The Names They Gave Us(34)

“Were you?” He glances over. “Fooled me. You looked so sure that she would be fine.”

“I was just trying to keep her calm. My mom’s a nurse, and that’s always what she does.”

“I was gonna say . . .” He smiles, rubbing at the back of his neck. “You must have experience. I was just frozen.”

“My mom has a, like, very mild peanut allergy. Her throat gets a little itchy. But she basically uses it to get an epinephrine prescription in case I’m ever discovered to have a bad allergy.”

Jones laughs, a surprised ha! “That’s, like, questionable ethics as a nurse . . . but excellent mom skills.”

“Exactly,” I say, rolling my eyes. “And she made me use the practice pen to learn and everything. She’s going to be thrilled it came to good use, which I swore it never would.”

As we hike, Anna and Tambe are practically bouncing, talking over each other and occasionally breaking into song. Simmons collects fallen branches in a stack across her arms.

It’s not long before I’m following them off the trail, dodging between trees. I notice that a few small plants beneath our feet are squashed, clearly trod on last week. The path opens to a little clearing surrounded by trees—as near a circle as you’d find in nature. There’s a metal fire pit in the center and logs arranged around it. We’re closer to the lake than even on the standard trail, but a little higher up. It feels farther removed than a five-minute hike from camp.

The routine unfolds quickly, and I have no place in it. Simmons arranges the kindling in the fire pit, and Tambe leans over it, focusing. Anna airs out a cherry-red tartan blanket while Jones unloads the rest of his backpack. As the fire sparks and snaps, filling the small space with the scent of summer and burning, I wish I had something to set up.

“That’s an impressive fire,” I tell Tambe.

Jones surveys the flames. “I think that’s a record, even for you.”

Tambe raises his arms and shrugs his shoulders in some kind of dance. “Scouting, bitches!”

I wait for Simmons to sit down before I pick a log spot. Once I do, she reaches over to me, holding out a clear glass bottle. It has a green cap and a label that I can’t read, but I’m almost positive it’s alcohol.

“Oh, no thanks.” I’ve only tried alcohol twice. The first time was at a party freshman year, the weekend before Lukas moved to town. That alcohol was also clear. It felt fizzy on my tongue and tasted like raspberries that had been in the fridge about a year too long.

She shrugs and takes an extra drink. I have the distinct feeling that she only offered it to make me feel childish for passing.

“So, Lucy,” Anna says. She’s settled on the blanket, peeling open a chocolate bar. I realize it’s jarring to hear my first name. “How was your week?”

“Oh, good.” The lie dissipates over the fire, a single syllable that seems to create silence. “Yeah.”

“Mohan,” Simmons says. “Tell her.”

Tambe shoots me a look. Apparently, they use first names when alone, and his is Mohan. “Friday nights, we speak the truth. Even if it’s ugly. Even if we have to bitch about campers to get it out. It’s necessary, yeah? To vent, to have a place where we turn off the counselor for a bit.”

“Okay . . . ,” I say, hesitant. I’m wondering if I just agreed to high-stakes Truth or Dare.

“Okay.” Anna’s smile is pointed. “So how was your second week at Daybreak, really?”

Now I wish I’d taken a swig of alcohol. “I’m . . . really tired. Like, bone-deep tired. I feel like I could curl up anywhere—on the ground here—and just pass out.”

Anna snorts. “Me too. I do not have my camp legs yet.”

“So,” Jones says. “You’re from White Hills. You play the piano like a boss. What else? Family?”

They’re trying to get to know you, I remind myself. This is a good thing. “Mom and dad. No siblings.”

“What do your parents do?” This question is from Anna, who is now breaking the chocolate bar into squares.

“My mom’s a school nurse.” Do I say it? I mean, what am I going to do, lie? “My dad’s a pastor.”

That gets their attention. Anna snaps her head up. “You’re a Preacher’s Kid?”

“Ah. A PK. So that explains the no drinking,” Tambe says.

But Simmons, I notice, retracts her head a little, studying me. It’s a protective expression, though I’m not sure what I’m threatening. Or maybe she’s just adding this new information to what she knows of me. I don’t get the sense that it’s in the Pro column.

“Nah,” I say—my attempt at nonchalance. “I’m just nervous I’d throw up or act stupid in front of you guys.”

How’s that for honest? Jones tilts his head down to hide his grin. Then he bails me out. “Got any other fun facts up your sleeve?”

“Um, I’m swim team captain?” For something that takes up so much of my time, it doesn’t land as very interesting. My heart pounds out a pathetic rhythm. Please still like me; please still like me. “And I have an online makeup channel. That’s about it.”

“Whoa, whoa, wait.” Anna sits up. “Oh my God. Oh my actual Lord in heaven.”