Page 9 of The Dead of Summer

Gracie’s bike is missing, but mine is right where I left it in the shelter of the carport.

I heave it out, brush off the spiderwebs, and rocket toward downtown.

Scenes of mayhem blur by me—people pulling tree branches off cars, trucks lifting men up in cherry pickers to examine telephone poles, caution tape caging downed power lines.

When I see a police cruiser, I squeal to a stop.

“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.