Page 14

fourteen

Jessie

Putting on a musical at camp is always a challenge, but usually we have weeks to get ready. In this case, the cast and crew arrived five days ago, so it’s been a flurry of activity. Luckily, the campers are former theater kids, so everyone knows what to do: practicing lines, working on costumes, makeup, and sound. We’re staging a gender-flipped, camp-ified version of The Wizard of Oz .

“These are perfect,” I say, smiling at Hillary. We’re on the makeshift stage at one end of the dining hall, seeing everything in place for the first time.

She lights up, pleased. She led the group making the sets, which finished drying last night. “Yeah?”

“They’re Chick-amazing. What do you think, Sam?” I ask our stage manager.

Sam gives a thumbs-up. “By far the best sets we’ve had for a camp musical.”

When Sam turned in their registration with a note that they were nonbinary, I was determined to make sure they felt completely welcome. We’d divided the cabins along gender lines—with Sam’s application, I realized maybe that wasn’t the best idea. Dot and I asked Sam if they’d prefer a men’s cabin, a women’s cabin, or a private room somewhere else.

Sam asked to be assigned to a women’s cabin, and everyone has been incredibly welcoming. Say what you will about theater nerds—they’re overly dramatic, they can be petty or cliquish, but god love them, they will be inclusive.

“Let’s run through the lighting and set changes,” I say to Sam, “before the performers show up for dress rehearsal—”

The doors to the dining hall burst open.

“Jessie! You need to see this!” a male voice bellows. It’s Paul, who’s playing the Wicked Witch, along with two other guys from his cabin. He’s holding up his phone.

I walk over to him. “What’s going on?”

“Darren has a…” Paul hesitates, then sighs. “Just look.”

He turns his phone so I can see the screen: a picture of a flaccid penis.

“Ew!” I yelp, shoving it away. “What the fuck, Paul? I don’t want to see your dick!”

“It’s not my dick, it’s Darren’s,” Paul says. “And the dick isn’t the point. What is that thing ?” He uses his fingers to enlarge the photo, zooming in, and I wrinkle my nose as the thing in question comes into focus: a round, blackish speck against wrinkly pale flesh.

“Looks like a deer tick,” I say, grimacing. That won’t be fun to remove. For Darren or for Dot, our designated tick extractor.

“I knew it!” Paul says, and his friends agree. “It was those chicks in Cabin Eight. They stole his bedding the other day and hid it in the woods. He had to tromp all through the underbrush to find it!”

Beside me, Hillary sighs in exasperation. I feel the same way. While innocent pranking is part of the fun of camp, these two cabins have taken things too far. I’m sick and tired of it.

I pull out my walkie-talkie. “Dot? You there?”

A moment later, my walkie crackles. “Go for Dot.”

“We’ve got a situation with Darren in Cabin Five,” I say. “He’s got a—”

“Dick tick!” Paul shouts into the walkie-talkie, and his friends burst into loud guffaws.

“Yes, a tick on his penis,” I say, trying not to roll my eyes. You’d think these guys were thirteen years old by the way they’re acting.

“Is it engorged?” Dot asks.

Paul blanches. “Uh…”

“The tick, not the dick,” Dot says.

An involuntary giggle rises in my throat, and I stifle it. Behind me, Hillary and Sam look like they’re struggling not to laugh, too. Maybe we’re all still thirteen on the inside.

“I think so,” I say.

“He’ll need to go to urgent care for antibiotics, then. Can’t have him getting penile Lyme disease.”

Paul and his friends exchange horrified glances.

“You’ll head over to his cabin and check it out?” I ask Dot.

“On my way.”

As I replace the walkie-talkie on my hip, something occurs to me: “If Darren has to go to urgent care, we won’t have a lead.”

It’s a ninety-minute drive each way, and the show starts in three hours. Darren’s been practicing all week to play the lead role: the wide-eyed farm boy transported via tornado to a fantastical summer camp.

“Exactly!” Paul says. “And no one else knows his lines.”

Hillary speaks up, her voice tentative: “Well, someone else does.”

—

Hillary and I hurry down the path toward Luke’s cabin. I knock on his door, glad Hillary’s with me. There’s a sense of solidarity in solving this problem together, as a team, like we used to.

The door flings open.

“What?” Luke snaps. His hair is rumpled, like he’s been running his hands through it nonstop.

Flustered, I blurt out, “Darren has to go to urgent care for his dick.”

Luke’s eyebrows shoot up.

“His tick ,” I correct, then mentally kick myself. “I mean, a tick.”

Luke squints at me.

“There’s a tick on his—”

“We need a new lead,” Hillary cuts in, bless her. At this point, my foot is embedded in my mouth. “Since you wrote the script and know the lines…”

“Not interested,” Luke says, and goes to shut the door. I stick my boot over the threshold, stopping it from closing.

“Come on, Luke!” I say, exasperated. “We need you—there’s no time for anyone else to learn the part.”

His mouth curves in a sneer. “You think I give a shit about this musical?”

Hillary sucks in a shocked breath. But I’m used to Luke’s attitude, though he’s being extra salty today. I smile patiently and say, “We could use your help. Please?”

“I’m busy.” He uses his foot to nudge my boot out of the doorway. “Now if you’ll excuse me…”

And he shuts the door in my face for the third time this summer.

Hillary’s jaw drops open. “That was so rude! Just like our second year as CITs—”

“Exactly!” I say, grateful for our shared history.

“What an asshole,” Hillary murmurs, and I nod, although I can’t help wondering what’s going on. I’ve spent enough time with Luke to know he’s not an asshole by nature, though he plays the part well.

We head down the stairs together.

“What’ll we do?” I say.

Hillary gives me a sneaky smile. “I mean, one other person knows the script…”

It takes me a moment to understand. Then: “Who, me? I can’t—it’s supposed to be gender-flipped.”

She shrugs. “It’s gender-flexible.” She’s right; we have a female Scarecrow and a Tin Woman, but the Cowardly Lion is played by a man. “And it’s starting in less than three hours, Jess. Come on. We need you.”

—

It’s been years since I’ve performed in a camp musical, but when we tell the cast and crew, everyone is supportive. Mikayla, the costume designer, gets to work altering Darren’s costume (he’s smaller than me, which isn’t great for my self-esteem). Raul practices my makeup and hair, and Hillary runs lines with me. We break for dinner, after which the crew moves the tables and lines up the benches for our audience.

And then it’s time for the show. Nearly every camper this week was involved in preparing for the musical, but only about a third are performing or working the stage crew, so the dining hall is packed.

When the opening music starts, I take my place, butterflies in my stomach. Cooper and Dot are sitting in the front row; he smiles, and she flashes me a thumbs-up. I scan the audience, stupidly wondering if I might see Luke, but there’s no sign of him. It feels like a slap in the face after all the time we spent writing this damn play.

Then I glance at the wings, where Hillary is waiting to feed me lines if needed, and she mouths, You can do it!

Her words infuse me with confidence. I nod at Sam to turn on the spotlight, and the play begins.

There are mistakes, sure—I forget my lines, the set piece for the house falls over during the tornado, and the sound goes out during the Wicked Witch’s final monologue (“Oh, what a world, what a world…” as he melts into the floor). But the audience is supportive, laughing and clapping at all the right points. When I click my ruby-bedazzled Chuck Taylors and say, “There’s no place like camp,” everyone cheers.

After the performers take their bows, I bring out Sam and their stage crew, Mikayla and her costume designers, Raul and his makeup team, Hillary and her set creators. The audience stands, clapping and cheering.

Then I feel Hillary’s hand grabbing mine. “You did it!” she whispers.

“We did it,” I say, squeezing her hand.

I mean more than just this performance—and more than our efforts to increase profits. We’re building our friendship again.

—

I’m up early the next morning, still basking in the glow of the performance, but tired. The cast and crew were hungry after the show, so Cooper opened the kitchen and made pancakes. We all ended up hanging out long past midnight. I meant to sleep in, but my body is accustomed to waking at dawn, so here I am.

My usual canoe isn’t near the lakefront, which means Zac must be putting sealant on the old wood, as promised. The kayaks are lined up and ready to go, though, so I grab one and set off. I’m listening to The Music Man revival with Hugh Jackman for the first time. It’s good, but I’m still partial to the movie soundtrack. Who can beat Robert Preston, the original Buffalo Bills, and tiny Ron Howard with a lisp?

By the time I’ve paddled out to the middle of the lake, Marian the librarian is falling in love with Professor Harold Hill, oblivious to the fact that he’s a con man. I take a deep breath, relishing the morning breeze and golden sunshine.

But then I realize: my kayak is full of water.

My first thought is that I must have splashed water inside the cockpit; I’m not used to kayaks. But this is more than a little water—my legs are submerged, and I forgot to bring a life jacket (again).

A whisper of panic crawls up my spine. Kayaks are very safe, I remind myself. And there doesn’t seem to be any obvious structural damage. Maybe I hit a rock and cracked the hull, but didn’t notice?

I try to bail water out with my hands but it’s totally ineffective. Nathaniel’s voice sounds in my head ( Safety first, safety second, and safety third ), and through my panic, I try to recall my kayaking lessons from when I was a camper. I could get out of the kayak, flip it over, and let it drain while I float beside it, but I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I’m out pretty far—several thousand yards. I need to make a decision, fast: paddle, or swim back to shore.

Since I don’t have a life jacket, the safest thing is to stay with the kayak. Before the water gets any higher, I remove my earbuds, place them in the dry bag with my phone, and stow it back in the hatch.

I set off, paddling as hard as I can. But the waterlogged kayak feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. Every stroke makes my arms and shoulders burn. Plus, there’s a breeze pushing against me. When I look down, the water level inside the kayak is even higher.

Fear and confusion rattle through me—I thought kayaks were unsinkable? But it’s been years since I’ve used one.

I’m fine , I tell myself. It’s all going to be fine.

But the kayak keeps getting heavier, and the water inside keeps rising.

I have to swim for it.

My heart is beating too fast. I take a calming breath. I can do this. I can see the shore—it’s not exactly close , but it’s close enough. Steeling myself, I lift out of the kayak and drop into the water.

The chill takes my breath away. Out here in the middle of the lake, the temperature never really rises, even in the summer.

It hits me then: I left the dry bag with my phone and my expensive noise-canceling earbuds behind. Damn it. I consider going back, but the kayak is already drifting away, so I tell myself to leave it.

I’ve never been a great swimmer, but I try to remember what I learned in my swim tests all those years ago, counting off a hundred strokes before lifting my head. My heart sinks—the shore is so far. And I feel strangely naked, floating out here without a life jacket. Hillary never loved being in the lake—she said it was like swimming in soup. Fish and poop soup , she’d say.

A hysterical giggle rises in my throat, and I stuff it down. I need to stay focused. My wet canvas shorts are heavy, so I undo the button and wriggle out of them. After that, I feel lighter, which gives me the motivation to set off again. A hundred more strokes, and I take another break.

Still so far from the shore.

I press down the nasty little whisper that says I’m not going to make it and tread water awkwardly, catching my breath. But I suck at treading water, so I roll onto my back. Unfortunately, I also suck at floating on my back. Better to keep moving forward.

Another hundred strokes. The shore is closer, but I’m exhausted . My lungs are burning; every muscle in my body aches; I’m so cold my teeth are chattering.

I can’t do this.

Panic shoots through me, and I desperately start swimming again, my movements clumsy and jerky. My head goes under; I swallow a gulp of water and cough violently when I resurface.

Then I hear a voice drifting across the lake: “Hey! You okay?”

Straining to keep my head above water, I spot a tiny, blurry figure standing on the dock.

“Luke!” I shout, waving one arm.

“Jessie? Swimming alone is against the rules!”

I’m too tired to respond to that.

“My kayak sank!” I manage to shout, and then my head goes under again. I fight to the surface, coughing and flailing. When I open my eyes, Luke is in the water, swimming straight toward me. I kick myself in his direction, even though my muscles are screaming and I keep inhaling water.

When he’s almost reached me, he extends his hand. I lunge toward him, desperate to wrap myself around him and never let go, but he takes my hand firmly and turns me so I’m facing away from him. I momentarily flash with fear, but he’s right behind me, his chest pressed to my back, his arm wrapped around my torso.

“I got ya,” he murmurs in my ear.

I cough up more water, babbling, “Thank you, thank you, I’m sorry, I’m so stupid—”

“Shhh. You’re all right. You’re safe. Let’s get you back to shore.”

Luke clearly knows what he’s doing, holding me against his chest as he kicks his legs to propel us toward land. So I relax and let him take over. I’m shivering with cold and fear, but he’s warm and calm, his heart beating a steady rhythm. And even though he’s only a couple inches taller than me, I realize now that he’s bigger. Broader. Stronger. His arm, the one wrapped around me, is corded with muscle. His wrist has got to be twice as thick as mine.

It’s strange, feeling small. Being taken care of.

Finally, I feel ground beneath my feet. Luke helps me stagger out of the water, then lowers me to the wooden dock, where I collapse in a wet, shivering heap. He disappears for a moment before returning with his towel, which he drapes over my shoulders.

Relief rushes through my body, and my eyes fill with tears. “Thank you so much.”

He wraps his arms around me, rubbing with the towel to warm me up. “What happened?”

“I don’t know! My kayak started taking on water. I lost my phone and earbuds, which—ugh. And yeah, I forgot to bring a life jacket, and I know it was stupid, but—”

He’s staring at me. His eyes have taken on that fiery blue that could burn someone alive.

“What?” I say.

In a flash, he’s on his feet, stalking down the path toward the cabins. I stumble after him, wrapping the towel around my body, trying to cover my wet T-shirt and underwear.

“Hang on,” I call out, but he doesn’t stop. “I’m sorry, okay? I was distracted this morning—I should have been more careful—”

He makes a sharp right turn. Where the hell is he going?

I try to keep up, but he’s faster than I am, somehow unbothered by sticks or rocks in the path, even though his feet are bare and he’s wearing nothing but sopping-wet swim shorts. Meanwhile, I keep stepping on sharp things and yelping in pain. I could go back to the lake and get my shoes, but I’m too curious to turn around now.

Luke reaches Cabin Five, takes the stairs two at a time, and throws open the door without knocking. I scramble up to the porch and hear his thunderous yell echoing in the cabin:

“—motherfuckers better wake up!”

I freeze. Better to stay put.

“What the hell, man?” someone murmurs sleepily.

“This stops now, understand?” Luke shouts, punctuating his words with a fist on the doorframe. “I saw you all down by the kayaks last night.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about, but by the guilty silence in the cabin, I think the campers do.

“It’s their fault I got a dick tick!” a voice says—Darren.

“And they toilet papered our cabin!”

“The girls were talking about going kayaking this morning—”

“We only wanted to slow them down—”

“We just hid the drain plugs so they wouldn’t be able to—”

Luke slams his fist on the doorframe again, silencing everyone. “Are you fucking kidding me? Somebody could have died.”

A memory fills my mind, something I haven’t thought of for years.

The first summer that Luke was a counselor, the thirteen-year-old boys from his cabin played a prank on the eight-year-old girls. It would have been fine for someone their own age (red Kool-Aid in the showerheads), but they did it the morning after telling the little girls about Bloody Barbara, a ghost that supposedly haunted the camp. The girls were terrified and crying, and I overheard Luke giving his boys a strict dressing-down about never pranking anyone younger or more vulnerable. It only added to my blossoming hero worship of him, of course.

“Dude, come on. Zac and Zoey inspect the watercraft every morning,” someone says defiantly.

“Jessie took a kayak out at dawn,” Luke replies in an icy voice. “She almost drowned.”

There’s a brief, guilty silence. Then someone pipes up: “We didn’t mean—”

“Shut up,” Luke snaps. “No more pranks. I expect you to replace the missing drain plugs immediately. Let Zac and Zoey know so they can double-check everything. You’ll have to cover the cost of the lost kayak, as well as Jessie’s phone and earbuds. And last but not least, you will all apologize to Jessie later today.”

With that, he turns and walks out—and nearly crashes into me on the porch.

He stumbles back in surprise, then shoots me an icy glare before walking down the stairs and heading away, down the path.

“Wait!” I shout, running after him.

But he keeps going, his long strides eating up the ground. I struggle along behind, penguin-shuffling, his towel wrapped around me.

“Luke, wait—let me say something.”

He spins to face me, his eyes flashing blue fire. “What?”

“Thank you.”

In response, he rolls his eyes and stalks off again.

My temper flares as I run after him.

“What do you want me to say? I’m sorry for forgetting a life jack—”

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says, without turning around.

“So why are you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you.”

“Then why are you so goddamn confusing?!” I shout.

He finally stops and turns to face me. His chest is heaving, his wet hair sending little rivulets down his skin.

“Every time I think you’re loosening up,” I say, “you freeze over and shut me down. I’m trying to thank you for saving my life, and for some reason you’re furious with me—”

“I’m not—”

“It’s like back when you were a counselor, and you were such a shit to me that second year! You wouldn’t even talk to me!”

He scoffs. “Oh, I get it. You had a crush on me, and I hurt your feelings.”

“I didn’t—that’s not—” I stop, embarrassed. But I have nothing to be embarrassed about. “Okay, sure. I had a crush on you. Practically everyone did. It was silly teenage stuff—you were a counselor; I was a kid.”

“Exactly! I was a counselor having sex dreams about a seventeen-year-old!”

His voice echoes in the morning air.

I stop, shocked speechless. “You—what?”

“Shit,” he mutters. He wheels around and starts walking away.

“No, no, no.” He doesn’t get to leave after dropping that bomb. I catch up to him and grab his wrist. “Explain. Now.”

He yanks his arm away and exhales in frustration. “It was inappropriate, and obviously I knew that, but that summer you looked—different, okay? And I wasn’t going to do anything about it, because you were seventeen and I was twenty and the whole thing disgusted me—”

“ What? ” I cut in, somehow offended.

“—so I didn’t talk to you anymore. I would never in a million years have gotten involved with a camper or a CIT. But I needed to get you out of my head, so I stayed away from you. Okay? Are you satisfied? Is that what you wanted to know?”

He breaks off, breathing hard, and I stand there, my mouth hanging open.

I don’t know what to say—he’s obviously still bothered, and I get it: there was a power differential between us, and I was a minor, still in high school. But we weren’t that far apart in age. It’s not like he was having those dreams about an actual child. And he didn’t do anything inappropriate—in fact, he did everything in his power to avoid even the appearance of anything inappropriate between us.

“You can’t control your dreams,” I say finally. “Everyone has weird dreams—”

“I know!” He runs a hand through his wet hair. “Believe me, I know. You were the last person on earth I wanted to have that kind of dream about.”

Now I’m definitely offended. “So you wanted some distance, fine. But did you have to get the other male counselors to be jerks to me, too?”

He goes still. “I—you don’t know what they were saying about you?”

“No…?”

He blows out a breath, shaking his head.

“What were they saying?” I demand, taking a step forward.

“Just…comments. Inappropriate comments.”

I roll my eyes. “Like Camp Barbie?”

“Worse than that,” he says darkly. “Do you remember that tall guy with the red hair? Vince? He would say disgusting things about you, vulgar things, and it started rubbing off on the others. So I told all the boys’ counselors to keep their mouths shut and leave you the fuck alone or I’d report them to Nathaniel.”

I blink, memories rearranging in my mind. Me, walking up to Luke at the beginning of that second summer. The way the other male counselors stared at me…

They were leering. My body had filled out that year, boobs and hips appearing for the first time, but I didn’t realize anyone was looking at me that way.

When Luke told me to leave, he wasn’t trying to dismiss me. He was trying to protect me.

“Vince ended up being sent home, do you remember?” Luke says.

I shake my head.

“He was getting too close with one of the girl campers. She was, like, fourteen. I told Nathaniel and he fired him immediately.”

Nausea twists my stomach. Sexual abuse is every camp director’s worst nightmare. It permanently taints (and potentially shuts down) the camp. Even worse, it forever damages innocent young lives.

“Thanks,” I say. “For doing that.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t thank me. I felt sick about the…”

“Dreams?” I finish.

He lifts his eyes to meet mine, and something shivers down my spine. Almost of their own accord, my eyes slide down his body: his chest and shoulders, lean muscle and tan skin, still glistening with water droplets. His swim shorts, clinging to his hips and thighs.

My cheeks flare with heat and I shake myself.

“You were a good counselor, Luke,” I say, trying to keep my tone professional. “And like I said, those kinds of dreams don’t mean anything.”

A muscle in his jaw flexes, and he looks away.

“I’m going to shower and change.” I motion to his towel, which is still wrapped around me. “Can I get this to you later?”

He waves a hand. “Yeah, no worries. But I—uh…I need to apologize.”

I blink.

“For how I acted yesterday. I’m dealing with some stuff and none of it is your fault.”

“Stuff like your writing?”

“Among other things. You’ve borne the brunt of my negativity on more than one occasion, and I’m sorry.”

His expression is serious, stiff, like the straight nose and high cheekbones are carved out of marble. Like some talented artist spent days shaping the curve of his lips, the shallow dimple in his chin.

“I forgive you,” I say, surprised—in the best way—to receive this apology.

“Would you believe me if I said I’m actually feeling better being here?”

That makes me smile. “Don’t tell me the magic of summer camp is warming your frozen heart.”

His lips curve up ever so slightly. “Something like that.”

“I’m glad you’re here.” I hold his gaze. All the fear and panic I felt in the water rushes back, and a lump comes to my throat. “Thank you for saving me this morning.”

He gives a curt nod. “No problem.”

“Come to the campfire tonight,” I say. He still hasn’t attended one. It’s our last night with this group of campers, and with a bunch of theater nerds, the singing is sure to be amazing. “Please. You owe it to me.”

He scoffs. “I owe you ?”

“Yes, I’ve been traumatized. I nearly drowned, then I learned that my childhood camp counselor was having naked dreams about me. Which he found ‘disgusting.’ So not only are my lungs damaged from inhaling lake water, my self-esteem has been crushed.”

He runs a hand over his face. I swear he’s trying to keep from cracking a smile. “Jess…”

“Luke…”

“I’ll consider it,” he says. “But I won’t sing any camp songs.”

“That’s okay.”

“And do not force me to socialize.”

“Of course not.”

“And you’d better not tell anyone about those dreams—”

“I would never,” I say seriously, then flash him a smile. “Okay, see ya later…try not to think too much about me while I’m gone.”

He sighs and looks heavenward, as if he’s searching for the strength to deal with me.

“Don’t think about how it felt to have my body pressed up against you in the water,” I add.

He closes his eyes like he’s pained. “My god, Jessie Pederson. You’re a menace.”

I grin. “If you take a nap this afternoon, make sure you don’t dream—”

“Shut your mouth.”

Chuckling quietly, I turn and walk away. All I hear is his heavy exhale behind me, but I guarantee he’s smiling.