Jersey Angel Read Online Free Page B

switch, and I aim the stream of water into the mouth, making the blue balloon grow bigger and bigger until it bursts with a satisfying pop. “Let’s hang out on the beach.”
    He looks down to the water, deep in thought. “Yeah, okay,” he says finally, taking a five-dollar bill out of his pocket. “Why don’t you go buy us zeppoles while I finish closing down. I’m kind of hungry.”
    “No cheese?”
    “Maybe later.”
    “All right.”
    I hurry off to the zeppole stand, which is a ways down the boardwalk, where I get us two hot zeppoles right out of the deep fryer and sprinkled with powdered sugar. Then Ihurry back, and what do I find? The stand is closed up, the gate is lowered and locked, and Joey’s nowhere in sight. Ditched. Even so, I walk down to the beach on the minuscule chance that he’s sitting on the sand, waiting for me, which of course he isn’t.
    How do you like that. I mean,
damn
. I park myself on the sand and eat my zeppole, licking my fingers clean of grease and sugar. This isn’t like him. Not at all. Where’d he go, my Joey? The guy who gives me a ride on his handlebars, calls me to say good night, whispers into my hair when he tells me I’m pretty, trails his fingers down my bare back when we’re in bed?
    I ride over to his place and park myself outside his window. “So what do you have to say for yourself?” But there’s no answer, and as my eyes adjust to the dark inside I can see his bed’s empty. Double ditched. I pry open the screen and toss the powdery zeppole onto his rumpled sheets. “Have that with your cheese.”
    How I miss Inggy. On my way home, I ride by her place, and to my surprise the Olofsson car is in the drive, and Ing’s window is lit. I climb the sycamore—an easy climb—up to the roof deck and see her hunched over her desk, tapping her lip. I scramble through the window.
    “Hey, you!” she says, spinning around in her seat. “We’re back early. I called you a couple of times from the car, thencalled the House and Meems said you were nowhere to be found.”
    “I’m found!” I say happily, reaching for my phone. Forgot to charge it. We hug. I kick off my flip-flops and lie across one of her twin beds, and she lies across the other, facing me.
    Let me tell you about Inggy: the O’s moved from Sweden to the island when we were in second grade. There was Inggy, the color of milk, with long white ponytails jutting out over her ears and spilling down her arms. She was the size of a toothpick, and she’d brought some kind of smelly fish in her lunch box. And she came right up to me at the lunch table, big blue eyes, her face merry. “I can sit here?”
    “Well, okay,” I said, making room. She squeezed in next to me, all smiles, and tucked into her smelly Swedish lunch was a good old-fashioned American donut, which she whipped out proudly for me to see. She took a big powdery bite and thrust it at me, so I took a bite too. We were instant friends, little Inggy Olofsson and me. Who would have thought she’d grow so tall and spindly. At five eleven, she’s the boniest and most glamorous person I know. Her white hair falls down her back and all summer long she’s slathered in 45 sunblock and wears enormous sunglasses that make her look like some beautiful bug. Tonight she’s wearing a red bandana skullcap and has a pencil tucked behind her ear.
    “What were you furiously scribbling over there?” I ask.
    “The dreaded personal essay. You’re supposed to make yourself shine. Show how noble you are. What an asset you are to the community and all that. So I’m reading all these samples and they’re
such
crap.” She folds her pillow in half and rests her head on it. “You know, stuff like befriending some old hag and shopping for her Depends. Loathsome, ass-kissing stuff.” Ing, I should mention, loves the word
loathsome
. “Total disingenuous bullshit.” She pulls the pencil from behind her ear and waves it at me. “I refuse to