Imaginary Enemy by Julie Gonzalez Read Free Book Online Page B

girlfriend?” I asked.
    “Yeah. She’s perfect,” Dad said dreamily. “Course, I can’t afford her right now, but one day—”
    That’s when I hauled off and punched him as hard as I could right in the stomach and fell to the pier sobbing loudly.
    It amazes me how clueless parents can be at times. Mine were shocked to discover what I’d been imagining as we drove from our house to Ferrier’s Point Marina. Shocked to find I’d believed there was some glamorous lady lurking in the shadows of our family dynamics.
    When things settled down, Dad led us to a picnic table at the foot of the pier. “The real reason I brought you here was to share some news with you. Uncle Grayson and I have leased Ferrier’s Point Marina, and I’m going to manage it.”
    I looked around. The grounds were somewhat overgrown, and many of the piers showed signs of neglect. Paint peeled from the sides of the three buildings on the property, and weeds poked their heads and arms through the oyster-shell parking lot. Scraps of paper, old beer cans, and fast-food wrappers were trapped in the saw grass and reeds lining the banks. All that aside, the place had potential. It was certainly a lot more appealing than the insurance company offices in the big glass building downtown.
    Incidentally, Dad doesn’t call his transformation a Meltdown. That’s just my name for it. He doesn’t call it a midlife crisis, either, like Mom’s sister does. He calls it his mid-death crisis. Said he was dying more and more every day until he threw away his insurance company clothes and resuscitated himself. He claims he’ll never again own a piece of clothing that requires dry-cleaning or ironing.

Schooled
    Z ander, Carmella, and I spent nearly every day that summer at the marina. When Luke wasn’t at his mother’s (he spent alternate weekends with her), he was usually there as well, but he was just as likely to spend the day organizing a corner of the workshop, replacing broken decking, or painting as he was to hang out with us. Occasionally boat owners hired him to detail their boats, and he always called us over to admire his work when a job was completed.
    The place was vast, with a large area for parking boat trailers, a store/office, a workshop, and a windowless building crammed with miscellaneous junk—some nautical, some as out of place as a battered ’67 Chevy Malibu, a crib, a rotted-out upright piano, and a dented airplane propeller. Playing in that overstuffed building was the treasure hunt of the century for us, and we were heartbroken the day Dad and Uncle Grayson decided to clear it out to turn it into a bait shed.
    The main building was two stories, with office space upstairs and a general store on the bottom floor. The inventory was minimal, mostly whatever some desperate boater might have forgotten to pack—bread, peanut butter, Vienna sausage, and the like. Cigarettes, sunscreen, sunglasses, batteries, and similar high-priority items were shelved beside the cash register. Peg-Boards on the back wall held fishing tackle, life jackets, and basic emergency repair supplies. A pyramid of propane tanks, popular with the live-aboards, was stacked next to the beer cooler. Then there was the section that Uncle Grayson sarcastically called “The Boutique,” where T-shirts, flip-flops, beach towels, and hats were on display. A couple of ancient pinball machines were jammed into the corner, and Dad and Uncle Grayson hung a dartboard on the wall. On rainy or slow days, they’d have lengthy dart tournaments. A chart tacked to the wall recorded their wins and losses.
    The back room was a kitchen outfitted for only the most basic meals. It held a fryer, a stove, a fridge, and counters topped with open shelves. Uncle Grayson had dreams of upgrading the facility enough to one day open a restaurant on the property, but that was a long-term goal. For the time being, the kitchen was only used by employees and family.
    The piers were the main attraction