Running my hands over the offending beige fabric in a last-ditch attempt to transform them into anything else, I step down onto the gravel. Gone is the peaceful sound of the river, drowned out by every step I take, crunching through the vast expanse of gray stones.

I’m not sure where to go, so I return to the wood stump podium where Ellis interviewed me. A cool breeze sends goose bumps up my legs. This is my favorite part of summer, when the humidity hasn’t set in yet and neither have the tourists. In retrospect, this job may be my worst idea ever. Worse than the time I let Emma dye my brown hair red (read: purple) in seventh grade. Because in a few weeks my currently not-purple hair will be overtaken by the wet air, and this place will be overrun by tourists. Terrorists, we locals call them. A little jab for taking all the best parking spots at local restaurants all summer and tailgating us anywhere the speed limit is under fifty-five. For people who are supposed to be on vacation, terrorists sure do need to slow down.

Both of the large garage doors are closed, and no light shines through the slits of glass at the top. Where is everyone? The Grill was still dark when I walked by, its wooden shutters closed across both of the small rectangular food windows. I didn’t have time to pack a lunch this morning, and I’m sort of excited to have an excuse to eat a corndog and ice cream. With all the boat-hauling I’m going to be doing, I probably won’t even have to worry about the possible repercussions daily corndogs could have on these already-heinous shorts. Perhaps this will be the summer I have ice cream cones on the daily.

I kick the gravel and a few pieces skitter into the water, rippling along the edge. One of them skips a few times, leaving little ripples behind it, like the tracks of a water bug.

“Nice,” I mutter.

“Hey, New Girl.” Behind me, Ellis rounds the building, a small pack of redshirts following behind him. “We meet by the gazebo for morning assignments.” He points toward the path leading up toward the building, cutting into the trees. It must wrap around to the little covered area where boaters are checked in. Morning assignments? “Thought you were a no-show.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.” Crap. My first day and already I’m “that” employee. Maybe I should have listened to the internet and moved away to one of those all-summer camps, group-shower foot fungus be damned.

“He probably forgot to tell you,” the pretty—and very short—black girl standing next to Ellis says with a smile. She’s shorter than Emma, who is only 5'3", and I can’t help but notice that even her shorts are not as long on her as mine are on me.