You Have a Match(26)

“And the universe just gave you one on a silver platter. You’re telling me you don’t want to get to know her?”

“I don’t think she wants to get to know me,” I deflect.

“And are you really torturing yourself? Didn’t your bring your camera? Aren’t you making new friends?”

I want to say no, for the sake of justifying the leaving. But that’s the problem—or the three problems, I guess. Finn’s “Savanatics.”

I walked back to Phoenix Cabin last night feeling like scum on the bottom of someone’s shoe, but opened the door a decorated war hero—it turns out they were all waiting for me, and the instant I opened the door the cabin erupted in cheers. Once I realized the noise was for me and not because someone’s sleeping bag was on fire, they told me that all three of them had successfully signed up for recreational activities during the SAT prep block tomorrow, and no one suspected a thing.

“You’re a lifesaver, Abby,” said Cameron, the one who had waved me over at the pit. She’d already changed into another pair of matching neon leggings and tank top since my arrival, her smile as bright as the fabric.

“An angel,” echoed Jemmy of Team Not Going To College, hopping on her bunk bed to grab the Goldfish she’d somehow snuck into the place and offering me some.

Izzy, aka 1560, swung a towel around my neck like a decorative sash and declared, “A liberator of SAT prep hostages everywhere.”

After, we spent a lot of time chatting, bonding over our mutual dread of penning college admissions essays, counting one another’s already alarmingly large number of mosquito bites in the dark, and breaking into the giant twelve-pack of gum I had stashed in my suitcase. I don’t remember ever stopping—we all just conked out midconversation. The next thing I knew it was nearing daylight, and I was sneaking out to talk to Connie.

“I … guess people are nice here.”

“See?”

“Trouble is, they all think Savvy is infinitely cooler than I am.”

“You know what, Abby? I think this scares you. This new place and new person you have to deal with. And that’s why this is good for you. I think you should find a way to ride this out.”

She’s not wrong. I am scared. I don’t even think I’ve let myself fully feel how deep it goes until I’m hearing her say it, and now it feels like some kind of well in me, something I’ve been trying to fill up long before Savvy or camp ever came into the picture.

“Besides, I’m infinitely cool and you’ve never had any trouble hanging out with me, right?”

My laugh gets stuck in my throat. “I wish you were here,” I say softly. My life might feel like chaos, but it’s never reached a level where one conversation with Connie couldn’t bring it back into focus.

Connie lets out a sad little hum. “I wish you were here.” Before I can answer, she asserts, “But hey, at least we’re getting back around the same time.”

Neither of us misses the very bold assumption that I will be staying at camp. But that’s Connie for you—when she wants to will something to happen, nine out of ten times she’ll get her way, and the tenth time she’ll double back when you least suspect it. Terrifying for our teachers, but extremely helpful in a best friend.

“Tell me about Italy.”

“Oh, it’s whatever. Only the best food I’ve ever tasted and breathtaking views and fascinating ancient history around every corner. I’ll put some of my stunning pictures in the Dropbox so you can see just how over it I am.”

I grin into the receiver. “You poor thing.”

“Hey,” says Connie. “When we get back, can we maybe … have some ‘us’ time? I know I saw you like every day at school, but it feels like I haven’t actually seen you in ages, you know?”

“Yeah. I know what you mean.”

“We can borrow my mom’s car. Have a picnic at Richmond Beach.”

Connie’s the realist between us, so I hate that I’m the one who will have to remind her what’s going to happen in August. I’m inevitably going to be in the second summer school session, and she’ll be nose-deep in the mountain of required reading for AP classes, and our window of time for seeing each other will shrink from there.

But we have to try. I’ll stick a foot in the window and jam it open, if I have to. Connie might be right about staying, but if she is, it’s only because she knows me better than I know myself—and there’s no better person to take advice from about my sister than the sister I already have.

“Assuming you haven’t been swept off your feet by a hot Italian and ridden a moped into the sunset by then? Sounds like a plan.”

We talk for another ten minutes or so, and only after I’ve ducked out of the way of the still wary camp employee and out into the eerie quiet of the empty camp do I realize I never asked her about Leo. I had plenty of time and still managed to swerve around it like it was oncoming traffic. I couldn’t think of a way to ask Connie without implying that she might have lied.

But the farther I get from the office, the more I think that maybe this is different than my usual “conflict avoidance.” This is plain old self-preservation. Connie wouldn’t lie, which means I already know Leo doesn’t like me—the same way I know it’s going to break my heart if I have to hear it again.