The Names They Gave Us(71)

When we practice “Trumpet Voluntary,” Anna pretends to walk a faux-weepy Mohan down the aisle, where a stoic Keely awaits. They are ridiculous.

And later, while Henry piggybacks me back to Cabin 3A, I think maybe I am ridiculous too.

It almost seems too easy, me and Henry Jones. Until the next week, when I’m on my way to swim hour and I stop into Miss Suzette’s for some aloe vera.

She hands it over, looking at me more seriously than usual. Like she’s disappointed that I let myself get sunburned. “I’m glad you stopped by.”

“Oh?”

“I wanted to check in: Are you okay on protection?”

“Oh, yeah! Thanks. This was my fault.” I tap my pink nose. “But I have plenty of SPF50 back in the cabin.”

“No, sweetie. I meant . . . I mean.” She clears her throat, recalibrating her approach. “Rhea mentioned that you and Jones have been . . . well, that you’re seeing each other. And it’s vital that you’re prepared for any possible . . . intimacy that—”

“Whoa! Oh my gosh! No! I don’t need that . . . kind of thing!” My face could start one of our Friday night fires.

“Well, you may not think you do, but sometimes in the moment—”

“No, you don’t understand. I don’t do that. I’m not doing that. Why would Rhea think that?”

“Oh, it’s not about you, sugar. She doesn’t want to forbid counselor relationships, but over the years, there’s been a pregnancy or two.”

“Seriously?”

She cocks her head at me, like she’s honestly confused that this is a surprise. I just—what?

“Well, I appreciate the consideration. But that’s not something I’ll be doing. I’m a Christian, and it’s—”

“I am too, baby. You don’t need to explain your choices to me or anyone. But if you change your mind . . . no judgment here.”

“Thanks, but I really won’t.”

I hurry right to the lake’s edge, where I grab Anna away from one of her fourth graders. I drag her to a private-enough spot.

“What’s with the drama?”

“I need to talk to you.” I cross my arms, leaning close.

“Okay.” Her face drops the teasing look. “What’s wrong? Is it your mom?”

“No! No. It’s just that . . .” It’s tortuous, trying to get the words out. “Miss Suzette just asked me about . . . protection.”

Anna nods, waiting for the rest of the story. As if this is merely a lede line.

I fling my hands out. “Why would she do that? We’ve been together for a week! Do people think we’re doing that? Does he think we’re going to do that? Because I’m not??! I just . . . I . . .”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Her hands find my arms, trying to contain the emotion. “I’m sure it’s what they do if they know there’s a relationship happening. If there’s any chance at all. They just want everyone to be safe.”

“But do you think he . . .” I drop my voice into a nearly inaudible register. I can’t believe I’m asking this. Like, what insane turn has my life taken that this is a question? It would never have been a question with Lukas. “Expects that?”

“Oh, God, Luce. No. This is Jones we’re talking about.” She corrects herself, straightening up. “I mean, I shouldn’t speak for him. You should talk to him about it.”

“I should talk to a guy I’ve kissed a few times about”—I drop my voice to less than a whisper—“sex?”

“This is really not my department.” She shifts uncomfortably. “But, I mean, just articulate your boundaries. Right?”

“Okay, but not everyone grew up here at Talk About Your Most Honest Feelings camp!”

She bursts out laughing, though it doesn’t sound unkind. “You mean they don’t emphasize communicating about sex in Sunday school?”

“Ugh.” I cover my face with both hands and whisper to myself or to God or possibly Satan: “What is happening right now?”

It’s Anna who answers, gently. “You’re figuring things out with a second boyfriend. Not everything’s going to be like the first.”

“Yeah, you can say that again.” I sigh, twisting my hair up into a big knot. “Okay. Thanks for dealing with my crazy. Being religious can just make things hard sometimes.”

“Aw, sweetie.” She leans in to hug me—really hug me. I rest my chin on her shoulder. “I think most things that matter can be difficult sometimes.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Of course she’s right. The night of the Fourth, I watched exactly how awful people can be just because Anna exists as herself. Heck, her ancestors emigrated from Poland. A huge part of her history is made of faith and difficulty, and I’m blabbering like I invented it. Over something totally harmless. I pull away to look at her face. “Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry. Of course you know that.”

She lifts one shoulder, not denying it. But her smile is easy—forgiving. And I’m not even surprised. If I’m learning one thing at my hippie camp, it’s that we’re all trying, and we’re all messing up sometimes. I’m grateful when grace is extended to me.