The Names They Gave Us(37)

He shakes his head. “I don’t know that one.”

“Oh, she was a martyr. Of course. Died for her faith—by eye gouging or sword, the story varies.”

“Maybe eye-gouged with a sword,” Jones offers. “Well, that’s . . . charming.”

I laugh. “Right? My dad wanted to name me Esther, but my mom thought it sounded elderly. It’s my middle name. They couldn’t agree on anything biblical, so they branched out to saint names. We’re not even Catholic!”

“Me neither. I do like the idea of saints, though. Rhea has a statue of Saint Jude, patron saint of lost causes, even though she doesn’t believe in saints or that any cause is ever lost.”

If a cause is entirely lost, what’s the point of a saint to watch over it? Or to field prayers about it? But I know. I know because, for the first time, I feel like a lost cause—or at least a desperate case. I would want a saint who knows how far gone everything feels.

He tells me more about Rhea, and about her son, Bryan—the tall guy with a beard who I met only briefly. He’s always hurrying from one place to the next. I learn that Jones has been at Daybreak since sixth grade, same as Anna. Tambe since seventh, and Simmons since fifth. I don’t even feel disappointed to confirm that theirs is an impossible history for me to slide into. I just feel sad—and, okay, a little curious—about all of them experiencing some kind of trauma so young. What sent each of them here?

We talk about the shared lives of musicians—about exacting teachers who pushed us to be better, about the long hours, and nerve-racking performances.

“So, why’d you stop piano lessons?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I admit. It felt inevitable, at the time. “I think it’s that my mom swam when she was my age, so it’s this shared language. Something we both get. With piano, I was the only person at home who played. Plus, I think I wanted to be part of a team instead of all that practice alone or with a teacher.”

“I’ve always thought I want to be a professional trumpeter,” Jones says. “But sometimes I think it’s too solitary for me. Like maybe I’d be happier with counseling or social work. Not psychiatry—my mom’s a psychiatrist, so I’m too close to that, ha. But something where I can help kids the way Rhea and Bryan helped me.”

There is a tiny piece of my heart—like rot in an apple—that hopes one of his parents had cancer and made it through. Maybe that’s his checked bag. Then he could talk me through it in his highly skilled counselor way. It’s so selfish a thought that I stun myself with it, wondering if the devil has sunk his nails into me. I tuck my arms together, leaning forward to look at Jones. “You’d be a natural at that.”

“Yeah?” He tilts his head at me, genuinely touched. “Thanks. It’s just hard to tell if trumpet is meant to be a hobby I really love—or a profession. All I know is that I better decide before college applications really come at me.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean.” I never wanted to be a professional pianist. Turning it into work would spoil it. Sometimes I think I’d be a great nurse, like my mom. But I’m not sure if that’s me finding a path or simply admiring hers.

I’m about to confess all this when Jones’s watch beeps. “That’s time, all.”

He opens the jug of water and pulls a few plastic cups from his backpack. Simmons reaches her hand back compliantly for a refill, but Anna doesn’t move. She’s lying on her side, head curled into Tambe’s shoulder and blond hair messy across the blanket. Asleep.

Jones hands off another cup of water, and Tambe says, “Let’s give her a few more minutes.”

We pack up the graham crackers and skewers. When Jones douses the last flames with the remaining water, the branches sizzle and smoke, and Anna stirs.

“Time to go home, Boo,” Simmons says, nudging her.

She smiles sleepily, a warm kitten waking up to discover she’s still right at home, safe. “Okay.”

I offer her a hand, which she takes. Our eyes connect somewhere on the way up, and her smile drops off.

“Hey, Lucy?” Her voice is soft.

“Yeah?”

“Sorry I called the Christian camp around the lake ‘crazy’ that first day you were here.”

Ah, there it is. Sometimes, after people find out I’m a PK, they think back on things they’ve said in front of me. “Oh. That’s okay.”

She yawns. “No, I actually do know better—I mean, I’m Jewish! And I shouldn’t call other people crazy.”

“We’re all mad here,” Tambe chimes in, with his best Cheshire cat voice.

He folds up the blanket and slings one arm around Anna, and Simmons jumps on Jones’s back as they head down through the trees to the trail.

And I want to be one of them. I want to be one of them so, so badly—to fit into this balance, their history, the wolf pack way of them. I see it now, why my mom wants that for me. I see how you can’t help but want it, if you get close enough to witness a group of friends knitted together like this.





CHAPTER TWELVE

Saturday is a special day of color-team activities, so I get to spend the morning on the edge of the pier, coaching some older campers on diving. They’re unflagging, willing to try again and again. And, I admit, I enjoy their wide-eyed admiration after they ask me to demonstrate.