Extensive Author's Notes: Despite it being a coming of age story, this might be the most nuanced, mature story I've ever written, ripe with measured character growth and suspense—I hope you think so, too. I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my beta IrishViking20 and for the first few chapters, also TakeFlight81.

A note about the way I've written Alex…She's a mere 21 in this universe, and I based my characterization on the brief scene in OITNB when she meets her father for the first time. Alex was bold enough to confront him, yet she was completely unsure of herself—a far cry from the 'present day' badass we know as Alex Vause. So, as you read this story, keep that characterization in mind.

While this is totally a Vauseman story through and through, I've developed original characters that make it feel more like a balanced novel rather than any of my other Vauseman-centric stories. In fact, I might turn it into a novel and change the names of OITNB characters, which I should state that I do not own.

I'll use the word 'sosh' a lot—it's pronounced with a long O and is slang for socialites or high society people. If you've ever read or seen The Outsiders, you know the term.

This is the longest story I've ever written, which I did intentionally for the long summer we're all experiencing with Covid-19 still ramping up in the United States. Without further ado, please enjoy.


I've never understood why people need alarm clocks. Perhaps I'm fortunate that my body naturally wakes at 5:30 a.m. every day without fail. If I have a day off, I can force myself to fall back asleep, but I can't recall a time when I've slept past eight in the morning even if I'm sick. Come to think of it, I don't remember the last time I was sick.

I pull the sheets off my body, stand and stretch. My arms are particularly sore today. I pull my right arm across my chest, bringing it into a deep stretch as I glance out the window to see the faintest hint of morning light. The sun won't be up for another hour. I stretch my other arm as I shuffle downstairs to the bathroom and turn on the shower. The hot water will ease my aches and pains.

This is only the third week I've lived in this house—my house. It's taken me the better part of two years to build it, but I take great pride in what I've accomplished. It's small to be sure—a modest sized living room, small kitchen, and a lofted bedroom. The granite fireplace was the hardest thing to build, but it's my favorite part of the house. I also love the deck that provides an unobstructed view of the ocean…to be fair, there are a couple of pitch pines and a maple tree in front, but I kept them in place to provide a little more privacy.

After my shower, I return to my bedroom to get dressed. The late-May mornings on the island are chilly, so I've learned to wear layers. I tug on a pair of jeans, a black t-shirt and a flannel before heading next door.

The morning air is salty with the hint of cedar that's more from my new deck than any of the trees around. I pull in a deep breath, detecting the scent of pine and lilac that has just begun to bloom. As I head to the house 30 feet away, I remind myself it's important to breathe like this throughout the day as a calming mechanism—the fresh air will always center me.

The screen door creeks as I open it, reminding me I need to spray the hinges with WD-40. "Morning."

"Hey, kiddo." My mom glances up with a coffee cup halfway to her lips. "How'd you sleep?"

"Good." I move into the kitchen and spot my red mug next to the coffee maker. "Better than the night before."

"I'm glad. Ready for today?"

I pour the steaming coffee into the cup, then hit it with a shot of cream. "Not really, but that's nothing new." I join her at the old, wooden table that has always reminded me of a captain's wheel. "Nothing interesting happens around here anyway."

"That's not true." She slides a tray of bagels my way. "And who knows—maybe this will be the most interesting summer of your life."

"I'm not holding my breath," I chuckle as I reach for the cream cheese. "Lox this morning?" I spread a dollop over the bottom of an onion bagel. "I'm impressed."

"We always have a special breakfast on the first day of summer," she replies, spearing a few pieces of thinly sliced salmon for me. "Here."

I take the fork, placing the dill-laced lox on my bagel before covering it with the other half. "Technically, the first day of summer isn't until June 20."

She swats at me. "You know what I mean, smarty pants." My mom pushes her chair back and stands. "We've got a boat load of work to do today, kiddo. Finish your breakfast, then meet me in the shed."

"I'm hot on your tail," I lie, savoring the first bite of my bagel, knowing it'll probably be the last thing I eat until tonight.

My family has lived on Oyster Island for five generations, making us one of the first inhabitants though not one of the initial landowners—that belonged to the wealthy aristocrats. My great- great- great- grandfather was the head servant for Theodore Rexford, who built the first mansion on the island. William Vause made a decent enough living, had a family of his own, and passed the baton to his son who passed it on to his and so on. My mom and I are the last surviving Vauses, and we continue to serve the people who live here just like the Vauses before us.

My dreams of shifting classes and living in a mansion of my own died when I reached the age of ten. That's not how it works, my teacher told me. We're born into social classes and upward mobility doesn't happen around here. Granted, my teacher was my best friend's mom and there were a whopping four kids in our class. We didn't even have grades like second and third grade until I was technically old enough to go to high school on the mainland. Even then, it was pounded into me that I was less than and my future was to serve others on a tiny island for the rest of my life.

Oyster Island is one of the Thimble Islands, an archipelago consisting of small islands in Long Island Sound. The islands themselves—long prized by sailors on the Sound as a sheltered deep-water anchorage—comprise only three that are inhabited (most of them wooded), numerous barren rocks and hundreds of reefs are visible only at low tide. The only way on and off the island is by boat. There's a ferry that runs twice a day at 6 a.m. and 6 p.m. dropping passengers off at the dock in Branford, Connecticut. Of all the islands in the chain, Oyster Island boasts the most residents, though it lacks a general store, a Post Office, a school and all other professional services. In the summer months when most of the homes are occupied and upwards of 100 people flock to the serenity of the island, there's an urgent care center with limited hours to serve the residents who nearly drown because of the strong currents.

I walk outside again, popping the last of the bagel into my mouth and make my way to the shed, which is more like a chef's pantry with no windows.

"Thanks for breakfast." I notice several items already lined up on a stainless steel table, and my mom is hunched over writing something with a black Sharpie.

She points to the far end of the table. "Mark these sections off, will you?"

I grab a roll of painter's tape and rip a 10-inch piece with my teeth. "How many deliveries today?"

She places a tag in front of the first set of containers. "Sixteen this morning and another five after lunch."

I do the quick math in my head. "That's all but one house."

She shrugs. "Welcome to move-in day."

I don't need a reminder about how hectic this day has traditionally been, but when I consider the herculean task before me, I wonder how I make it through year after year.

I begin bagging the groceries that my mom has set aside, ensuring that the cold food is packed in an insulated bag with a block of blue ice. Once I've caught up with her, I consult the shopping list to gather the next family's supplies.

Although a few homeowners come up year-round for a weekend getaway (or to have a short-lived affair), the majority of the houses remain empty until Memorial Day when throngs of families flock to their summer residences where they'll remain through Labor Day. The Friday of Memorial Day weekend, there are two additional ferry services to accommodate guests, most of whom walk onto the ferry rather than drive. (The entire island is five miles long and two miles wide, so it's easy to get around on foot or by bicycle.) Those who choose to walk on to the ferry typically take only essential items with them—clothing, toiletries and often a suitcase packed with expensive booze.

Every Friday evening during the summer months, there's a small farmer's market that I organize. The locals grow just enough produce to sell, and the tourists will pay a premium for fresh vegetables. There's an abundance of berries, greens, root vegetables, local honey and seafood, plus there are two booths with non-edible items such as soaps, lotions and flowers. If the residents can't find what they're looking for at the farmer's market, they rely on my mom and I to provide food and supplies throughout their stay.

After about an hour of prep work, my mom and I double check each bag to ensure the items are accounted for. On this first day of summer deliveries, we only provide up to 20 items per household and promise to fulfill other requests after the mad dash is over.

I peek into the industrial-sized refrigerator. "Do we have any milk left?"

She starts lining up the bags in the order they'll be delivered. "I think there's a pint in there, but that's all."

I take quick inventory on my iPad, so I'll know what to replenish when I go into town tomorrow. Until a couple of years ago, we did everything by hand. It wasn't until we got wi-fi on this side of the island when I bought an iPad for a more efficient and streamlined system.

My mom wipes her brow. "These are all set."

Since I began driving six years ago (despite not being old enough to get a driver's license) and can deliver supplies much quicker than when I had to go by bicycle, my mom began taking her time with her deliveries to catch up with some of the long-term residents. I've never enjoyed making small talk with the rich patrons, so I can knock out 10 home deliveries before she even gets to her fifth. There's a part of me that wonders how much longer my mom will do this work. It wouldn't surprise me if she semi-retires after this summer, leaving me with the supply delivery business and focusing instead on making her homemade jams and jellies.

"I'm going to head out now." I glance at a couple of the tags. "I'm assuming you want to take these first three?"

She nods. "I can't wait to catch up with Blythe Baldwin to find out who the new neighbors are."

I roll my eyes as I grab four bags. "I'm sure it's just another white, millionaire couple with their two blond headed, blue eyed children with perfect teeth and a closet full of Vineyard Vine clothing."

"You're probably right." My mom gets a good chuckle out of that. "See you in a few hours, Al."

I return to the shed to pack the rest of the bags, then glance at my watch and notice that it's not quite 7 a.m. yet. I've learned over the years that delivering supplies before seven in the morning is met with a rude greeting and an inevitable stern e-mail later that day with a clear warning that it's not acceptable to make an appearance before the sun is fully risen.

I hop in my Jeep and decide to head North to see if any of my friends are out and about at this early hour. Back in the early 1900s, there were several mansions on this side of the island, but they were destroyed in the hurricane of 1938 due to the exposed nature of the homes facing due East. Since then, only modest cabins have been built here—ones that can withstand damaging storms, and if they can't, the loss is acceptable since the inhabitants own nothing of great value. These are my people—the year-long residents who take care of the island when no one else is around.

I was hoping my friend, Trina, would be sitting on the porch enjoying her morning coffee, but she and her boyfriend are probably working the morning shift as deckhands on the ferry. Either that or Tim is out back harvesting weed for his lucrative summer business of selling joints to the soshes. The Wilson twins live next door, but they don't seem to be awake yet. Just as I'm about to drive past their cabin, I spot one of the boys walking outside and smacking a pack of cigarettes against his thigh.

I pull into the driveway, shut off the engine and stretch my hand towards him. "Fresh pack?"

Ben, the more attractive of the fraternal twins, eyes the back of my Jeep and pulls a cigarette out for me. "First round of deliveries?"

"Yeah." I lean forward so he can light it. "What do you have going on today?"

Their yard is littered with all sorts of machinery and auto parts. An old, abandoned truck with weeds growing around it sits in the corner of the lot purposely unattended. I've spent many evenings in the bed of the truck we call Herman, getting high as we watch the waves roll in before a storm.

Ben blows out a puff of smoke. "Fixing one of Boone's lawnmowers this morning."

"Sounds exciting." I take a drag.

"It's better than waiting on the cone-lickers all day," he replies, using a term for the wealthy residents that the generation before us preferred.

"You run the fucking kayak and paddle board rental shop," I snap back with a light laugh. "At least I don't interact with the soshes all day. I drop their shit off, and I'm out."

His twin brother, Brian, steps outside as he tugs a sweatshirt over his head. "Hey."

"Hey."

He bums a cigarette off his brother. "First day of the season." He glances at the sun as it peeks above the ocean. "My old man used to say a beautiful sunrise on the first day of tourist season means we're going to get rich."

Ben and I chuckle, but I'm the first to respond. "Are you hiding your millions in Herman's glove compartment?"

Brian shrugs and flashes a crooked smile. "Maybe I am."

"I better go." I take one last drag of the cigarette before flicking it out and watching Ben step on it. "Wouldn't want to keep the Holts waiting for their milk and butter."

"Don't forget—party at the Sticks tonight," Ben calls before walking away.

"Bring an appetizer and a bottle of rosé," his twin jokes with the flick of a wrist.

We would never throw a party with appetizers and wine like the landed gentry who live on the other side of the island. Our kick-backs consist of whatever alcohol we have on hand and, if we're lucky, a few bags of tortilla chips and salsa. Tonight is special though—the first day of tourist season always begins with the locals gathering at a bonfire on an area of the beach where thousands of logs have washed ashore over the years—the Sticks. We've come to call this entire side of the island the Sticks, and the other side is referred to as the Slope.

I wind my way up the gravel road and pass my friend Shana's house, and then the Thompson sisters' cabin that their father built on stilts. It's the last house in the Sticks, and as I turn onto the paved street, I spot ten to 15 surfers catching waves on the only public beach on the island. The swells here are epic, but so is the current. I knew two locals who drowned while surfing North Beach, but over the years, upwards of 50 tourists have succumbed to the monster waves and riptide. My friend, Wyatt, is one of two lifeguards during the summer months, and he's seen his fair share of injuries and deaths.

I turn on the stereo as I roll down Oyster Island Road—the only named street on the entire island. We don't get much reception out here other than AM talk radio, so I switch out compact discs every so often if I want to listen to music. Today, I'm graced with Dolly Parton's greatest hits. My lips tug upwards as 9 to 5 blasts through the speakers. More like 7 to 7, I think.

Most of the homes on Oyster Island have been handed down from generation to generation with the exception of a few that have been sold over the past five years. The hubbub around town seems to be about who bought the old McAfee mansion a month ago. I'd know a little more about the new family if I'd been the one to show them around, but on that particular day, my mom had the honors while I was fishing with Wyatt.

Most of the summer residents are families with school-aged children who will eventually take over the property that their fathers will to them after they die. It strikes me that there's not a single person of color among the summer soshes unless you count the Vietnamese baby that the Hardwick family adopted last year. These are your above average looking white Anglo Saxton brethren with impressive European lineage.

I pull up to the first house which belongs to the Nichols family. It's the smallest house on the Slope with its mere four bedrooms and three baths. Of course the swimming pool, complete with a lazy river, steals the show. They have one daughter, Nicky, who has become a close friend despite our social classes. I don't generally associate with the mansion-owning offspring, but Nicky weaseled her way into our parties at the ripe age of 13. We kicked her out the first few times, but then one sweltering July evening, she showed up with two bottles of tequila and a case of beer. Since then, she's been the only sosh whom we've welcomed into our circle.

I stop the engine, get out of my Jeep and reach for three bags with a Nichols tag on them. As I'm about to knock, Mr. Nichols opens the door. "Good morning, Alex. I assume those are our groceries?"

"Yeah." I hand him the bags.

"Thank you."

He begins to shut the door, but I place my hand on it. "Wait. Is Nicky around?"

"She's still sleeping." He gives me a look somewhere between cautionary and demeaning. "I think you know this, Alex, but my daughter is not allowed to socialize with you."

Last summer, we had a run-in with the cops (who only patrol the island during the summer season) and Nicky got caught with a bag of joints. Her father was none too pleased and blamed the locals for his daughter's indiscretion. Little does he know Nicky has been smoking pot since her pre-teen years and occasionally dips into the hard stuff.

I fold my arms and hold my chin high; he doesn't scare me. "Isn't she like 21 now, Mr. Nichols?"

"As long as she lives under my roof, I make the rules. You'd do well to respect them, too." He closes the door.

Even though he can't see me, I flip the bird. I'll text Nicky when I'm done with my morning deliveries.

The largest home on the island, owned by the Holt family, is next door to the Nichols' place with its ten-bedrooms and a guest cottage on a five-acre oceanfront property. It's one of only three homes I've never been inside of. I've swam in their pool many times when they weren't home, but that's true of all 12 homes that have swimming pools. The water is still warm well after Labor Day, so my friends and I spend a solid three weeks pool hopping and enjoying the $5,000 Weber grills of the unsuspecting homeowners. A few of them have security cameras, but we drape a towel over those before doing cannonballs into the chlorinated water.

I spend the next hour making deliveries and before I hit my last stop, I come upon the home that was recently purchased. It looks almost presidential with its tall, white columns and patriotic decorations out front. The previous owner was a US Congressman, and for as long as I can remember, they've had red, white, and blue awnings and flags hanging off the front of the home from May through September.

Instead of driving past the house, I pull in front of it and peek between the tall hedges that form a perimeter around the yard to see if I can get a glimpse of who moved in. There's a Land Rover in the driveway, which seems to be the vehicle of choice for those who drive onto the ferry, and a motorized scooter behind it. The windows are open on the second floor, and I wonder if they're airing the house out after it sat empty for nearly nine months.

"Scoping out the next house to rob?" A voice from behind startles me. "We just moved in, so you're probably not going to find anything valuable for another couple of weeks."

I spin around to see a tall, fit blonde in running shorts and a long-sleeved dri fit shirt. She appears to be in her late teens, but I've never been good at judging ages.

"I'm making deliveries," I say, jutting my head to the three grocery bags in the back.

"I don't think we ordered anything." She pulls the bottom of her shirt up to wipe her forehead, revealing tight abs. "But I could be wrong."

"You didn't." I draw my eyes away from her stomach back up to her predictably blue eyes. "If you need anything from milk to steaks to pancake mix, let me know."

She pulls the ponytail holder out of her damp hair. "Are you like the local Instacart driver or something?"

I've heard of Instacart, but it'll never see the light of day on Oyster Island. "Something like that, yeah." I smile.

"If I had my phone, I'd put your number in it to give to my parents." She crouches down to loosen her Nikes. "But seeing that I don't, how about I give you mine, and you can text me your contact information?"

I pull my phone out. "Whose name should I associate with this number?"

"Piper." She sticks her hand out. "Piper Chapman."

Our eyes meet as I squeeze her hand. "Alex Vause."

She pulls away, but her eyes are still latched onto mine. "Which one of these homes is yours, Alex?"

On second thought, there's nothing predictable about her baby blues—there's something mysterious and curious behind them.

"My house?" A slight grin tugs at my lips. "You can't quite see it from here."

"Ah." She begins walking backwards towards her palatial new summer home. "I guess I'll see you around."

I nudge my glasses. "Yeah. See you around."

She raises a hand in a quick wave before disappearing behind the hedges.

Maybe it'll be an interesting summer after all.


After making my final delivery, I run into my friend, Shana, as she pulls tables out of a pickup truck.

"Hey."

"Hey, Alex," she replies. "First round of deliveries?"

In my teenage years, Shana and I hooked up a few times, though we haven't fucked in years. She's ten years older than I am and goes in and out of relationships with men and women. If I wanted to get laid, she was one of only two women who were up for a quick romp on the beach.

She and her family own a party rental company and despite being in business for only four months out of the year, they rake in more money than just about anyone else on the island.

"Yeah."

"The party starts at six o'clock." She leans a table against the truck. "Can you get here around four?"

"Are the Thompsons marinating the meat, or is that why you need me here so early?"

"Neemah has been marinating the carne asada overnight," Shana replies. "I need you to bring the alcohol and set up the bar. You're going to pour drinks tonight."

I let my foot off the brake. "I'll get here as close to four as I can."

Every Saturday night, the property owners take turns hosting a party and they rely on the locals to set up, cook, serve, and clean up. Depending on the size of the party and which asshole is hosting, I typically make $300 a night. If I'm tending bar, I garner an additional hundred bucks in tips. While I don't mind mixing cocktails, I'm not the best at flirting in order to get the biggest tips; however, I put on a sunny smile as best as I can and leave with a wad of cash.

I return to my house in the Sticks and begin sorting through the two pallets of liquor and beer I've bought over the course of a year. It will last a solid two weeks, and then I'll have to return to the liquor store for a fresh stash.

Transporting goods from Branford to Oyster Island isn't easy; in fact, it's a pain in the ass. I can't make any massive trips due to the size of my boat, which means I stock up on supplies year-round, waiting until a couple days before the tourists arrive to buy items that could spoil. My mom and I used to make weekly trips together, but she usually tends to our garden and makes jam while I give 15-year-old Rhett Thompson a few bucks to haul supplies with me.

"How'd deliveries go this morning?" I hear a familiar voice behind me.

"Trina, hey." I smile. "They were fine. I still have five more loads to take over in about an hour."

"I think we were over capacity this morning on the ferry." She reaches into her pocket, pulling out a joint. "Fucking Luscheck just let it slide."

Joel Luscheck is the miserly, vulgar-mouthed ferry captain who lives in Branford. If he can make an extra dollar by letting a few more passengers on the ferry than legally allowed, he'd do it in a heartbeat.

"He's such a dick," I say. "I don't know why you still work for him."

Trina lights the joint, taking a long hit. "Because Tim and I can't survive on the $5,000 we make on selling pot in the summer."

I take the proffered joint and inhale. "Maybe one day we'll both strike it rich."

One thing the locals have always held true is that none of us poach jobs from one another. Trina's family has been deckhands on the ferry as long as my mom has been making deliveries. The only new jobs that surface either happen due to ingenuity (like the Friday farmer's market I started when I was 15) or when someone dies and doesn't have an heir.

"I saw the new family on the ferry last night," she says, taking the joint back. "At least I think they're the ones who bought Congressman McAfee's place."

I direct my attention back to the boxes of alcohol I'd been counting. "How would you know that?"

She takes another long drag. "I overheard them talking about the furniture deliveries and how it's a pain in the ass to get stuff to the island."

"Mmm."

"What's that?"

"What's what?"

"That sound you made—mmm?"

"Nothing," I chuckle, trying to deflect attention. I don't know why I reacted the way I did. Maybe I'm just not ready to tell my best friend that I met one of the new occupants of the McAfee mansion. "What do you want me to say, 'Yeah, I agree it's a pain in the ass to get shit to Oyster Island'?"

She holds the joint out. "You just sounded weird."

"I'm good." I jot down the number of bottles of vodka on my iPad. I'd probably be best served by changing the subject. "Did Shana ask you to go to the Mortimer's house around four today to set up for the party?"

"Yeah." She takes a few more hits before stubbing the joint out. "But Tim's not going to make it. He told

Luscheck he'd work the evening ferry."

"He'd make more money working the party." I move the first box of vodka to the side and open the next one. "Especially the first one of the season when the soshes like to out-tip each other."

"Island dominance," she chuckles. "I'll see you later, Vause."

"Yeah." I return to the task at hand, wondering why I didn't fess up about meeting Piper.


I spend the afternoon, delivering supplies to the last five homes, and then reload my Jeep with three boxes of alcohol and mixers as well as a case of Pacifico and two of Corona. I transport the booze to the Mortimer's house at 2:30 and promise Shana I'll ice everything down when I get there around four. By the time I get home, my mom is sitting on her porch as she's prone to do almost daily, drinking a glass of iced tea.

"Was it as awful as you remember?" she asks.

I grab my flannel shirt from the backseat, then walk over to her. "It wasn't that bad. You?"

"Good. I talked with Blythe for what seemed like hours." She smiles and pours tea from an ice cold pitcher. "I brought a glass for you."

"Thanks." I sit next to her in one of the deck chairs I stained a few weeks ago. "What did Mrs. Baldwin have to share?"

My mom has always loved gossiping with the rich wives even though she'd deny it. A handful of women have been kind to her over the years, and Blythe Baldwin even has her over for lunch a couple of times each summer.

"Les Nichols married that younger attorney he brought around last summer," she divulges. "Apparently they'd been having an affair for like ten years and even have kids together."

"What?" I sit up straight. "What about Nicky?"

My mom shrugs. "Blythe said that Nicky found out about her half-siblings around Christmas."

"That is completely fucked up." I forgot to text Nicky this morning, but with this turn of events, I need to make a point of it after we finish our conversation.

"Tell me about it." She takes a sip of tea. "There is some bad news, though—Judge Ballinger had a heart attack in January," my mom reports. "Unfortunately, he didn't recover."

"I'm sorry to hear that." I always liked Judge Ballinger—he was the first to hire me as a babysitter when I was 13. That opened the floodgate of babysitting gigs that lasted three full summers and earned me my first thousand dollars.

She holds a hand out as if signifying there's more to the story. "But his money-grubbing hussy of a wife has already moved on to some Texas oil tycoon."

"Just what we need on the island—a big belt-buckled, boot-wearing country boy with Trump signs all over his yard."

She gives me a look. "Don't even think about vandalizing them."

I refill my iced tea and grin. "I wouldn't dare." Of course I'll fuck with the campaign signs just as soon as the coast is clear.

"The oldest Holt daughter is getting married on the island in August," she continues. "It's supposed to be the wedding of the year."

"Great." I roll my eyes, although it's likely going to be a lucrative event for me.

She reclines more fully in her chair. "I think that's all the big news around here."

I love that she refers to gossip as news.

I'm surprised my mom didn't mention anything about the new family, so I need to bring it up as casually as possible. I look towards the ocean and ask, "What about the family who moved into the McAfee mansion?"

"Oh, that's right! I knew I was forgetting something." She slaps her knee. "The Chapman family—husband, wife and three children. Blythe thinks the oldest son is in college and the youngest is in junior high."

I kick a pinecone off the porch and watch it tumble to the grass. "That's all she knew?"

"The husband, I think his name is Bill, has some high-end finance job." She takes another sip of tea. "And they have a connection with the Bloom family."

"I met their daughter this morning," I blurt out.

"You did?"

I might as well tell my mom—it's not like I have anything to hide. "She was coming back from a run, and I was about to make my last delivery."

"What's she like?"

"Blonde, blue eyes, nice smile…" I shrug, trying to act nonchalant. I won't dare admit that I think she's pretty—I've never looked at soshes that way. "Your typical millionaire's offspring."

"Sounds about right." My mom smiles. "Blythe didn't mention anything about a daughter."

"I'm sure there's not much to report; Piper looks like all the rich girls around here." I stand, draining my glass. "Thanks for the iced tea. I have to get ready for the Mortimer's party."

"Believe it or not, I've decided to retire from working the parties this year."

"Really?" I set the glass on the small table. "I'm proud of you, Mom."

"Now that Rhett's old enough to work, Shana said she has all the help she needs this summer. To be honest, I'm relieved." She gets to her feet and stretches to one side. "Besides, my back is killing me. It's probably best if I just focus on making my jams."

"I couldn't agree more." I walk back to my house and call over my shoulder. "I'll let you know if I see anything worth talking about."

"Good."

I text Nicky as soon as I step inside, and then I take my second shower of the day. I put on one of my three summer "uniforms"—black jeans and a white blouse. A quick glance at the clock tells me I have two minutes to make a sandwich, so I spread a little mayonnaise and mustard on a slice of wheat bread, then slap a piece of deli meat between the bread.

I grab my cell phone as I head outside into the warm afternoon air, and I notice two text messages. I figure one is from Nicky, but the first is from Shana, asking me to bring two additional bags of ice, so I swing by the shed. The second text is from Piper. I stop in my tracks and read, Hope to see you at the party tonight.

I grin.

"Hey, Alex! Can I hitch a ride?" Trina jogs towards me. "Tim took the car to the ferry terminal."

"Get in." I hand her half of my sandwich. "Want some?"

She shakes her head. "I just ate." Trina turns the music louder as I pull out the driveway. She's always curious what disc I have in the CD player, and as Dolly belts out Jolene, she tosses her head back and laughs.