Summer Love by Jill Santopolo

there are some times of year that are better for catching lobsters than others, so it’s not like we have hundreds of lobsters every day all year round.”
    You’d never thought about that, but it makes sense. “So when did your dad come up with this truck idea?” you ask. “I don’t remember it from last summer, but I was only here for a weekend, so I might not have noticed.”
    Jackson does his megasmile thing again, and his blueberry eyes twinkle a little. “This is the first summer!” he says. “It was my idea, so my dad said I could run it. I opened last week, and I’m already making a profit.”
    â€œReally?” you ask.
    â€œReally,” he answers, passing you a couple more boxes of chips.
    You’re pretty impressed. You don’t know anyone who came up with the idea for a business and then made it work.
    â€œThat’s amazing,” you tell him.
    He shrugs after handing you a smaller box, this one filled with cookies. “My parents’ restaurant is great,” he says, “but I feel like there are ways to improve it, ways to expand it into something more successful. We do okay, but I know we can do better. I have lots of ideas.”
    â€œLike what?” you ask.
    He jumps down from the back of the truck withanother box of cookies in his hand and stacks it on top of the rest of the boxes you’ve put on the dolly. Then he sits down on the truck bed and pats the spot next to him. You sit down and dangle your legs over the side.
    â€œLike an army of these trucks, one at every beach that allows it. Like a more upscale restaurant on Main Street in town. Or maybe not upscale, but superspecialized. Like only lobster rolls, like the truck. Or maybe only steamers. And then make them the best in the whole area, you know?”
    All those ideas sound great to you.
    â€œIs this what you do full-time?” you ask. You’re wondering now how old he is. He looks about your age, but the way he’s talking makes you think he’s out of college or something.
    â€œNo,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m in high school. I’ll be a junior in the fall. And then I want to get a business degree and a culinary degree and make my parents’ restaurant as famous as the ones Bobby Flay owns.”
    â€œThat sounds like a spectacular plan,” you say. You’re extra impressed now, knowing that he’s the same age you are. You look at him and think that maybe this guy is one of the most incredible peopleyou’ve ever met. He’s handsome, he’s charming, he’s smart, he’s passionate, he has this incredible life goal—and he seems really close to his family, too.
    â€œSo do
you
have a spectacular plan?” Jackson asks.
    â€œNothing as spectacular as that,” you tell him. “I want to go to college. Maybe major in communications. Or psychology. I’m not really sure.”
    â€œPsychology,” he says. “That’s really interesting. And communications. Kind of two sides of the same thing. Interacting with people.”
    â€œYeah,” you say. “I guess it is. I think people are interesting. The way they act, the things they say, how what happened to them before affects them now.”
    â€œPeople
are
very interesting,” he agrees. “You especially.” He slides off the edge of the truck and opens up the top box of cookies. He slips a cigar-shaped one out of a wrapper and comes back toward you.
    â€œMe especially?” you parrot.
    â€œYou liked my mom’s cookie before?” he asks.
    You nod. “It was delicious.”
    â€œThen you have to taste this one, too,” he says. “Close your eyes and open your mouth.”
    You do, even though you feel a little silly doing it.
    He slips the cookie inside, but before you can bite down, he says, “Let it melt in your mouth.”
    So you do. It’s some sort of meringue that