Today, however, I want to bail on my shift and run across the street to Nick’s Boatyard, because I can plainly see through our front window that Lucky’s red Superhawk motorcycle is parked out there, which means he’s working for his dad today.

And I really, really want to talk to him.

But I’ve already been warned against doing that just this morning.

“I seriously don’t want you hanging around Lucky Karras anymore,” Mom told me at breakfast. “I’m not going to ask for details about the seriousness of your relationship with him, but all I know is that he’s in deep shit, and rumors will be spreading around town like wildfire.”

She doesn’t know the half of it. “I can handle it.”

“Don’t care. I don’t need our name tangled up in it,” she says, getting agitated. “So stay away. Period. Putting my foot down.”

That’s pretty much Mom’s harshest commandment. Putting her proverbial foot down means she’s serious and it’s final. No arguments. She’s assuming parental privileges, a rare event, and that’s that.

Only it’s not that, because I can’t just never see him again. Hello! He works across the street, so it’s a physical impossibility. And on top of that, I need to find out what’s going on with him. Is he going to jail? Juvie? What’s going to happen to him?

It’s my crime, after all. I have a right to know.

And he’s my friend, not hers.

I put it out of my mind for a while and instead concentrate on my morning shift at the Nook, where I try to guess which of our regular customers have seen “my” naked photo or heard the That’s the Girl Who Sells Nudes Online rumor—only, it’s hard to tell from their darting glances which ones may have also heard the That’s the Girl Who Was Hauled to the Police Station Last Night rumor.

Occasionally, someone walks by our shops and makes it clear by puckering up their lips and making a kissy face at me. Lovely. Just lovely …

Around noon, tourists begin heading to pubs and clam shacks for lunch, and things finally quiet down enough for Evie to read a book at the counter on the Nook’s squeaky stool. I prop myself up on my elbows next to her and stare out the window, trying not to stress while watching Nick’s Boatyard. Below me is a string of gold-and-green postcards from Nepal: Kathmandu, temples, monkeys, and mountains. Grandma sends one a week with general updates. Regular customers ooh and aah over her descriptions of yak milk.

“We should get one of the coin-operated telescopes on the Harborwalk moved in here so you can get a better look at the boatyard,” Evie says in a bored voice, squeaking the stool.

“I’m just curious.”