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Informationen zum Autor Michelle DaltonSixteenth Summer June The first time you lay eyes on someone who is going to become someone to you— your someone—you’re supposed to feel the earth shift beneath your feet, right? Sparks will course through your fingertips and there’ll definitely be fireworks. There are always fireworks. But it doesn’t really happen that way. It’s messier than that—and much better. Trust me, I know. I know how it feels to have a someone . To be in love. But the day after my sophomore year ended, I didn’t know anything . At least, that’s the way it feels now. Let me clarify that. It’s not like I was a complete numbskull. I’d just gotten a report card full of A’s. And one B-minus. (What can I say. Geometry is my sworn enemy.) And I knew just about everything there was to know about Dune Island. That’s the little sliver of sand, sea oats, and sno-cones off the coast of Georgia where I’ve lived for my entire sixteen-year existence. I knew, for instance, where to get the spiciest low-country boil (The Swamp) and the sweetest oysters (Fiddlehead). Finding the most life-changing ice cream cone was an easy one. You went to The Scoop, which just happened to be owned by my parents. While the “shoobees” who invaded the island every summer tiptoed around our famously delicate dunes (in their spotless, still-sporting-the-price-tag rubber shoes), I knew how to pick my way through the long, fuzzy grass without crushing a single blade. And I definitely knew every boy in my high school. Most of us had known one another since we were all at the Little Sea Turtle Play School on the north end of the island. Which is to say, I’d seen most of them cry, throw up blue modeling clay, or stick Cheetos up their noses. It’s hard to fall for a guy once you’ve seen him with a nostril full of snack food, even if he was only three at the time. And here’s one other thing I knew as I pedaled my bike to the beach on that first night of my sixteenth summer. Or at least, I thought I knew. I knew exactly what to expect of the season. It was going to be just like the summer before it, and the summer before that. I’d spend my mornings on the North Peninsula, where tourists rarely venture. Probably because the sole retail establishment there is Angelo’s BeachMart. Angelo’s looks so salt-torn and shacky, you’d never know they make these incredible gourmet po’ boys at a counter in the back. It’s also about the only place on Dune Island where you can’t find any fudge or commemorative T-shirts. Then I’d ride my bike south to the boardwalk and spend my afternoon coning up ice cream and shaving ice for sno-cones at The Scoop. Every night after dinner, Sam, Caroline, and I would call around to find out where everyone was hanging that night. We’d all land at the beach, the deck behind The Swamp, Angelo’s parking lot, or one of the other hideouts we’d claimed over the years. Home by eleven. Rinse salt water out of hair. Repeat. This was why I was trying hard not to yawn as I pedaled down Highway 80. I was headed for the bonfire on the South Shore. That’s right, the annual bonfire that kicked off the Dune Island summer, year after year after year. One thing that kept me alert was the caravan of summer people driving their groaning vans and SUVs just a little too weavily down the highway. I don’t know if it was the blazing, so-gorgeous-it-hurt sunset that was distracting them or my Zusammenfassung Anna is dreading another tourist-filled summer on Dune Island that follows the same routine: beach! ice cream! friends! ...
