The Names They Gave Us(32)

“?‘They’ as in Simmons and Jones? No, no. That’s a brother-sister thing.”

My first reaction is surprise; I never would have guessed. They have different last names, for starters. So maybe they have different dads or something. Simmons is short, with arched eyebrows, higher cheekbones. I guess they do both have heart-shaped faces?

Regardless, I don’t think anything of it when, while trying to make small talk during morning Pitch-In, I say to Simmons, “It’s so nice that you get to be at camp with your brother and sister.”

She gives me the most epic Excuse me? look the world has ever seen. “I don’t have a brother.”

“Jones,” I say, not understanding.

As I stand there, heart pounding with confusion, she levels me with a side eye that could split the horizon line from the earth. “Do I really have to tell you that not all black people are related?”

My face lights itself on fire. “No! What? I mean—Anna . . . she told me you guys are a brother-sister thing!”

Her tight expression relaxes. “Oh, Jesus. Ha! She meant he’s like a brother to me. We grew up together. Same high school, too. Our moms are close. He dated my best friend for over a year. That kind of thing.”

“Oh. Cool.” And my stupid, stupid mouth adds, “Dated?? Like, they broke up?”

“Yeah. In the spring.”

4. Simmons’s stare homes in on me, her brows lowered. “Why? You interested?”

“Oh gosh, no! I just asked because I thought how hard that would be for you, two of your best friends breaking up. I mean, I have a boyfriend. Well, I had a boyfriend. We’re taking a little time off. You know what? It doesn’t matter.” Shut up, Lucy. My words sound like the thumps of a football when it has been fumbled.

5. I play touch football with the Blue Team on Thursday evening. I actually fumble.





CHAPTER ELEVEN

Friday evening after dinner, we’re outside for our color-team activity—a friendly game of kickball against the Yellow Team—when a little voice shrieks, “Help! She’s allergic!”

I turn to see one girl sprawled on the grass. My prayers fly as fast as my feet: Help me, guide me, let her be okay. Oh, Lord, it’s Neveah, Anna’s fourth grader who I met on the first day. D’Souza is holding her hand, wide-eyed but trying to soothe her. I drop to my knees, taking in the hives across her neck, her puffy eyes. She’s lucid, groping around her pocket. She has an EpiPen there—oh, thank God, thank you—and I close my fingers around it.

“Hi, Nev.” I look into her dark eyes, wide with panic. Tears slide down her cheeks. “I’ve got you, okay? Promise.”

“Okay,” she manages.

“Something she ate? Wasps? What?” I demand of her friend, the one who screamed. I’m pulling the pen out of its case.

“Bees.”

I glance back at D’Souza. “I got it. Go.”

She sprints off toward Miss Suzette’s. Somewhere in the noise around me, I register fellow Blue Team counselors getting our campers to back away, giving us space.

“I didn’t,” Neveah gasps, “feel a sting.”

“It’s okay. We’re gonna fix you right up. Ready?” I swing my arm and pop the needle into her outer thigh, feeling it release. She groans but doesn’t cry out as I hold it for ten seconds. “Good girl. That’s gonna help so soon. Just relax. You’re fine now. All fine.”

I scan her legs, up and down, up and down, but I see no entry wound. Still searching, I run my hands over her arms. Ah, there. Right above her elbow, where skin is less sensitive. I scrape my thumbnail across the raised mark, removing the stinger.

Glancing around desperately, I find Jones’s eyes. “Can you get her up?”

Before he can get to us, Neveah grasps my hand. Her brown eyes are wide now, lashes wet. “Hansson. I don’t want to die.”

“Hey. Look at me. Do I look like I think that’s even remotely a possibility?”

She stares into my eyes, and I do not blink, holding my breath until my chest aches. I hope it hides my panic, how fast my heart is beating. I’ll need my inhaler from my own pocket soon enough.

“No,” she decides.

“No,” I agree, and Jones scoops his arms beneath her neck and knees, lifting her.

“Okay, lady, Jones Towing at your service. Here we go.”

I trot beside them, trying to monitor her symptoms. We meet Miss Suzette on the path to her cabin, D’Souza by her side. My relief whooshes out in loud exhales, heavy breathing unhidden now. It’s out of my hands. I did what I could.

“Hey, baby girl,” Miss Suzette tells Neveah. Her gaze moves to me. “You got the Epi in?”

I nod.

“You sure? It can feel like—”

“I’m positive.”

Inside the cabin, ?Jones lays Neveah down on Miss Suzette’s own bed. I didn’t realize she slept here, but of course she would. Camp nurses are needed day and night. She coos at Neveah, supplies already laid out. “Hey, tough stuff. Look at you, riding this thing out.”

“It only happened one time. When I was little,” Nev says. Oh boy, I think. You’re still little! “I just remember it was so, so bad.”

“I know, baby,” Suzette says.