The Names They Gave Us(20)

“What an actual asshole,” I repeat. How strange, the sound of my voice saying that word. It’s like hearing yourself on a recording—is that really me? I wait for the pang of guilt that accompanies any bad language I use, but it doesn’t come. I glance up at the water-stained ceiling, waiting for cracks to form, for God to rain down His holy wrath. There is only the buzz of fluorescent lights.

Anna seems to be on the edge of saying something, but we’re both distracted by the swinging bathroom door. It opens to Simmons’s solid stance and cloud of dark curls.

She takes us in, then focuses on me—my heaving shoulders and wet eyelashes. “You can’t cry in here.”

Her tone doesn’t have a trace of meanness. It’s just a statement of fact.

Anna swivels to gasp at her. “Keely!”

“What? Brooklyn had to pee but heard crying, and it scared her. She came back to the table to tell me.”

“She’s having an asthma attack!”

I shake the inhaler in my hand and curve my mouth upward. It is not a smile.

“Well, go to Miss Suzette or the break room.” Her face softens as she sighs. “I’m sorry; I’m really not trying to be harsh. But if we seem scared or off balance to the kids, then the world seems scary and off balance to them.”

“I—Okay.” Agreement feels easier. Always de-escalate, right? “Fine.”

“And if you’re going to quit, please just do it now.” She says it gently, as if breaking bad news. “I’m sorry. I don’t want the girls getting attached.”

The door closes before I get a retort out of my fallen-open mouth. “Well, this is going great.”

“Sorry about her,” Anna says, turning back. “The girl she was talking to when I introduced you? That’s her little sister. So to Keely, every camper is Kiana. She’s protective.”

“It’s fine,” I lie. “She’s right. I should go to the nurse.”

“You know, tonight’s activity is just practice for our talent show. So I’m sure you could lie low in the bunk.” Anna presses her forehead into her palm. “I’m so sorry. We’re making a terrible first impression. It’s not normally a shitshow like this, I swear.”

“No—it’s fine.” But here’s the thing about It’s fine: The more it’s said, the less it’s true. “I made a terrible first impression. Geez.”

“Not even close. Look, I’ll tell Rhea you’re going to Miss Suzette’s. Can I do anything else for you?”

“No, I’m really fine.” Sure I am. With my pinkened eyes, I’m the picture of stability and grace. “Actually . . . any chance you could forget all that stuff I babbled about?”

Anna smiles kindly. “Maybe not forget it. But I can promise I won’t tell anyone. We Daybreakers may not make a great first impression, but we’re excellent secret-keepers.”

I hope she gets my gratitude through a simple nod.

Before I push out the door, I hear her voice. “Hey, Lucy?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really sorry your mom’s sick.”

Those are the words she says, but I hear the ones that sit behind them: You can talk to me about it if you want. Even though we only met an hour ago. “Thank you.”

The mess hall is full of discordant voices and forks scraping on plates, but I train my eyes downward as I walk out. My hair falls forward like tendrils of vines, hiding me until I emerge into the humid dusk.

I follow the curve of the lake, trying to find a vantage point where I can see the chapel light at Holyoke. I just want to know it’s there—a harbor still waiting for me.

Instead, in the fading golden daylight, I spot Jones sitting on a log by the waterline. Near him, the boy from the fight runs a few paces and hurls a long stick into the lake. It smacks against the water, splashes cutting up. Next, he flings a rock, then what looks like a strip of tree bark—his skinny body pitching forward in a heave of rage.

When the last of his debris pile has dropped beneath the water’s surface, he turns, stumbling back toward his counselor. Only then do I notice those little shoulders, shaking. Jones gets up to catch him beneath the arms, and the boy leans in, sobbing. I can’t look away as Jones stands there, holding him but otherwise gazing out across the placid lake. Like this happens often, angry kids clutching at his shirt as they cry until they’re emptied out.

And that’s why I don’t get to cry, I guess. Because they do. Because we’re older but we’re not the grown-ups who seem too far away to really understand. I tuck that thought inside me, warm and small like balled hands inside hoodie pockets. Beneath the beech trees and sugar maples, feet crunching against dead leaves, I hope for strength. Because as much as I want to be the one crying, I want to be the kind of person someone can hold on to.





CHAPTER SEVEN

6:45 a.m.

I startle awake, disoriented, and nearly smack my forehead against the bunk above me. Camp. Daybreak. A back that aches where it was elbowed. I remember now. After leaving the mess hall last night, I crashed into a dreamless, weighted-down sleep, barely even stirring when the cabin girls came in for lights-out. My co-counselors must think I’m an absolute moron.

If you’re going to quit, please just do it now. Something about that comment makes me resolved to try again. I tiptoe out of bed and change in the communal bathroom, dim lightbulbs flickering overhead.