Say You Still Love Me(15)
“So, did they work things out?”
“No.” Ashley’s emerald eyes widen with emphasis. “And then Darian had Marie and Jenny bunking together this summer. Thank God Christa saw the list and made her fix the assignments. Can you imagine how tense that would have been?”
I assume that’s a rhetorical question, so I merely shake my head as I swat the mosquito on my knee—I should have changed into pants—and make a mental note to avoid accidentally stepping into any minefields around those two girls.
When Christa asked Ashley to show me around, Ashley took that not only in the physical “girls’ restroom to the left, canteen closes at five, stay away from the weedy side of the lake” sense, but also as a rundown of key social connections and juicy gossip, and anything else she deems I might need to know about the people I’ll be living and working with for the next two months. The amount of information she’s off-loaded on me in tiny, private slips between the welcome meeting, dinner, and now is staggering. I’m doing my best to keep everything straight.
So far, aside from the Carlos-Marie-Jenny triangle, there’s also the Kate-and-Colin bet—a pool going on how long it will take for the two senior counselors to hook up again after last summer’s off-and-on-again fling. Based on the googly eyes and secretive smiles they’ve been throwing each other all evening, I’m considering throwing five bucks into the hat for tonight. And then there’s the “Will Tom and Doyle finally come out?” question mark, regarding the lanky blond guy and his friend at the picnic table to the right of us, who were campers here for years and, Ashley swears, have been secretly dating each other for the past two summers.
I’ve also learned that Claire, the girl in the oversized fleece sweatshirt with muscular legs, is the resident waterskiing and wakeboarding instructor for the summer and so good that there’s talk of her qualifying for the Pan Am Games; and that Olivia’s dad owns four gas stations, which classifies her as “rich,” especially with the brand-new Honda Civic she pulled up to camp in; and that Justin got into Columbia University for the fall with a full ride from financial aid that he’s been bragging about.
In my circle of friends, no one would ever brag about needing financial aid for anything.
I’ve also been given the quick rundown on Christa. Apparently she isn’t well-liked. Partly because she has a tendency to boss people around and she insists on always being right, but also because she’s been known to rat out counselors. Now that she’s been tapped as lead counselor—a glorified title for the camp director’s personal gopher that she announces to anyone who will listen—people have been avoiding her at all costs.
And I’m the lucky one who gets to room with her for the next two months.
I’m sure there are plenty of questions floating around about the new girl. Everyone’s been nice so far, but I haven’t missed the frequent curious glances, and there was that abrupt end to a hushed conversation between Ashley and two other girls as I returned with my burger, followed by embellished smiles.
I haven’t offered much information about my life, so I can’t imagine what Ashley would be saying about me by way of introduction. It’s nice being a mystery. So different from back home, where it seemed half the school knew my name by the end of my first day of freshman year. Or rather, they knew my family name.
The one person I’m dying to get information on, though, the one I’ve been acutely aware of since crossing the threshold to take a seat at the pavilion for orientation, is the one Ashley hasn’t divulged a single detail about yet. The one leaning casually against the trunk of a giant cedar tree, his hands tucked loosely into his pockets, his feet crossed at the ankles, talking with Olivia as she shamelessly flirts with him. The one I’ve swapped frequent glances with for hours now, allowing myself to admire that gorgeous face for a mere second or two before shifting away, so as not to be too obvious.
“So, what’s that guy’s story, anyway?” I finally ask, feigning disinterest. “You know, the one from earlier. Kurt or something . . .”
“Kyle,” she corrects, her eyes immediately locking on him, as if she’s been aware of his location all along, too. “He runs this place. At least it feels like that, sometimes. He’s . . . different.”
“How so?”
“He’s just . . .” She shakes her head. “I don’t know how to explain it. I like him, don’t get me wrong. But no one really knows much about him.” She glances around and then lowers her voice even further. “He used to come here with his brother. He was this quiet, skinny little kid who didn’t say much. Then they just stopped coming. No one saw or heard from him for forever, until he showed up as a junior counselor last year, looking like that, and I swear, every girl had an instant crush on him. Well, except for Christa.” Ashley snorts. “She reported him for skipping out on his activity once and got him into major shit.” She pauses. “Why? Are you interested?”
“He’s decent enough, I guess,” I lie, nonchalantly. Decent doesn’t even begin to cut what Kyle is. And so different from Trevor, the guy I dated for almost five months this past year. Trevor was a senior, and six feet of brawny muscle, broad shoulders, and baby-blue eyes. He also turned out to be a pig masquerading as a nice guy—promising he wouldn’t pressure me into sex, all while sliding his hand up my shirt and spiking my drinks at parties. When I figured out the latter, I dumped his ass. His ego didn’t take too kindly to that. I mean, a sophomore dumping the Trevor Reilly? He ended up with another senior within two days, and told every guy who would listen to not bother with me unless they wanted serious blue balls.