Spence came over, all skinny jeans, hipster moustache and shirtsleeves rolled up to display his tats. “Cool, man! OK, quick-fire questions—”
“Here?” I blurted out.
Spence winked. “I like to keep it spontaneous.”
The women nodded.
Spence put his finger in the air, and everyone held their breath, waiting for his divine inspiration. “Fashion. Art, or basic human need?”
I had no idea what type of fuckery I’d just walked into, but I wanted to get the hell out as fast as possible. The women made appreciative murmurs as they considered the question. Spence looked smug. You just knew he probably came to work on a penny-farthing and liked his coffee made as complicated as possible.
I wanted to tell everyone, “Sorry, only joking about wanting a job, please get back to your smashed avocados and obscure folk music!” but I had to answer. “Um—clothes are a basic human need. Fashion is art.” Not bad, I thought. Kind of makes sense.
“Is art not a basic human need then?” Spence frowned. “Does art not contribute to our understanding of life, of the world … of ourselves?”
“But … you presented it as either-or,” I protested. This guy! I bet he was really fun at parties.
“Challenge the question, my man!” Spence declared. “Think for yourself! The status quo enslaves us all!”
I swallowed and nodded.
Then he laughed. “Mate, we’re playin’ with ya. We don’t even work here!”
I froze while they all had a good giggle, picked up the bags they suddenly had from the floor, and started making their way out of the store.
“Good luck finding a job!” one of the girls called back to me.
“Make sure you tell them how you can sell to people good!” the other said.
I stared down at my suede high-tops.
I was such a total disaster zone it was a miracle charities didn’t regularly airlift supplies to me.
My stomach was tight and cramped. So was my throat. I started biting one of my fingernails, only remembering that Kendra had made me start putting that anti-bite liquid on them when my mouth filled with a foul bitter taste. I turned and walked out. Maybe I could sort myself out, regroup, try again later.
Or maybe I could try “Splash Down!”? That was the water park that occupied a huge patch of land down the far end of the front. Splash Down! didn’t have employees – they had “dream makers”, and being a Splash Down! dream maker was considered the best summer job any kid in town could get. As long as you didn’t mind entertaining annoying brats and their incredibly rude parents, it paid well, and it was supposed to be legendary amounts of fun – not least because of the end-of-season pool party they hosted every year, which employees got free entry to, and free drinks all night.
I tried to boost my confidence after the humiliation in RAW by striding along the front, thinking about times when things had gone well. It turned out that was quite challenging, so I thought about Caramel Crème Frappuccinos instead, which at least was a happy thing. I took a breath, removed my tie (Splash Down! was definitely not a “tie” sort of place. It was really a Speedos sort of place, but, huh, no way was that happening), and walked up to the information kiosk just inside the entrance, the screams and cackles of people having a good time in water drifting over from the main pools. “Hi,” I said to the girl behind the counter. She was about my age, pink hair, and a stud in her nose. “I was wondering about the dream maker jobs?”
“Fantastic!” she squealed. I had no idea how anyone who was sixteen could be so happy. “You’re in luck!”
I blinked at her. That would truly be a first.
She was bubbling over with excitement. “We’re holding the last of our audition days for this season’s new dream makers tomorrow!”
I let the words “audition day” sink in. “Uh-huh?” I muttered.
“So, it’s gonna be so good?” she said. “Starts with team-building activities in the morning, where you’ll be making rafts, doing assault courses and an orienteering exercise around the park; then there’s a talent show?”
“Talent show?” I said.
“So, like, everyone who works here has a talent?” She was one of those people for whom most sentences were a question. “So, you’ll need to show us yours? Maybe it’s singing? Or magic? Maybe you’ve got a dancing dog?”
I could put my toe in my mouth, that was literally it. (Don’t ask about the sequence of events that led to me finding that out.)
“All through these sessions, people get cut if we don’t feel you’ve got what it takes…”
This was sounding better by the minute.
“And if you make it through the talent section, then it’s instant death.”
I nodded. “What… How does that work, then?”
Her eyes lit up. “Everyone gets two minutes to speak, without hesitation or repetition, about themselves. If we get bored, we buzz, and that’s it, you’re dead. Or at least you won’t have a job here, so you may as well be dead!” She laughed like that was funny. Although, in terms of how things worked socially in Newsands, certainly amongst the teen population, it was basically true. All the cool, popular kids got to work and party at the water park in the summer. The rest of us just skulked on the sidelines, pretending like we didn’t care. “Make us laugh, make us cry, just entertain us. That’s a true dream maker, right there.” And she gave me this stupid wink, like she really thought she was it, you know?
I wondered if that was true. I wondered if I really made them cry, if I told them some sad, tragic story about my gran’s stroke or something, that they would be so “entertained” they’d give me a job on the spot.
“Registration is nine a.m. tomorrow!” she beamed.
“I’ll be there,” I said, smiling.
I would not be there. Every kid in a ten-mile vicinity would be turning up for that tomorrow. There was no way I’d survive building a raft with a group of other teenagers. They would all confidently get on with it and then sail away, probably forgetting about me, and leaving me on the side. That was literally what happened on the year nine trip to Paris, when I got left in a service station in Calais, and they only realized when they got to Dover. And that was my fault for “being so quiet”. Quiet kids have it rough in a world that loves noise.
I walked out of the park and trudged along the front, jobless and friendless. A pathetic little loner with forty-eight own-brand condoms and an unfortunate reputation for humping cushions. This was not how the summer after GCSEs was meant to be. This was not how sixteen was meant to be. I was supposed to be engaged in revelries.
I was reaching for my phone so I could put on my Pity Party playlist when I heard the shouting:
“Hey! Oi! Mate?!”
I did what I always did in situations where someone random appears to want my attention: I kept my head down and carried on walking.
“Mate! Mate! Hey, MATE!”
But, OK, this guy wasn’t giving up, and my pulse was increasing in line with his volume.
“MAAATE!”
I looked up.
“Fancy a lemonade, mate?”
I stared at him. It was the lad in the giant fibreglass lemon by the entrance to the pier. Every year, some sucker would take the job standing in the stupid thing, serving fresh lemonade to the tourists, and also lemon sorbet and lollies. It’s all lemon-themed … obviously. It’s a lemon. Be weird if it sold hot dogs. It’s always been considered a bit of a duff job. It doesn’t pay well, mainly because the stand is not that popular. I don’t think fresh lemonade appeals to a lot of people round here; I think they’d rather down an energy drink. Or super-strength lager.