We’re here for you. If there’s anything you want to talk about, we could listen. We would love to listen.
When I said nothing, Elisa finally showed her anger.
Ollie, it’s been months of you ignoring us. We took the ferry here and we need to take it back in a few hours or we’re gonna be in major shit with our parents. Bash’s mom thinks he’s practicing for the Fishnets game. We don’t have a lot of time.
Something about Bash’s alibi horrified me. The Fishnets was a drag basketball league. The idea of him dribbling in a wig while I was here felt not just absurd but cruel. We had nothing in common anymore. They were exactly the same, separated from me by more than water. Time and space had spilled between us, and now we stood upon separate islands of life. I remember thinking they weren't really in front of me, and that the doorway was just a window between our distant worlds, and all I had to do was shut it.
So I did.
I watched them go. They had brought their bikes with them on the ferry. They picked them off the ground and I remember thinking, How childish. Elisa tugged Bash’s shoulders, but he shrugged her off. He looked up at my building, eyes bright with tears, and he shouted: SUDS STICK TOGETHER!
Then they rode off.
* * *
Elisa stares at me, and I think she’s going to run at me with both hands raised in a horror-movie strangle.
“How dare—” she starts to say, but Bash’s mom rushes in, car keys jangling in her fist.
“Oh, Orlando! How are you feeling? Bashar didn’t tell me you were coming by, but what luck! We need all the help we can get if we’re going to open for the afternoon rush. Have you eaten?”
I remember I haven’t, but there’s no room for hunger among all the unsaid words crowding my stomach. I don’t even know where to begin.
“We can handle the rush,” Elisa says frostily.
“You think you can handle everything,” Mrs. Itani chides. “Orlando, what size shirt are you these days? I think we only have extra-large left, but you don’t mind, right? Truly, we could use the help. With you here, I can work on getting that generator back online, and then I need to go check on Mary. Plus, I’m sure these two would much rather have you back behind the line than me, right, Bashar?”
As if she can’t feel the tension, Mrs. Itani has snatched a shirt off the rack of merchandise near the registers and is holding it out not to me, but to Bash. He stands up straight, ever polite before his mother, and takes the shirt. Maybe Mrs. Itani isn’t clueless after all; it’s Bash she wants making this peace offering.
Bash clenches his jaw. Elisa clears her throat, but he ignores her. He lifts his eyebrow—the one with the tiny scar in it—and he asks, “You back?”
I could run, but seeing them, I feel something I haven’t allowed myself to feel in months: a homesickness that Singing House failed to evoke, that rises in me now like a cresting wave. Even through the tension, and even through the anger, I feel that sparkle of excitement reaching out to me. Whether I like it or not, I’m home.
I nod. “Yeah. I’m back.”
“Then it’s shine time, baby.”
Bash tosses me the shirt. I’ve barely caught it before Mrs. Itani has the shop doors all the way open, and the first of many hungry customers is lining up for the best—and only—pizza in town.
Before anyone gets any pizza, the oven has to warm up. While it does, I stand with Bash and Elisa in a little triangle of awkwardness.
“Hi,” I say.
They don’t respond. The heat from the oven is matched only by the burns I’m sure their eyes are leaving on my skin. Whatever the reason I came back here, it simply cannot be worth this. Customers trickle in, lining up, and Bash tells them the first pizzas of the day are still baking. We have a few minutes, but I’m not sure I can survive it if no one will even speak to me.
Finally, Elisa decides to talk. “What do you want?”
“Elisa, be nice,” Bash warns.
“He must want something, right? I mean, why else come back here? I’m surprised he even remembers us. It’s been, what … ten months? And all he has to say is hi?”
I hate that she’s right, but I’ll be damned if I admit that. I pull on the XL Pizza Monster shirt. All worries of Aunt Maddie and my mom burn away for the moment. I’ve got to put this fire out first.
“I came to say I’m sorry,” I lie, but in a way it’s truer than the truth. I didn’t come here ready with an apology, but I’ve been on my way to this reckoning since the moment Gracie announced we were returning to Anchor’s Mercy. Elisa and Bash trade a look that isn’t completely contemptuous.
