The Rest of the Story. Sarah Dessen

to her feet, yelling outside to Mimi, “Coming!”

      As she left, I looked at the table. Only three pieces of toast remained. On the counter, the bread bag, defeated, was crumpled into a ball. The clock on the stove said 8:58 a.m.

      I stood up, carrying my plate over to the sink, which was again full of dishes. They don’t want your help, I told myself, even as the urge hit, then grew, to start washing them. But I rinsed only my cup, putting it on the (empty) dish rack as Oxford grabbed a final slice of toast and the phone, taking both with him as he left. After so much noise and commotion, the house felt so still suddenly, with only me in it and the whole day ahead. What do you do when no one wants you to do anything? I wasn’t sure. But I did put the butter away.

       It’s so boring, oh my God. I mean, I’m happy Grandpa’s ok. But I am so sick of hospital cafeteria food and trying to keep my brothers quiet.

      It was late morning now, and I’d finally heard from Bridget. Her grandfather was recovering in the hospital, the boys were driving her nuts, and there was nothing to do in Ohio. These were the headlines.

      I understand, I wrote back. So glad he’s getting better, though.

       Me too. What are you doing?

      What was I doing? At the moment, sitting on the front steps of Mimi’s house, wondering how to keep myself busy while everyone else was at work. So far, that had entailed reorganizing my already neat clothes, reading part of an Allies book Gordon had left in the living room—the sixth book from the second series, according to the back cover, but I’d had no trouble dropping right into the mythology—and, now, watching the hotel guests converge on the beach for the day.

      Guests emerged with beach bags, wheeled coolers, and more children as they made their way down the plank walkway to the water. They set up camp on the covered part of the dock or the sand, spreading towels and dragging chairs into position as kids were wrangled, protesting the application of sunscreen.

      The office of Calvander’s, in the opposite direction, was the other center of activity. All morning long, people had been coming and going: Mimi, of course, even though she was supposed to be off her feet. Oxford, wiping down the glass door with Windex and weeding the sparse garden. I even glimpsed both Taylor and April popping in before they walked off down the street, out of sight. Between the constant activity of both the beach and the office, I felt even more frozen where I sat on the steps.

      Getting used to this place, I finally wrote back to Bridget.

       What’s the boy situation?

      Immediately, I had a flash of Roo the day before, shirtless, holding out a hand to me at the raft. That gap in his teeth. Which was ridiculous, I knew.

       All related to me. Or might as well be.

       Seriously?

      Just then, I saw Mimi coming down the motel sidewalk, pushing a cleaning cart. She now wore a Velcro brace on one knee and had the office phone between her ear and shoulder as she stopped by a door marked 7 and pulled a ring of keys from her pocket. She let herself in, and a moment later the front blinds were rising, revealing a streaky window.

      I thought of how I’d offered help to Trinity earlier and the way she’d so easily grouped me with the guests now out on the beach. She’d said it was Mimi who made this clear, and possibly she had. But maybe sometimes you had to ask twice. I walked over.

      “No kidding,” I heard her saying as I approached the door to room seven. “In a perfect world, my body wouldn’t be breaking down. But this is the world we’re in.”

      The room was dim, and it took my eyes a second to adjust. Once they did, I saw the walls were made of cinder block painted white, the carpet a dated flat orange. There were two double beds, both stripped, a rattan bedside table between them. The TV was one of those ancient kinds, huge and mounted up high on the wall, a bunch of cords snaking out of the back. Against the far wall was a small fridge and stovetop, a microwave and a sink, three skinny cabinets above. The only other furniture was two faded canvas chairs, and between them a low table with a flyswatter and an ashtray on it. Who even smoked inside anymore?

      “… okay, well, keep me posted,” Mimi said as she stepped out of what had to be the bathroom. Her arms were full of towels, which she dumped onto a pile of sheets already under the TV. “I’d better run. We’ve got two check-ins today plus housekeeping. Okay. Bye.”

      She sighed as she hung up, still not seeing me. I didn’t want to startle her, so I knocked on the door lightly. When she didn’t hear me, I did it again.

      “Oh, hey,” she said, breaking into a smile. “You need something?”

      “No,” I replied. “I just … I heard you could use some help.”

      “I always need help,” she said, starting toward the door. Her brace creaked with each step. “It’s an ongoing condition in a resort town. But nothing you can do, I’m afraid.”

      I stepped aside as she came out to the cart, grabbing a stack of paper bath mats and a handful of individually wrapped soaps. “I can clean. I’m actually pretty good at it.”

      She looked at me. “Oh, honey. You don’t want to do that. Motel work is gross.”

      As if to emphasize this point, Trinity emerged from room six, carrying a plunger. “Got out the clog, not that it was pretty. There’s a damn sign saying not to flush anything other than toilet paper. Can’t people read?”

      “Shhh,” Mimi told her.

      “Nobody’s listening to us.” She leaned the plunger against the cart. “You have linens yet?”

      “Nope,” Mimi replied. “Grab some, would you? Get them for six too, we’ll do all the beds at once.”

      Trinity nodded, then turned, walking to a nearby door that said STAFF ONLY and pushing it open. As she did, the smell of chlorine bleach filled the air, along with the banging of what sounded like a dryer.

      Mimi turned back to me. “Why don’t you walk down to the Station, see what’s going on there? There’s usually a group at the arcade or the snack bar.”

      She turned me down so easily; it was frustrating. “I can help you,” I said, emphasizing the words this time. “Really.”

      “Honey, I don’t want you to,” she replied. I felt unexpectedly hurt, hearing this. Which must have shown on my face, because she added, quickly, “Saylor, you haven’t been here in over ten years. I want you to enjoy it. That’s what your mom would have wanted, too.”

      Trinity walked past me, carrying a stack of folded linens, and went into room seven, dropping them onto the bed closest to the door. On the cart the phone started to ring and Mimi picked it up, just as a white van that said ARTHUR AND SONS WINDOWS pulled up to the office.

      “Hello? Oh, hey, Tom. Yes, it’s unit ten. Okay. Meet you there in five minutes.” She glanced at the van, then sighed again. “Lord, and there’s Artie coming for an estimate. Everything’s happening at once today.”

      The man in question was climbing out of the van now, carrying a clipboard. He lifted a hand in our direction, and Mimi, looking stressed, waved back. As she started making her way to meet him, I opened my mouth to say something, then closed it. Three times might have been the charm, but it could also mean not taking a hint.

      “Why do you really want to help?”

      I turned around to face Trinity. “Why?”

      “Come on,” she said. “You’re the spoiled rich cousin and everyone’s been told to make sure you have fun here.”

      I’d been tiptoeing around her so much the flare of temper I felt, hearing this, was welcome. “Not by me,” I said, an edge to my voice.

      “Who