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Sully's face is as flat and ugly as a bug on a windshield. He's paid for all the grunt work, like fixing the busted custard machines or lugging stuff up from basement storage. He's not supposed to linger too long behind the counter where he can frighten the customers. Sully is lucky he's got a job at all. A bunch of studies just proved that being beautiful literally pays off: There's a direct correlation between how attractive people are and their hireability. Did somebody cure cancer and AIDS when I wasn't looking? I mean, how much money was spent on that research? Duh. Duh. Duh.

“That's Co-lom-bi-a the country,” I corrected, using an annoyingly precise Spanish pronunciation that put heavy emphasis on the o's. “This is Columbia the school.”

His face got even squashier, as it always does when he doesn't understand something, which is often. He's a few rows short of the long bus.

“Hunnuh? Columbia? Never heard of it.”

This is what an Ivy League education means on the boardwalk. Absolutely nothing.

Fortunately, I didn't have any more time to mull over the significance of this or anything else for that matter, which is one of the greatest advantages of my current employment situation.

Other Advantages of My Current Employment Situation

1. . . .

Okay. Make that the only advantage of my current employment situation. But the fact that I was even capable of finding one thing is a great leap for me, as my current employment situation is one that is fraught with great psychological peril. I mean, this is the same exact job I was working five summers ago, and I hated it then. Of course, the only difference is that now I'm the old-timer the snide high school girls mock for having nowhere else to go.

See? If I had time to think about this, I'd probably get depressed.

the eleventh

I covered a day shift when someone called in sick today, a reward for being so dang good with the clientele. Perhaps my Psychology degree is coming in handy after all. If I keep it up, I will be the most overeducated custard-slinger in the history of hydrogenated fats.

It was a perfect ten tanning day and the water was calm and clear, so the beach was packed. I knew the boardwalk would be relatively dead until the sun went down and had brought along some reading material to kill time. It was a truly stellar issue of Star magazine, too, devoting no less than eight pages to celebrities with cellulite. This is all part of my master plan of not thinking all summer.

I was studying the nooks and crannies of Donatella Versace's thighs when I heard a familiar voice.

“Um. Hey. Jess.”

I looked up to see Len standing before me. He had the decrepit appearance of someone who had died and was buried without a coffin, then dug up again. Unlike Kieran, who exaggerated his postbreakup devastation to better advance his rebound relationship (i.e., me), Len was clearly in very sorry shape indeed.

“Oh, hey,” I replied. Then with more compassionate emphasis. “Hey.”

“I know. Um. That you know. You don't have to pretend you don't. Um. Know.”

“Oh,” I said. “Okay. So.” I wasn't sure what to say. “What are you doing this summer?”

“EMT,” he said. “Saving people's. Um. Lives.”

He laughed quickly, maniacally. Then silenced himself.

“I was sorry to hear about what happened,” I said.

“Were you?” he asked, drifting past the colorful tubs of custard in the case.

“Of course I was,” I said. “Why wouldn't I be?”

“I just. Um. Thought that you might be. Um. Happy.” He paused in front of vanilla bean.

“Happy?” I asked. “Why?” I knew what he was getting at, but I wanted to hear him say it.

“Because of. Um. How we broke up.”

I opened the freezer and dug into the tub. “Len, it was ages ago,” I said. “Besides, two more guys dumped me after you. I've gotten used to it.”

He silently watched as I worked the scoop through the custard.

“I'll never get used to this,” he said morosely.

“Sprinkles?”

“Do? I? Want sprinkles?” As if this were a question he were incapable of answering, along the lines of,