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Sandy artificial beaches lead into the water; boathouses and expensive water toys are tied to docks; trampolines and floating mats dot the water. Jet Skis and speedboats cut lines through the lake, toy-size in the distance. For the people on that side of the lake, their time here is an escape from their busy lives rather than their normal. I envied their ability to leave Pearl Lake when I was young.
The left side is far less opulent. A span of beach, with darker sand and fuller trees, fills up one corner, and the rest is lined with trees, with small narrow docks and tin boats dotting the water. And smack in the middle is Bernie’s house, the great divide between the rich and the moderately average townies, which is what the locals called themselves.
I exhale a breath as I head down the steep decline, veering left toward the downtown area so I can stop and pick up my mom on the way to the house. I timed the trip so I’ll arrive right as her shift ends.
I turn onto Main Street and pass the eye roll–inducing stores frequented by the more affluent members of the community—high-end furniture stores and water-toy rental places; a couple of nicer restaurants owned by city people; Indulgence, the overpriced ice cream and chocolate store I always secretly wanted to go to but couldn’t bring myself to because it would mean that I was taking business away from Corbin’s convenience store, which was owned by one of my dad’s friends.
I pull into the town parking lot and back my monster of a moving van into one of the spaces at the edge. I’m slapped with muggy June air as soon as I open the door and hop down onto the pitted pavement.
A group of teenagers from the rich side of the lake are draped across the ancient picnic table beside the equally ancient food truck. The same one I used to work at when I was their age. It was probably one of my most and least favorite jobs. I smelled constantly of stale french fries that summer. But it was a job, and money in my bank account. It was also the last summer I spent in Pearl Lake.
A teenage girl with long blonde hair pulled up into a high ponytail leans out the window while one of the summer boys flashes his perfect straight-toothed smile at her. Memories, some fond, some not, bubble to the surface.
Those summer boys were always so polished. Entitled and privileged, aware they had more and were better off than those of us who grew up in a small town, isolated and insulated. And in some ways, I bought into their narrative—their arrogant demeanor made my friends swoon. Local boys either cowered or puffed out their chests and looked down at those rich kids because they had more money and never had to work to earn it. Not like the townie kids, whose parents ran the local shops, catering to the people who came here for a few weeks or months of the year and then left everything behind again.
We were servants of the affluent. We lived outside the snow globe of entitlement. Close enough to shake it up, watch the chaos we caused, and then set that pretty picture-perfect world aside to collect dust until next season.
I pass the food truck and cross the street, heading for Tom’s Diner, where my mom has worked for as long as I can remember. As a teen I used to pick her up from work all the time. Never my brother, though, because he wasn’t very reliable, and half the time he didn’t have car privileges. Seems like not much has changed.
I brace myself as I peer through the frosted glass, taking in the tables and people sitting at them. The diner is mostly frequented by older townies or the summer teens from the rich side of the lake. Townie teens tend not to eat there, favoring the food truck for the cheaper food and the lack of adult and parental supervision.
I open the door, the bell above me tinkling softly. A few heads turn as I step inside the air-conditioned diner and let the door fall closed behind me, the puff of hot, humid air following me in. I shiver as the heat is eaten up and absorbed by the cool blast coming from the vent above my head.
“Darlin’!” my mom exclaims from her spot behind the counter.
She wipes her hands on her apron and slides behind one of the other servers, who is punching in an order at the computerized register. It must be an upgrade since I was last here. The girl at the computer turns toward the door, her expression registering shock as her gaze slides over me. She’s vaguely familiar, and it takes me a few moments to realize she’s Claire, the youngest sister of one of the girls I used to hang out with in high school but lost touch with after I moved to the city. More like ghosted on my part, which makes being back here that much more challenging.
