The Lost Summer (11 page)

But when I'd ducked into the riflery hut, Ransome hadn't looked away or down or pointed and laughed (worst case scenario but certainly not out of the realm of my neurotic imagination). He'd looked straight at me and smiled like we had a secret, and I'd melted.

Like the first night at the range, he'd scooted over on the mattress so I could sit next to him. Only it wasn't as crowded this time as it had been that first night, and unfortunately there was no reason for me to sit nearly on top of him. It was killing me sitting so close without touching him. Just pinky-to-pinky would have been enough.

Instead I had to focus on a conversation about Nate's genetic inability to curl his tongue like normal people could. The latter part of that statement was currently being debated, as Pookie and Caroline's sister evidently couldn't do it either.

“What I'm
saying
,” said Nate, “is that the vast majority of the population can fold their tongue.”

“Do you
know
it's a majority?” asked Lizbeth. “Maybe we're not a good sample.”

It wasn't scintillating conversation. At any moment, I waited for Ransome to stand and stretch and say he was calling it a night. Every twitch of his arm and repositioning of his legs caused a little flutter of panic in me that he was leaving. As long as Ransome stayed, I'd stay. It was the waiting game. But it wasn't until everyone but Buzz, Sarah, Ransome, and I were left that I realized we were
both
playing the waiting game.

Ransome spit into his Gatorade bottle and tapped at the round tin of dip he'd pulled from his back pocket. Now that there were only four of us, it was quiet at the range. The only sounds were the crickets and frogs at the lake.

“I don't know how y'all stand that stuff,” said Sarah, nodding at Ransome's dip.

Buzz packed a fat wad in his bottom lip. “You wanna try it?”

“No.” Sarah made a face. “You tried that last year, remember, and I almost threw up.”

“Helena?” Buzz offered his tin in my direction.

“Thanks, I'll pass,” I said. Maybe a guy could pull it off, but I couldn't imagine that a girl dipping would be very attractive. I pictured a dribble of brown drool dripping off my chin.

“Did y'all hear what our cubbies did?” asked Ran-some, changing the subject.

Sarah and I both shook our heads.

“Somehow they snuck into the office to copy photos of Beverly and then posted them on the targets at the archery range.”

“What?!” Sarah was cracking up. “Shut up. No they didn't. Abe would kill them.”

Beverly was the camp nurse for both Brownstone and Southpoint, who obviously hated what she did, because there was not a single time in my nine years there that I had seen her smile. Campers would go a week with a stomachache before they'd go see Beverly. Once when a horse stepped on Katie Bell's foot at the barn, she'd limped around for days before Marjorie noticed and made her go see a foot doctor in town.

“No, it's true!” said Buzz. “We haven't told Abe yet.”

“I don't believe you,” said Sarah, raising a leery eyebrow. I could tell she was wondering if this was some part of an elaborate prank.

“Come see 'em, then,” said Buzz. He stood and obviously expected Sarah to as well. “We haven't taken them down yet. We're gonna give 'em a couple more days. I have to say, I was kind of proud of the guys.”

I laughed. “Y'all are evil.”

Sure, Beverly was mean, but maybe she was just lonely. (As far as we knew, there was no Mr. Beverly.) There had to be something that kept her coming back to camp. She definitely didn't deserve to be target practice.

Ransome acknowledged this. “I know. We really should take them down, Buzz. Someone's gonna slip up and tell Dad.”

“Come on,” said Buzz. He extended a hand to pull Sarah from the floor. “I want to show you if you won't believe me.”

Now
I saw where this was going. Winn had been right. Buzz wanted to go somewhere so they could hook up. Smooth, I thought, amazed at Buzz's unexpected tact.

“Fine.” Sarah acted like she was giving in as she stood up, but I could tell from the hint of embarrassment in her voice that she knew exactly what Buzz was trying to do, and probably knew from the beginning that she would go with him.

I kind of wanted to chuckle. It was fun watching someone else squirm when I felt just as anxious about being left alone with Ransome.

We watched Buzz and Sarah walk off in the dark toward the archery range. I wondered if this was the first time they'd hooked up this summer, or if Sarah had managed to keep it from us. I was sure Winn would be giving her hell if she knew.

“So,” said Ransome. He had moved to the mattress across from me so that we were facing each other now. He sat with his elbows crooked over his knees.

“So,” I said, smiling and trying not to fill the awkward silence with a laugh. It would be a classic Hel move, and I realized I'd been doing it way too much recently. Ransome probably thought I was some kind of hysterical maniac.

“You took ballet lessons as a kid?” he said.

For a second I was lost—could it be that I was being stalked by my stalkee? Then I realized I'd told him that on the hood of Buzz's car, when he'd so earnestly asked me about myself.

“Yeah,” I answered, “when I was little.”

I shouldn't have been amazed that Ransome had actually listened to what I'd said the other night—that's what we were supposed to expect, right? R-E-S-P-E-C-T and all that. Still, I was pleasantly surprised. Talking to John had always left me with the impression we were engaged in entirely different conversations. Me: “I'm trying to decide whether to apply to big colleges or small ones. What do you think?” John: “Uh-huh. You wanna watch a movie this weekend?” (“Watch a movie” was code for hook up in his parents' basement.) John hadn't even remembered my birthday. When he realized he'd forgotten it, he'd run to the Citgo a block from school on his free period and given me a gas-station rose in a cellophane cone as the final bell rang. So the fact that Ransome had retained this tiny, insignificant detail from my nervous ramblings about my childhood was pretty impressive. Maybe it was an age thing, I thought. Ran-some was in college. Maybe they taught Listening to Girls 101 there (because guys obviously didn't get it in high school). Whatever it was, I liked it, and I wished Ransome hadn't moved to the other side of the hut.

“So are you still a dancer?” he asked.

I almost snorted I laughed so hard. “Ha! No. Katie Bell tells me I move like a one-armed sloth.”

“Who's Katie Bell? Is that the redhead you always hang with?”

“Uh, yeah, she's my best friend.” The words felt misshapen in my mouth, like square marbles. “She's”—I almost said “a camper”—“at camp.”

A stitch of guilt, like when you tell someone you like her shirt but really you hate it, tugged at me, and I revised my explanation. I wasn't sure why I was hesitant to admit my best friend was younger. “She's still a cubby because her birthday's not until September. She shanked me during the cubby–counselor soccer game the other day.”

I also wasn't sure why I threw in that last part, other than I'd found it pretty funny and thought Ransome might too.

He laughed. “She sounds like a spitfire.”

“A spitfire?” Now I laughed. “You sound like a forty-year-old man!”

“Yeah. I should probably warn you that I'm kind of a dork.”

“You're a dork? I guess we're well-suited to each other then.”

Woops. Had I just said that? Too much? Was Ransome going to freak out that I'd already chosen the flowers for our wedding and named our three children? (In my defense, I
hadn't
gotten that far, although it
had
occurred to me how cool it would be to get married at camp, but that had been a long time ago.)

I started to do my awkward-silence-covering laugh, but Ransome said, “I guess so.”

I was ready for him to kiss me right that minute— actually I'd been ready since I'd gotten out to the riflery range—but I had to wait a little while longer. It seemed like Ransome and I talked about anything and everything that night: our families, our friends from home, our campers, music, school. He was going back to Tennessee as a sophomore in the fall. I asked him what college was like, and living with a roommate. Was it kind of like living in the cabins? No, he'd said as he laughed vaguely, it was different. He'd roomed with a friend from home, Billy. He was a Kappa Sig and played club rugby, which surprised me because, while Ransome was tall and definitely in shape, he didn't strike me as the football-without-pads type.

Finally he said, “Why don't you sit over here?”

I moved over to where he was sitting now with his back against the wall and his legs extended on the mattress. He rearranged so I could stretch out next to him and put his arm around me. We talked for a few more minutes, my heart knocking against my chest, until it got quiet and he finally leaned down and kissed me.

It was even better than the last time. It was better than any time. I'd done stuff
like
this before, but it was never like
this
. Ransome knew what he was doing in a way I now saw John, or any other guy I'd made out with for that matter, definitely had not.

At first I moved his hand when it searched my hip and moved down my leg, but it was a halfhearted, almost automatic reaction on my part. Of course I didn't want Ransome to think I was “that kind of girl,” but I also didn't want him to stop. So half a minute later when his hand was there again, I let it stay until it wandered up to the button of my jeans. I fumbled for his.

When we were done hooking up, we were both quiet. My head was on his chest, and I was looking at a place on the wall where a camper named Amanda had signed her name next to the date, 1987. I was happy, really happy, but also worried that I hadn't been good at what we'd just done. I'd been to third base a few times before, with John. I didn't want to seem inexperienced, even if I was. Ransome's quietness worried me. I picked up my head and looked at his face. He looked over his nose at me and smiled.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing. I can see up your nose,” I observed, laughing at the awkward angle at which we were looking at each other.

“Nice,” he said. “I hope I have some bats in the cave.” He pinched his nostrils together with the hand that wasn't around me.

“Nope. All clear,” I said, laying my head down again on his chest. I felt better. It was comfortable. Maybe I wasn't the best hookup Ransome had ever had, but I was lying here with him now, and it felt right. “I wish we could sleep here,” I said drowsily. I had no idea what time it was, but I knew it was late.

“Me too,” he said, and squeezed his arm tighter around my waist.

A few minutes later the bubble burst, and he said, “We should go. I don't want some poor Minnows stumbling on us in the morning and wondering why their counselors are half naked on top of each other at the riflery range.”

“Years of therapy,” I said. I knew we had to, but I was a little sad as we stood to go. I tugged my shirt on over my head as Ransome straightened the mattresses and checked for any stray cigarette butts. I stepped out of the hut into the moonlight and wrapped my arms around myself. The night was cold again.

Ransome followed me and wrapped his arms around me too. “I'll see you later?” he said.

I nodded, looking up at his face, and he kissed me.

“Okay,” he said, as he released me. “Don't let the bed bugs bite.”

I smiled and wanted to kiss him one more time, but didn't want to be the last to leave, so I said, “Okay,” and turned to take the path back to my cabin. When I glanced over my shoulder, his back was retreating down the path to Brownstone. His hands were in his pockets, and I was in love. I sighed and smiled all the way back to my cabin. I could hardly believe this was real, but even if it was a dream, I didn't want to wake up.

I
've always loved the saying “breaking bread together.” It seems so simple but essential to bond over food. At camp, however, you didn't bond over dinner rolls; you bonded over pure, unadulterated sugar.

So I went, with a peace offering of Pixy Stix and two cans of Sun-Drop, to Katie Bell's cabin. I knew it was transparent, but I was ready to have my friend back. I
needed
my friend back.

The rain had held off for Field Day, allowing the Easts to beat the Wests, but descended with a vengeance the next afternoon. As we huddled in our bunks at rest hour, the clouds rolled in, bringing with them sheets of rain that swept like a curtain from one end of the valley to the other.

I, for one, loved rainy days at Southpoint. After a storm, a gauzy haze hung over the lake. Anything green suddenly perked up, and the air was thick with an earthy smell. But the life that suddenly saturated the outside world must have been sucked from the campers and counselors tucked in the cabins, because a lethargy overtook camp on afternoons like these. I wondered if everyone waited for the break the rain brought, like I did. Nothing could be expected of you in the rain.

Afternoon activities had been canceled until the weather cleared, which meant I wasn't expected on the swim dock, and could find Katie Bell sitting on her cabin porch. Her legs stretched across the stairs, she was flipping through a copy of
Star
magazine. She didn't see me as I walked up.

“Hey,” I said. “What's going on?”

Katie Bell raised her chin and squinted against the hazy sunlight. “Not much. Just catching up on world events. I like to stay informed, ya know.”

“Of course. . . . Hey, look what I got out of Cabin Six.” I produced the bag of Pixy Stix, and Katie Bell smiled.

“And to wash them down . . .” I brought the two Sun-Drops, dangling from their plastic rings, from behind my back. Soft drinks, especially this super-sugary, highly caffeinated Tennessee specialty, were forbidden at camp. They had, therefore, developed into a kind of black-market currency, with counselors controlling the supply and campers the demand. They were usually only offered as payment for back massages or bribery.

“Sweet Mother of Sugar Shock,” said Katie Bell, swinging her legs around and scooting over to make room for me on the step beside her. I sat and handed her one of the Sun-Drops.

“Don't tell anyone where you got it,” I said as she popped the top and the soda gave a clean, satisfying hiss. “They'll be hounding me all day.”

Katie Bell gulped down the electric-yellow liquid. She smacked her lips in sweet gratification. “Ahhhhhhh.”

I ripped open the bag of Pixy Stix and offered Katie Bell a green one, her favorite color. We had had many arguments over whether the different color tubes were actually different flavors or just a trick of the mind. Without a word, she tore off the top, tilted her head back, and emptied an avalanche of sugar into her mouth.

“Oh, it's so good,” she said, laughing and coughing at the same time, her eyes watering from the tartness.

My turn. This was how the game went until one or both of us got sick, or a counselor made us stop before we did. Now I was the counselor—no one to stop us. I slid a red stick from the bag, ripped it open, and emptied it down the hatch.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I shook my head. “Whoo!” I cried.

Katie Bell laughed, extracting a purple stick from the pack. “So,” she said, “tell me about Ransome.”

I was relieved that the Pixy Stix had worked their magic so quickly. I wiggled my toes. “What do you want to know?”

Katie Bell slapped at my leg. “Oh, come on, you tease! Spill it.”

I grinned. “I don't know where to start! It was awesome.” I'd been waiting to tell her every detail, but suddenly I felt shy.

“Start from the beginning,” said Katie Bell, settling back against the steps to listen.

In a low voice, so that the girls napping or reading inside the cabin couldn't hear us, I told Katie Bell about our night off and how Ransome and I had sort of flirted, but how I'd been too nervous to
really
flirt. But then how, during the car ride, he'd surprised me by holding my hand. I told her about the overlook, where they'd taken us, and how Ransome and I had sat on the hood of the car talking—about real stuff—until he'd kissed me when I wasn't expecting it.

Katie Bell listened with an amused smile, lighting up at all the right parts, and when I got to the kiss, clapped her hands. “How was he? I mean as a kisser?”

My head fell back and I let out an amazed laugh. “Good.” I blushed. “He was good. I mean, it was unexpected and quick because Winn turned, and I thought she saw us. . . .”

I stopped and wondered whether I should tell Katie Bell that Winn was acting strange. For a second I considered that I might just be paranoid, always looking for the gray cloud on the horizon. Besides, Katie Bell already didn't like Winn, and I still felt bad that I'd told Winn about the kiss before Katie Bell. But I was finally talking with my best friend again, and I wanted to tell her everything.

“You know,” I started, my hands fidgeting nervously in my lap, “Winn's been acting kind of strange since that night. She's been kind of . . . mean.”

Katie Bell looked thoughtful before saying, “That's weird. Why would—Oh my gosh! I totally forgot. Molly told me the other day, and I was going to tell you, but I forgot with Field Day, and then we were freaking out about the cubby show . . .”

I had a bad feeling. As Katie Bell rambled about all the reasons she'd forgotten to share what I suspected would not be good news, my stomach started to drop until I thought it might actually pass through my feet and land on the grass in front of us, a big pink blob. I just wanted Katie Bell to get to the point, and for it not to be something that would ruin the perfect summer I had already constructed in my head.

Finally she came around to it. “And Amanda heard from Lila that Winn's cubby year she used to sneak out with the counselors to the riflery range to meet Ransome. It was, like, top secret and super-scandalous when the older counselors found out. She might have even gotten in trouble with Fred.” There was a hint, I thought, of satisfaction in Katie Bell's voice.

I wanted to throw up. How could I not have known?

“Are you sure? They hooked up?” I forced down a wave of nausea.

“That's what Molly said.” The look on Katie Bell's face said she suddenly regretted telling me. “But that was two summers ago, Hel.”

I nodded, my mind spinning as it tried to process the unwelcome information. I didn't want to think about Ransome hooking up with anyone, let alone my friend, to whom I'd recently spilled all about my crush.

Katie Bell kept talking. I wished she wouldn't. I wished she would just be quiet.

“Oh! And Molly also heard something else. . . . Did you know Abe's wife left him 'cause he was in love with Marjorie?!” Her eyes widened salaciously.

“That's not true,” I shot. There was a sharpness in my voice I hadn't intended.

Immediately, Katie Bell went on the defensive. “I'm just telling you what I heard.” The bag of Pixy Stix lay open and forgotten on the steps next to her. “Molly heard it from Amanda, who said Lila told her.”

“Well, it's a rumor. Ransome told me so the other night, and I'd believe him over Molly.” I hurled the words at her.

Ransome had confided in me. I knew how it felt to have people talking about you, pitying you behind your back, trading gossip, and all but salivating as they detailed the ways in which your family was crumbling around you. It felt like shit, and I didn't want Ransome to feel like shit. Ever. Even if he had hooked up with Winn two summers ago.

Katie Bell shrugged and stood, accidentally kicking the bag of Pixy Stix. The colorful paper tubes skittered over the steps and fell between the cracks.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, but didn't bend to pick them up. “I'm just telling you what I heard, Helena.”

I didn't answer, just stared at the ants already swarming over the candy.

“Thanks for the Sun-Drop,” she said flatly. Then she disappeared into the cabin, still dark with its shutters closed against the rain.

I didn't bother to pick up the Pixy Stix. The ants would finish them off, or the rain, or other campers—I didn't care. I felt wretched from the sugar and the news, and suddenly all I wanted was the comfort of my bed.

My campers were out with Pookie playing in the creek, which had flooded with the rain, and I could have privacy there to hide under my covers and cry if I wanted.

What I'd come to repair with Katie Bell I'd only made worse, and what I'd come to share, I now wished I hadn't. What was happening between Ransome and me felt spoiled; the shine was taken out. I was glad I knew why Winn was acting so strange, but I had no idea how, or if, to confront her about it. I couldn't understand why she'd never said anything to me about Ransome, even when I'd told her I liked him. For the moment I'd just sleep, and pray for more rain.

The storm blew through, and we had a cool night followed by a scorching day. It was like the sun was trying to bake out of the ground every last drop of water, which we'd just gotten. At the swim dock, the campers could barely peel off their T-shirts and shorts fast enough to jump into the water.

For Winn, Sarah, and me, the heat was brutal. As lifeguards we were expected to stand vigilantly on the dock and were only allowed a dip in the lake between activity periods. By second activity, we'd all drained our water bottles, and not one of us was talking as we watched the girls splash and play.

Things with Winn had gone from bad to worse.

The times we had crossed paths in the few days since our night out—mainly on the swim dock and once accidentally in the Mess—she had looked past or through me. She only spoke when necessary and with a dismissiveness my mom would have called “sass.” This made our mornings on the dock awkward at best and absolutely unbearable at certain moments, when I had to push my sunglasses down and stare out at the water to avoid crying.

I had decided not to say anything to Winn about Ransome. I could only imagine the mind-numbing awkwardness of that conversation.

At first I felt bad, wondering if I deserved Winn's anger. Then reason kicked in. I'd had no way of knowing about Winn and Ransome's secret past. She hadn't told me. Without Katie Bell—with whom I also wasn't speaking now—I still wouldn't know. That only confirmed my decision that the best thing to do was nothing at all. I was a pro at the path of least resistance. I only hoped if I ignored the situation, it would eventually go away.

In the meantime, I would try to weather Winn's sudden—and totally unfair, I sometimes wanted to shout—attitude. But what really worried me was whether Winn's being pissed might, or should, prevent me from going to the riflery range. Those late nights were my only chance to hang out with Ransome.

On the dock, my worry festered in the hot sun. It grew into panic, then indignation and, before I knew it, resentment at Winn's immaturity. I'd always looked up to her, I realized as I watched a camper do a back dive. First as my counselor and then as my friend, Winn had always seemed more grown-up, more experienced, cool. Not anymore. Now she just seemed petty and vindictive.

My mental reexamination of Winn's character was interrupted by a shrill blast from Sarah's whistle. The sound echoed off distant cliffs. Midway through every activity period, we were required to do a safety check, to make sure no one had drowned in the twenty minutes under our watch.

At the sound of the whistle, the girls climbed from the water and sat obediently on the main and floating docks. Routinely, they counted off—only this time, we came up short. There were nine Guppies and only eight voices that yelled out a number.

Winn and Sarah exchanged an anxious glance. The lake fell under an eerie silence. Even the water seemed to pause from its lapping against the dock. Again Sarah blew her whistle, and the girls counted off with more urgency this time.

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

“Four.”

“Five.

“Six.”

“Seven.”

“Eight.”

The silence that hung after “eight” was deafening.

There was a moment of paralyzed panic, and then Winn, Sarah, and I leaped into action. We ripped off our whistles and sunglasses and dove into the water. My heart was beating faster than the propeller of the boat I registered somewhere off in the distance.

We had a search protocol. I tagged the dock one arm's length from Sarah, who was one arm's length from Winn. In unison we took a gulp of air and plunged under water, sinking as fast as we could to the ice-cold bottom. When we felt nothing—not an arm or a leg or a torso, we kicked to the surface, moved forward one stroke, gasped another lungful of air, and descended again. This way, we worked in a slow fan across as much lake as three of us could cover. Every plunge brought the terror that I would be the one to feel the limp body, and every time my toes sunk into the freezing muck, it brought the other terror—that we wouldn't find her in time.

I heard the screaming as I was diving down for a fourth time. There was a moment where my numb, confused brain didn't know whether to keep pushing for the bottom or swim for air and the voice that was trying to tell us something. I kicked wildly. When I broke the surface, I searched urgently for the source of the yelling. Lake water dripped into my eyes.

“It's Beth!” a camper on the dock was calling and pointing. The girl she pointed to was indeed Beth, a round, quiet girl who always, but especially now, looked bewildered. Beth was nearly tripping over her flip-flops as she hurried across the grassy area to the dock. She clutched her towel in a tight fist below her belly.

“What happened?” I gasped, swimming as fast as I could toward the dock.