The Last Time I Lied(22)
Just like the photo, the sketch defies explanation. I try to think of a logical reason why Vivian drew it but come up empty. She had gone here three summers in a row. Surely there was no need for her to draw a map of the camp to find her way around.
Because that is indeed what it looks like. A map. Not just of camp but of the entire lake. It reminds me of the satellite view I studied on the ride here. All of Lake Midnight in one handy image.
I bring the page closer to my face, zeroing in not on the camp but on the area on the other side of the lake. A short distance behind the mystery structure is something barely distinguishable from the slashes that surround it.
An X.
Small but noticeable, it sits near a cluster of ragged triangles that resemble tiny mountains drawn by a kindergartener. Vivian had used extra force when drawing it. The lines push into the paper, creating two crisscrossed indentations.
That means it was important to her.
That something of interest was located there.
I fold the photograph inside the map and secure them both inside my own hickory trunk. It strikes me that if Vivian had taken such great care to hide them, then I should do the same thing.
It was, after all, her secret.
And I’ve become very good at keeping them.
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
“There’s one thing you need to know about this place,” Vivian said. “Never arrive to anything on time. Either be there first or get there last.”
“Even meals?” I asked.
“Especially meals. You won’t believe how crazy some of these bitches get around food.”
It was my first morning at camp, and Vivian and I had just left the latrine on the way to the mess hall. Although the mealtime bell rang fifteen minutes earlier, Vivian showed no sign of hurry. Her pace bordered on lackadaisical as she looped her arm through mine, forcing me to slow as well.
When we eventually did reach the mess hall, I noticed a girl with frizzy hair standing outside the arts and crafts building with a camera around her neck. She noticed us, too, because something flickered in her eyes. Recognition, maybe. Or worry. It lasted only a second before she raised her camera and aimed it our way, the blue-black lens following us as we entered the mess hall.
“Who was that taking our picture?” I asked.
“Becca?” Vivian said. “Don’t mind her. She’s a nobody.”
Taking my hand, she pulled me toward the front of the room, where a handful of kitchen workers in hairnets stood before steaming trays of food. Because we were among the last to arrive, there was no wait. Vivian was right, not that I ever doubted her.
The only person later than us was a smiling redheaded counselor with the name Casey stitched onto her camp polo. She was short—practically my height—and had a pear-shaped frame made more pronounced by the large pockets of her cargo shorts.
“Well, if it isn’t Vivian Hawthorne,” she said. “You told me last summer that you were done with this place. Couldn’t stay away?”
“And miss out on a chance to torment you for another summer?” Vivian said as she grabbed two bananas, placing one of them on my tray. “No way.”
“And here I thought I was going to have it easy this year.” The counselor gave me an appraising look. She seemed surprised—not to mention a little confused—to see me by Vivian’s side. “You’re new, right?”
Vivian ordered two bowls of clumpy oatmeal, again giving one to me. “Emma, this is Casey. Former camper, current counselor, forever bane of my existence. Casey, meet Emma.”
I lifted my tray up and down in a weak approximation of a wave. “Nice to meet you.”
“She’s my protégé,” Vivian said.
“That’s a scary thought.” Casey turned to me again and put a hand on my shoulder. “Come see me if she starts to corrupt you too much. I’m in Birch.”
She passed us on her way to a decanter of coffee and the platter of doughnuts next to it. Before leaving the food line, I also ordered what I really wanted for breakfast—toast and a plate of bacon. Vivian eyed the extra side dishes but said nothing.
We then made our way through the clanging, slurping girls huddled at tables in configurations familiar from my school’s cafeteria. Younger girls on one side. Older ones on the other. And at that moment, I wasn’t adhering to my socially acceptable pack. A few girls my age took notice and watched with envy as Vivian led me to the side of the mess hall populated by older girls. She waved to some and ignored others before sitting me down with Allison and Natalie.
I had been awake when the two of them left the cabin to head to the latrine. Although they invited me to join them, I stayed behind, waiting for Vivian to rise. She was the only one I wanted showing me the ropes. While Allison and Natalie seemed nice, they reminded me too much of girls I knew at school. Slightly older versions of Heather and Marissa.
Vivian was different. I’d never met anyone so unfiltered. To a shy girl like me, her attention was as warm and welcome as the sun.
“Morning, bitches,” she said to the others. “Sleep well?”
“The usual,” Allison said as she picked at a bowl of fruit salad. “You, Emma?”
“Great,” I said.
It was a lie. The cabin was too stuffy, too quiet. I missed air-conditioning and the sounds of Manhattan—all those irritated car horns and wailing sirens in the distance. At Camp Nightingale, there was nothing but bug noise and the lake lapping against the shore. I assumed I’d get used to it.