Alex, Approximately
Page 11

“You’ve both got that sweet Hotbox sheen. Looks better on the two of you than the last pair. By the way, one of them is . . .” He swipes his thumb across his throat, indicating that the kid quit, and not that he actually offed himself. I hope.
“Another one?” Grace murmurs.
He leans back against the door, one foot propped up, scrolling through his phone. The propped-up foot puts his knee in my space, mere centimeters from mine. It’s like he’s purposely trying to crowd me. “This job weeds out the weak, Gracie. They should flash their photos over the teepees in the fake starry sky in Jay’s Wing.”
“What time is it?”
He consults a fat red watch on his wrist with a funny digital screen and tells us the time. When I stare too long, he catches me looking and explains, “Surf watch. Swell direction, wave height, water temperature. Completely waterproof, unlike this stupid phone, which I’ve had to replace twice already this year.”
I was actually staring at his Frankenstein scars, thinking about how Grace had started to tell me something tragic about his family yesterday on the boardwalk, but I’m relieved he thought I was looking at the watch.
“How did you get to be security guard, anyway?” I ask, cracking open my bottled water.
He spares a moment’s glance from the screen and winks at me. Actually winks. Who does that? “Eighteen opens up all sorts of doors. You can vote, legally engage in any and all imaginative sexual activities with the consenting person of your choice, and—best of all—you can work full-time as a security guard at the Cavern Palace.”
“Only one of those things I want to do and don’t need any law to give me permission,” Grace says sweetly from the other side of the booth.
I don’t look at him. If he’s trying to make me uncomfortable with all of that “imaginative sexual activities” talk, he can give himself a pat on the back, because it’s working. But he’s not going to see me sweat. Except for the fact that I’ve been sweating for the last two hours in the Hotbox.
“Taran’s gone overseas for one week and you’re already turning to me to satisfy your womanly needs?” he says.
“You wish,” she retorts.
“Every day. What about you, Rydell?”
“No thanks,” I say.
He puffs out a breath, acting wounded. “You leave a boyfriend wailing for you back east?”
I grunt noncommittally. Grace’s stool creaks. I can feel both of them looking in my direction, and when I don’t reply, Porter says, “I know what will fix this. Quiz time.”
Grace groans. “Oh, no.”
“O-oh, yes.”
I risk a glance at his face, and he’s grinning to himself, scrolling madly on his phone. “A quiz is the best way to get to know yourself and others,” he says, like he’s reading a copy from a magazine.
“He’s obsessed with stupid quizzes,” Grace explains. “He inflicts them on everyone at school. Cosmo quizzes are the worst.”
“I think you mean the best,” he corrects. “Here’s a good one. ‘Why Don’t You Have a Boyfriend, Girlfriend? Take this quiz to find out why a super girl like you is still sitting home alone on Saturday night instead of pairing up with the boy of your dreams.’”
“Nope,” Grace says.
“I’ll just take this back, then,” Porter says, attempting to snatch the water from Grace’s hand. They wrestle for a second, laughing, and when she shrieks, spilling cold water on her orange Cave vest, I almost get Porter’s elbow in my face. He holds the water over her head, out of reach.
“All right, you win,” Grace says. “Do your damn quiz, already. Better than just sitting here, I suppose.”
Porter hands her water back, settles against the door, and reads from the quiz. “‘Your older sister takes you to a campus party while you’re visiting her at college. Do you: (A) dance with her and her friends; (B) skinny-dip in the backyard pool; (C) grab a hottie and go make out in an empty bedroom upstairs; (D) sit alone on the couch, people-watching?’”
I don’t bother answering. A young couple comes to my window, so I flip on the mics long enough to greet them and sell two tickets. When I’m done, Grace has chosen answer A.
“What about you, Rydell?” Porter asks. “I’m thinking you’re answer B—secret exhibitionist. If you don’t quit today, who knows. I might just look up on the monitors tomorrow and find you stripping by the Cleopatra Pool in Vivian’s Wing.”
I snort. “Is that what you’ve been imagining back in the security booth?”
“All afternoon.”
“You’re an ass.”
He holds my gaze. “Scratch that. I think you’re actually answer C. You’d grab a ‘hottie’”—he makes one-handed air quotes—“and go make out in an empty bedroom. Am I right?”
I don’t answer.
He’s not dissuaded. “Next question.” He swipes the screen of his phone, but he’s not looking at it; he’s staring at me. Trying to intimidate me. Trying to see who’ll blink first. “Did you leave DC because (A) you couldn’t find any hotties to make out with? Or (B) your East Coast boyfriend is an ankle buster and you’d heard about legendary West Coast D, so you had to find out for yourself if the rumors were true?” he says with a smirk.
“Idiot,” Grace mumbles, shaking her head.
I may not understand some of his phrasing, but I get the gist. I feel myself blushing. But I manage to recover quickly and get a jab in. “Why are you so interested in my love life?”
“I’m not. Why are you evading the question? You do that a lot, by the way.”
“Do what?”
“Evade questions.”
“What business is that of yours?” I say, secretly irritated that he’s figured me out. And who is he anyway, my therapist? Well, I’ve got news for him, I’ve been to two of the best therapists money can buy in New Jersey, once with my mom and once on my own, and neither one of those so-called experts was able to keep me in the chair for longer than two sessions. They said I bottled up my feelings, and I was uncommunicative, and that evasion was a “maladaptive coping mechanism” to avoid dealing with a stressor, and that it was an unhealthy way to avoid panic attacks.
Says the man who wanted to charge my parents more than a college education for his expert advice. I’m coping just fine, thankyouverymuch. If people like this will just leave me alone . . .
Porter scoffs. “Seeing how this is your first day on the job, and may very well be your last, considering the turnover rate for this position? And seeing how I have seniority over you? I’d say, yeah, it’s pretty much my business.”
“Are you threatening me?” I ask.
He clicks off his phone and raises a brow. “Huh?”
“That sounded like a threat,” I say.
“Whoa, you need to chill. That was not . . .” He can’t even say it. He’s flustered now, tucking his hair behind his ear. “Grace . . .”
Grace holds up a hand. “Leave me out of this mess. I have no idea what I’m even witnessing here. Both of you have lost the plot.”
He makes a soft growling noise and turns back to me. “Look, I was just giving you a hard time—lighten up. But the fact is, I’ve been working here forever. You’ve been working here a few hours.”