The man appears nonplussed, either by Nan’s soft-spoken sarcasm or by the idea of spending so much money. “I really only wanted these,” he says, holding up some napkins that say One martini, two martini, three martini, floor. “Can you put them on my club tab?”

After Nan rings him up and he leaves, she crosses her eyes at me. “My first day on the job and I’m already regretting this. If all the Sanctification of Stony Bay stuff brainwashes me, and I tell you I need to join the Garden Club, you’ll get me deprogrammed, right?”

“I’ll be there for you, sister. Have you seen Tim? He was supposed to get here ten minutes early so I can show him his uniform and all that.”

Nan checks her watch. “He’s not officially late yet. Two more minutes. How did I get the most boring job with the longest hours in town? I only took it because Mrs. Gritzmocker, who does the buying, is married to Mr. Gritzmocker, the bio teacher who I want to write a recommendation for me.”

“This is the price of your ruthless ambition,” I say. “It’s not too late to repent and work for the greater good—like at Breakfast Ahoy.”

Nan grins at me, her hundreds of freckles already darkening with the summer sun. “Yeah, well, I’m saving my Naughty Sailorette costume for Halloween.” She glances out the window behind me. “Besides, it’s gonna take both of us to babysit my brother if he can get himself fired from a hot dog stand.”

“How exactly did he do that?” I ask, opening one of the sample lip glosses on the checkout counter, rubbing it on my finger and smelling it. Ick. Piña colada. I hate coconut.

“Asked people how hot they wanted their wiener,” Nan says absently. “He’s out there now. By the concession stand. Go make sure he’s not a disaster.”

Given our last encounter, I approach warily. Tim’s leaning against my lifeguard chair, wearing dark glasses even though it’s cloudy. Not a good sign. I edge closer to him. He used to be so easygoing, Nan’s opposite. Now he’s a time bomb who might detonate in your hands.

“So,” I say hesitantly. “You okay?”

“Fine.” His voice is abrupt. Either he hasn’t forgiven me for not being his ATM or he’s got a headache. Probably both.

“Seriously? Because this job is, well, serious.”

“Yup, the fate of the world depends on what goes down at the Lagoon pool at the B and T. I get it. I’m your man.” He salutes without looking at me, then squirts sunscreen into his palm to rub on his pale chest.

“Honestly. You can’t mess around here, Tim. There are little kids and—”

His hand on my arm silences me. “Yeah, yeah. Screw the lecture, Princess Buttercup. I know.” Taking off his sunglasses, he jabs them at his heart for emphasis with a phony smile. “I’m hungover but I’m straight. I’ll save the partying for after hours. Now get off my back and do your job.”

“You’re part of my job. I’m supposed to show you where the uniforms are. Hang on.”

I position the Lifeguard Off Duty sign more prominently on my chair, walk through the bushes to the Lagoon pool, and set that one up too. A bunch of moms standing outside the gate with their children and their arms full of floaties look annoyed. “Just five more minutes,” I call, adding in an authoritative tone, “Need to resolve a safety issue.”

Tim’s sweaty and preoccupied as he follows me through the labyrinthine course to the room where uniforms are kept. We pass the bathrooms, with their heavy oak doors, thick iron latches, and signs that say “Salty Dogs” and “Gulls,” then spell it out in nautical flags.

“I’m gonna throw up,” he says.

“Yeah, It’s ludicrous, but—”

He grabs my sleeve. “I mean really. Wait.” He vanishes into the men’s room.

Not good. I move away from the door so I don’t have to hear. After about five minutes, he comes back out.

“What?” he asks belligerently.

“Nothing.”

“Right,” he mutters. We get to the uniform room.

“So, here’s your suit—and stuff,” I shove the towel, hat, jacket, and whistle that come with the job, along with the gold-crest embossed navy blue board shorts, into his hands.

“You gotta be kidding. I can’t wear my own suit?”

“Nope—you need to display the B and T crest,” I say, attempting a straight face.

“Fuck me, Samantha. I can’t wear these. How’m I supposed to pick up hot girls and get laid?”

“You’re supposed to be saving lives, not scamming on girls.”

“Shut up, Samantha.”

Seems as though all our conversations run into the same dead end.

I reach over and scoop up the hat with its jaunty insignia, plopping it on his head.

It’s removed even faster than Tim can say: “That will be an extra helping of hell no with the hat. Do you wear one of those?”

“No—for some reason, only the male lifeguards get that. I get the little jacket with the crest.”

“Well, not this guy. I’d just as soon go in drag.”

I can’t worry about Tim. It’s pointless. Besides, this isn’t a job that allows for downtime. At the far end of the Olympic pool, a group of elderly women are taking a water aerobics class. Despite the rope blocking off that section, kids keep cannonballing into the class, splashing the ladies and upsetting their fragile balance. There’s always a baby who doesn’t have a swim diaper, despite the many signs saying this is a must, and I have to talk to the mother, who usually gets antagonistic—“Peyton was toilet trained at eleven months. She doesn’t need a diaper!”

At two o’clock, the pool’s nearly empty and I can relax a little. The moms have taken little kids home for naps. No one here but tanners and loungers. I’m overheated and sticky from sitting so long in the high plastic chair. Clambering down, I blow my whistle and hoist the Lifeguard Off Duty sign, thinking I’ll get a soda at the snack bar to cool off.

“I’m taking a break. Can I get you something to drink?” I call over to Tim.

“Only if it’s eighty proof,” he calls back through the bushes and granite stones that separate the Olympic pool from the Lagoon one.

The back door buzzer sounds behind me. Weird. All B&T guests have to sign in at the gatehouse. Back door is for deliveries, and Nan didn’t say anything about more Stony Bay paraphernalia coming.