The Names They Gave Us(25)
They’re delighted.
“Jesus. Christ,” Simmons mutters, rubbing her temple.
Garcia snorts. “Amen.”
And even I know what they mean.
2:30–4:00 p.m.
By the time we get to the daily swim session with the fourth-and fifth-grade girls, I’m amazed these kids are still on their feet. But finally: something I know I’m good at.
“Anna!” I call, waving. She’s in the water near Min, who also waves at me.
“You cool with shore duty?” Simmons asks. “I promised my sister we could play Marco Polo.”
“Oh. Yeah. Fine.” I already got my swim in this morning, I guess. And besides, after my emotional breakdown last night, I have zero room for negotiation.
Most of the Cabin 3A girls splash around, though a few are digging a massive hole in the sandbank. Garcia’s off with the college counselors, who seem to flock together.
I sit down on a nearby towel, feeling like an afterthought. Maybe this is a preview of college, where everyone will know what they’re supposed to be doing and I’ll just . . . be there. The idea of living in a dorm, where I know absolutely no one, makes me feel preemptively homesick for my mom.
“Hey,” a little voice says. I shield my eyes from the sun, looking up at Nadia.
“Hey.” She sits beside me on the towel without asking, which is a surprisingly little kid move. Already, Nadia strikes me as a bit older, emotionally, than the other cabin girls. Her mind always seems to be chewing on something. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I just miss my mom.”
I weigh the options automatically: reassure her or commiserate. “Hey, you know what? I was just sitting here thinking about missing my mom too.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Did she die? Your mom?”
“No,” I say, surprised. “But she’s pretty sick right now. Did your mom die?”
I should use the same language she did, right? She said it bluntly, so that’s how she thinks of it.
“Yes. When I was seven.” Like it was a lifetime ago, instead of a year.
Nadia’s so tiny—just a baby. And yet, she’s three years older than my mom was when she lost her parents to a car accident. At fourteen, after living with extended family for years, she was placed in foster care, with a couple who ultimately adopted her. I have never fully comprehended how young my mom was until this very moment.
“I’m so sorry that happened. Did you swim together? Is that what made you think of her?”
“Yeah. In the pool. She got in with me and played.”
“I used to swim with my mom too.” Here in this lake, feet kicking hard as she coached me in an encouraging voice. And now, swallowing a lump in my throat, I have to ask myself how I’d want people to treat me if she was gone. “Tell you what: Anytime you miss your mom, you come sit by me and we can miss our moms together, okay? And if you want to tell me any good memories about her, I’d like to hear them. Sound good?”
“Sounds good,” she agrees.
“Hansson!” a voice yells from nearby. “Clara took my shovel! She needs a consequence!”
And here we go again.
4:30–5:30 p.m.
Finally, we get a full hour of cabin rest time.
“You know the drill, ladies! Nap or quiet reading.”
I take the most grateful shower of my life. I don’t even care that I have to wear flip-flops or get dressed in the stall after, not feeling quite dry enough.
For the half hour that remains post-shower, I ball up on my bed. Payton plops down next to me, touching the tips of her dark hair.
“Your hair is curly on its own?”
I push back the damp strands of my hair, which has fully spiraled. “Yep.”
“Mine too. And Simmons’s.” She smiles contentedly. “We all have it! My mom’s hair is smooth, but my dad’s is curly. I think curly is good.”
I prefer mine straightened, but I doubt I’ll have time for it this summer. “I like it too.”
As we walk to dinner, she’s glued to my side, pushing her hair behind her ears when I do.
6:30–8:00 p.m.
After dinner, the evening activity is talent show prep again. In the rec room, Simmons has hauled a sewing machine from who knows where, and she’s puttering over a length of black fabric. Kids practice dance moves in every corner, and the two ninth graders elected MCs write notes in the corner as if hosting the Oscars. On the floor, a group works on a long, painted-paper banner that reads: Daybreak Talent Show.
I help the decoration committee by cutting out yellow construction paper stars. I’m half a decent constellation in when a shadow is cast over me.
“Lucy! Hi.” Rhea is looking down. “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy since your arrival. You doing okay?”
“Fine, yeah.”
“Great. Listen, I was wondering if you could stop by the meeting hall. We put together a choir for all the kids who didn’t want to sing solos for the show, and . . . they could use some backup. Of the piano variety.”
“Oh. Like accompaniment?”
“If you don’t mind.”
I don’t, but I worry that she’s imagining me as the middle-school virtuoso that I was. “Well, I’m a little rusty, but—”