The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors by Michele Young-Stone

Winter, and the bullies at Mont Blanc middle school.
    Abigail worked at Jeanette’s Pier Restaurant at Stewart Beach Park. In the mornings, she served eggs sunny-side up, scrambled, or fried, with toasted Wonder Bread and gold packets of margarine. She served pancakes and sausage links, and every few minutes, slipping her pen and order pad in her apron pocket, she looked up to see the green waves sweep white and foamy across the gold sand. Mesmerized and daydreaming, sometimes she forgot the customers sitting, eating the food she’d just set before them, and Jeanette would call to her, “I think they got it, honey,” meaning,
Back away from the table and let them eat in peace
.
    At lunch and in the afternoons, Abigail served Jeanette’sspecials, her meat loaf, mostly, and the catch of the day, bottles of Budweiser, and greasy french fries. When it was slow, she watched surfboarders paddle through the breaking waves. She was in awe of them, these boys walking on water. These boys in their bright swim trunks swallowed by the waves, only to reappear and paddle out again.
    Jeanette’s Pier Restaurant had two sections, Sec One and Sec Two. “It’s not very original,” Jeanette had said on Abigail’s first day. “Sec One’s in here.” And then, pointing, “Sec Two’s out there.” Sec One was the area connected directly to the pier. Entering Sec One, there was a beige sign with brown lettering that read PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED , but no one did. There was a bar with six stools, the cash register, and eight tabletops. Sec Two, on the other hand, was basically outside, so there was a lot of room and a lot of salty air.
    Sec Two extended out over the dune. Exposed to the elements, the cedar walls only reached as high as the tabletops. The rest of the walls were rectangular frames stretched with metallic screens. The ocean was never out of sight. There were wooden shutters to protect the restaurant when storms blew through, but most of the time Abigail kept the shutters open. Like Abigail, her customers wanted to feel the salty air. Sec Two was her Sec. She had picked it even though Jeanette had warned her that the tips weren’t as good: “The locals don’t give a lick about listening to or staring at the ocean in this heat. Most of them is bored of it, and some of them are the best tippers.”
    Jeanette explained that there were a lot of tourist folks and teenagers in Sec Two who just wanted to sit, have a beer and a plate of conch fritters, and watch the waves curl and lick the sand. Abigail wasn’t concerned. The folks who were new to the ocean were just like her.
    After only two days at Jeanette’s, Abigail was happy with her decision. It was never oppressively hot. There was always some breeze blowing off the water, and her customers, their hands onthe thin screen between them and the dune, stared out at the waves—just like her.
    Abigail met Padraig John McGowan, Galway born and American bred, in Sec Two. Abigail’s new friend Sissy had decided to play matchmaker. Sissy was a full-time political activist. She lobbied for the Equal Rights Amendment, and she was “damn proud,” as she liked to say, that her amendment had finally been sent to the states for ratification. She said, “Five years. No more, no less, and we’ll be guaranteed equality. And I’m part of it. Women make things happen, Abigail. You and me. All of us, and it’s overdue we got a fair shake.” She bragged that she’d met Alice Paul. She told Abigail, “I’m changing the world. It starts with one.”
    Abigail was unconcerned with changing the world, but Sissy was extremely entertaining to be around. Like Joan Holt, she didn’t wear a bra. She was brash, and she liked to brag about all the good work she did for the poor, the disenfranchised, and the downtrodden. She herself was disenfranchised, although she claimed her poverty was a personal choice in protest to the corruption that wealth breeds.
    Today she was going to help