Hope and Other Punch Lines(10)

“Maybe you should upgrade, then,” I say, and subtly point at Charles, who has now dropped the ring and therefore provided us with a better view of his perfect torso.

“Nah, he’s as dumb as he looks.”

“Those abs, though,” I say. Julia looks him up and down, slowly and without embarrassment or shame. Like it’s her God-given right to look at whomever she wants.

I want to be her.

I want to be her looking at Lifeguard Charles.

I want to be her looking at Lifeguard Charles and understand what it feels like to have him look right back. To feel like you own even just a tiny corner of the world.

I’ve never had a boyfriend, barely even kissed anyone, unless you count a rowdy game of spin the bottle in ninth grade. I own no part of anything.

“You’re totally right. I could forgive the stupid for a night.”

“Be careful. That’s like ten days in camp time,” I say, and Julia laughs.

I mentally give myself a high five.



* * *



—

When I next see Noah, before pickup at afternoon meeting, I do that thing where you stare straight ahead at something intently so you can plausibly pretend you don’t see the person you are avoiding. It doesn’t work. Noah, who is apparently as shameless as Julia, gets right into my face.

“Hey,” he says, planting himself in front of me. “Nice try ignoring me.”

“I wasn’t ignoring you,” I say, and look at the stage, where Uncle Maurice is leading the kids in a round of rah-rah songs. This is my favorite time of the day. When all the campers sit tired and cross-legged on the floor and sing out the rest of their energy. I love the feeling of camaraderie, the pure light in their voices, like we are all part of some magical club full of wonder and delight. “I was lost in thought.”

“What were you thinking about?” he asks, and for a second I think he actually wants to know. I could tell him how afternoon meeting makes me nostalgic for my own childhood, reminds me of dancing to the Beatles in my grandmother’s farmhouse kitchen, reminds me of all my happiest befores. And then I remember yesterday, and his ulterior Baby Hope motive, and I want to kick him in the shins.

“So listen. About yesterday,” he starts.

“Answer is still no. I’m sorry.” Again with the reflexive apology. I should start an I’m sorry jar. Put in a buck every time the words slip out.

“But—”

“Seriously. I can’t.”

“There must be some way I can convince you. Or bribe you, even? I’m not above selling my body.”

I smile, and then, when I realize I’m smiling, I attempt to rearrange my face.

“I really, really need your help on this,” he says. “No one will talk to me without you. Believe me, I’ve tried.” Noah looks earnest now, almost sweet. He ruffles his hair in a charming way, a back-and-forth swoop, which leaves it standing straight up like uneven grass. In the background, I hear my girls’ quavering, off-key kid voices singing “Knights Forever, One and All!” which will now be stuck on a loop in my head for the rest of the day. I won’t mind.

“Find someone else.”

“There is no one else. You are Baby Hope.” He says it too loudly just as the music comes to a stop.

“I told you. Just Abbi. Please,” I say under my breath, and look around to make sure no one over the age of four has heard.

“Exactly how badly do you want to keep this whole Baby Hope thing a secret?” Noah leans in to whisper, and I feel the tickle of his breath on my ear. I shiver.

Does he think I’m playing here? I am not playing. He has no idea what it’s like having people assume they know you. Being treated like a symbol, not a person. People look at that photo and see patriotism, resiliency, sometimes, perversely, even a happily-ever-after. None of which has anything to do with me. There was a “think piece” in the New York Times that went viral after they ran it last year, blaming Baby Hope for the Iraq War. That writer looked at the photo and felt that I was a false idol, a bait and switch, but how ridiculous to accuse me of selling a war. Yet I’m not so sure he was totally wrong. Maybe the photograph did play its small part.

“What do you mean? I told you…” I hate how long it takes me to figure out his subtext. I take a step back. “Wait. Are you blackmailing me?”

“Define blackmail.”

“Come on.”

“If you won’t help me on this article, I guess I won’t be as motivated to keep your secret. I scratch your back, you scratch mine.”

“I’m not touching your back. Even figuratively,” I say.

“How about with one of those long backscratchers with the creepy plastic hands?”

“This is not funny.”

“Or one with an equally terrifying shark mouth?”

“No.”

“Other counselors are bound to ask me about you since we’re the only ones here from Oakdale. I can’t make any promises about what I’ll tell them.” He throws me an exaggerated shrug and looks around pointedly, like he may not be able to stop himself. Like he’s going to scream it out: Hey, you guys, guess what? Abbi is Baby Hope!

“No one’s going to ask about me,” I say, reassuring myself that I’ve already covered my tracks as best I can. I left my middle name off the camp forms to make it harder to find me online. Uncle Maurice doesn’t even know who I am.