The Last Time I Lied(23)

“Thank God you don’t snore, Em,” Vivian said. “We had a snorer last year. Sounded like a dying cow.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” said Natalie. On her tray sat two servings of bacon and the syrupy remains of flapjacks. She bit into a bacon slice, chewing and talking at the same time. “You’re just being mean because you don’t like her anymore.”

Already, I had noticed the weird dynamic between the three of them. Vivian was the ringleader. Obviously. Natalie, athletic and a little bit gruff, was the resistance. Pretty, subdued Allison was the peacekeeper, a role she assumed that very morning.

“Tell us about yourself, Emma,” she said. “You don’t go to our school, right?”

“Of course she doesn’t,” Vivian replied. “We’d know if she did. Half our school goes here.”

“I go to Douglas Academy,” I said.

Allison stabbed a chunk of melon, lifted it to her lips, put it back down. “Do you like it there?”

“It’s nice, I guess. For an all-girls school.”

“Ours is, too,” Vivian said. “And I’d honestly kill to spend a summer away from some of these sluts.”

“Why?” Natalie asked. “You pretend half of them don’t exist when we’re here.”

“Just like I’m pretending right now that you’re not stuffing your face with bacon,” Vivian shot back. “Keep eating like that and next year it’ll be fat camp for you.”

Natalie sighed and dropped the half-eaten bacon onto her plate. “You want any, Allison?”

Allison shook her head and pushed away her barely touched bowl of fruit. “I’m stuffed.”

“I was just joking,” Vivian said, looking genuinely remorseful. “I’m sorry, Nat. Really. You look . . . fine.”

She smiled then, the word lingering like the insult it really was.

I spent the rest of the meal eyeing Vivian’s plate, taking a bite of oatmeal only when she did, trying to make the portions match up exactly. I didn’t touch the banana until she did. When she left half of it on her tray, I did the same. The bacon and toast remained untouched.

I told myself it would be worth it.



* * *



—

Vivian, Natalie, and Allison left the mess hall before me, preparing for an advanced archery lesson. Senior campers only. I was scheduled to take part in an activity with girls my own age. I assumed I’d find them boring. That’s what one night in Dogwood had already done to me.

On my way there, I passed the girl with the camera. She veered into my path, halting me.

“What are you doing?”

“Warning you,” she said. “About Vivian.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t be fooled. She’ll turn on you eventually.”

I took a step toward her, trying to match the same toughness I had summoned the previous night. “How so?”

Although the girl with the camera smiled, there was no humor there. It was a bitter grin. On the cusp of curdling into a sneer.

“You’ll find out,” she said.





8


Arriving at the mess hall for dinner, I find Franny standing at the head of the room, already halfway through her welcome speech. She appears more robust than before. It’s clear she’s in her element, dressed for the great outdoors before a packed room of girls while extolling the virtues of camp life. She sweeps her gaze across the room as she speaks, making momentary eye contact with each and every girl, silently welcoming them. When she spots me by the door, her eyes crinkle ever so slightly. An almost-wink.

The speech sounds just like the one I heard fifteen years ago. For all I know, it could be exactly the same, summoned from Franny’s memory after all these years. She’s already recited the part about how the lake was formed by her grandfather on that long-ago New Year’s Eve and is now delving into the history of the camp itself.

“For years, this land served as a private retreat for my family. As a child, I spent every summer—and quite a few winters, springs, and falls—exploring the thousands of acres my family was fortunate enough to own. When my parents passed away, it was left to me. So, in 1973, I decided to turn the Harris family retreat into a camp for girls. Camp Nightingale opened a year later, where it welcomed generations of young women.”

She pauses. Just long enough for her to take a breath. But contained in that brief silence are years of omitted history. About my friends, the camp’s shame, its subsequent closure.

“Today, the camp welcomes all of you,” Franny says. “Camp Nightingale isn’t about cliques or popularity contests or feeling superior. It’s about you. All of you. Giving each and every one of you an experience to cherish long after the summer is over. So if you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask Lottie, my sons, or Mindy, the newest member of our family.”

She gestures to her left, where Chet stands against the wall, pretending not to notice the adoring gazes of half the girls in the room. Next to him, Mindy smiles and gives a beauty-pageant wave. I scan the room, looking for Theo. There’s no sign of him, which is both a disappointment and a relief.

Franny clasps her hands together and bows her head, signaling that the speech is over. But I know it’s not. There’s still one part left, completely scripted but performed with the polish of a career politician.