CHAPTER 8

 

I spend most of the day puzzling over this strange new Bob. Not that I talk to anybody about it. That would be even weirder.

I do think about discussing it with my mom. She might remember what it was like when she was my age. But these days she’s so busy with cop school and being a mom to seven kids that it’s hard to find alone time with her.

After school, I find Riley so we can ride our bikes home together. Bike rides are always good for clearing your head.

Actually, Riley rides a bike, I ride La Bicicletta.

I used to call my bike Le Bike, because it made me feel, how you say, French. But, as zee summer approaches, I am feeling more Italian. You know—sunny and Mediterranean with a killer tan. I picture myself wearing big bug-eye sunglasses with white frames, my hair tucked under a scarf, my skirt billowing in the breeze, designer shopping bags draped over my handlebars, as I guzzle olive oil from a jug with a wicker basket bottom. And I do not need to pedal La Bicicletta because, in my mind, it is actually Il Vespa, a motor scooter.

Riding La Bicicletta (even an imaginary one) is way more fun than riding a boring old bike, which is what Riley and I are doing. It’s one of the many advantages of a vivid imagination. Use your imagination, and anything can become interesting. Like doing dishes… just pretend your hands are scuba diving in the sudsy ocean and bringing up buried treasure instead of scraping fish bones off a plate.

We take a shortcut along the Seaside Heights boardwalk, which is starting to show signs of life as it gears up for the summer season. There are all sorts of food stands, serving everything from pizza to swirl cones to Italian sausage sandwiches smothered in peppers and onions. If you love having heartburn or acid indigestion, this is the place to eat.

There are also thrill rides and games of chance where you can waste a ton of money trying to win a stuffed pink gorilla for your girlfriend (but then you have to lug the gigantic toy around the boardwalk with you for the rest of the day and into the night).

And don’t forget the video arcades and fortune-tellers and clubs where loud music spills out the doors all night long.

It’s a teen paradise.

Too bad I’m not a teen.

I’m just twelve and I need to find a summer job.

Actually, as Riley and I pedal along, past the blinking lights, the sizzling cheesesteaks, and the signs that say NO BICYCLES ALLOWED, I realize that a summer job on the boardwalk may not be horrible.

Sure, I’ll come home smelling like I’ve been dipped in batter and deep-fried with the Mars bars, but working in a food stall isn’t as hard as, I don’t know, coal mining or something. And if I can land a job at the Ringtoss, Frog Bog, or Pop-a-Balloon booth, I might earn a few laughs along with my paycheck.

This is what I’m thinking when, all of a sudden, a pair of police officers step out of the shadows to raise their hands, signaling for Riley and me to freeze right where we are.

Uh-oh.