Say You Still Love Me(8)

Mom sighs with relief. Happy that I’m relenting on divorce talk for the moment, likely. “You’ve always been a good kid, Piper. I just think you could stand to make a few new friends with . . . different priorities.” Her forehead furrows slightly, her recent Botox injections keeping her disapproval from showing too much. “We wouldn’t be doing you any favors by handing you a credit card so you can lounge by hotel pools and shop all summer. Your father and I agree on that much, at least.”

“Well, I could have worked at Dad’s, if he had found me something better than a receptionist’s position,” I argue.

“You’re sixteen.” Her platinum-blonde bob sways with her headshake. “Besides, you have your whole life to get sucked into that world. Right now, I want you to experience normal teenager stuff. And being a camp counselor will look really good on your college application.”

I roll my eyes. “Mom. Grandpa has a campus building named after him.”

“See? This is exactly the attitude I don’t want my children to have.” She waggles a finger. “And, who knows? You might decide that you don’t want to work for your father, after all.”

“You’re kidding, right?” I’ve been fascinated with what my father does for as long as I can remember, and she knows it.

“Well, look at your brother—”

I lift a hand in the air to stop her, my annoyance flaring. “I am so tired of talking about Rhett.” He’s all we’ve talked about for the past nine months, since he decided Brown and the family business aren’t for him, dropped out of college, and took off to Thailand to live in a hut and teach English. My dad has all but officially disowned him. It certainly hasn’t helped with our family dynamics, either.

“I know. Just . . .” She sighs heavily. “Please try this summer. For me.” Her normally glowing complexion looks tired and worn.

“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” I grumble reluctantly, but I cap it off with a smile, reaching back to pat my sleeping bag roll. “With my shiny new potato sack that I get to sweat in for the next eight weeks.”

“And it isn’t because of the car your father promised you at the end of the summer, if you agreed to this?”

My hands fly to my chest with my mock gasp. “How could you even suggest such a thing? I’m deeply wounded.”

“Right.”

“But just so you know, I’m getting the C70. With leather seats. And every other upgrade. Limited edition.” Dad insists that my first car has to be a Volvo because he’s convinced they’re the safest cars on the market? Fine. I’m picking the most expensive model.

She chuckles softly and then leans in to plant a kiss on my cheek, her Chanel No. 5 wafting into my nostrils. “Come on. Let’s get out of this car. I’m dying to see what’s changed.”




“We’re bunking together for the summer.” The stocky blonde girl presses a hot, sweaty hand against mine. She’s manning the registration desk—a folding table set up on the grass beneath a maple tree, surrounded by blue coolers brimming with soda cans and boxes filled with red nylon bags and potato chips—and, by her solid stance and the tidy line of pens and paperwork, seems to be taking the job seriously.

“Hey . . .” I check the name tag affixed to her tomato-red camp T-shirt, tight across an ample chest and rounded belly. “. . . Christa.” It’s handwritten in unnaturally perfect, bubbly penmanship, the letters alternating between fuchsia and black, with powder-pink daisies drawn in each corner.

Obsessively neat. Crafty. A scrapbooker, likely.

“So, you’ve never been to Wawa before, right? ’Cuz I don’t remember seeing you here.” She does a quick once-over of my dress with her sapphire eyes. She’s wearing jeans, though it’s far too hot for them, even in the shade. The pink cast and dewy sheen over her otherwise pale skin tells me she’s feeling the oppressive heat.

“No. But my mom has.” I throw a thumb over my shoulder, pointing in the general direction that my mother scurried off in like a child charging a playground, babbling about a totem pole. Noise buzzes all around us—piercing laughter, doors slamming shut, the relentless shrill of the cicadas, the annoying whir of a riding lawn mower. “She used to come here every summer.”

“This is my twelfth year here. Fourth as a counselor.”

“Wow.” I do the quick math. That makes her at least nineteen years old.

She laughs, and it comes out sounding like a series of small snorts. “Yeah. That’s probably why I’m lead counselor this year.” She lifts her chin with that proclamation.

And very proud of the title, it would seem.

“So, anyway, boys’ cabins are on the right side, girls’ are on the left. We meet in the middle for all activities and meals.” She thrusts a nylon bag toward me. “Here’s your welcome kit. It has your T-shirts, flashlight, and counselor handbook. You’ll need to read it, but just to highlight the most important rules—no cell phones, no altering of staff uniforms. Oh, and obviously, no smoking or drinking.”

My hands go in the air. “No worries here.” I hate cigarettes and I’m not much of a drinker.

“Help yourself to a snack,” she says, gesturing to the coolers. “Our welcome meeting is at four in the pavilion, dinner’s at six, ice breakers and bonfire start at eight.” She rhymes off each item smoothly, like she’s been doing it all day. “Breakfast is between eight and nine A.M. Campers start showing up at one. Tomorrow will feel like the longest day of your life.” She taps a clipboard filled with signatures. “Activities sign-up sheets for the next two weeks. Every counselor has to supervise one activity per week. My word of advice—avoid archery.” She pushes her T-shirt sleeve up to show me a small white scar marring her thick bicep.