The Names They Gave Us(12)

So.

I take one last sip of now-tepid tea. “Well, I better go.”

“Lucy . . .” He reaches for my hand. “I don’t want us to leave angry.”

“I’m not angry,” I lie.

He studies my face for a moment, then nods. Because this is what Lukas does: believes without question. The way I used to. I nearly resent him for it.

When he leans down to kiss my cheek, I almost jerk away. This kiss is a stamp pressed to a letter—the final touch before you send it off. But his cologne wraps around me, oaky and familiar and traitorously pleasant.

“I’ll be praying for you, Luce,” he says quietly.

“I’ll be praying for you too.” That your chicken pox vaccine didn’t work and you spend the whole summer with itchy spots spreading down your back and private parts, into crevices you can’t even scratch.

I may actually be the devil.

On the drive home, I do not cry. I do not hear the radio. I do not feel the AC blasting on my skin. I drive straight ahead, jaw set, intent on my path.

At home, I plunk the car keys on the kitchen table instead of in their designated bowl. It gets my parents’ attention, and I lift my chin. “I wanted to let you both know that I’ll be going to Daybreak this summer.”

My parents’ faces are the theater-symbol masks, comedy and tragedy. My mom beams while my dad’s jaw drops in horror.

“So . . . ,” he manages, “Lukas was supportive.”

I dodge this. I don’t want to talk about Lukas. The last thing my mom needs is confirmation of my turmoil. “I need to do something for myself. And I feel like I’m being called to this camp.”

“Well, okay, then!” My mom clasps her hands together. “I’ll call Rhea! She’ll be delighted, just delighted! Oh, honey. Thank you.”

That settles it: even if my entire summer is a nightmare, the joy on her face was worth it.

So I march upstairs to visit the Daybreak website again and reassess my packing needs. I pack the tin hidden in my desk drawer—the one with all my top-shelf makeup in it. If I’m not going to see my parents every day this summer, maybe I can wear some of it. It doesn’t make sense at camp, necessarily, but you never know.

When I’m done, I sit at the piano downstairs and let my hands fly. I’ve remembered, these past weeks, why this was such a big part of my life. In fact, I don’t even realize my dad’s in the room until I’ve finished a fifteen-minute-long Mozart piece. “Oh. Hey.”

“Hey. Sounded good.” He’s sitting in the Queen Anne chair, looking relaxed. “Bitten by the piano bug again?”

“I guess.”

“About this camp thing. You sure about this, kiddo?”

“I’m sure. It’s what Mom wants.”

“Well, I know. But . . .” As he considers, his dark brows lower in consternation. My dad has a full head of hair, and it’s white—has been since I was little. But it actually makes his face look younger by contrast. Skin smoother, blue eyes sharper. “She would understand, Bird.”

“I know.” But too much has changed now. “I can do it, though.”

“Well, that I don’t doubt. You’ll be a wonderful counselor. We’ve always said how great you are with kids—even when you were a kid.” He gets up, kissing the top of my head. “I’ll just miss seeing you at Holyoke every day, that’s all.”

As he turns to go, he straightens the portrait of Jesus beside the piano.

I walk past the painting every day, but I haven’t looked at it in ages. I picked it out with my mom when I was eight. So many renderings of Jesus make him look stern or so pious that He’s not even human. But the one on this wall? He looks like someone who’d help a mom get a stroller up the stairs—like someone you’d ask for directions, knowing he’d find a way to help you even if he wasn’t sure. “He has laughter in His eyes,” my mom noted approvingly as she purchased it for me. And He does.

As I set my hands on the keys again, I can feel Him looking back at me, His eyes glinting with mirth.

“This isn’t funny at all,” I whisper. “Don’t even look at me.”

He keeps grinning like He knows something I don’t.





CHAPTER FIVE

From my view inside the car, Daybreak looks a lot like Holyoke—cabins set among the trees, a fire pit in the distance, and canoes racked up by the lake, in the same aged forest green and battered camp red. The pier is thin, splitting out into a T-shape. Down a little way, I can see campers in silhouette near the shoreline.

The lodge spans my entire view out our car’s front window. It’s wider than Holyoke’s, with golden-wood siding and a porch. The sign above features a painted sun—half-risen and egg-yolk yellow—with “Daybreak” spelled in cornflower blue.

“Here we are!” my mom announces cheerfully. “Stay here for a minute, okay?”

In the backseat, I hug my knees to my chest, breath fogging up the window. God, what am I doing here? Is this right? Am I really doing this? No answer fills my soul. But as the doubt moves through me like a shudder, I think of Lukas, who didn’t even text me to say Have a good summer! or Good luck at camp! But why would he? We’re paused. In fact, I’m consumed with the urge to find some cute counselor here—maybe one with long hair or those big plugs in his ears, what do I care?—and lay one on him, just out of spite.