The Names They Gave Us(52)

“What happened to Captain America?” I ask.

“Left with his friends.” She sips from the thin black straw in her drink. “And my number.”

“He was cute.”

“Not my look,” she admits. “But help me, Jesus, I do love a boy who’s full of himself.”

The band starts in with an old Frank Sinatra ballad with panache. All the older couples are on the floor, cheeks pressed close. Henry, back in the lineup, spins his hat so it’s facing front again.

“So,” Keely says. She’s caught me lingering on Jones.

“So,” I repeat, attempting nonchalance.

“You two have been hanging out some evenings?”

“Yep.”

She turns fully, arching an eyebrow at me. “Really? That’s all you’re gonna give me? We share a bed!”

“A bunk bed!” This makes me laugh, at least. “I mean, everyone falls a little in love with him, right? The campers, the adults. He’s very . . . charming.”

“Sure. He just doesn’t generally feel the same.”

“Oh, I don’t think . . . I mean, it’s not . . . that way. For him.”

“If you say so.” She snorts, returning to her drink. I do the same, if only to duck my head and hide my frazzled expression. Is it that way for him?

As we look back over the dance floor, Anna and Mohan sway in the center, hands clasped. They talk, mouths close with small smiles, and they never break eye contact. I was right about the navy mascara and Anna’s coloring, but that’s not why she’s lovely tonight.

I’m so used to the Mohan who is full of smirks and bravado and frenetic hand gestures. How strange to see his face soft, to see him smiling as Anna speaks. How strange to see him standing upright and steady with her hand in his. He’s not the jester. He’s the prince.

But even when he is joking, isn’t he always upright and steady with her?

I tip my head toward Keely. “Is that . . . ?”

She hears my real questions: Is that happening? Shouldn’t it be? Why isn’t it?

“That’s a someday.” We both watch them for a moment. Anna tilts her head back, laughing loudly at something Mohan says. “Once they go there, that’s gonna be it for them. Endgame.”

“Do they know?”

“He does, I think. She needs a little more time.”

“What about you?” I venture.

“Me? I’m leaving after I graduate. For California.” With Keely, I’ve noticed there are always clues in everything she doesn’t say, and I’m learning to read between her lines. She says she’s leaving for California. She means she doesn’t want to be attached.

I think of the starscape above her bunk, the tall redwoods and an Airstream trailer like a silver bullet.

“Why California?”

“I think it’s because I saw it in movies so much as a kid. Somewhere along the way, it became the dream.”

“So, you’ll go to school out there?”

Her smile is wry, almost mocking. “Well, that’s the hope.”

“Good. You could be the female Neil deGrasse Tyson.”

She’s disbelieving, if charmed that I think so. “That man is my deity. But out-of-state college is expensive.”

We’re quiet for a moment.

“So, what will you do in California?”

“Hopefully I get in and get financial aid. But, in any version of reality, I work in textiles or design. I’m really good with patterns and sewing.”

I’ve pieced that together already. “How’d you learn to do that?”

“My aunt, after my mom died. Trying to keep me busy and ladylike.” Now Keely’s smile is certainly mocking. “I can also do a mean needlepoint. No joke.”

“Man, you and Anna are regular Austen heroines. Much more marriageable than I am.”

“I really do love sewing, though,” she says, the edge of defensiveness creeping in. “It isn’t a compromise.”

“I get it. I really do love makeup.” The truth is, sometimes I think I’d be happier doing that than any job I can think of. “So, you won’t want to stay in-state, near your sister?”

“Kiana has a wonderful family.” Her voice is brusque enough that I realize I’ve crossed into treacherous territory. “She’ll be just fine. She’ll be great.”

Kiana has a wonderful family. But Keely doesn’t. They’re not really hers. That’s what I hear.

“So, where in California? LA?”

We chat about her destination, about the hours she’s logged on Google Street View and Craigslist, imagining which neighborhood she’ll live in. She tells me about the upscale consignment store where she works at home. When designer clothes come in with wear or damage, Keely is the one who patches them. She’s even gotten into clothing and handbag restoration, which she’s hoping to do more of in LA.

“I’m going to drive out there too. Solo cross-country road trip.”

“Alone?” I truly wouldn’t feel comfortable driving to Ohio by myself, let alone any farther. “You don’t want to experience that with someone?”

“Of course I do.” She gives me a smart-ass look. “With myself.”