Welcome to Corbet's Inlet, North Carolina, where the teenagers act like adults and the adults act like teenagers. It's Griffin Connolly's favorite place in the world. And while she may not be good at making decisions when it comes to her own life, s...
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Griffin didn't mind having a summer job.
It was actually a pretty decent gig.
Rob, the head tennis pro at CICC, emailed her earlier in the Spring to ask if she wanted to help out in the Pro Shop a little during the summer. No more than twenty hours a week, mostly in the mornings. Of course Griffin had said yes. At the time, she figured having a tennis-related summer job would look good to her new coach and Washington and Lee.
Now, two hours into her first day, Griffin realized she'd accidentally put herself right in the line of fire for all the CICC members wanting to talk to her about her future collegiate tennis career.
The first people to bring it up were Mr. and Mrs. Crenshaw, the decrepit couple from next door. Their scandalously large beachfront mansion had caused a lot of grumbling from the Home Owners Association a few years ago. Rumor had it Mr. Crenshaw had it renovated to add a pool and a second wing for Mrs. Crenshaw, to prove that he loved her more than he loved his mistresses.
Griffin was manning the outdoor Pro Shop kiosk by the clay courts when they strolled over.
"Griffin, honey, how are you?" Mrs. Crenshaw rasped. She was an unpleasant combination of spray-tanned wrinkles and short gray hair. "Are you just so excited to head off to Washington and Lee in the Fall?"
Griffin smiled. "I—"
Mr. Crenshaw cut her off with, "We were just so proud when we heard you're playing for their tennis team! Your parents must be thrilled."
Jesus.
Griffin stumbled her way through the robotic boilerplate response she'd come up with before her official letter of intent signing back in February: "Yes, I'm really honored and humbled to have the opportunity. It's something I've been working toward my whole life."
"That's just so great to hear," Mrs. Crenshaw said, looking back toward the clay courts and smoothing her Barbie pink tennis skirt. "Now, would you mind fetching our racquets for us?"
Griffin swallowed back a string of profanity on the way into the kiosk's storage room.
She ended up having three exact same conversations with different club members after the Crenshaws left. After an hour, she'd gotten so fed up with talking about it that she started greeting guests who approached the counter with a happy, "Hi, there! What's the name on the reservation?" and bolting to get their racquets before they could ask questions.
By the time noon rolled around, Griffin was too wound up for even Instagram to distract her. She put her phone face-down on the other side of the kiosk counter, then pressed her forehead to the cool surface and groaned.
"Now, now. That doesn't sound like a model CICC employee attitude."
Griffin held back another groan.
"Hey, Drew," she said. She didn't even have to look up to know it was him.
