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Her casual use of the f-word made me freeze. It was different from when Heather or Marissa used it during desperate attempts to sound grown-up and cool. The word easily rolled off Vivian’s tongue, making it clear she said it quite a lot. It told me these girls were older, wiser, and tougher. In order to survive, I had to be just like them. There was no other choice.
I closed the lid of my trunk and faced Vivian head on. “If I cry, it’s because I’ve been put in here with you bitches.”
A moment passed in which no one said anything. It wasn’t long, yet time seemed to slow, feeling like minutes as I wondered if they were amused or angry, and if I truly would end up crying, which, quite honestly, is what I had felt like doing since the moment my parents sped away from camp in a cloud of gravel dust. Then I noticed Natalie and Allison with blankets pulled to their noses, trying to hide the fact that they were giggling. Vivian grinned and shook her head, as if I had just paid them the highest compliment.
“Well played, kid.”
“Don’t call me kid,” I said, feigning toughness despite the fact that I still wanted to cry, only this time with relief. “My name is Emma.”
Vivian reached out and tousled my hair. “Well, Em, welcome to Camp Nightingale. You ready to help us rule this place?”
“Sure,” I said, not quite believing that someone so effortlessly cool was paying attention to me. At school, I spent my days blending in with Heather and Marissa, all but ignored by the older girls. But there was Vivian, staring me down, asking me to join her clique.
“Awesome,” she replied. “Because tomorrow, we kick ass.”
6
From the outside, Dogwood looks exactly the way I left it. Same rough brown walls. Same green-shingled roof speckled with pinecones. Same tidy sign announcing its name. I had expected it to be different somehow. Older. Decrepit. A firm reminder that I’m fifteen years and worlds away from the weeping girl who last set eyes upon the place.
Yet, it feels like no time has passed between then and now. That the last decade and a half of my life was nothing but a dream. It’s a disorienting feeling. And slightly scary. But I continue to stare at the cabin, gripped not by fear but by something else. Something sharper.
Curiosity.
Iwantto go inside, look around, see what memories it dredges up. That’s why I’m here, after all. Yet when I twist the doorknob, I realize my hand is shaking. I don’t know what I’m expecting. Ghosts, I suppose.
Instead, I find three different girls, all of them very much alive as they lounge on their respective bunks. They look up at me, surprised by my sudden intrusion.
“Hi,” I say.
My voice is meek, almost apologetic, as if I’m sorry to be invading their space, dragging my suitcase behind me. I haven’t been alone with a group of teenage girls since, well, not long after myfirst time at Camp Nightingale. After what happened here, I gravitated to boys. Shy, nerdy ones. Math whizzes, sci-fi geeks, and drama club members quakingly emerging from the closet. They became my tribe. They still are. I’m comfortable in their presence.
Yes, boys can break your heart and betray you, but not in the same stinging way girls can.
I clear my throat. “I’m Emma.”
“Hi, Emma. I’m Sasha.”
This is spoken by the youngest, a girl of about thirteen who’s perched on the top bunk to my left, her skinny legs dangling. She’s got a friendly face—huge smile, rounded cheeks, bright eyes made even more prominent by a pair of red-framed glasses. I find myself relaxing in her presence. At least one of them seems nice.
“Nice to meet you, Sasha.”
“I’m Krystal,” says the girl sprawled on the bunk below her. “Spelled with aK.”
A few years older and several pounds heavier than Sasha, she’s practically hidden inside an oversize hoodie and baggie shorts. White socks with blue stripes circling the cuff have been pulled up to her knees. On the bed next to her is a ragged-looking teddy bear. In her lap sits a comic book. Captain America.
“Krystal with aK. Got it.”
I turn to the other girl in the room, who lies on her side on the top bunk, elbow bent, head propped up. She appraises me in silence, her almond-shaped eyes flashing a combination of disdain and curiosity. A diamond stud adorns her nose. She looks to be about sixteen and, like most girls her age, thoroughly unimpressed with everything.
“Miranda,” she says. “I took the top bunk. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Bottom bunk is fine,” I say as I hoist my suitcase onto the bed, the mattress springs sighing under its weight.
Miranda climbs down from the bunk and stretches, her arms and legs enviably thin. She’s knotted her camp-mandated polo shirt at her midriff, revealing her taut stomach. Another diamond stud restsin her navel. She keeps stretching, although it’s more of a silent declaration. She’s an alpha female. Marking her territory. Making it abundantly clear she’s the hottest in the room. An old Vivian trick.
I feel exactly like I did the first time I set foot inside this cabin. Naïve. Tremulous. Unsure of what to do next as the girls stare at me expectantly. Well, Sasha and Krystal do. Miranda climbs back to her top bunk and spreads herself across the bed with a dramatic sigh.
“They did tell you I’d be staying here, right?” I say.