Page 8

eight

Jessie

It’s the first morning of Training Week, and the staff is gathered around the firepit. I look around, momentarily unnerved; usually, all the log benches are filled. Having just seven people, including me, is strange.

Especially when one of them is my childhood best friend, who has grown into a polished woman with serious brown eyes and rigid posture. She’s wearing jeans and hiking boots, but the jeans look designer and the boots are pristine—plus, her familiar wild, curly hair has been tamed into sleek layers. She feels like a stranger, and it’s throwing me off balance.

But I gather my wits and stand, smiling.

“Welcome! Thanks for believing in my crazy adult camp idea—we’ll probably hit some bumps along the way, but if we work as a team, we can make this summer Chick-amazing!”

For a split second, I feel silly—this is a group of grown adults—but Cooper raises his coffee mug and says, “Chicka-wonderful!”

Zoey chimes in, “Chicka-wow!”

She nudges Zac, who’s staring at the clouds, mouth open. He startles and says, “Chicka-brilliant!”

Not quite right, but I give him a smile for trying.

“Let’s talk about the structure of camp,” I say, instructing the staff to turn to the first page in their informational binders. “We have eight one-week sessions, with a new group arriving each Monday afternoon and leaving the following Sunday morning. We’ll have different ages each week. Some in their twenties, some in their forties, and even a group in their seventies!”

I notice Hillary smile when I say this. She’s sitting on the edge of the group, keeping to herself. She was like that as a kid, too. I always had to persuade her to get involved, and she’d usually end up enjoying herself.

At least, I thought she did—maybe not. Maybe that’s why she didn’t want to be a counselor with me. Maybe I was too overbearing. Maybe she didn’t like me as much as I liked her.

Focus , I tell myself.

“Each week has a special activity,” I continue. “Scavenger hunt, camp musical, canoe parade, talent show, Color Wars. See page two in your binders for the full schedule.”

“Question,” Zoey says, raising her hand like a schoolgirl.

I smile in her direction. “Yes?”

“Are staff allowed to participate in these activities?”

“Absolutely,” I say. “Different staff members will be responsible for various events—you and Zac are in charge of the canoe parade—but I hope everyone will participate in as many other activities as possible.”

Zac and Zoey grin at each other, like this is the best news ever.

“The daily schedule is listed on page three,” I say, and summarize: flagpole, breakfast, morning activities, lunch, afternoon activities, dinner, then an evening activity. “Since our campers are adults, they get to choose what they participate in. No one’s going from cabin to cabin waking them up. But I want to emphasize something.”

I pause. Everyone is listening intently.

“Obviously, adults won’t need constant supervision, but we still need to be careful. We’ll require everyone to pass a swim test—”

“And no swimming alone,” Zac chimes in.

“Exactly. No one should go off on their own in the woods, either. It’s easy to get lost, especially at night. And remember, we’re here to work. Please be courteous and professional. That means no romantic involvement with our campers. Understood?”

I look around, making eye contact with each staff member. Zac and Zoey nod in vigorous agreement. Hillary nods, too, but she’s been so aloof it’s hard to imagine her hooking up with someone who’s only here for a week.

But I hold Cooper’s gaze until he nods and looks down. Satisfied, I turn to the next page in my binder. “Please take care of your mental and physical health. Camp is exhausting, so if you’re feeling overly tired, let me know, and I’ll make sure you get a break. Page four shows the assigned day off for every staff member, but if you need more—”

“When’s your day off?” Hillary cuts in.

I look up. “What’s that?”

She points to the schedule in her binder. “I have Tuesdays, Cooper has Wednesdays, Zac and Zoey have Thursdays. Dot has a half day off on Wednesdays and Fridays. But you don’t have any time off.”

I shift my weight in my hiking boots. “I’m the director. It’s a 24/7 job.” Before she can say anything else, I shut my binder and smile. “All right, we have time to work individually, but let’s regroup for lunch. Any questions?”

—

The week progresses: Cooper in the kitchen, Zac and Zoey at the lakefront, Hillary in the Arts and Crafts cabin. Dot finalizes registration, and Mr. Billy does last-minute property maintenance. William Lucas Duncan and his geriatric retriever keep to themselves; he doesn’t even join us for meals. Apparently, he ducks into the kitchen while Cooper’s finishing cooking, grabs some food, and leaves. Which is rude, but for the best. The last thing we need is Luke’s black cloud casting a shadow over everything.

Meanwhile, I’m out of sorts. Usually training week is intense—wrangling counselors is often more difficult than wrangling campers—but this has been oddly…easy. By Wednesday, I’m out of things to do.

I end up in the office, “helping” Dot. I think I’m annoying the shit out of her, though.

Pretty sure that’s why she’s sent me on some made-up errand to ask Hillary what supplies she needs.

As I mosey toward the Arts and Crafts cabin, my steps dragging the closer I get, it dawns on me Dot has an ulterior motive: forcing me to talk with Hillary.

I reach the cabin and push open the door. The interior is cozy and colorful, with big wood tables and art from past summers decorating the walls. But last year’s Arts and Crafts director—a twenty-two-year-old art student named Clarissa—quit a week early and left everything in chaos. Hillary has her work cut out for her.

“Hillary?” I call. My hands twist together, and I force them to relax by my sides.

She emerges from the storage area, holding a box of tangled yarn.

“Hi, Jessie,” she says. “Do you need anything?”

“No, no. Just wanted to check in. See what supplies you need me to order.”

She glances behind her. “Right now, I’m trying to get organized so I can see what I need.”

“Well, um, when you figure it out, just give me a list.”

“Will do.”

She smiles politely, and I smile politely. It’s hard to believe that I used to feel more comfortable around her than anyone else on the planet. What happened?

No. I know exactly what happened. Beneath the awkwardness is a cavern of loss, and part of me wants to ask her why . Why did you abandon me? Why did you walk away from our friendship? But that feels so…needy. So dramatic. I don’t want to make a big deal out of it. We’ve both moved on.

“Awesome,” I say, slapping my hands on my thighs. “Better get going. See you at dinner?”

“Yep.”

I head toward the door, my heart beating oddly fast.

“Jessie?” Hillary says then, and I turn.

“Yeah?”

She twirls a strand of hair around her finger, something she used to do as a kid when she was nervous.

“I…I wanted to say that I’m sorry. For how it all happened, back then.”

For a moment I’m frozen. The memories of that time—the feelings—swell inside me, trying to burst free of the tight box where I’ve kept them locked for twelve years.

Then I pull myself together and smile. “No worries. It’s water under the bridge.”

Hillary nods, but she looks pensive. “I hope we can be friends this summer.”

“Sure,” I say stiffly. “See you around.”

Outside, I stuff my hands in my pockets and head down the path toward the lake. My chest feels sore, like someone reached inside and rummaged around.

People talk all the time about the heartache and despair of a romantic breakup. What about a friendship breakup? Losing Hillary was a thousand times worse than losing Nick or any other guy I’ve dated.

More difficult to get over, too.

Maybe that’s because when a romantic relationship ends, you usually get some closure—there’s a breakup conversation; an evening spent eating ice cream and drinking wine with friends while rehashing the details, followed by the purging of all your ex’s belongings (maybe into a campfire…if you happen to have one nearby). There’s crying and extra chocolate consumption, and eventually, you move on.

But with Hillary? She didn’t even call me when she took that internship. She sent an email. And then never reached out to me again. Ever. There was no closure whatsoever—I hardly allowed myself to think about it.

Now she’s back and she says she wants to be friends, and my heart hurts every time I think about her, and I don’t have the emotional capacity to face any of this, because this summer is going to be challenging enough as it is.

Better to keep my distance.

—

By Thursday, I’m still feeling out of sorts. The staff is eating dinner together—Cooper made chicken fajitas with churros for dessert—and everyone’s laughing and talking. Even Mr. Billy is with us, quietly eating at the far end of the table.

“Would you rather…” Cooper says, and all the former campers perk up as he starts one of our most beloved dinnertime activities. “Lose one eye, or lose two fingers?”

“Can I choose which fingers?” Hillary asks.

I blink, surprised at how eagerly she jumped in. I’ve kept my distance from her, as I promised myself, but I’m not sure she’s noticed. Which maybe goes to show that she doesn’t care nearly as much about me as I care about her.

“Whatever fingers you’d like,” Cooper says.

Hillary holds up her two pinky fingers. “I’d give these two up. I could still have good hand function.”

“Can’t give up the opposable thumb,” Zac chimes in.

“How do we lose them?” Dot asks.

Cooper turns to her. “What?”

“Is my eye surgically removed under anesthesia in an operating room, or plucked out with a dirty knife in the woods?”

Zoey shudders. “Do you think it would hurt worse to get your eye cut out or your fingers cut off?”

“Eye,” Zac says confidently. “It’s one big nerve bundle, you know?”

“It’s not the pain, it’s the risk of infection,” Dot says, dead serious. “You’re healing up a few days later and bam! Sepsis.”

I glance at Mr. Billy, who’s rhythmically shoveling food into his mouth. I swear I see his lips twitch, like he’s holding in a laugh.

“It’s not plucked out!” Cooper says, exasperated. “You just become a person with one eye.”

Zac points to the middle of his forehead. “Like a cyclops?”

“Or a pirate?” Zoey covers one eye like an eye patch.

“I’m going with losing two fingers,” I say. “Depth perception is important.”

“Plus you’re more likely to survive a postoperative infection in your arm than one so close to your brain,” Dot says.

“Smart.” Zac looks impressed.

She gives him a little salute. “Got to be prepared for the worst-case scenario.”

I hold in a laugh. Dot created a ninety-five-page emergency response booklet that covers everything from tornadoes and forest fires (which are possible) to hurricanes and cholera outbreaks (which are not).

“Would you rather,” Zoey says, “have the ability to snap your fingers and create fire or create ice?”

“Ice,” Hillary says. “I’d create an ice castle.”

I press my lips together, inexplicably annoyed. Hillary threw away her opportunity to be here years ago, and now she’s acting like she never left.

“Fire,” I say, a little too forcefully. “Would save me so much time on bonfire nights.”

Dot narrows her eyes, like she’s wondering what’s going on with me, and I glance away.

“Ice,” Cooper says, and Hillary beams at him, delighted. “I’d never have to worry about losing refrigeration. Once I had a hundred pounds of premium steak spoil because we lost power.” He shudders.

“Fire would be good to cook that premium steak, though,” Zac says, and I feel a weird burst of triumph. Like this silly game has turned into a display of loyalty.

Dot points her fork at all of us. “Creating ice would be helpful in a future climate apocalypse caused by global warming.”

Hillary lights up, and I scowl; why can’t Dot be on my side?

“But what if the zombie apocalypse happens instead?” I say. “Fire would be more useful in that case.”

There’s an edge of defensiveness in my voice. Dot’s forehead wrinkles in concern, and my cheeks flush. I’m being immature, I realize that, and I order myself to knock it off. To stop acting like a petty teenager whose feelings were hurt.

“Burn those fuckers alive,” Zac says, and I’m momentarily startled.

Zombie apocalypse , I remind myself.

“Zombies aren’t alive,” a voice says behind me. “They’re undead.”

Everyone turns; it’s Luke. He’s holding a dinner tray, glowering at us like we’re intruding on his meal, rather than the other way around.

“Huh?” Zac says, bewildered.

“Imagine a reanimated corpse,” Luke continues in a flat voice, “devoid of vitality or soul.”

“Ah, so you have something in common,” I say.

Cooper laughs, then covers it with a cough.

Luke’s eyes snap to mine. They’re icy blue, and I shiver. The rest of the table is silent, everyone staring at him. Luke looks like he’s about to fire back a retort, but instead he turns around and stalks out of the dining hall, taking his tray with him.

“What’s up with him?” Zoey says when he’s gone.

I shrug. “Who knows.”

The conversation moves on, but I keep thinking about those cool blue eyes, and the emotion I saw hiding in them. Not anger or contempt, as I expected. More like hurt.

And then I remember something: he was holding a dinner tray. I think Luke wanted to sit with us.