"Who the hell do you think that is?" Jack asks, hand shielding his eyes from the sun.
I copy his movements, watching as that grand ass door swings shut behind the girl, sealing her fate. Mrs. Samson has always been pleasant, but she's rather formal. Stiff, really. I can't imagine her visiting hours being much fun, unless you're a history buff or really into British television. I've heard one too many period dramas blaring from the sitting room in passing to not know this detail.
"How should I know?" I shoot back, turning away from the house.
The yard is a mess, and there's a chance that we'll be cleaning it up for the rest of the summer if we don't put our asses in gear now.
"We don't need anymore Summerbirds down here. Not now," Jack mutters, going back to continue his inspection of the boat. "I mean, all these rich folk have fucking generators and workers cleaning up this mess. What the hell are we supposed to do with our own houses?"
I shrug. "It's not much worse than what we were living with before. Not having power doesn't really affect us much, does it?"
"Doesn't matter. They'd still be better than fine in their mansions, and yet, they're probably going to get power back first. They're having everything cleaned up, like they're the ones who are worse off. It's sick."
"Declan's yard is probably being cleaned up right now," I point out quietly.
"Difference is, he knows it's wrong." Jack shoots me a lazy grin. "Fuck it. I need to smoke. You in?"
I shake my head. "Nah, man. I have to finish up here. See you after?"
"Kegger tonight?"
"Kegger tonight," I confirm, and he's off.
Jack hates to work for the wealthy elite of the Isle, but he does it anyway, because what choice does he have? I don't like it much either, but we need the money. I turn back to my work with a heavy sigh, because fuck. Tonight can't come fast enough.
xxxx
Hours later, we're at the beach. Watery beer and other alcoholic drinks are flowing freely, poured into your typical red solo cups. The Scratch's all show up in spades, eager to get away from our shitty houses and overall shitty living situations, made even shittier by the storm.
The Summerbirds, as always, arrive as well. Compared to our threadbare board shorts and ratty t-shirts, the guys arrive with brand new boat shoes, khakis, and collared polo shirts paid for by their parents. All of 'em. The girls wear shorts that are both somehow tight and loose enough to flutter around their thighs, and cropped shirts that are probably worth more than my yearly rent. They sneer at us as we pass them cups, sizing us up, and ensuring we know who has it better.
As if there's ever been a single shred of doubt in that regard. All these assholes have top of the line, reliable generators. They have the power of hot water even after the worst storms of the season. Right now, we might as well shower in marsh; the temperature is warmer than the plumbing. The power will probably be out for weeks, if I have to wager a guess. My house smells like a combination of maple, cinnamon, and woodsy aftershave from my mom's mismatched candle collection.
Tourist kids come to our parties too, eager for some drunken fun away from their planned family activities. They ride their rented beach cruisers over to our side and usually end up walking back. I've helped my fair share of kids out of bushes they crashed into, and witnessed the aftermath of them realizing there's burrs everywhere here. You cut across someone's yard and end up with a whole pack of 'em stuck to your shoes. Honestly, I'll take anyone over the rich snobs, all raised with silver spoons shoved up their asses and crammed down their throats from birth. I'm manning the keg, shooting the shit with Jack and our other friends, Declan and Riley.
