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Right on the other side of the wall.
Watching me.
I yelp and rush to the door, fumbling for my towel and robe in the process. By the time I’m pushing my way out of the stall, the light has reappeared, both through the wall and onto the door as it swings open. Whoever was there is now gone.
That doesn’t stop me from yanking on my robe and clutching it tight around me. I rush through the now-empty latrine, bursting through the door with the hope of catching whoever had been watching me.
No one is outside. The entire vicinity is deserted. The closestpeople I see are two campers more than a hundred yards away. Late for breakfast, they hurry to the mess hall, ponytails bobbing.
I’m the only one here.
Just to be safe, I do a quick, awkward circle around the building, seeing nothing. By the time I’m back at the latrine door, I start to wonder if I’m mistaken and that what I saw was merely someone leaning against the building, obliviously covering the crack in the wall.
Yet that explanation doesn’t quite make sense. If it had been unintentional, then the person responsible wouldn’t have left the moment I realized they were there. They would be here still, no doubt wondering why I’ve rushed outside dripping wet, soap remnants sticky on my skin.
So I think of other possibilities. A low-flying bird swooping past the latrine. Or maybe those late-for-breakfast campers rushing by. There’s even a chance it might not have been anything at all. I try to estimate how long the light through the crack was blocked. Not long. A fraction of a second at most. My eyes had been closed a lot longer than that. When I opened them again, it would have taken a second or two for them to adjust to the dimness of the shower stall. Maybe that’s all it was—my vision catching up to reality.
By the time I’m back at Dogwood, I’ve concluded that’s what it was. A trick of the light. A brief optical illusion.
At least that’s what I force myself to believe.
Lying to myself.
It’s the only falsehood I allow.
—
The first painting lesson of the summer is held outside, away from the arts and crafts building and its crowd of campers. Despite reassuring myself that it never happened, I remain shaken by my experience in the shower. Paranoia clings to me like cold sweat, making me hyperalert to even the briefest of glances.
When Sasha suggests we paint the lake, I embrace the idea. Ittemporarily soothes my anxiety while giving the dozen girls who arrived for the lesson something better to paint than the still life I had planned.
Now they stand at their easels, which have been carried to the lawn behind the Lodge, facing the lake. Palettes in hand, all of them contemplate their blank canvases, slightly nervous, fingers absently fiddling with the brushes poking from their cargo shorts. I’m nervous, too, and not just from the stress of the morning. The way the girls stare at me, seeking guidance, is intimidating. Marc was right. This is definitely not in my wheelhouse.
It helps slightly that the girls from Dogwood are here, including Krystal with her promised sketchpad and a set of charcoal pencils. They’re familiar enough to give me a boost of confidence before I begin.
“The assignment this morning is to paint what you see,” I announce. “Just look out at the lake and paint it as only you see it. Use whatever colors you want. Use any techniques you want. This isn’t school. You won’t be graded. The only person you need to please is you.”
As the girls paint, I walk behind them, checking their progress. Watching them paint calms me. Some—such as Sasha and her meticulously clean lines—even show promise. Others, like Miranda’s defiantly blue brushstrokes, do not. But at least they’re painting, which is more than I’ve done for the past six months.
When I reach Krystal, I see that she’s sketched a superhero in tight spandex and a flowing cape standing before an easel. The hero’s face is my own. Her muscular body most definitely is not.
“I think I’m going to name her Monet,” Krystal says. “Painter by day, crime fighter by night.”
“What’s her superpower?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
Class ends when a bell clangs from the mess hall, signaling lunchtime. The girls put down their brushes and scurry off, leavingme alone to gather up their canvases and easels. I move the canvases first, carrying them back to the arts and crafts building two by two so as not to smudge the still-wet paint. Then I return for the easels, finding them already in the process of being collected.
The gatherer is the maintenance man I saw fixing the roof of the arts and crafts building when I arrived. He’s come from the toolshed on the edge of the lawn. Its door sits open, offering a glimpse of a lawn mower, a handsaw, chains hanging on the wall.
“I figured you could use some help,” he says.
His voice is gruff, thickened by a trace of Maine accent.
“Thanks.” I hold out my hand. “I’m Emma, by the way.”