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The young attendant sighs and loses patience—as well as a bit of his professionalism. “Guys, you know it’s resort policy. How many times do we gotta go through this? You’ve got the whole beach to hang out at. The arcade literally just across the street. The gym. The north pier. Dozens of places to be other than this one particular spot you’re not allowed.”
“Ooh, listen to that,” sings the one with an eyebrow piercing, smirking at his friends. “‘Not allowed.’ Beckett’s movin’ on up in the world, telling us what we can and can’t do. Does that nametag make you feel all powerful?”
The attendant—Beck or Beckett, I’m gathering, who I recognize as the guy who took my drink order—huffs. “I’m not gonna jeopardize my job just because you guys are bored. You know they have cameras and my boss is probably watching this, right?” He spots me approaching and, after a moment’s panic, puts on a smile. “I-I’m sorry about this, Mr. Lachlan. I’ll have this handled in a minute.”
“Handled?” cries the guy with the piercing. Then the trio of boys look my way.
I nearly hear the spotlight crank on, its blinding light shining in my face. I probably have powdered sugar on my lips and stomach, and probably a wicked sunburn on my nose for all I know. These are a few thoughts I wish had occurred to me before I acquired an audience.
“First off, bonus points to you for remembering my last name,” I start, addressing the attendant. “Secondly, these guys aren’t bothering us at all, and like they pointed out, no one else is here. Why not let them stay?”
“I’m sorry, but it’s hotel policy. Besides, they know better. Unless they’re renting—”
“What if you just call them my guests?” I ask blithely.
The attendant sighs. “Sorry, but we can’t assume—”
“Fine. I’ll rent the cabana for the day for them. It’s on me.”
The three guys gawk.
The attendant blinks. “Are you … sure about that?”
“Yep. Just add it to my—”
“But it’s $195 for the day, sir.”
The rest of my cold dead sentence vanishes, and my stomach falls out of my butt. A hundred and what-did-this-crazy-bitch-just-say?
My eyes meet the skateboarder’s. There’s something strangely recognizable about him, other than the fact that Rico and I ran into these same three guys when we first arrived some hours ago. Even the way the skateboarder sulks feels familiar.
Finally I nod. “Alright. Put it on my tab or whatever.”
“No.” The one with the eyebrow piercing shakes his head and comes to my side. “Don’t throw away any more of your money on this place, man. I appreciate it, but …” He gives the attendant—and apparent former classmate—a withering smirk. “It’s clear our beach-rat asses aren’t welcome here. C’mon, guys.” With that, he and his friends leave the cabana, the glance of the teen with the skateboard lingering on me.
After they depart, the attendant sighs with relief and turns to me. “I’m sorry about the disruption. I’ll get you another drink, on the house. And … And some vouchers for Thalassa, our signature boardwalk restaurant.”
“Thanks, but you don’t have to—”
From across the pool, Rico with the superhuman ears calls out: “Do they have salads?”
The attendant calls back: “Yes, sir, a wide variety!”
“We’ll take the vouchers, then!”
“Alright!” He smiles at me. “I’ll be right back with the free drink and vouchers for you and your friend.” With that, he heads off, and I’m left standing by the pool and wondering whether what I just did was super heroic, or foolhardy and pointless. Does it really matter? It felt good. My heart beats with renewed confidence—and an appreciation for how ridiculously overpriced everything is on this island.
But we’ve only been on this side of it. I glance across the water at Rico, who seems to be staring at me with a question in his eyes.
I answer that question: “Yes!”
Rico shields his face from the sun. “Yes what?”
“The bonfire tonight! We’re going!”
Chapter 4 - Kent
Just off of Sugarberry Beach lies a row of sand-blasted houses facing the water, their porches never clear of sand and the wooden planks aged and beaten by weather, but still standing strong. One of those houses had four rowdy-ass boys raised under its roof by one such Eden Tyler and Charles Tyler, who went by Chuck when he lived here on the island, but now goes by Charles again. No surprise.
It’s through the screen door of that house that I shove in, tired and hot with sweat dripping down my back. The breeze off the beach flips up my hair as I step inside clutching a bakery box. “Hey, Mom,” I call out toward the tiny kitchen off the living room, the scent of her cooking apparent before I even see her. Sand’s been tracked into the cramped, cluttered living room by a very recognizable footprint. Several footprints, actually. “Damn it, Skipper.” I set the container on the rickety end table by the couch and peel off my shirt, heading to my bedroom at the end of the short hallway to change. The tattered curtains are dancing around from the window being left open, which I promptly shut as I search for something more comfy to wear from my closet—which I quickly realize has been picked through by someone. “Fucking hell, Skip,” I grunt.
