The Names They Gave Us(63)

“I can see that, yeah.”

“But I still think she would have rocked as a counselor. And she would have done something cool with her life. That much I know. I make it up sometimes, the story of Vanessa. I imagine all the things she’d be doing.”

“What’s your favorite version?”

“Uhh . . .” He smiles again, thinking about her in this way. “Probably that she runs an art program for kids who have been struggling.”

“It’s so nice that your parents knew to send you here as a kid, to let you process everything.”

“Well . . . ,” he says. “Yeah. But now that I’m older, I think part of it was that my parents needed time to handle their own grief. I think me being away that first summer was easier. They didn’t have to hide their sadness for my benefit.”

I think of my mom, doggedly refusing to be weak in front of me. Did she suggest Daybreak so she could be weak without me witnessing it? “How are your parents these days?”

“Well, you don’t ever get over it, obviously. But my mom has forgiven herself, I think. That was a big hurdle.” He glances up at me. “She felt like she failed Vanessa, even though she did everything right. Got her into therapy, tried meds, never made her feel ashamed. She still doesn’t take on depressed teens as clients—too personal.”

I open my mouth, ready to confess that my mom is very sick and very nearby, but a flash of motion catches my eye. There’s a camper in the doorway. One with a belly bulging out of her pajamas.

“Hey, Tara.” I’m immediately wondering if Miss Suzette is up. If Tara’s in labor over a month early. “You feel okay?”

“Yeah. Just heartburn. I wanted a glass of milk.”

Jones jumps to his feet. “I’ll get it for you. Anything else? Snack?”

“No thanks. Food makes it worse.”

Tara looks around the room, a casual Sherlock scanning for clues. “So, you guys hang out in here after we go to bed?”

“Not really. I play piano some evenings, and Jones reads.” I gesture to his biography of Cleopatra.

“You play piano?”

“Yep.”

“Oh, yeah. From the talent show. Can I hear?”

“Um. Sure.” I move to the piano bench and play the first bit of Solfeggietto. It’s a showy tune, fast enough to impress a layperson. And it’s only about a minute long, so it’s ideal for briefly showcasing your skill.

“Holy. Shit,” Tara says. “How long did that take to learn?”

“The piece? Or playing piano?”

“Both?”

“Many, many hours.”

She rests her hands on her stomach. “I wish I could do that.”

Jones returns with a glass of milk, which Tara takes from him. “Jones, did you know that Hansson is, like, Mozart or something?”

“Why do you think I read in here at night?”

I smile up at Tara. “I can teach you basics sometime, if you like.”

“She’s a really good teacher,” Jones adds.

She takes a gulp of her milk. “Maybe.”

“Can we walk you back to your cabin?” Jones asks.

She looks between us, perhaps snagging on how nonchalantly Jones spoke for both of us. We. “I’m okay. Thanks, though. Have a good night.”





CHAPTER TWENTY

On our night off, we hike to the usual spot, but none of us can bear the idea of adding to the heat with a bonfire. Instead, we settle in with only the lantern lights.

“Fuck it,” Mohan says, opening the backpack. “I’m eating these anyway.”

He pulls out the bag of marshmallows, along with whatever alcohol they got hold of this week.

“We’re shocked,” Anna says, holding out her hand. “Gimme.”

When we all have a handful of marshmallows and drinks, Jones lifts his cup. “Another week down. Cheers.”

Another week down. At first, I wanted them to rush past—wanted the summer to be over with. Now I’m gripping them tightly, trying to cherish it all. When I examine my cup, there’s a small amount of amber liquid. “Mmm. Smells like cinnamon.”

“That’s because it’s cinnamon whiskey.” This is from Mohan.

Henry gives him a look. “It tastes like red hots.”

“It tastes like Christmas,” Keely amends.

My lips tingle before the liquor reaches my taste buds. The cinnamon burns a trail down my esophagus, spreading out in my stomach and back up to my cheeks. As promised, I’m filled with Christmas: spice and clove, sweetness, fireplaces spitting sparks. My mom’s snickerdoodles, her favorite holiday potpourri called “White Christmas.” How many more of those seasons do I have with her? Please one more. Please dozens more. I’ll take whatever I can get. In the meantime, I take another swig. My mouth sears with heat and home.

We go around with our highs and lows. High for me: Thuy put her nose underwater for a few seconds. Low: Maya’s panic attack during rest time.

“Not your breakup?” Anna asks this with pleasant curiosity—no trace of judgment.

“No,” I admit, surprised that I didn’t even consider it. “And technically, we broke up over a month ago. This was just . . . I don’t know. Finalizing.”