I started with the vanilla, making sure to use a different scoop for each ice cream so as not to taint one flavor with the other, which was always one of my pet peeves. Mitch grunted his approval at this move. Once all the ice cream was scooped, I closed the freezer, but the heavy door slipped from my sweating palm and slammed at the last second, almost taking my fingertip off.

"Oops. Sorry," I said.

Mitch simply closed his eyes for a moment, as if praying for patience. My throat was completely dry, and it felt like it was somehow coated in the same sickly sweet smell that clung to everything in the place. I turned around and looked at the row of syrups against the back wall. There was chocolate, butterscotch, caramel, marshmallow, strawberry, and a warming vat of hot fudge. Crap. Which one went on a banana split?

I looked up, quickly and casually scanning the colorful signs advertising the million different combinations one could order at Take a Dip. There was a two-scoop sundae, a three-scoop waffle cone, a ten-scoop bikini buster. But the classic banana split was nowhere to be found.

"Um?" I looked at Mitch quizzically. "Which toppings would you like . . . sir?"

"Hot fudge and whipped cream," he said.

"Right."

I doused the ice cream with hot fudge, dripping a few huge globs of the stuff on the counter. Biting my tongue, I hit the fridge, grabbed the first can of whipped cream I saw, and sprayed. It exploded everywhere. Literally everywhere. Pellets of whipped cream dotted my shirt, the glass doors of the fridge, the ceiling fan lazily spinning above our heads, . . . and Mitch Daly's face.

"Oh my gosh. I'm so sorry!"

Clearly I was not getting this job. I wondered if the CVS by the causeway was hiring. At least I had experience. But there were no tips at CVS, and summer jobs down the shore were all about the tips.

Slowly, Mitch extracted a filthy rag from the back pocket of his grungy shorts and wiped his face.

"S'okay," he said, licking his lips. "Happens all the time. You gotta hold it upright."

He reached over and straightened the silver bottle in my hand, so that it was perpendicular to the floor and my elbow was sticking up at an unnatural angle. I said a quick prayer and tried again. The whipped cream came out nice and slow, in perfect ridged beauty. After adding a generous mound to the top of the sundae, I placed the can back in the refrigerator and handed him the bowl.

"Cherry?" he said.

"Right. Cherry." There was a topping bar in an open case between the two freezers. I plucked a cherry out by its stem and placed it atop the sundae. Then I stepped back, wiped my hands together, and realized I was nervous. I wanted Mitch Daly's approval. What was wrong with me?

He turned the sundae this way and that, inspecting it from all angles. He even held it up and checked underneath.

"Not bad," he said finally. "Technically, the customer also gets one dry topping." He tilted his head toward the toppings bar, with its stunning array of choices, everything from sprinkles to crushed nuts to mini M&M's to chopped Thin Mints. "But it's okay. I'm watching my calorie intake this summer."

He reached for a plastic spoon, dipped it in, and took a huge, whipped creamladen bite. His T-shirt rode up, exposing a swirl of black hair around his belly button. I wondered if this man actually knew what a calorie was.

"Can you start this afternoon?" he asked, his mouth full. "I already had somebody call in sick."

"Yes! Definitely. And my summer is wide open, so as many shifts as you can give me, I-"

He held up his hand, the spoon held between his thumb and forefinger in an oddly delicate manner, to stop me.

"We'll see how you do," he said gravely. "The ice cream game . . . is not for everyone." Then he turned and walked down the aisle toward the door, which led, I assumed, to the storeroom. "Pick out a shirt from the case out front. You get one free and if you want extras, you can buy 'em at half price. And be here at two for a four-hour." He kicked open the door. "And clean up that counter before you go."

The door slammed behind him. I breathed out and looked through the windows at the fluorescent lights twisted into the shapes of dripping ice-cream cones and chocolate-covered bars and funnel cakes. I was gainfully employed. By a man who ate ice cream for breakfast.

I swiped a rag from one of the bars that hung from the back cabinet doors, wet it, and cleaned up my mess. The case to which Mitch had referred was a double-doored bookcase filled with folded Take a Dip T-shirts in a variety of colors, which were available for purchase at the low, low price of fifteen bucks. But lucky me-I got to take one, gratis. Already this job had benefits. I chose a blue short-sleeved with a strawberry cone on the back and the words DIP THIS scrawled above it. On the front, above the left breast, was the Take a Dip logo-a girl in a bikini diving into a vat of chocolate ice cream.

I balled the shirt up and turned to go, but paused when I saw Hammond peeking through the locked glass door, his hand above his eyes like he was on a boat at sea scanning the waves for the shoreline. My jaw automatically clenched. He stood up straight when he saw me approach, and took a step back. It was almost like he expected me to be there.

"They don't open for another hour, you know," I said, stepping out into the heat.

"Oh. Weird. I thought they opened at ten," Hammond said.

I let the door close and lock. Hammond's Explorer was the only ride in the parking lot. The cruising bike I'd borrowed from Gray's garage leaned against the brick wall next to it.

"So, what was up with you and those locals last night?" Hammond asked, pushing his hands into the pockets of his plaid shorts. He leaned back against the wood railing of the porch, which wrapped around the side of Take a Dip and was slam-packed with people almost every night of the summer.

"Hammond, did you follow me here?"

"What? No," he said.

He totally did.

"You know how obsessed I am with their Moose Tracks," he said.

"Right. Don't tell me. Jake, Chloe, and Shannen aren't coming down, so you need someone to hang out with," I said. "It's so nice to be everyone's fourth or fifth choice."

Hammond laughed. "Like you've ever been anyone's fourth or fifth choice."

I blushed, and wondered if he even realized what he just said.

"Well, if you're planning on being all up in my grill all summer, good luck," I said, trying to skate past the awkward moment. "Looks like I'm going to be spending most of my time here."

"Oh yeah?" Hammond looked up at the wooden sign above the door, all freshly repainted for the summer. "Then maybe I'll get a job here too."

"Yeah, right," I said.

"What? What's so funny?" Hammond asked.

"You don't work," I replied. And half the reason I wanted to get a job was so that I wouldn't have to be around you and your little friends.

He lifted a shoulder. "Maybe I'll give it a whirl. I do have to start saving some money for college. Since, you know, my entire college fund magically disappeared."

My throat closed over. The smile fell off Hammond's face. Apparently he'd momentarily forgotten that it was my dad who'd magically disappeared his college fund, and that it had caused all of us more than our fair share of misery over the last couple of years.

"Right, so . . . I'll just go fill out an application."

He tried the door. Which was still locked.

"You have to call the guy," I said, taking out my phone. I dialed Mitch's office number, which I'd found in the paper that morning. He answered on the third ring.

"Take a Dip!"

"Hi, Mitch. It's Ally Ryan."

Dead silence. Except for the slurping of ice cream.

"Ally Ryan? You just hired me?" I said, giving Hammond a confused look.

"Oh, right. Didja clean up the counter?" he asked.

"Yeah. I'm actually outside with someone else who wants to apply," I said.

There was a heaving sigh, followed by a loud squeal. Then I saw the office door open out of the corner of my eye. Mitch stuck his head out.

"What's his deal?" he asked, checking Hammond over from the other side of the shop.

"His name's Hammond," I said. Hammond lifted a hand in a wave. "He's . . . a good guy."

Hammond raised his eyebrows at me, pleased. What was I going to do, tell the manager that Ham was a jerk after he'd just reminded me my family was responsible for the fact that he needed a job this summer in the first place? Not likely.

"All right. I'm comin'," Mitch said.

"Thanks."

I turned my phone off and tucked it away as Mitch lumbered across the small shop.

"You so love me," Hammond said with a grin.

"Yeah." I scoffed a laugh. "We'll see if you still think that after your interview," I said sarcastically.

Suddenly he didn't look quite so cocky. I would've given my left pinky finger to see Hammond fumble his way through a banana split, but I had to go. I didn't want him thinking I cared.

I just hoped he'd screw it up worse than I had. Because there was no way I was working side by side with Hammond Ross in three feet of space all summer long.

As I jogged down the steps toward Gray's bike, the man himself turned his Land Rover into the parking lot, its massive tires crunching over gravel. My mom was in the front seat, and I caught a glimpse of Quinn's blond hair as he turned the car sideways in the lot, taking up almost the entire space. I froze with my hand on the handlebar. My mom's window eased down.

"How'd it go?" she asked, resting her arm on the windowsill.

"Fine. I got the job," I said.

"Great! Hop in! We're going to LBI Pancake House for a late breakfast."

The back of the Land Rover opened automatically, letting out a hiss. Gray got out of the car and walked around as if to help me with my bike. My fingers tightened around the grip. This whole scenario felt way too "one big happy family" for me, and I knew why they were doing it. They were trying to prove to me that just because I stormed out on them last night, it didn't mean I wasn't going to have to spend time with them this summer. They weren't giving up that easily.

"I'm not hungry," I said, looking past Gray's shoulder at my mom. "I was going to go for a bike ride."

"So you can go after breakfast," Gray said.

He put his hands on the handlebars, right next to mine. When I looked at him, poison darts flew from my eyes. "I said, I'm not hungry."

I wrested the bike from his grip and straddled it, awkwardly maneuvering around him.

"Ally," my mother said. "Come here, please."

I felt hot all over, and my throat was so tight I could barely breathe. But I turned my back on her and started to peddle toward the street. "I'll see you guys later," I called, my voice strained.

"Ally!" my mom shouted, seriously pissed now.

But I didn't turn back. I tore out of there as fast as I could, and turned down a side street hoping to make as many turns as possible so they wouldn't be able to follow me. My mother may have decided she wanted to spend all her time with Gray and Quinn Nathanson, but she couldn't force me to do it too. I'd never wanted a sister. And I already had a father. They were just going to have to be one big happy family without me.

How much ice cream did u eat?

I smirked at Annie's text and leaned back on the soft lounge cushion to text back. The view from Gray's deck was not at all bad, especially now, as the sun was setting behind me, glittering golden over the water. It was Friday evening and I was freshly showered after my first shift at Take a Dip, which had actually been kind of fun. Somewhere during the third hour I'd realized that making sundaes and cones lent a certain giddy satisfaction-the kids' grins as they used both hands to take a dripping double-dip from my fingers, the glimmer of life in exhausted parents' eyes when they saw their mango milk shakes. I felt like I was making people happy, which was rarely the case when slinging Depends undergarments and Pepto at the CVS back home.

There had been a rush on the place around three o'clock that had lasted until four, but I was out of there at six, when the dinnertime lull was on. From what my coworker Sandy had told me, it was the evening shift that was the real killer-started around seven and didn't stop till after eleven. Mitch didn't have me scheduled for one of those until late next week. Apparently he liked to ease in the newcomers.

The unfortunate part was spotting Hammond's name on the schedule. Guess he hadn't flubbed as badly as I'd thought on the banana split test. Our first overlapping shift was scheduled for the Fourth of July. I was already trying to think up ways to get out of it. And then I came home to find my mother and Gray coming inside from the outdoor shower, all wet and giggling, and found that, somehow, I just could not be in the same house with them. They were now inside, throwing together some kind of trendy summer salad in Gray's state-of-the-art kitchen, listening to light rock on the stereo system, while Quinn was off at rehearsal. Thank God for the deck. Although, I was surprised that my mother had yet to come out here to talk about how I'd bailed on them that morning. Maybe she'd decided to just ignore it. Hopefully.

I texted back.

None.

Liar!

LOL. I figured if I started, I wouldn't be able to stop. So when r u coming down?

Tmrw late morning. Mom needs car in a.m. to drop off recycling. BTW have good Crestie dirt.

My heart thumped and I stared at the screen. How could she have good Crestie dirt? Ninety-eight percent of the Cresties were down the shore or in Europe. She couldn't mean Jake dirt, could she? Had she talked to him? Had he asked about me? Had he told her why he hadn't called?

I swallowed back the urge to ask. I did not want to appear interested in what Jake was doing. Because I wasn't.

Cool.

The sliding glass door behind me zipped open, spilling out a blast of cold air and overproduced synthesizer. Crap. Looked like my reprieve was over. Here came the lecture.

"Ally? You have a visitor," my mom said.

Or not. I turned around in my chair, expecting to see either Faith or Hammond-my two LBI stalkers. I almost dropped the phone when Cooper stepped out the door next to my mother. He was even more beautiful in daylight: a white T-shirt showing off his insane tan, his blond hair long enough to curl under his ears. I realized suddenly that I never thought I'd see this guy again-and that I was very happy to be proven wrong.

"Hi," I said.

"Hi."

His grin almost knocked me out of my chair. My mother shot me an intrigued and expectant look. Her hand was still on the door and she stood sideways, because Cooper's shoulders nearly filled the opening. He had a beach towel around his neck, and wore brown and tan Billabong swim trunks and flip-flops.

My phone beeped, but I didn't even look at Annie's text. I just texted back.

Gotta go. Hot boy arrival.

There. That'd make her think I didn't care what Jake was up to.