Page 8 of Puck Your Friend

He clears his throat. “Write to your mother now and then. She worries.”

I nod. “Yeah. I will.”

He shifts gears. “None of those one-line postcards, either. Give her something real. So I don’t have to listen to her whine about you being gone for eight weeks.”

The truck slows as the loop comes into view. Kids are already unloading off buses and out of cars. The engine hums low as he pulls into a space near the cabins.

He looks at me. “You got everything?”

I avoid his gaze. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t turn off the truck. “Call if it’s an actual emergency. Otherwise, I’ll see you when it’s over.”

I reach for the handle. The door sticks. I lean into it until it gives. “Yes, sir.”

Heat presses against my skin the second I swing the door open and step out. I grab his old top loading Army duffle from the back. Markov is faded in black stencils on the side.

The truck pulls away before I can fully step away.

I turn towards the familiar view of the lake off in the distance; the cabins scattered throughout and the various obstacle courses, fields and courts. I get why it’s ten grand to send a kid here for two months. I’m not sure how my mom ever talked my dad into forking that kind of money over when I was younger. But I’ll work every year to the bone from now to as long as Frankie comes.

God, please let her be here.

She’s the girl who turned her hat backward and skidded to a stop on the trail when I wiped out three summers ago, even though we were ahead of the group. I was scraped up and pissed, but she didn’t laugh. She crouched next to me, checked my knee, told me to stop being dumb and let her help. I’d already thought she was cool for having a pocket knife and carving something into a tree, but that moment sealed things for me.

I shift the weight on my back and take the path toward the line for the cabin assignment tables. If I’m lucky, she’s already here.

The line for cabin check-in crawls. I shift my weight. The duffel bag drags against my shoulder. The sun’s already high enough to turn the gravel path hot under my shoes. Sweat collects at my collarbone. I roll my shoulders to keep the straps from digging in deeper.

“Yo, Ford!”

I turn as Jace jogs toward me from one of the buses, wild black curls bouncing with each step. He’s taller than last summer. Not quite eye level, but close. His grin’s the same.

He grabs my hand, pulling me in for a quick hug, and his shoulder presses against mine. “You got taller. Let us catch up, giant.”

I grin. “So did you.”

Wes follows a few paces behind, dragging his duffel one-handed. His hair’s longer, pulled back at the crown of his head inan afro-bun with the sides faded and a clean line at his hairline. He gives a quiet nod. We clasp hands and lean in.

I look at the bus they came in on. “You guys come in together?”

Wes shrugs. “Yeah. Fa-family moved to Denton two weeks ago. He was already at the st-stop.”

Jace swings an arm around Wes’s shoulder, grin widening. “We talked on the way up. He’s going to Markson High. Same high school as me. Gonna be awesome having him around.”

Wes nods again. “Yeah, it’ll be aw-awesome.”

His stutter has gotten way better since last year. He holds eye contact longer, too. It’s good to see him with more confidence.

I shift my pack to the other shoulder. “I’m in Brexton. Near Heathstead. That’s, what, two hours from you guys?”

We shuffle forward. The line’s finally moving. Jace opens his mouth to respond but stops, his eyes looking past me.

“Yo, Logan!”

I turn to look. Logan stands at the trunk of an SUV next to a woman with black hair and dark skin. He gives us an up nod and hugs the woman.

He says something that makes her laugh. Then he grabs his bags and heads our way, giving her a wave over his shoulder.