The Names They Gave Us(24)

“Hi! You must be Hansson.” When I nod dumbly, she says, “Min. Rose Min. I’m fourth-grade girls’ cabin and Purple Team. Sorry I didn’t get a chance to say hi yesterday. How’s your first day so far?”

“Good! The food’s great, and the girls seem really sweet.” It’s pathetic how happy I am that someone’s acknowledging me. Tambe’s not the puppy—I am. Yay, yay! Attention. Next I’ll flop on my back and offer up my belly for rubs.

“Enjoy this moment with Rose.” Tambe leans around so he can make eye contact with me. “She’s in lurve with Davis, so she spends all her time with the college counselors. Too good for us now.”

“Aw, Tambay-bee,” she coos, glancing back at him. “I was too good for you before too.”

Tambe gives me a look as if his point is made. “See? So sassy. This is why we miss her. Relish the little moments she graces us with.”

“Oh, stop. I see you all the time.”

“So sue for me for missing you, Min-y Muffin.”

Lord help me if I don’t want my own stupid nickname. Instead, I sit there on mute, wishing I could find an entrance to this conversation.

Jones jogs in last, easing himself onto the floor in front of Anna and Tambe. He’s wearing another short-sleeved oxford today, this one rust red with tiny white diamonds on it. The print looks like it belongs on a vintage tie.

D’Souza turns out to be a very short girl with the kind of squared-shoulder posture that makes it clear she’s in charge. After giving a few updates—seriously, Leo Leery can’t have gluten no matter what he tells you, and whoever is finishing the coffee without making more, honestly, stop it—D’Souza puts her hands on her hips.

“Okay! I think that’s it. Oh! Did you all meet Hansson?”

When everyone swivels to look at me, I eke out, “Uhh . . . hey.”

“Let one of us know if you need anything. And they told you that you get Friday nights off, yes?” Before I can reply, she continues, “Junior counselors get Friday nights off; college counselors get Saturdays. No curfew, but you still have to be up at seven a.m., so make good choices. We have a zero-tolerance policy for anyone who is hungover or late.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t—”

“Zero. Tolerance,” she repeats before I can explain that I would never. “Last weekend was good. Everyone was smart about it. Let’s keep it that way. Okay. Any other quick questions or concerns?”

“Where’d we land on the Fourth of July?” Min asks.

“Oh, right.” D’Souza crosses her arms like a drill sergeant with troops under review. “Rhea says you guys get the day off. College counselors will get the next evening off.”

“GLORY!” Tambe cries, as Anna and Simmons whoop.

“Well, thank Jones for that one,” D’Souza says curtly. “Since he’s playing the festival, he’s already off.”

Jones raises his arms, bent at the elbow and palms up. It’s a Saint Francis of Assisi pose, missing only a baroque halo and a flock of delicate birds. Half humility, half acknowledgment.

Playing the festival? The meeting is adjourned before I can ask what that means.

July Fourth feels like five years away.

Noon–1:30 p.m.

Lunch, then another half-hour set of chores: cleaning windows in the gym, although “gym” is a flattering word for this space. It’s a small room off the lodge, used only on desperate rainy days, according to Simmons. The floor is made of indoor track material, rubbery and pilled, and the back wall has crates full of jump ropes, dodge balls, and even badminton rackets. They look like they were donated to Daybreak after a school finally replaced their gym class supplies. There’s even a punching bag in the back corner, which I make a note of. I don’t generally think of myself as a person who wants to hit things for catharsis, but . . . well. Things change.

The whining is epic. These girls make window cleaning into one of the labors of Hercules. Even though we counselors are right beside them, scrubbing the higher windows.

“It smells in here,” Brooklyn moans.

“So bad,” Maya agrees. “Like boys. Like boys’ armpits.”

“The mural’s cool,” I say, trying to be positive.

“I guess,” Nadia says. “I like the rainbow.”

Me too. There are elements of childhood fables—birds holding a banner, a tree made of stars.

“I helped paint that, you know,” Simmons says. “My first summer here.”

“Were you in third grade?” Maya asks hopefully.

“Fifth.”

“Really? What part did you paint?”

Simmons points to the flowers growing around the tree.

“Well, it still smells like actual butts in here.” This is from Brooklyn.

“One more complaint,” Garcia says, “and I’ll take away swim hour.”

For a few minutes we scrub in silence, except for the squirts of spray bottles and the squeak of clean glass.

“Have you ever seen Annie?” Sofia asks, and Simmons shoots her a look. “Just saying.”

1:30–2:30 p.m.

Arts class, which can apparently be everything from painting to crafts to dance.

Today, a college counselor teaches the girls about percussion instruments. There are little bongos and maracas, ribbed wooden sticks that they rub together. It’s cacophony.