CHAPTER 3

 

Seaside Heights, New Jersey, is a shore town.

That means, starting in June, when the tourists and day-trippers descend on our sandy beaches, the population will swell from the twenty-four hundred people who actually live here to the twenty or thirty thousand who come here to play, eat junk food, show off their tans, and cool off in the surf. That also means the police department needs some extra, summer-only help.

“I am now a Seasonal Class One officer with the Seaside Heights Police Department,” Dad proudly announces.

“And,” adds Mom, “if things go well this summer, we’re pretty sure your father will be offered a full-time job on the force right after Labor Day.”

“One seasonal officer typically is,” says Dad, bouncing up on the balls of his feet like he’s so happy he could burst. “My days of heading up the lifeguarding crew are over, ladies.”

“Hoo-ah!” says Mom. Then they hug.

This was great news for Dad, also known as the best-looking boy on the beach. Mac Hart was inching closer to living his dream, doing the thing he wanted to do more than anything in the world—especially since his professional baseball career was cut short after he met Mom, hung up his cleats, and had seven kids, all girls. If Mom and Dad had played with us, we could have been our own softball team.

“Eventually,” says Mom, “the police department job will give your father a nice salary.”

“And benefits!” says Dad.

“But…”

Yep. There’s always a but. And this but sounds like a big one.

“… this seasonal position will not pay well at all.”

Dad nods. “The pay stinks.”

“And there are no benefits,” says Mom.

“Plus, I have to buy my own uniforms.”

“What about your pistol?” asks Sophia. “Do you have to buy that, too?”

“Seasonal officers don’t carry sidearms,” says Dad. “Mostly, we write parking tickets. Help out with traffic congestion. Check beach badges. That sort of thing.”

“And,” says Mom, “because my dream is also to, one day, become a police officer, I have enrolled in an eight-week, intensive summer training program at the community college. Just like the one your father took last fall.”

“So,” says Dad, “your mother will not be pulling down a salary at all for two months.”

“I won’t be able to do as much cooking, cleaning, and childcare, either,” she adds.

Now they both look at us.

“We need your help, kids,” says Mom.

“We need you girls to find jobs this summer,” says Dad. “All of you who are old enough to work need to bring home a steady paycheck.”

“Otherwise,” says Mom, “we may not be able to afford groceries.”

Hannah gasps when she hears that. She likes to eat. Then again, so do I.

“We’re also going to need some help in the babysitting department,” says Dad, looking to Emma. She’s six. No way is anybody hiring her this summer. At least, not legally. New Jersey has child labor laws. You have to be twelve to get your working papers.

“You girls will need to take turns looking after your youngest sister,” says Mom. “And walking Sandfleas.”

Sandfleas is our dog. She’s a girl, too.

“What about me?” asks Riley.

“You’re eleven,” says Dad. “You’ll have to look after yourself and help around the house.”

“And,” says Mom, “if Jacky can’t find a job, she can help you.”

Great.

My lazy, hazy, crazy plans for the summer have just been put on hold. I’ll either be working or I’ll be the chief cook, floor scrubber, toilet swisher, and babysitter at home.

So much for fun in the sun.