Page 38 of One Happy Summer

“Sure,” I say.

We make quick work of getting back to the shore, grabbing our buckets and filling them with water before making our way back to our towels and things under the large beach umbrella.

We spend the next hour working on the sandcastle—very seriously, I might add. It’s obvious Presley likes to do things right, making me redo a couple of the spots when they weren’t up to her standards.

By the end we’ve done a decent job of making our castle. There’s even a walkway to the entrance and a moat around the circumference.

“My first sandcastle,” Presley says, while I’m taking pictures of it with my phone since the camera on hers is terrible.

“On the summer rating scale, where does this one land?” I ask her once I’ve completed my role as photographer. Feeling hungry, I grab a small bag of chips I’d thrown in the beach bag before coming here.

“I’d say it’s an eight,” she says.

“That high, huh?” I say as I open the bag. I offer it to her, and she reaches inside, pulling out a chip. “What about the trampoline?”

“Also an eight,” she says, before popping the chip in her mouth.

“What gets a ten from Presley James?”

“I have no idea,” she says, talking around the food in her mouth. “We’ve still got a lot more summer activities to experience.”

“Now I have a goal,” I tell her, giving her a smile.

“What’s that?”

“To do something that earns a ten.”

She grins. “I have to warn you: I’m a tough audience.”

“Challenge accepted,” I say.

“I think the castle is a two at best,” a woman says, and we both look up to see that same opinionated older lady, that big visor on her head. She’s got a T-shirt on that saysHot Grandma. I hadn’t seen her in a few days and thought maybe she’d gone back to the hole she’d crawled out of.

“Thanks?” Presley says, looking up at her.

“I need a drink,” the woman declares.

“Okay, I can . . . grab someone for you?” I say, wondering for a second if she thinks I work here.

I’m also wondering if she’s even supposed to be on this beach. Should we tell her it’s private? I still have no idea who this woman is, and I keep forgetting to ask my mom about her.

“I’ll do it myself,” she says, her tone sounding frustrated. Then she points at Presley. “Sit up straight—you’re killing your posture.”

I watch as Presley does, in fact, sit taller. The woman gives her a nod before walking away, muttering to herself about people these days and something about a daiquiri.

“Who is that woman?” Presley asks, when she’s walked out of listening distance.

I lift my shoulders. “I have no idea. I think she moved to the island after I left home.”

“She’s so . . . weird.”

“And has a very strange aversion to smells,” I add.

“Hmm?” Presley asks, confused.

“It’s nothing,” I say, waving the words away with my hand.

We spend the rest of the afternoon sitting under the umbrella on lounge chairs, talking about mostly superficial things, similar to the other night when we were at my apartment. I now know Presley James hates mushrooms and tried going vegan for all of one day. And she knows that I wrestled in high school and was rejected publicly by a girl named Brittany when I tried to kiss her at the homecoming dance, subsequently causing my aversion to public displays of affection.

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