Second Chance Summer by Morgan Matson

shoulder, and he frowned slightly. “What’s with the shirt?” he asked, and I saw he was looking at my canvas bag, which had one of my new employee T-shirts peeking out of the top.
    “Oh,” I said, pushing it down a bit farther, “I just got a job. Beach snack bar.”
    “Really?” he asked, sounding surprised. It was definitely a question this time.
    “Yes,” I said, a little defensively, until I realized that he would have no idea that I’d never had a job before and would therefore be somehow unqualified. “Why?”
    Henry took a breath, about to answer, when the shop door opened and two women who looked around my mother’s age came in, both wearing caftanlike cover-ups and sandals. “Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. “Never mind.”
    The women were now standing behind me, peering into the bakery cases, and I knew that it was time for me to leave. “See you,” I said, picking up the green box.
    “Stay out of the woods,” he replied, smiling faintly.
    I met his eye for a moment, and I wondered if this was an opening, if I should just bite the bullet and apologize for what I’d done. Not that we’d ever be friends again, but we were neighbors. And it might make things a little less strained—or at least allow me to feel like I could venture out to the dock again.
    “Was there something else?” Henry asked, but not unkindly. I could feel the women’s eyes on me, waiting for my answer. But I had been a coward then—it was what had caused the whole mess—and it seemed that I was a coward still. “No,” I said, as I stepped aside to let the women order the coffee cake they had been debating about. “Nothing else.” I turned from the counter and left, walking back into the heat of the afternoon.
    My father was leaning against the Land Cruiser when I reachedhim, a paper Henson’s Produce bag between his feet and a plastic bag of licorice bits in his hand. They were for sale by the register, and whenever my father was in charge of picking some produce up—or able to intercept one of us before we went—he put in his order for a bag, the black licorice only. His particular views on this had only become more deeply entrenched when Warren had told him the fact that red licorice isn’t technically licorice at all, as it’s not made from the licorice plant.
    “Hey, kid,” he said as I approached, smiling at me. “What’s the news?” His eyes landed on the bakery box, and he smiled wider. “And what did you get?”
    I sighed and opened the box. “Oatmeal cookies,” I said a little glumly.
    “Oh.” He peered down into the box, his brow furrowing. “Why?”
    “It’s a long story,” I said, not wanting to admit that it was because my ex-boyfriend had flustered me. “But the news is that I got a job. I start tomorrow at the beach snack bar.”
    My father’s smile returned, real and genuine and happy. “That’s great, kid,” he said. “Your first job! It’s a milestone. I can remember—” He stopped short, his eyes squeezing shut as a spasm of pain flashed across his face.
    “Dad?” I asked, stepping closer, hearing the fear in my voice. “Daddy?”
    My father’s face twisted again, and he grabbed his back with onehand, the bag of licorice bits falling and spilling onto the ground. “I’m okay,” he said through clenched teeth. I didn’t believe him—his eyes were still tightly closed and I could see perspiration beading on his forehead. “I just… need a second.”
    “Okay,” I said. I gripped the bakery box tightly, looking around the street for someone who might help us somehow or tell me what I should be doing. I could feel my heart pounding, and wished that my mother was here, that I wasn’t alone with this.
    “You all right?” The redhead I’d seen through the window was standing in the doorway of Doggone It!, watching my father, her expression concerned. She held a cordless phone in her hand. “Do you need me to call someone?”
    “No,” my father said,