“AJ! AJ come on!” Sixteen-year-old Rick Simon grabs his sweat-stained Yankees cap off his head, and runs a hand over his dark brush cut.
He’d like to keep it a little longer on top, but every year, once they get out of school, mom takes them to the barber shop and gets them butched.
She wouldn’t be much for his faded black T-shirt or the holes in the knees of his jeans either, but she’s off with Aunt Edie doing some book exchange thing up in Oceanside,
and they’re only going to the beach. If his little brother would hurry the hell up. “AJ!”
“Calm down and stop bellowing, I’m coming.” At the tender age of eleven, the younger Simon looks like a stockbroker on his day off.
Blindingly white AllStars, laced all the way and neatly tied. Bathing suit on under clean chinos. White T-shirt.
Pale blue, short-sleeved plaid shirt, buttoned all the way up in mother approved fashion. Sweatshirt in one hand, in case it turns cold.
Mask and snorkel in the other, carefully wrapped in a clean towel.
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