The Names They Gave Us(35)

“What?”

She’s clapping her hands, shocked by her own delight or delighted by her own shock—I have no idea. “Shit! I thought you just had one of those faces, you know? That looks familiar? You taught me how to do winged eyeliner.”

“I did not.” No way. I mean, my videos get quite a lot of hits, but I’m not an Internet celebrity or anything. Yeah, companies offer to send me products sometimes, but I almost always decline. It makes me feel too sneaky, intercepting packages from my parents.

Anna’s shaking her head. “Yeah! Totally. I mean, I watched a lot of winged eyeliner videos, but oh my God. Yours was definitely one. I can’t believe it.”

“You’re famous!” Tambe tells me. “Have you ever been recognized before now?”

“Once. By a girl coming into Sephora as I was leaving.” She gasped, “LucyEsMakeup??” And I awkwardly said hello, thanking God that my mom and I had agreed to meet back up at the Starbucks on the first floor of the mall.

“You’re doing my makeup,” Anna announces. “I don’t know when, but you are. Okay? Like, you can go full on, no holds barred.”

“You’re on,” I say, smiling.

“All right,” Simmons says. “Ready to get on with this?”

At first, I think she means makeup, but mercifully, Anna turns to explain. “So every Friday, we share the low and the high from our week. Brutal honesty.”

“Okay . . . ,” I say again, already frantically considering mine. But I know. Of course I know.

“You can go last if you want,” Anna adds.

“No, it’s okay,” I say, trying to sound braver than I am. Something I’m getting really, really good at.

“I’ll go first,” Simmons says. She has the bottle of alcohol gripped in one hand. “Low: One of my cabin girls, Thuy, is really homesick. She’s not engaging with us or the other girls yet. But she won’t talk to me about it.”

I think of sweet Thuy, who keeps all her possessions neatly contained around her bed. Her suitcase sits on the shelf, ready to grab at any moment. She’s always looking down. Not up at the trees, not around at the mess hall. It’s like she’s not even here, in her mind. A part of me understands. Half of me is a mile around the bend, in a little cabin with my mom.

Simmons takes a long swallow.

“High,” she says. “There’s a girl in Kiana’s cabin this year with a similar background to us, and they’re already inseparable.”

Before she lifts the bottle to her lips again, she makes eye contact with me, as if daring me to judge her. “The similar background being not ever knowing her mom.”

I say nothing. Did their mom leave? Die? She pulls back another mouthful and passes the bottle to Tambe. I mean, Mohan. I have no idea what I’m supposed to call them.

“Okay. Low: snapping at Conrad because he is consistently, intentionally annoying.” He pauses to drink, then wipes his mouth. “But so was I at that age. High was one of the 5A girls asking to do more boxing after my class. She’s a pissed-off kid. So it might be the right outlet for her.”

He drinks from the bottle, eyes closing briefly like a quick prayer. “You’re up, Lucy.”

I take the bottle from his hand. Not because I want to fit in or get drunk. I mean, I’m pretty sure two sips wouldn’t accomplish either. It’s that sharing in something, even if it’s sips from a bottle, feels crucial here. Besides, I need something to do with my hands.

“Low,” I say. “Watching Nev go through something so scary tonight.”

I tip the bottle back. The liquid is tepid, but it burns, sickly sweet. Saccharine green apples on the front end, but the aftertaste is chemical, toxic. I struggle not to cough. And fail.

“High.” I want to say: All of you. Everyone at this camp who is trying so hard. But I don’t want to be that rookie counselor, the try-hard outsider who overshares. They actually included me tonight, so I shouldn’t highlight how separate I am. “Um . . . let’s see. Hard to pick.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Tambe scolds. “You thought of something. Out with it.”

I take my drink before speaking, more of a nerve-easer than a toast. My taste buds try to push it right back out, and my eyes water at the betrayal. “High: Getting to watch you guys be counselors. How good you are at it, I mean.”

For the second or two that they’re quiet, I feel like I can hear everything: marshmallow sugar melting, leaves detaching from branches overhead, mosquitoes biting into skin.

“Goddamn, Hansson,” Tambe says. “That’s, like, really sweet.”

“Yeah, well,” I mumble, bringing the bottle to my mouth—wetness barely touching my lips—just for something to do.

I partake in this strange communion. Truths and graham crackers and straight liquor. When all confessions have been made, we stack s’mores together, gooey marshmallow stretching between crumbly bites.

“This,” Anna says, “is revolting with the vodka.”

It doesn’t stop her or Simmons from drinking it as we each eat at least one more s’more. Tambe eats four and announces he’s going to pee, wandering off in the dark woods. Anna and Simmons lie on their backs on the blanket, staring up as they whisper. It leaves just Jones and me on the log, and I realize that on some level, I must see him the way the campers do. Like he’s a little larger than life, almost heroic. It feels strange to sit casually next to him when I’ve spent a week at short distance, watching him with all the kids.