Page 28 of Hockey Halloween

Palmer

“When do your parents get here?” I ask, hoping the answer alleviates this growing sense of dread in the pit of my stomach. The only way it would is if her answer is ‘In another lifetime.’

I normally hate when summer camp ends and I have to return to life in Rhode Island with my parents, but this year it's more than just the usual feeling of annoyance.

It's this ache in my chest, and I know it's not just because I'll miss my camp friends, or because I'll have to spend a few awkward days with my parents before being shipped back to boarding school, where I'll get subpar grades and be the worst forward on my hockey team. It’s because I’ll miss her .

“I don’t know. Matilda says they should be here in, like, an hour.” She sounds upset about it, which I’m hoping means she doesn’t want to leave here—me—either. She sighs and stares at the flat, shimmering water in front of us.

I've been coming to Camp Magog in Maine since I was eight, so the views of the crystal clear lake and the rolling Kelley green hills that rise into mountains with trees taller than skyscrapers don't impress me after six years.

But this is Delaney's first year. Like me, she's from a wealthy family, but she lives in Colorado, not Rhode Island.

And unlike me, she's not an only child. She has a brother and a twin sister.

Well, she had a twin sister. Hadley died last year, which Delaney says is why she's here.

Her parents can't deal with their grief and their children at the same time, so she's here improving her tennis game, and her brother is at some camp in Canada. That’s all I know. She doesn’t say much else about her family.

This bougie camp is filled with elite, billionaire, and millionaire offspring, and the rules are clear and strict—we don't exchange last names, we can't use or even bring cellphones, and there's no wi-fi.

If we're to communicate with anyone outside of this camp for the eight weeks we're here, we do it by snail mail, like it's the 1800s.

On top of sailing, archery and crafts, and specialized sports programs, we also have group therapy sessions and art therapy.

"Did you have fun this summer?" she asks as the wind lifts a strand of her brown hair, streaked blonde by the endless hours in the sun. It blows across her cheek, toward the lake.

I start to lift my hand off the rock we're balanced on to brush it away, but insecurity has me freezing, and I slowly put my hand back down on the gray surface between us. Her blue-green eyes finally dart my way, and I nod. "Yeah. It's been my favorite summer yet."

She sighs again. “I meant with me. Did you have fun with me ?”

I stare at my knees that have faint scabs on them from a fall during ball hockey. “You’re the reason it was my favorite.”

My heart gallops like I'm running, but I haven't moved a muscle.

She looks at me, but I can't look at her, scared that wasn't what she wanted to hear.

No girl has ever shown interest in me. Last year I grew up, but not out.

I'm five-ten, the tallest fourteen-year-old at this camp, but I'm also probably the skinniest. And there isn't a day I don't have a zit on my face.

I'm not overrun with them, but there's always one.

Today it's on my forehead, by my hairline, and thankfully, my floppy wheat colored hair that hasn't been cut since I got here is covering it.

“Then why haven’t you kissed me? ”

Whoa. My racing heart comes to a skidding stop. She blinks and her cheeks turn the sweetest shade of pink—like they were the day after she got here and she went out in one of the canoes without sunblock. "I've… thought about it, but you told Geoff…"

My brain jumps back to that night two weeks ago when we were playing truth or dare around the campfire and someone dared Geoff to kiss Delaney.

I was so angry I wanted to pick up the log I was sitting next to and hurl it at his face.

He leaned in and she swiftly gave him her cheek, announcing, “I am not having my first kiss be at camp with some random. No offense.”

I was so relieved I audibly sighed. Luckily, no one noticed except Delaney, who thought I was just choking on a s'more.

But that declaration she made never left my head.

Every time I was alone with her. Every time she smiled at me.

Even when she held my hand during the movie night or danced with me, wrapped around me tightly, during the last camp party.

Because Geoff was tall and filled out. He didn't have pimples to hide and he was good at everything we did, from painting to hiking to water skiing to tennis—her favorite sport.

I was borderline atrocious at everything except ball hockey, where I was a pretty decent goalie.

So decent, I was thinking of changing positions from forward to goalie when I got back to my school team in a few weeks.

“Geoff is not you, Palmer.” She blinks and bites her bottom lip. “I wanted my first kiss to be you .”

She stands up, brushing the dirt off the back of her jean shorts.

I scramble to my feet beside her, almost sliding off the side of the half-buried boulder we're on.

Someone calls her name from the other side of the thick brush.

Probably our counselor, Matilda. She's waiting for the arrival of all our parents in the parking lot.

“Now it’s too late.”

She looks so disappointed that it makes me feel nauseous, and I hate myself with a force I never knew possible.

Considering I live on the brink of complete self-loathing, that says something.

She's about to turn away. Turn away and walk through the brush and out of my life.

Most likely forever. Yeah, we've exchanged emails, and she swears she's going to make her parents send her back here next year, but…

I reach up and cup the sides of her face. “It’s never too late.”

I press my lips to hers.