The Wonder Bread Summer by Jessica Anya Blau Page A

deciding on what to say to Beth when she finally did call, or what to tell her father (or even how she would get the food scale out of the kitchen to weigh the coke!), Allie thought about making out with Mike.
    In high school, Allie had barely noticed boys. Kathy Kruger even asked her once if she was a lesbian. But then Marc came along and Allie discovered what it was like to have overwhelming feelings for someone. After Marc left, it was like she was ill, infected with a virus that gave her instantaneous unabashed desire that ran concurrent with her heartache. It was beyond reason, Allie knew, a hormonal-physiological impulse she couldn’t will away. Every moment with another body (and she only ever went as far as kissing) seemed to rub out Allie’s mental image of Marc, like a pencil drawing that was being slowly erased. And Mike, with his toolbox, surfer’s tan, Sex Wax T-shirt, and swooping blond hair, would be an ideal eraser as long as he didn’t get any meaner, any snappier, any more illiterate than he already was.
    Once they turned onto Fairfax Avenue, Mike pulled over and motioned for Allie to pass him. Allie followed the familiar stores and restaurants until she got to the parking lot for Hamburger Hostel, Frank’s place. It was empty. Allie looked at the clock on the dashboard. Eight forty. Was business even worse than Frank had intimated? The restaurant was usually packed by now—the old people would have eaten and gone and the first wave of teenagers, twenty-, and thirtysomethings would be filling the booths.
    Allie pulled up the emergency break and got out of the Prelude. She clicked the lock button, loving the feeling she got from doing so. It made her feel rich. Fancy.
    “Looks closed.” Mike stepped out of the truck. Allie was startled again by how good-looking he was. Like one of those guys in a surf movie: belly as flat and hard as a surfboard, hair as bright as the sun, arms made of dense rope.
    “Yeah, it’s weird.” Allie wandered toward the front door. The glass was tinted, so you couldn’t see in. Allie hated that—it reminded her of drug dealers with their tinted car windows. She blushed at the thought that, in a way, she was a drug dealer now.
    Mike tugged at the brass handle of the front door. It was locked. “You sure this is your dad’s place?”
    Allie felt a gurgly panic. Hamburger Hostel was her only stable point of reference. It was always there. Always open. Who was her father if not the man hovering over the employees at Hamburger Hostel? Was this why he had been totally unwilling to help her out financially? Did Frank need every penny he had in order to try to keep the restaurant open? Allie didn’t want to look at the locked door. It made her queasy, like viewing a dead body.
    “Your dad didn’t tell you the place went out of business?” Mike said. His eyes were narrowed, but he didn’t look suspicious. If anything, he looked bored.
    “No. This is a complete surprise,” Allie said, and she pulled the door again as if it would suddenly open.
    “Well, why don’t you just measure out the coke with your hands like you did last time?” Mike asked.
    “Let’s go to a pay phone. I’ll call my dad.” Allie wouldn’t let the transaction happen without a scale. She couldn’t afford to give away more coke than the value of what she was owed. Besides, she needed to make sure her father was okay, still walking, still with a beating heart. The only way Frank’s restaurant wouldn’t be open would be if he were physically unable to get there or in complete financial ruin.
    “Where’s your mom?” Mike asked. “Didn’t she tell you about the restaurant?”
    “My mom’s on the road with Mighty Zamboni. She’s the tambourine girl.” Allie started walking back toward the cars.
    Mike laughed, following her. “No way.”
    “Way,” Allie said. “She and Jet Blaster are a couple.”
    “I thought everyone from Mighty Zamboni was dead by now. Are you like a pathological