What Happens Now(4)

Here’s one thing I learned watching Camden during those weeks: a person’s body can move and not ever touch you, but still have a physical impact on yours. He leaned against the diving board railing as he waited his turn, and it was like I was that railing. The motion of his hand as he ran it through his wet hair while talking—long fingers scattering beads of water—or the angles of his elbows as he stretched out on the sand: these things could make the hair on my arms stand up.

I never liked the word attraction. It’s way too much about magnets, and not enough about why someone’s mere presence can make you feel pleasure and pain at the same time.

Crush didn’t work either. I wasn’t twelve.

What should I have called it? I just called it Camden.

Sometimes, I’d catch him looking my way. A trick of the light, of course. Or the wishiest wishful thinking. Because there was no way I could possibly be worth that.

“Go talk to him,” said Kendall the time we caught Camden glancing at us while he stood in line for the snack shack. “Seize the moment.”

“I will,” I said. “I will.”

“I mean, this moment. Not some theoretical future moment.”

“I have to keep an eye on Dani.”

“I have two. I’ll keep them both on her.”

“Plus, I already have an ice cream. It would be so obvious that I was going over for him.”

“So?”

“Then he would know.”

“Argh,” snarled Kendall. “You’re making me crazy with this. What are you so afraid of?”

I looked at Camden again. He was at the window now, joking with Mabel. She was actually laughing. I hadn’t even known that she could laugh, and that it sounded like a chipmunk on helium.

What was I afraid of? Anything that might tip me off balance and make me fall back into that place I knew was still there, waiting beneath all my newly glossed-over, smoothed-out surfaces. But I couldn’t explain it to her, because I couldn’t even explain it to myself.

As the summer went on, Kendall gathered more details from one of her three older brothers, who seemed to know everyone with one or two degrees of separation. His mom was named Maeve Armstrong and was a medium-famous artist. They lived in a converted church that was either lavender or turquoise—the reports varied on that. He’d been homeschooled until last fall. The most delicious rumor was that his father was Ed Penniman, the lead singer for the legendary punk band the Stigmaddicts.

All this was unconfirmed, of course. But I knew two things about Camden Armstrong for sure:

1) His eyes were the exact same forest green as the diving board.

2) I ached for him in places I never knew could ache, like earlobes and collarbones.

At night, I’d lie awake and picture what Camden’s life was like. I’d think of him in his turquoise church, painting like his mother. Reading books I’d never heard of. Playing guitar or piano, whichever worked best for the songs he wrote. Because surely he wrote songs, surely it wasn’t possible for a boy to look like that and not write songs.

I knew a third definite thing about Camden, eventually. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself.

One day, Camden came to the lake wearing a black baseball cap with a white X on it.

It was a specific white X. Deeply specific, at least for me, and maybe for him, too: the logo for the short-lived TV reboot of Silver Arrow from a few years back.

He knew about my show.

He knew.

About. My. Show.

And so three times. Three times, I started walking over to where he sat by himself on the Navajo blanket. Practicing the line in my head. Laughably simple, really, but then again, all the best beginnings are. Nice hat. Are you a Silver Arrow fan?

The fourth time was going to be the charm, I swear.

Then Danielle was suddenly at my side, tugging on the hem of my rashguard. “Ari, I got a splinter.”

“Again?”

“It’s not my fault, it’s the freaking dock’s fault.”

“Don’t say ‘freaking.’” I took her hand and led her to the lifeguard station, where they probably kept a pair of tweezers with her name on it. And yes, I’ll admit I didn’t mind the extra time to get my nerve up even higher.

But when we got back, Camden was packing his stuff to leave.

I bit down hard on the tip of my thumb as I watched him walk away.

This is what I remember from the next time I saw Camden. It was late August by then.

Camden and his friends on the dock, waiting in line for the diving board.

The girl—I now knew her name was Eliza, I’d heard the boys yell it enough times—reaching out and taking Camden’s hand.

Camden letting her.

Then, Camden leaning in to kiss Eliza.

Eliza letting him.

Their faces breaking apart but their hands staying connected, until it was his turn to dive.

Me not watching that dive. Me not seeing Eliza laugh at whatever he did.

Me, walking up the beach and toward the parking lot and away, away, away from the lake, already closing the book on summer. So mad at myself for being afraid.

And as I drove home, it occurred to me that my thinking about safety could be all wrong. Maybe safety lay in actually pursuing the things you desired. Maybe the real danger was not pursuing them and never knowing what would have happened if you did.