Sugar Summer Read online

  Sugar Summer

  Hannah Moskowitz

  Copyright © 2020 Hannah Moskowitz

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by: Hannah Moskowitz

  For Parker, and anyone who needs it this year.

  Also by Hannah moskowitz:

  BREAK

  INVINCIBLE SUMMER

  GONE, GONE, GONE (STONEWALL HONOR BOOK)

  ZOMBIE TAG

  MARCO IMPOSSIBLE

  TEETH

  NOT OTHERWISE SPECIFIED

  A HISTORY OF GLITTER AND BLOOD

  3

  WILD

  GENA/FINN (WITH KAT HELGESON)

  SICK KIDS IN LOVE (SYDNEY TAYLOR HONOR BOOK)

  Chapter 1

  “See?” My mother points to a dust-glazed sign creeping up next to the car. “I told you I knew where we were going.”

  “How can you even read that?” Bekah gripes from the backseat. She has a magazine in one hand, her phone in the other, and her feet up on the back of my seat. She's been texting non-stop through the whole drive, soaking up the precious last minutes of cell service we'll have for the next three weeks.

  “You girls are going to love this place,” Mom says. “You know when I was your age I would have killed for a summer at a resort, but it was always work work work.”

  “I hear resort, I think beach,” Bekah says. “I think spa. I do not think croquet in the West Virginia woods.”

  “I don't think you play the croquet in the woods,” I say.

  “Cabana boys,” Bekah says. “I think cabana boys.”

  “You have a boyfriend,” Mom says. “What do you need a cabana boy for?”

  “A boyfriend I can't talk to for three weeks,” Bekah says. “Don't remind me.” Like she's not texting him as we speak. “And maybe the cabana boy was for Sugar,” she says. “Maybe I was being a good sister.”

  “That'd be a first,” I say, and Mom smiles and shoots me the look she always does when she's smiling and she shouldn't be. I rest my head on her shoulder.

  We've been driving for half the day, just the three of us, the Hamilton cast recording, and the smell of Bekah's bubblegum in our blue-and-dirt Camaro to get to Hampshire County, West Virginia, and Sideling Springs resort. The owner, Sol Zucker, is a longtime patient of my mother's, and after she took out his gallbladder this spring I guess he finally had enough time in recovery to nag her into coming for a stay. He's there himself to greet us as we pull up behind a line of cars unloading suitcases and pulling into unpaved parking spaces.

  Mom gets out to hug him and ask how he's getting along gallbladderlessly, and Bekah and I un-scrunch and climb out and stretch our legs. The air's thinner up in here in the mountains, and all the scenery around us rolls up and down like it hasn't quite been unfolded. Little cabins and the big clubhouse are perched on top of hills, with lawns stacked with gazebos and shuffleboard courts in-between.

  “Son of a bitch,” Bekah says. “People are actually playing croquet.”

  Mom says, “Sol, you remember my daughters, Sugar and Bekah.”

  Bekah holds her phone above her head. “And there's no service,” she says. “It's true.”

  “They look just like you,” Sol says, which is a little ridiculous since Bekah and I look nothing alike—she's all legs and boobs and I'm all hair and...facial features—but nice anyway. Mom is what I'm going to look like when I grow up if everything goes as well as it possibly can. She has gorgeous curls and perfect skin and is just generally beautiful in a way you don't forget is Jewish. That's the dream.

  Sol snaps somewhere to his left and a boy appears wearing a Sideling Springs t-shirt. “This is Oscar,” Sol says. “He does a lot of our landscaping. Oscar, help the Applebaums with their bags, got it?”

  “Yes sir,” he says, and my mother hands him the keys to go around to the trunk. I help him haul some suitcases out of the trunk and he smiles at me, and I smile back.

  “You know my grandson's working here for the summer,” Sol says, “Before he goes off to college.”

  “Sugar's starting at Brown in the fall,” Mom says.

  “Josh is doing Harvard,” Sol says. “Wants to do business! He's gonna run this place out from under me.”

  “Sugar wants to be a lawyer,” Mom says. “And she's going to do a minor in playwriting. She has such a creative mind.”

  Bekah says, “Sugar, please tell me the cabins here have air conditioning.”

  I shrug, but Oscar says, “Sorry.”

  “I'm going to die here,” Bekah says.

  “We got you and your girls two of our best rooms,” Sol says. “Close to the clubhouse! No need to schlep yourself all the way across the grounds for breakfast. Oscar, can you give 'em the tour? I need to check on the menu for tonight.”

  “Sure,” Oscar says, and he hauls one of Bekah's bags over his shoulder. “You guys can follow me.”

  “You girls go ahead,” Mom says. “I've got to get the car parked.”

  We set out, Oscar with four bags, me with two, and Bekah with...her purse. Our cabin might be close to the clubhouse, but it is definitely nowhere near the parking lot. We haul our bags up a cobbled path, then down a cobbled path, then up again, past families setting out on hikes, kids scrambling on a playground, and one-pieced seniors stretched out by a shallow pool. “You can see the lake over that way,” Oscar says. “That's where the good swimming is. Most of what's at the pool is...you know. Water aerobics.”

  “Do you like working here?” Bekah says. She's never met a boy she won't flirt with, even when it's eighty-five degrees and she's in heels. And has a boyfriend.

  “Sure,” Oscar says. “Money's good. This is my first summer here. My cousin got me the job. He's been here for a while.”

  “It must be nice to work with your family,” I say, though I'm not really sure why.

  “We don't really get to work together much,” he says. He leads us up yet another hill. If I weren't in good shape from swim team I'd probably be a mess right now. I don't know how he's doing it with twice the bags I am. “He's entertainment, I'm groundskeeping. We see each other on breaks but that's about it.” He nods as a guy walks by us wearing a suit that looks way too hot for the weather. “Waitstaff,” he says.

  “Sorry?” I say.

  “Those are the three branches. Entertainment, groundskeeping, waitstaff. Grounds and entertainment wear the t-shirts,” he says, tugging at his. “They wear that.” He laughs a little. “They don't hang out with us at night.”

  “Where do they hang out?” Bekah says, walking backwards to keep looking at the waiter.

  “With girls like you,” Oscar says.

  “Hmm,” Bekah says.

  “They're the college boys,” Oscar says. “Half their job description is romancing the daughters.” He glances at me. “Half of ours is staying away.”

  I look down and adjust my bag to wrap some hair around my finger.

  “So, Sugar, huh?” he says. “That's an interesting name.”

  “I'm Bekah,” my sister says. “But it's not spelled how you think it is.”

  “Then that's an interesting name too,” he says.

  “So tell us,” she says. “What's fun to do around here?”

  “Well, they try to make sure you never get bored,” he says. “There's all kinds of lessons, and games and stuff. There are always guest performers, like magicians and eve
rything. Staff from other places come and put on shows.”

  “I hear the food's good,” I say.

  “The food is very good,” he says. “Something with the water around here. This is your cabin.” He leads us up a set of steps made out of wood planks and packed dirt and onto a wooden walkway around the building. “You get this whole side of the building.”

  From the outside it looks pretty slipshod—bug screens over the windows, loose locks on the doors—but the inside is surprisingly nice. Our room has two double beds and Mom's has a queen, and we share a little kitchenette and a bathroom.

  “I guess this isn't so bad,” Bekah says.

  Oscar drops our bags by the door and sticks his hands in his pockets. He looks awkward, like he doesn't belong indoors. “Honestly?” he says. “It's sort of nice to be off the grid for a little while. Just away from everything. Everything's kind of its own little world here. You'll get used to it. It's no one's idea of a great time, but it works for pretty much everyone as an okay time.”

  “That should be your new motto,” I say.

  He chuckles. “I'll bring it up to Sol.”

  “Thanks for your help,” I say. I reach into my pockets, but they're empty, so I give Bekah and her purse a look she clearly doesn't get.

  Oscar laughs and waves me off. “It's fine. Part of the job.”

  “Helping people haul their bags is part of landscaping?”

  “It's part of landscaping and entertainment,” he says. “You'll get used to it. I'll see you around,” he says, and he gives our wall a little tap before he goes. Our door rattles around in the frame for a while.

  “You're welcome,” Bekah says.

  “What?”

  “He was totally hitting on you before I intervened,” she says.

  “Mmhmm, thanks for your help.”

  “Anytime,” Bekah says. Sarcasm is not her forte. She sighs and collapses on the bed furthest from the door. “So what are we supposed to do? There's not even a TV.”

  “Read, I guess,” I say.

  She sighs again and digs her magazine out of her purse.

  “I'm gonna go look around,” I say.

  “Okay. Bring me back food.”

  “Um...okay. No, wait, look.” I pick up a laminated piece of paper lying on a piece of furniture that really could stand to hold a TV, if I'm being honest. “Dinner's at seven. They'll ring a bell.”

  “A bell? Fuck me.”

  I laugh. “And look, they reassure us that everything's kosher. As if there was any doubt of how Jewish this place is.”

  Bekah stretches. “I don't think Oscar was Jewish.”

  “I didn't come here for a goyishe boyfriend,” I say.

  “Try that waiter, then! He looked Jewish.”

  “Goodbye, Bekah.”

  “I wonder if the clubhouse has internet,” she says.

  I take myself on a tour of the basketball courts, art studios, and peddle boat docks before I loop back around to the clubhouse to see if there's internet like the amazing sister I am. Turns out there's a media room with a couple of bookshelves and a few computers with dial-up internet, which I honestly didn't know still existed, all surrounded by frazzled-looking businesspeople. It'll work to send my friends an email or two while I'm here, but I don't think it's going to be the home away from home of Bekah's dreams.

  The clubhouse might be the only structure built into the ground on the entire property, and it's about four times the size as any of the cabins I passed. After I check out the media room I circle it and peek into all the windows. There's a black box auditorium, a ballroom, and a dining room, where they're setting up for dinner and Sol's lecturing the waiters. They're dressed up in bow ties like the one we passed earlier. All tall, dark, and handsome, all about twenty. Just about all boys.

  “Swans, all right?” Sol is saying. He's waving a napkin around. “Nice, symmetrical swans. People don't pay an arm and a leg here for sloppy napkins. No one's getting all dressed up to sit in a shack for sloppy napkins.”

  “Ooh, what aaaare they getting dressed for?” a voice says, and then there's loud laughter as a bunch of people walk through the dining room. They're all wearing either the athletic gear or the Sideling Springs t-shirts.

  “Do you have to cut through the damn dining room?” Sol says. “You're tracking in mud. Where's Mara?”

  “I'm right here.”

  “Everything better be ready this time.”

  “Relax,” she says. “I've got it taken care of.” She's small, with light brown skin and curly hair that waterfalls from a high ponytail all the way down to her waist.

  “Where the hell is Tristan?” Sol says.

  “He's working out the music,” she says. “He'll be here. Scout's honor."

  Something crashes in the kitchen and Sol curses and scurries back there. The entertainment crew keeps walking through the dining room, and one of the waiters snickers as Mara walks by.

  She turns around. She's almost looking right at me. “Can I help you?” she says. To him. Not to me.

  “Tris sure has been missing a lot of days, huh?”

  “Mind your own business.”

  “Honey, pretty soon this is all gonna be my business.”

  Without taking her eyes off him, she snatches up his perfectly-swanned napkin and shakes it out. She clucks her tongue. “I think that's supposed to be a swan,” she says. “Didn't Daddy say?”

  He snatches it back. “Go change your clothes, Mara.” She laughs and leaves with the rest of them, headed towards the ballroom, probably.

  The bell rings—the first one, letting us know there's half an hour until dinner. The waiters startle and start folding napkins and pouring water and arranging silverware with a little more urgency.

  “Sugar?”

  I jump. It's my mom, standing on the steps of the clubhouse.

  “What are you doing?” she says.

  I'm embarassed, but I don't know why. “Just seeing if I can get a look at what's for dinner,” I say.

  She smiles. “Well, come get changed. You can't go looking like that.”

  “Uh-huh. I'm coming.”

  It's starting to cool down, so I put on a maxi dress and wedges and a cardigan and swipe on some lipstick. Bekah goes all out with false eyelashes which seems like a little much to both me and my mom, who gives me one of those looks like she did in the car.

  Dinner is steak and scalloped potatoes and Brussels sprouts and chocolate mousse and pretty much as incredible as was promised. It's family-style, so they set these huge portions on the table for just the three of us, and we barely make a dent, and all three of us can eat. We look a little out of place at our small table; most people look like they bought five generations of their family along with them.

  “We should have brought grandma,” I say.

  Mom waves her no-longer-swanned napkin. “She'd complain about the bugs.”

  “Bugs??” Bekah says.

  “Here are the Applebaums!” Sol announces as he comes up to our table, like we've been in hiding. “How was your meal, everything turn out okay?”

  “Incredible,” my mom says, “But I think we'll be fine with half-portions from here on out.”

  “Can't have you feeling deprived,” he says. “And you could stand to eat a little more!” My mother does the oh stop it hand and yes, Sol, please do. “I wanted to take a minute to introduce you to my grandson I was telling you about,” he says. He snaps his fingers to the side and the waiter I saw sparring with Mara appears next to him. “This is Josh, my Harvard boy!”

  “It's very nice to meet all of you,” he says, beaming down at us. “Dr. Applebaum, thank you so much for taking such good care of my grandfather.”

  There's that oh stop hand again.

  “And these are her lovely daughters,” Sol says. “Sugar and Becky.”

  “Bekah,” we all three say together, and Max puts his palm against his chest. “Bekah.”

  My mom makes this big show of beckoning Josh close. “Y
'know Bekah already has a boyfriend,” she says, in that kind of whisper that's meant for everyone to hear. “But Sugar...”

  “Mom,” I say.

  Josh laughs and touches my shoulder. “Don't worry, I promise not to get on one knee. How about all three of you come with me to the ice cream social in the ballroom? The dance staff is going to perform and get the crowd moving.”

  “Well that sounds fun,” Mom says. “Unfortunately it's already getting past my bedtime.”

  “I need to go to the media room,” Bekah says. “See if Shia's doing okay.” So much for protecting me from guys hitting on me.

  “So I guess that just leaves Sugar,” Josh says. He smiles at me.

  “Guess so,” I say.

  He laughs again. He does have a really nice laugh. “Come on,” he says. “I'm a good dancer, I promise.”

  It's hard to tell if he's telling the truth, because in the ballroom they're playing the kind of inoffensive Sinatra-knock-off stuff that offends and excites nobody. It's that weird half-uptempo sort of thing that's impossible to dance to. Is it a slow dance? I guess I don't know hot to not-slow dance in front of people who aren't my age. I'm not exactly about to grind on this stranger in a room full of people old enough to be my grandparents. What else am I supposed to do, waltz? I don't know how to waltz.

  Josh puts one hand on my waist and holds the other one in his and we kind of sway back and forth. “Stop looking at your feet,” he tells me. “You're doing great.” I lift my head up and he smiles at me. He is pretty handsome. I'm only here for three weeks. Maybe I just roll with it. It's not like guys are throwing themselves on me back home.

  “You know who's getting here tomorrow?” he says, raising his voice over the music.

  I shake my head.

  “Rory Richards,” he says, drawing it out a little bit.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, when she gets breaks from filming or between albums or whatever she's doing, this is one of her favorite places to relax. Discreet, secluded...everything a girl like her never gets.”