Page 12 of The Dead of Summer

“Okay, but, like, who the hell is this Sam?” Bash asks.

We’re piled into Bash’s truck, the leftover pizzas steaming up the windows as Bash takes angry little turns through the back roads.

Elisa waves her phone at the rainy windshield, telling Bash to turn left, no, your other left .

The truck shatters through fallen branches and flooded puddles and barely misses a mailbox shaped like a tugboat.

No one else is on the road. It looks like Wendy Pretendy’s orders have been aptly followed.

“I told you. I just met him on the ferry. He plays the piano and Gracie invited him to Singing House last night, and then your mom drove him home.” It’s the fifth time going through all these details for Bash, who has determined we are en route to the lair of a serial killer.

I add in an extra detail, for spice. “He’s staying at his aunt’s place.

Alone. I think he’s rich or something. His house still has power. ”

“How’d he know to call Pizza Monster?”

“Gracie told him I worked there, and he said he found the number on his aunt’s fridge.”

“I don’t trust him,” Bash declares. Again.

“He’s all alone, Bash. Maybe he doesn’t have anything to eat. These pizzas could save his life.”

“Threats of mortal danger or not, Pizza Monster never delivers.” Bash whips us into another turn. Wet branches crack below the tires.

“I think it’s fun. Besides, he offered to pay extra,” Elisa says.

“We never settled on a price. Ollie just said yes.”

“I’m more of an in-person negotiator,” I say.

I feel like I’ve left my timidity far behind now that I’m back in the familiar crush between Elisa’s and Bash’s shoulders.

I try to place the nervous excitement that keeps bubbling in my chest, like at any moment my breaths could spew out of me as laughter, and finally the word comes to me.

Fun. I’m having fun.

“Here! Turn here!” Elisa shouts, and we swerve onto a private road, out into the dunes.

Sam’s house is big.

Like, big .

Like, what-the-hell-does-your-aunt-do-for-work? big.

I know that’s what Bash and Elisa are thinking as we crunch to a stop, looking up at the big lit-up monstrosity. Sam appears in the headlights, waving at us enthusiastically through the rain. We rush inside, and before I can stop him, Sam pulls me into an awkward hug over the pizza boxes.

“My heroes! How many people can say they’ve received a disaster response from the legendary Suds. You two must be Bash and Elisa. I’ve heard so many cool things.”

Damn, he’s smooth.

“You have?” Elisa pauses in pushing her wet hair from her face.

“The way I hear it, y’all are notorious on the island. I’ve heard so from Ollie’s mom, and Bash’s mom. Elisa—”

“How about a tour?” I cut Sam off before he can make the innocent-yet-catastrophic mistake of asking about Elisa’s mom.

It works. Sam guides us through a massive marble-floored entry, into a softly lit hall that punches right through the house to a massive wall of windows that must overlook the dunes during the day.

“Main kitchen is that way.” Sam throws a hand toward a dining room dominated by a circular table that hosts an entire dinner party of ghostly cloaked chairs. Fourteen chairs. Bash counts them out loud. Sam points the other way. “But the den and breakfast kitchen are down yonder.”

“The house has yonders ,” Elisa whispers to Bash.

“What happens if I fry an egg in the non-breakfast kitchen?” Bash asks.

“Lobotomy.”

I shush them, but they keep up with the jokes.

We follow in a mesmerized wake after the white sail of Sam’s shirt as he sweeps us deeper into the house.

The den turns out to be a double-height arena overwhelmed with charm.

The chandelier is shaped like a schooner.

The thermostat is a nautical dial. There’s a grand piano, and it’s ivory.

The plush sectional is deceptively normal except it goes on forever .

Everyone I have ever known could probably fit on that sectional.

Grimly, I think this room would be a great spot to host a fundraiser.

Or a wake. But something tells me Sam’s family doesn’t have the same body count as the rest of us.

“Your aunt’s house is lovely. Thanks for having us over,” I tell Sam.

“We’re not staying,” Bash says. Elisa elbows him.

Sam either doesn’t hear or doesn’t care. He leads us one room farther, to the breakfast kitchen. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it’s just a kitchen. I slide the pizzas onto the pristine granite counter, but Sam sweeps them off, then kicks his foot against a cooler on the floor.

“Grab that, will ya? There’s not much food in this house, but at least my aunt keeps it stocked with drinks.

I didn’t know what you guys liked so I just threw a bunch of stuff into ice.

Beers, too, but no pressure. I got the firepit started out back, and if the rain stops, maybe we can hit the pool? It’s heated.”

“It’s okay,” I say quickly. “You don’t have to—”

“Nonsense, Ollie, don’t be rude.” Bash heaves the cooler up, suddenly on board.

Some kids are ocean kids, and some are pool kids, and Bash is the latter, despite his obsession with all things seaworthy.

The second he learns someone has a pool, he’s on his best behavior.

I shoot Elisa a look behind Bash’s back and I’m delighted when she matches my eye roll.

The deck is slick with rain. Just like Sam says, there’s a firepit perched in the back-most corner, a tiny inferno dancing over bright blue rocks.

It’s all contained in a massive cabana that has kept a circle of couches dry.

There are even blankets. Sam bounces on his toes, excited or nervous to see what we think.

I’m dreading the reaction of my friends, but they throw themselves onto the couches and make themselves right at home.

Over pizza, Sam submits himself to the hundred questions Bash and Elisa have about him.

I realize how little I asked yesterday as I, too, learn a bad breakup sent him fleeing summer in New York City.

Drama! Naturally, the questions turn to his family.

Bash and Elisa are as enchanted as I am as they unpack each new scandal.

“My aunt is the rich one, not my parents,” Sam admits.

“She works in tech or something. Government contracts. She bought this house forever ago to be near …” He waves vaguely at the ocean.

“Whatever, it doesn’t matter. Boring family drama, but she got the house in a divorce.

Lucky me! I needed a place to stay for a little while and she’s always saying it’s cool if I want to visit, so I packed a bag and booked a ferry ticket. ”

“Wait, so she doesn’t know you’re here?” I ask. Sam’s eyes glint with a mischief I know Bash and Elisa place a premium on. Suddenly, he’s gone from rich kid to rapscallion fugitive.

“Are you in exile?” Elisa asks.

“Maybe I am. Do I seem like the disgraced type?”

“Could be hiding out from a grisly murder,” Bash offers. “A creepy seaside mansion would be a great place for a horror movie.”

Sam laughs, tossing Bash a beer. “Who’s dying first, then?”

Elisa shoots up a hand. “As the only girl, I’m the final girl. That means one of you is the killer. And I’ve got my eye on …” She ticks a finger down the line of us boys, settling on me. I know to play along, letting out an evil cackle.

“I knew he was too cute to be trusted! I knew it!” Sam insists. “Motive?”

“Insanity,” I plead. “I listened too long to the siren’s call, and it broke me.” Sam is flirting with me. Am I flirting back? I don’t think so, but I can’t bring myself to look at Bash.

“We need a weapon.” Bash ponders for a moment. “How about the schooner chandelier? I’d love to see that, particularly, dropped on someone.”

“Too splashy. That’s a onetime use,” Sam says. “Are knives too clich é ?”

“A lobster claw cracker to the temple,” Elisa says definitively.

I shake my head. “A harpoon gun, obviously.”

We go around and around, developing the story like witches throwing increasingly bizarre ingredients into a surreal soup.

I don’t worry that Sam might think we’re weird—that’s a given—I’m worried he won’t keep up.

Even my own wit is rusty after ten months of barely using it.

Sam is great, though, playing along like he’s been by our side since we were toddlers splashing one another in the shallows.

I feel it again—this sense of the summer sprawling before us.

If tonight is an indication, the next few weeks will be wild ones.

I thought I’d spend them hiding, but here I am with my old friends, making new friends.

It reminds me of one of my mom’s often-quoted gracioms: Be nice to everyone.

You never know who owns a beach house. I’m glad I met Sam before I knew any of this.

Two pizzas later, with cans of beer toppled like dominoes at our feet, sleepiness is setting in. Elisa yawns, and in a moment of silence she says, “I never thought I’d end up at one of the mansions. They never felt real, you know? It’s not what I expected.”

This is as close to a compliment as Elisa gets. She despises mainlanders and their mansions—thinks of them as an invasive species. She must have decided Sam is benign.

Bash grunts in agreement. “I live down the street— not in something like this—and we make up stories about the mansion people all the time. Most of the houses stay empty, except for this time of year.”

Elisa sits up. “Sam, if your family usually comes in the summer, why aren’t they here? Where’s your aunt now?”

“For all I know she’s hiding upstairs.”

I groan. “Please, I’ve hit my quota of creepy aunts sneaking around empty houses for the day.”

That reminds me to catch Sam up on the drama of the morning and the ensuing dropped anchor protocol. The mood turns chilly as we all stare into the fire.

“You know,” Sam finally says, “there’s tons of empty rooms here, if you guys wanted to stay.”

Bash stands up, stretching so that his belly peeks out below his Pizza Monster shirt. I’m ready for him to announce the night is over, but he doesn’t.

“I gueeeeesss we could stay,” he groans.

“My house is under siege of my sisters’ friends for a sleepover, and I’m not sure I’m up for being put in drag by eleven-year-olds yet again.

But I’m counting every single thread in the sheets.

Anything less than a jillion, and you’ve got a mutiny on your hands. ”

Elisa matches his restrained enthusiasm. “My dad’s in Portland right now visiting his brother. I suppose I can settle for this dump, Sam, but if I find a single goose feather in the pillows, I’m burning this place to the ground.”

It’s my turn. I adopt their posh dismissiveness as I swirl a can of beer. “I want that hot tub hot . Please, Sam, will you reschedule these clouds?”

The irony here is that the sky has just begun to clear. Sam bows benevolently, accepting the credit. “Thank you, thank you,” he says. “When it comes time to eat the rich, you all get first bites.”