“About that music gig I promised you last summer,” Jake said. “So sorry we never got that done. I know I sent you on a few interviews, but I should’a, could’a gotten a few more until we got you a real fuckin’ job you were happy with. That wasn’t right. I just, you know, man, I tried . . .”
“It’s fine,” Kona lied, trying not to reveal any disappointment. “I know you’re a busy guy with a lot going on. This camp thing, though, is serious. We’re trying to get city families supporting our cause or we’re going to have to shut down for real.”
Meanwhile, Julia had gotten out of the air-conditioned SUV in time to witness Alexa jam her breasts inside the wetsuit and then struggle to zipper it up her neck. “Honey, that suit is just too small. Can we please go into town later and get another?”
“Stop, Mom.”
Julia watched her daughter strut around, fear and maternal anxiety now pumping through her body. “I’m not stopping, honey. We’ll talk later.” The girl didn’t have any smarts about the mesmerizing power her balloon breasts would have over men. Julia got back in the car and sat with her head in her hands, concerned about the trouble her daughter could get herself into this summer.
Alexa took a photo of a little drink shack on the side of the beach where she’d hooked up with a guy a grade older from the Riverdale school the previous weekend. She immediately posted it on her anonymous @DIDITHERETOO Instagram account that pretty much showed the locale of every expert blow job she’d ever delivered.
That was her favorite way to taunt her twenty-three thousand social media followers: just give them a hint, not really a full idea, that maybe she had blown someone there in the photos she posted. The great shot she’d posted the night of the Memorial Day bash, with the purple sunset and the grassy dune, had been her most popular this spring. She got thousands of likes. Sunsets always got likes, but sex and sunsets, even better. The suggestion that she “did it here too” was a really clever way to use her Instagram when all the other girls were posting selfies in bikinis. Like, no one knew it was her account. And, like, no one would ever find out.
Thank God she knew how to handle boys and men so well at age sixteen; it helped that she was born with no gag reflex, which was a really great thing in life. Something to be really thankful for.
She hoped she’d see the older man from the party this weekend, so she could play with his head a bit. He said he might show up here today to see her at camp. He was really handsome, and so mature. And she liked how hot and desperate he got around her.
When her parents questioned why she still wanted to go to surf and water-ski camp after four years, when she hadn’t noticeably improved since season one, she explained it all made her feel happy and fit. She mostly sat on the boat with Luke acting as camp DJ, blasting music while the kids water-skied behind the boat. Plus she got to buy a lot of new swimsuits every spring, and bags for her beach belongings and awesome flip-flops in colors that coordinated it all. And it made for good posting photos for her other Instagram account with her real name on it. All the surfing photos she posted made her look really athletic and down to earth, which she so was.
“It’s not right,” Jake said to Kona, using his best patrician tone, as he headed back to his SUV. “I promised I’d deliver some kind of job for you and I’m a man of my word. I just get pulled in so many directions and, Jesus fucking Christ, I can’t help everyone.” He slapped Kona’s shoulder.
“I got it. Maybe another time,” Kona answered. “But I’m going to push on the camp closing. They’re sending summons for infractions, building a case. It’s very serious, Jake, and we need . . .”
“You know what?” asked Jake, nodding thanks at Mario who’d run around the open car door like it was an Olympic track meet trial. “Let’s do this. Let’s celebrate the start of summer. You guys, you know, Luke, that teacher guy, whomever, the older one who doesn’t talk, you all come over after camp soon. I’ll have my chef lay out a spread. And we’ll talk about your camp problem.”
“We’ll come, we’re there, for sure, man,” Kona answered. “It’s really important. We can’t shut down after ten summers. We need the income, your kids need safety in the water.”
“2206 Beachwood Lane? Best food you ever had, guaranteed?” Jake slugged Kona’s back a little too hard, and climbed into the climate-controlled comfort of his car, marveling at his own magnanimity as if he’d cured every case of malaria in the Third World.