I plunk down some cash and take my booty to a shady bench. It is everything I hoped for and more. Where have you been all my life? It makes me feel better about my failed morning. As I’m licking the cinnamon sugar from my fingertips, I spy a fat orange tabby cat sunning on the sidewalk near the bench.

No. Could it be?

I glance across the promenade. Looks to be a vintage clothing store, a surf shop—Penny Boards, which may or may not be named after Porter’s stupid grandfather—a medical marijuana dispensary, and a café of some sort. The cat stretches. I pull down my shades. Our eyes meet. Am I looking at Alex’s stray cat?

“Here, kitty,” I call sweetly. “Sam-I-Am? That wouldn’t be your name, would it? Sweet boy?”

His listless gaze doesn’t register my voice. For a moment, I wonder if he just died, then he rolls to one side, turning a cool shoulder to me with snotty feline aplomb.

“Was that your lunch?” a tiny English voice says.

My pulse jumps. I jerk my head up to find a friendly, familiar face staring down at me. Grace from work. She’s dressed in shorts and a white spaghetti-strap top that says nope in sparkly gold rhinestones.

“It was the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten in my life,” I tell her. When she squints at me, I explain, “I’m from New Jersey. We only have boring old funnel cakes at the beach.”

“I thought you were from DC.”

I wave a hand, dismissive. “It’s a long story. I only lived in DC for a few months. That’s where my mom and her husband are. My dad went to college in California, at Cal Poly, and moved back west a year ago. A couple of months ago, I decided to move out here with him, and, well . . . here I am.”

“My dad’s a lab technician. He’s from Nigeria,” she says. “I’ve never been, but he left Nigeria and met my mum in London. We moved here when I was ten . . . so seven years ago? To tell you the truth, except for flying back and forth to England for Christmas, I’ve only ever been out of the state once, and that was just to Nevada.”

“Eh. You aren’t missing much,” I joke.

She studies me for a moment, adjusting her purse higher on her shoulder. “You know, you don’t really have a New Jersey accent, but you do sort of sound like you’re from the East Coast.”

“Well, you don’t have a California accent, but you do sort of sound like a British Tinker Bell.”

She snorts a little laugh.

I smile. “Anyway, this was my first churro, but it won’t be my last. I’m planning to quit the museum and become a churro cart owner. So if you don’t see me at ticketing tomorrow, give Mr. Cavadini my regards.”

“No way,” she squeaks, looking genuinely panicked. “Don’t leave me in ticketing alone. Promise me you’ll show up. Porter said three people already quit. We’re the only people scheduled tomorrow afternoon.”

Suddenly, my churro isn’t sitting so well inside my stomach. “You and Porter sure are buddy-buddy.” I don’t mean to sound so grumbly about this, but I can’t help it.

She shrugs. “We’ve been mates for years. He’s not so bad. He’ll tease you relentlessly until you push back. He’s just testing your limits. Besides, he’s been through a lot, so I guess I give him some slack.”

“Like what? His world-famous grandfather won too many surfing trophies? It sure must be a drag, seeing statues of your family members around town.”

Grace stares at me for a moment. “You don’t know about what happened?”

I stare back. Obviously, I don’t. “What?”

“You don’t know about their family?” She’s incredulous.

Now I’m feeling pretty stupid for not bothering to look up Porter’s family on the Internet when I got home last night. Truth is, I was so mad at him, I didn’t care. Still don’t, really. “Kinda not into sports,” I say apologetically, but honestly, I’m not even sure if surfing is considered a sport or a hobby or an art. People get on boards and ride waves, but is it an Olympic thing, or what? I’m clueless.

“His father was a pro surfer too,” she tells me, sounding like she truly cannot believe I don’t know this already. “The grandfather died, and then his father . . . It was all pretty horrible. You haven’t noticed Porter’s scars?”

I start to tell her that I did but was too busy being humiliated in front of my coworkers, but Grace is now distracted. Someone’s calling her from a store down the promenade.

“Gotta go,” she interrupts in her tiny voice. “Just please be there tomorrow.”

“I will,” I promise. Don’t really have any other choice.

“By the way,” she says, turning around and pointing at the orange tabby with a sly smile on her face. “That cat isn’t answering you because he is a she.”

My heart sinks. Wrong cat.

Well, it’s only the beginning of summer, and I’m a patient girl. If I have to eat my way through every churro cart on the boardwalk, come hell or sunstroke, I will find Alex before North by Northwest.

LUMIÈRE FILM FANATICS COMMUNITY PRIVATE MESSAGES>ALEX>NEW!

@mink: Guess what I got in the mail today? A brand-new copy of The Philadelphia Story.

@alex: Nice! Love that movie. We should watch that together sometime if I can find a copy.

@mink: Definitely. It’s one of my favorite Cary Grant/Katharine Hepburn films!

@alex: Well, in other good news, since I know you LOVE gangster movies so much [insert sarcasm here], I just sent you a ton of Godfather screens with Alex-ified captions, changing things up for you.

@mink: I’m looking at them right now. You think you’re pretty funny, don’t you?

@alex: Only if you do.

@mink: You made orange juice go up my nose.

@alex: That’s all I ever wanted, Mink.

@mink: Your dreams may be closer to reality than you can possibly imagine. . . .

“You won’t find anything cheap around here!”

—Lana Turner, The Postman Always Rings Twice (1946)

5

My first real shift at the Cave begins the next day at noon, and when I see the jammed parking lot, I nearly turn the Vespa around and head back to Dad’s house. But Grace spots me before I can. She’s waiting at the employee door, waving her arms, and now there’s nothing I can do but march off to my doom. We clock in, stow our stuff in our assigned lockers, and don our orange vests.

Shit just got real.

Mr. Cavadini and his pointy blond vampire hairline greet us in the break room, clipboard in hand. “You are . . . ?”

“Bailey Rydell,” I supply. It’s been one day; he’s already forgotten.

“Grace Achebe.”

“What’s that?” he says, leaning closer to hear her.

The irritation in her eyes is supreme. “ACH-E-BE,” she spells out.

“Yes, yes,” he mumbles, like he knew it all along. He hands us plastic name tags. The sticker printed with my first name is stuck on crooked. It feels like a bad omen. “All right, ladies. Your supervisor on duty is Carol. She’s tied up with a problem in the café right now. The morning shift at ticketing is ending in three minutes, so we need to hurry. Are you ready to get out there and make some magic happen?”

Grace and I both stare at him.

“Terrific,” he says with no feeling, and then urges us out the door and into the employee corridor. “First thing you usually do is go to security”—he points down the hall toward the opposite direction—“to count out a fresh cash drawer, like we showed you in training. But today there’s no time. You’ll just have to trust that the supervisor on duty didn’t steal anything or foul up the drawer count, because it comes out of your paycheck if they did. . . .”