The Names They Gave Us(33)

“Sting entry is right arm,” I tell her. “Above her elbow.”

Nev reaches for my hand as Miss Suzette gives her a liquid antihistamine and sets to work cleaning out the sting. Suzette hums a little—calming herself and her patient or filling the tense silence, I don’t know.

When she’s done, she turns back to us counselors. We’ve remained in reverent silence, afraid to disturb such a precarious situation. “All right. I’ve got it from here. Go reassure everyone that she’s gonna be fine.”

“Can Hansson stay?” Nev asks. “Please.”

Miss Suzette doesn’t glance at me. “Of course she can.”

Rhea comes in as Jones and D’Souza head out. She runs a hand over Neveah’s forehead—like a mother checking for a fever—and says, “I heard we had some excitement.”

“Do I have to go to the hospital?” Nev whines. “I don’t want to.”

“Well, we’re going to monitor your symptoms. We’ll call the squad if we have to.”

More tears from Neveah. “Okay. But I’m not leaving camp. No matter what my mom says.”

“You were so brave,” I tell Neveah as we help her settle onto the couch. She’ll get to eat Popsicles and watch TV with Rhea and Miss Suzette.

“Hansson?” she whispers. Her eyes and skin already look much better.

“Yeah?”

“That was scary.”

“It was. But you’re tough.”

She unwraps the Popsicle that Rhea hands to her, giving me a sneaky smile. In a whispered voice, she adds, “I liked the part where Jones carried me.”

I step away for a minute, to use my inhaler in Miss Suzette’s bathroom, which has pink tile and leafy wallpaper and a jar of potpourri. A quick glance in the mirror shows my sunburn and the slightly crazed expression of someone staving off asthma. I look like a madwoman in some Victorian-era crime novel, losing her mind among soft colors and florals. Why would Lukas break up with such a lovely girl? I laugh darkly.

“Let me get you a glass of water,” Miss Suzette says when I emerge.

“Oh, I’m okay.”

Suzette turns with an appraising look. “Did you hear me ask a question?”

Well, then.

I sit at the table in front of a cold glass of water, unaware of how thirsty I was until it hits my lips.

“You did well out there, baby. Kept a cool head. Your mama will be proud.”

“Thank you.” My voice cracks, and just like that, I’m crying. Ugh, how mortifying. I don’t want Rhea or Neveah to hear.

“There it is,” Suzette says quietly.

“I don’t know why I’m crying,” I whisper. “I’m honestly fine!”

“It’s the adrenaline letting up. It’s relief. That was scary.”

“I really thought she might die.”

“I know. But you never showed that to her. You’re tough stuff too, baby. Real tough stuff.”

Somehow, I’m sniffing pitifully inside her arms. And I think—as I worry I will even when I am old and gray—I want my mom. When does it stop—the longing to be mothered?

It’s almost dark when I leave Miss Suzette’s cabin, and the camp has gone quiet. Another Friday night off, but I guess I’ll go to bed early.

“Hey, Hansson!” Anna’s voice calls. “Where ya going?”

When I turn, they’re pooled at the mouth of the woods. Waiting. Anna, Simmons, Tambe, Jones. In plaid button-downs to protect from mosquitoes. Backpacks slung over their shoulders, just like last week. Anna’s holding a thermos and a bag of marshmallows. Jones is carrying a gallon jug of water and a few long metal skewers. The other two have unlit camping lanterns, glossy green and burnt red.

Taking my confusion as hesitancy, Anna hollers, “Don’t tell us you’re practicing piano. You can take a night off.”

When I approach, Jones steps forward a few paces, asking quietly, “Are you okay? We’ll stay back with you, if you want.”

“I did not agree to that,” Tambe grumbles.

“We heard you could use a s’more,” Anna says. “And by ‘s’more,’ I mean a s’more and a stiff drink.”

“Well, tell her the rules,” Simmons says flatly. “She might not want to come.”

Anna hip-bumps her. “Oh, Keels. You’re the only one who hates feelings.”

Okay, now I’m confused: alcohol, s’mores, and feelings?

Tambe takes pity on me and explains. “What happens on Friday nights stays on Friday nights. Can you handle that?”

I want to say, scornfully: Who am I going to tell? But instead I say, “Sure.”

“Then let’s go,” Tambe says, his back already to me. The lantern swings at his side, the rusty handle creaking. Anna and Simmons troop after him, chattering about funny things the campers have said this week.

“Can I carry something?” I ask Jones. The leaves crunch under our shoes as I walk alongside him.

“Oh, sure.” He reaches over to hand me the skewers. Just having something to hold makes me feel included. The metal is warm from his palm. “You’re sure you’re okay? I’ve seen a lot of stuff, but . . . that was intense.”

“I’m okay now. But yeah, I was terrified.”