Summer's Kiss (The Boys of Ocean Beach 1)

“Yeah that sounds right. Donald Gaskins killed a whole bunch of people around here back in the seventies.” At least, I think that’s what she told me.

“Oh.My.God. You’re kidding right? Donald Gaskins, the serial killer from Florence?”

I shrug. “I think so.”

A huge grin spreads across her face. “Wait ‘til I tell Bobby. He’s obsessed with serial killers. He makes us watch all those biography shows and things. Personally, I think it’s gross, but he can’t get enough. Plus, there’s no one famous from around here, so Gaskins is like, one of our claims of fame.” She sighs. “It’s pretty typical the only local person worth writing a book about is a crazy guy who killed people out on the highway.”

Again, I’m not sure what to say and just offer up a lame, “cool,” in hopes she’ll stop talking, at some point. She doesn’t, so I settle into my chair, close my eyes, listen to the small waves hit the shore, the squeals of the children playing, and more small-town gossip than I will ever need.

* * *

Worried about the pink splotches on my skin, I attempt an escape about an hour later.

“You must spend a lot of time indoors,” Anita says. I pull my sundress over my head. “No beach trip for spring break?”

“Not me. My friends all did though.” I should have gone with them. If I had, maybe I wouldn’t be on the side of an ocean right now, living in a camper with my mother.

“Not enough money?” she speculates.

For some reason I tell her the truth. “No, I spent it with my boyfriend.”

Anita raises an eyebrow. “A boyfriend worth skipping spring break sounds pretty interesting.”

“He’s not my boyfriend anymore. So unfortunately, it was kind of a waste.”

“Oh, well that sucks,” she frowns. “Well, by the end of July you’ll be brown as a berry and you’ll have so many fun stories to tell your friends.”

Anita has no idea my friends are barely speaking to me, and even if they were I’m too embarrassed to tell them about this humiliating summer vacation. Not when they are all about to head to Europe on the school trip I busted my ass to get a scholarship to attend. Plus, I’ve endured enough humiliation for a lifetime. There’s nothing like getting caught with your pants down, literally, to make you reassess your life goals.

“Maybe,” I smile, unable to outright lie. I wave goodbye and leave her to her tabloid magazine and kids, taking the walkway back to my camper. Since ours is on the front row, it’s a short trip. I’m surprised, though, to see my mother outside the trailer propping up the blue and white-striped awning.

“Hey,” I say to my mom, dropping my chair and bag on the ground.

“How do you like it?”

“It’s great,” I say, touching the fabric over my head. “You should’ve waited. I could’ve helped.”

“Oh this nice young man came by and helped me with it. He helps manage the property.”

“Bobby?” I ask, recalling the name of Anita’s husband. She said he manages the campground while her brother worked at the marina. I suspect the guy that turned off my water is probably Bobby. Maybe he came over to help my mom to make up for being such a wanker.

She has a string of lights in her hand and is weaving it around the underside of the awning. “I think he said his name is Justin?” She eyes my chest and touches me with a finger. “Wow, you’re red.”

“I know. I may have forgotten sunscreen.”

“I have some aloe in the bathroom cabinet, but you’ll still probably peel.”

I touch the red skin on my arm and make a white spot. “Great.”

“I’m going on a field trip this afternoon—for the book. Do you want to come?” she asks.

I consider her offer for a moment but realize if she’s gone then I can have the camper to myself for a while. “I think I’ll stay here and continue unpacking.”

It’s a white lie, I think later, when I’m clean and sprawled on my bed. Just one more to add to the pile. I’m in shorts and a tank top with aloe slathered all over my body. I do feel bad, lying to my mother. She’s always been supportive and honest with me—something that, until recently, I had been with her.

Humiliation makes it harder to tell the truth.

It also makes me desperate because I pull out my laptop to see if I have any messages or emails. We have wifi here, since Mom needs it for her book. The computer takes a minute to warm up but soon I’m faced with a long string of emails. I open the first one from my friend Irene. Apparently, she is still talking to me.