Free Boys of Summer by Jessica Brody Page A

tourists anymore, but I’m still the same Grayson Cartwright who looks out for his friends. And I’ll be damned if I let Harper ruin another one of Mike’s summers.

CHAPTER 11
    MIKE

    A s soon as I’m away from the pool, I feel the knot in my chest start to unravel. There was something about that party. It was suffocating. Not just because Harper was there. And not just because we had our first kiss in the deep end of that very pool. It was something else.
    It was Grayson.
    He’s always been a pretty wound-up kind of guy. He has his dad to thank for that. But tonight it was different. There was a desperation about him. An uneasiness. It was circling around us like flies around a carcass.
    Or maybe Ian’s situation was just making him uncomfortable. I know it has been making me uncomfortable. The guy has been through so much, but I don’t know how to talk to him about it. I keep hoping he’ll bring it up first so I don’t have to pry, but he never does.
    At first I was kind of bummed that I’d have to work all summer, but now, after tonight, I’m almost feeling relieved.
    The shortest route to the other side of the beach club’s main building is through the kitchen. When I get there, something is burning in the oven.
    I lunge for the controls and turn off the heat. When Iopen the oven door, the smell of burned bread stings my nostrils. I wave away the smoke, grab a pot holder, and remove a tray of charred biscuits from the rack.
    I look around for Mamma V, the beach club’s head chef, and finally find her asleep in a nearby chair. It’s not like her to let things burn. I think about waking her, but she looks so peaceful. So instead I head into the supply closet, grab an oversize chef’s coat, and drape it gently over her like a blanket. I’m not sure why Joey, the owner of the joint, insists on ordering these chef coats from the uniform company when Mamma V refuses to wear them. She says only amateurs wear chef jackets. The real chefs—people like her—don’t need to prove themselves with fancy getups.
    She startles and snorts when the fabric brushes against her skin, but then quickly settles back into her nap.
    Mamma V is like a second mother to me. To Ian, Grayson, and me, really. She’s lived and worked on this island for longer than I can remember. Sometimes when I was a kid and my parents had overlapping shifts at their jobs, they would bring me here so Mamma V could babysit. I would hang out in the kitchen while she cooked. She would stand me up on a chair and let me put vegetables into the food processor or stir cake batter. Then, when I turned thirteen, she got me my first job washing dishes. Legally you’re not allowed to work in this state until you’re sixteen, but no one seemed to care. And definitely no one argued with Mamma V.
    She also has never told anyone her real name. She insists that everyone call her Mamma V, even though she has no children. I always wondered what the V stood for. I asked several times growing up, but she’d always just wink or tweak my nose and then make up some obviously ludicrous answer like, “ ‘Mamma Velociraptor’ if you don’tscrub those pots hard enough.” Or “ ‘Mamma Vengeance’ if you get on my bad side.” Or “ ‘Mamma Very Pleased to Meet You,’ if I like the look of you.”
    I’m almost to the back door when she snorts awake, looking confused and disoriented. Her face softens when she sees me. “Mikey!” she croaks in her usual smoker voice (even though she swears she’s never touched the stuff). She tries to stand, but it’s clearly difficult. I run over to help her up and feel a pang of concern.
    How old is Mamma V?
    I remember her seeming like an old lady even back when I was a kid. But I never recall her having trouble getting around the kitchen.
    â€œWhat happened?” she asks, glancing