Nothing was going the way it was supposed to. Mike was up in his business again, as usual; the stupid resort job was nothing but soul-sucking boredom; and those girls (Crystal and Jessica, at least he'd learned their names) thought he was a pervert. And maybe he was; that was the worst part of it--he didn't know. Was he? Was something wrong with him? Like, really, really wrong? The truth was, he didn't know what he felt toward that girl, that younger one with her fragile shape and features. He'd told himself it wasn't anything sexual; he'd hooked up with plenty of girls, ones his own age and even a little older sometimes, and whatever he felt about Jess was not the same as he'd felt with the others. There was something that beat strangely inside of him when he thought of her, something that flurried, caused actual discomfort. And there was a palpable urge to be near her, to see her. He sat around and wanted to be in her presence, felt sullen that he wasn't, even though the few times he'd been close enough to her, he'd made an idiot of himself.
What exactly did he want with her? To talk to her, alone.Yes, he thought he wanted that. If he could get rid of the sister, if he could just show Jess who he was in a way and place free of judgment. Wanting to talk with her didn't make him a pervert--talk with her and just . . . just tell her that he wanted her to trust him. That was part of it, definitely; he wanted her to know that he was there, that she could rely on him. He wanted her to rely on him, to need him. To want to need him. Oh, it was something like that. Like she was a bird that had fallen from a nest, and she needed someone to take care of her--he wanted her to know that he could do that, if she would let him. And he could just kind of hold her, and she would . . . she would like it. She would want him to. So it wasn't something gross. Not really. It was kind, good, even noble . . . something like that.
Whatever he attempted to tell himself, though, he couldn't escape the fact that something had stirred in him when her hand had touched his, that something had plummeted within, dropped through what felt like a straight tunnel from his throat to his groin. The contact, her fingers brushing his--it frightened him because of the unexpected sensation it had sparked. Exploring that sensation was a step he was sure he shouldn't take.
Still . . . no. It probably wasn't sexual . . . couldn't be . . . hopefully. And yet, it wasn't entirely innocent, either; he instinctively knew that, even if he couldn't actually admit it.
Why was this happening to him? This discrepancy between his brain and his body---the cognizance of what was wrong versus the anatomy's indifference to it--chilled him. He'd never been so at odds with himself. What did all of it mean?
If only he could get her alone.
Maybe he could find a way--
No, no. That train of thought was dangerous. And yet . . . thoughts themselves weren't actions. He could imagine having her alone, right? That didn't hurt anybody, no matter what thought-Kevin did to thought-Jess. And who would be any the wiser? Wouldn't it get him through some of the more boring hours at his job? Because really, five weeks in, Kevin was absolutely suffocating under the crushing ennui. People came in and out at random intervals all day, but even so, they hardly talked to him, saw him more as a piece of the display than as a person, and although Kevin had originally figured the less contact the better, the lack of interaction made the time seem twice as tedious.
It was Sunday, the Fourth of July, to be exact, and not that he had any special plans or anything, but he was glad they'd told him he could go home at two. He'd probably avoid his own house and go to Topher's dad's--the man always worked the town fireworks display and wouldn't be home all day, leaving his son to do as he wished. Most likely, they'd hang in the garage, smoke and drink, then head over to the Maritime Festival.
The Maritime Festival was held where every other event was held--the expanse of grass and sand in front of the public beach self-importantly referred to as Memorial Park--and it always ran concomitant with the few days surrounding Independence Day. Local bands played on a makeshift stage at intervals all weekend. A craft fair and farmer's market sold handmade and homegrown wares (not that Kevin wanted anything organic except for his weed and occasional mushrooms). Jet ski and kayak races were held during the mornings, and there were beach volleyball tournaments and sandcastle contests in the afternoons. Food vendors set up shop and the barbecue pits were constantly cycling out hot dogs and brats and burgers so viewers of the truly smalltown events (like frog hopping competitions and corn hole and the pet parade) could snack all day. At the end of the spree of revelry came, of course, the fireworks. They were set off from the breaker wall, way out over the lake, and the way they reflected on the water was actually pretty cool. The lighthouse would sit out there in the far-off darkness, its light blinking quietly, while above it exploded a rainbow of scintillating spiders.
No doubt the resorters would watch the fireworks from their fancy "cottages," on their manicured lawns or on the beach, on those bikes they rode down the quiet lane as if it were too long to walk or in their ubiquitous golf carts. Some of them might mingle with the townies, but most probably wouldn't. Kevin had been to the Maritime Festival every year of his life, and he couldn't recall ever seeing many strangers there--at least, not ones dressed in the polos and pastels and seersucker of the resorters. They would've been as out of place there as he was on the resort.
It was how he felt right then--out of place--walking the pristine paved road with a tote bag full of bomb pops. That Lawson guy had come into the shack and asked him to deliver them to all the kids at the pool, and as irked as Kevin had felt to be turned into a delivery boy, he couldn't say no. The man had gotten him his job, after all. So, hoping it was a one-time thing due to the holiday, he'd acquiesced.
A couple of women pedaled languidly past on their periwinkle cruiser bikes, tennis skirts crisp and sweaters tied loosely across their shoulders. A cluster of little girls ran by, barefoot and wild in spite of their pretty white sundresses. A swath of radiant lilies in warm colors grew along a wooden fence in front of one of the cabins, happy to exist in one of the rare patches of stable sunshine, while hydrangea clusters the size of soccer balls thrived in the cool summery shade elsewhere. The forest was something close to beautiful, on the resort. Kevin hadn't ever thought much of it, when it backed up to his father's veritable junk yard, but here it was like a different world. The contrast of the deep trees behind with the beach and lake beyond was almost edenic. It was a weird place, this resort, but it was also undeniably lovely, recognizable even to him.
The pool was perched up high, above ground, and a huge deck had been built up around it and then connected to another building he'd heard people refer to as "the casino." The epithet had confused him at first, but after some close listening, he'd come to find out that the space was more a gathering area, where the counselors did crafts and games with the children and the adults held parties some nights. As Kevin approached the complex, he balked at the sound of laughter and splashing. What was he doing? This was stupid. He was behind a counter all day so hadn't done much with his appearance; he'd look woefully out of place in his jeans and black tee, hair tamed by being swept back into a stubby knot. These people were practically on another planet, one made of sunflowers and clean air. Still, Mr. Lawson had asked him--no, ordered him--to deliver these damn popsicles. A fun treat! he'd said. No food allowed on the pool deck, normally, but it's the Fourth. No laws on the Fourth--just freedom!
Freedom was popsicles by the pool? What daredevils.
Kevin had reached the wooden stairs. Sucking in a deep breath, he started up them. The gate at the top had a latch feature which took him a moment to figure out, and by the time he got it open, he was fairly sure he looked noticeably dumb.
But he'd made it. Glimpsing the pool for the first time, he shrugged to see how totally normal it was. The wealth of these people hadn't been used to throw in water slides and fountains. It was just a rectangle of crystal-blue water, four feet deep at one end and twelve at the other, not even a diving board. The one counselor he didn't care for--Grant--was stationed as a lifeguard, sprawled in the shade in a plastic chair, spinning a whistle around his finger. Rows of chaise lounges lined each long side of the pool, many occupied by women sunbathing in various states of undress. Children horseplayed in the water with squirt guns and rings and all manner of toys, and older gentlemen sat in the shady areas and chatted, drank out of bottles, read newspapers.
A young man somewhere close to Kevin's age, maybe a little older, approached him looking as if Kevin had stepped in dog shit. "What do you need?"
Kevin didn't have the character for such encounters. This guy sucked. He opened the bag and withdrew a couple of popsicles. "From Mr. Lawson," was all he offered.
The children in the pool had caught on and within about ten seconds were buzzing around him like wet flies. All Kevin could do was stand there and allow them to tear through his bag while he stood back as much as possible to avoid their dripping bodies.
"Claire! You want some of my bomb pop?"
Kevin glanced at the guy who'd just questioned him, saw him running toward a group of young women waggling his red, white, and blue popsicle at his crotch.
"Oh my God, David! You're so gross! Nobody wants it, trust me!"
The girls squealed in that pretend-to-hate-it-actually-enjoy-it sort of way they did, and some woman half-heartedly scolded the guy for his lack of propriety in front of the children. Then some man--Kevin couldn't tell which--said something about behaving in front of their guest, and suddenly, everyone got real quiet. It was the weirdest thing, like someone had flipped a switch. The kids stared up at him with wide eyes, watching him with new interest as they simultaneously struggled to get their treats out of the wrappers.
Stepping back, Kevin realized that they were all looking at him--all of them. The children in their unabashed way but the others in a more disturbing manner, whispering behind their hands as if telling secrets or trying to appear preoccupied by adjusting their sunglasses and peeping over the rims of their reading material. The only person who seemed disinterested was the counselor, who appeared to have fallen asleep.
If Kevin had felt out of place as he'd merely approached the pool, he now felt as if he stood naked in front of everyone. Scrambling to the gate, he had it unlatched and was off without a word. He'd never left a place so fast in his life. Whatever that'd been back there . . . it was weird. Rude. He figured they'd thought he was poorly dressed, that he didn't fit in, that they were better. Could they have made their loathing any more obvious? Money didn't buy class--wasn't that a saying? Well, it was true of these people.
Thank God he was getting off at two, today.