She walked away, probably figuring he was just another stupid good-looking boy, and Simon turned to me and asked if I had any more of the pretzels I had bought from the convenience store in the hotel lobby.
On Thursday, while all of us except Abbey were sitting in my parents’ room trying to decide what to do for the rest of the day, my father telephoned Stan McElvey and told him that he was responsible for our family’s worst vacation ever. “You made this place sound like paradise. It’s the dreariest, most depressing place I’ve ever been. The people who live here will soon need gills to breathe outside.”
My father lowered the receiver and said to my mother, “He thinks I’m exaggerating and that it can’t be that bad.”
My mother took the phone. “It’s worse than that bad.” She told him that
