Hope and Other Punch Lines(11)

“The lifeguard already did.”

“Charles?” A hungry eagerness creeps into my voice. Which is silly for a variety of reasons, not least of which is that I have no real interest in Charles. I’m sort of interested in his superhuman abs, but even then only clinically. I’m curious how that happens. How many crunches does he do a day? How long can he hold a plank? Does that leave time for any other hobbies?

“I knew Captain America would get your attention.”

“Stop it. He didn’t ask about me.”

“Maybe he did. And I’m sure Julia would find it interesting.” The song has switched to “This Land Is Your Land” and Uncle Maurice has busted out a battered old acoustic guitar and all I want is to be sitting on the floor, indistinguishable from my girls, singing along. My voice, me, lost in the crowd. I want to sit there and feel pre-nostalgia, which probably isn’t a real thing, but I want to feel it anyway: that potent mix of optimism and yearning and the tiniest bit of sadness that comes with the certainty that something will one day be over even if it’s barely yet begun.

“Please, I really need your help,” he says. His tone has switched from playful to serious, like this all really matters. I want to tell him it’s futile. That the photograph is just a picture of a bunch of lucky people at a single moment in time.

I look over at Julia, who signals that she needs my help. Her hand motions seem friendlier than they did this morning. More Come on over, less Do this NOW. Livi, already my favorite camper because she’s always lost in some imaginary world, squeezes her eyes shut when she belts out to the New York Island. I feel a swell of tenderness as I watch her wipe away a string of mucus with the back of her little hand.

My heart grows along with the music. Next Friday, I need to come to camp dressed in superhero gear. Our lunch was chicken nuggets in the shape of dinosaurs and Tater Tots. This afternoon, we created dream catchers out of paper plates and dyed feathers. I’ve given myself eight weeks. I won’t let Noah take them away from me.

“Fine,” I tell him. “I’ll do it.”

“Awesome,” he says, and throws his arm around my shoulder. I shake it off. “I knew you’d come around.”





I am on an intergalactic space mission to save my fellow Mars colonizers from alien predators. My character in this game looks nothing like me. He has a goatee, neon-green hair in an Elvis swoop, a badass tat on his cheek, and a scar that slices from lip to eye. Jack, currently busy consuming a taco, usually plays as a blue-haired girl with an anarchy sign on her forehead. She kicks my butt every single time.

“Duck!” Jack screams as a space dino roars in my face. I shoot instead, and the animal explodes, drenching me with its guts.

“I can’t believe you resorted to blackmailing Baby Hope,” Jack says, apropos of nothing, which is typically how conversations go for us. “Terrible idea.”

“Thanks for your support, man. Means the world,” I say as I drop and roll across a giant boulder and toss a grenade into the swarm of alien invaders. I suck at video games, but we’ve exhausted the Netflix comedy options and all the new stuff online, and I’m not feeling vintage YouTube today.

I want to blow some shit up.

“Just telling it like it is. Remember ‘Clean-Up on Aisle 5’ guy? Brendan?” he asks. His voice goes a little high. Nervous. I know what this means. New crush.

“The one with the tattoos?” I ask, trying to remember any other details he may have given me but coming up empty. Jack is a better talker than I am a listener.

“Yeah. He’s not an actual high school dropout, but he has that look. I think of it as delinquent-sexy.”

“That would make a great band name. The Delinquent Sexies. Or for my Netflix comedy special. Picture it: Me totally nerding out on the billboard. Big glasses, socks pulled up, maybe even suspenders, and then it would say Noah Stern: Sexy Delinquent.” As I drop the controller to write the billboard with my hands, I take a bullet to my chest. Serves me right.

“Would also work for a porno title,” Jack says.

“I’m pretty sure Abbi has a thing for the lifeguard at camp,” I say. “He’s super cut. Totally the type who should consider an alternative career in porn.”

“You’re the only straight boy I’ve ever met who doesn’t care if you sometimes sound super gay,” Jack says. “I think it might be one of my top three favorite things about you.” I take this for the compliment it is. Worrying whether I seem gay—which, for what it’s worth, I’m not—seems like a colossal waste of time, and I say this as someone who is in hour three of wasting my life pretending to kill alien dinosaurs. “And must everything come back to Abbi now?”

“Sorry. Tell me more.” Jack’s bursting to talk about the random guy he has cast as his love interest this summer, and as his best friend, I must do my duty and pretend to listen. I reload, pick up a booster, and settle into a hiding spot behind a metal door on the space station.

“Well, I’m thinking something more plotted than your typical Internet porn. It would star this kid who’s a delinquent, and spoiler alert: he’s also been a very naughty boy.”

“Stop. I meant about Brendan.”

“Okay. So he’s seventeen. Takes college classes part-time at NJCC. Has a tat on his left bicep that was ill-advised.” Jack starts pacing behind the television, which he does whenever he’s (a) practicing a bit or (b) discussing a guy. One time, when he used a stand-up routine at our school talent show to ask out Alfonso Simeon, it was (c) both.