The Lost Summer (9 page)

When she noticed me watching her, Katie Bell asked for the camera from Molly and skipped over to the bleachers.

“Hey,” she said. I listened for a hint in her voice that she was still mad that I hadn't helped her pick out an outfit, but her earlier irritation seemed to have evaporated.

Instead, she launched into a gushing monologue. “Charlie is, like, the biggest freaking dork ever!” She glanced over her shoulder at Charlie Banks, who she herself had had a crush on just two summers before. “I can't
buhlieve
Molly kissed him last summer. Did you know that? She made out with him at the last dance last year behind the Mess. He is such a tool! He's still wearing his aviators, and it's, like, almost nighttime.”

For some reason, Katie Bell's excited chatter embarrassed me. Lizbeth, Sarah, and Winn were listening. And Ransome, who had come out of the Mess, was looking in our direction. A moment ago I'd been almost jealous of her. Now all I wanted was for Katie Bell to play it cool, to not be so dramatic for once, to not be such . . . a kid.

“Hel,” she continued, not sensing how I was flinching inwardly at the way she drew attention to herself with her loud voice and unrestrained excitement, “let's get a picture of Hels Bells!”

Where it previously had seemed funny and even cool, the nickname now rang in my ears as glaringly immature.

Katie Bell scrambled up onto the bleachers next to me, handing her camera to Lizbeth before throwing her arm around my neck. She grinned at the camera, and I grimaced. My face was on fire as I felt Ransome watching us, my skin crawling with how much I did not want to be in this moment. As Lizbeth leaned back, counted to three, and took the photo, I pulled a taut smile across my face and tried to appear somehow more mature than my friend next to me.

“Okay!” I said brightly when the photo was taken.

“Don't you want to see it?” asked Katie Bell, retrieving the camera from Lizbeth.

“That's okay. I'm sure it's fine.”

She looked at me strangely and climbed down from the bleachers. “All right.” All the spunk that had just animated her voice had drained out. “See you later,” she said colorlessly.

Shit, I thought, as Katie Bell walked away. I felt a bitter twinge of regret and anger at myself. Why had I been so embarrassed of my best friend? All she'd wanted was a picture.

For the first time, I felt the ground below Katie Bell and I cracking. I watched her, hoping she might turn, but she didn't. She rejoined Molly and Amanda, who were not exactly dancing but were now at least moving their hips to the beat of the music.

My blooming guilt, however, was swiftly overshadowed as I realized Ransome and Buzz were walking up to the bleachers. They both sat, splay-legged, on the bench below ours.

“Hey,” said Ransome. It was to all of us, but the way he tilted his head just slightly in my direction made me feel like the greeting was intended especially for me. My stomach flipped as I offered a weak “hey” back.

From where I was sitting behind him, I could see the curve of Ransome's jaw and the long slope of his nose. The back of his neck was tanned a deep reddish brown from hours on the boat, and his hair curled just slightly at the nape of his neck, where it came to a V. That detail, like something private between us, made me smile.

None of us said anything for a while as we watched the campers finally mix. It was different from when we were out at the riflery range. The banter that came so easily on those nights escaped us here. Somehow what we talked about at the riflery range didn't seem appropriate at the dance, surrounded by campers, Fred and Marjorie, and Abe. It would have seemed too sarcastic and out of place.

Before long, there was only a sliver of sun peeking over the low mountains. Someone threw the switch on the floodlights at the four corners of the tennis court. They flickered for a moment, buzzing and popping, and then bathed us all in a bluish-white glow. The few couples dancing paused, and then resumed rocking back and forth.

“Whoa!” exclaimed Winn, blinking at the sudden brightness, and we all laughed a little harder than we needed to.

I saw Ruby spot me from across the court, where she was jumping up and down like a pogo stick with Melanie and Abby. Her mouth drew into an excited
O
. She grabbed Melanie's hand and proceeded to drag her across the court toward us, nearly tripping over her own feet and the few campers who had actually coupled in the middle of the lonely dance floor. The two girls bumped to a stop in front of the bleachers.

“Helena,” Ruby fretted, “why aren't you dancing?”

Winn and the other girls laughed at Ruby's undeniable cuteness. Even on Ransome's face I thought I detected the beginnings of a smile.

“I'm having fun watching you dance!” I assured her.

Ruby gave me an impatient look and set her fists on her tiny hips. Then she pouted, sticking her lower lip out comically. It was something she knew worked on almost every counselor at camp, including me.

“Well,” I said, giving in, “I don't have anyone to dance with. Would you dance with me?”

“No,” Ruby announced. She lunged at Ransome, grabbing his hands. “You're gonna dance with
him
!”

My eyes widened to take in Ransome's reaction. He was grinning at Ruby, apparently ready to humor her.

“Are you sure you wanna see me dance?” he asked her. “I'll warn you. It's not a pretty sight.”

I ha-ha'ed nervously.

“It's true,” Winn teased. She shot him with a tiny squirt of her Super Soaker.

“Hey!” he exclaimed at the wet spot on his shirt. Winn laughed.

“Yes. I want to see.” Ruby tossed her head up and down in an emphatic nod, and Ransome pretended to let her pull his weight from the bench.

“Well,” he said, offering me his hand, “shall we?”

“I guess so,” I answered, trying to maintain some semblance of composure while actually undergoing a full internal freak-out.

Ruby and Melanie jumped up and down, clapping their hands. Melanie grabbed my elbow and Ruby grabbed Ransome's, and they pulled us behind them onto the dance floor, where Dr. Spin was playing a song by ABBA. I was relieved for a fast song, unsure of how we'd dance to a slow one. Ransome spun Ruby in a circle, then me, alternating between us until we were dizzy. But after a couple quick choruses of “Dancing Queen,” the song ended. And sure enough, the low, plodding beat of a slow song took over.

Giggling, Ruby and Melanie locked their hands around each other's necks and swayed back and forth in imitation of the more sincere couples around them. Unsure whether I was supposed to retreat back to the bleachers with the other counselors now, I reluctantly raised my eyes to Ransome's.

Without hesitation, he took my right hand in his and rested the other on my back, and we proceeded to rock back and forth from foot to foot. He was right; he wasn't a good dancer, and we were a consistent millisecond off-beat as we stepped in a tight, jerky circle. But he smelled good, like a mixture of Pert Plus and Old Spice and that
guy
smell that lingered on you and that you never wanted to go away, so much so that you'd avoid washing your clothes as long as possible within the realm of acceptability.

Our bodies were a safe distance from touching, but his hand was warm through my tissue-thin shirt, its weight tentative on the small of my back. I was aware that his face, only a few inches from mine, was tilted down, as if he might whisper something in my ear any second. Insanely nervous, I kept my eyes from meeting his by looking everywhere but into his face. I was scared he'd read all the thoughts zipping through my head and even suspect I'd put Ruby up to this.

Finally, I had to speak.

“Are you going to the riflery range tonight?” I tried to sound casual.

“No,” he said, and I hoped the letdown I heard in his voice came from the same place my disappointment did. “I'm COD.”

“That sucks. I was just COD.” As soon as I said it I wanted to swallow the words. It was a stupid throwaway comment—every counselor was on duty at some point. Why couldn't I think of something real to say to him?

Ransome didn't seem to notice. He explained that he was covering for another counselor who wanted the night off to be with his girlfriend; she'd driven two hours to see him. I hardly caught the details, though, because I was focused on the fact that, in the process of talking, Ransome had pulled me—just slightly—closer to him, so that I felt his body brush against mine. It was suddenly hard for me to breathe. Aside from being tall, Ransome wasn't a big guy, but I was fascinated by how his muscles moved like cables under his skin. His body had a solidness that made me very aware I was dancing with a man, not a boy. My heart was battering so loudly against my chest that I wondered if this wasn't the beat Ransome's feet were following instead of the music.

As the final notes of the song drifted from Dr. Spin's speakers, Ransome lifted my hand above my head and spun me once before dipping me so close to the ground I was afraid he was going to drop me on the green concrete. He didn't, and managed to raise me back up to standing with a wide grin on his face.

“Thanks for the dance,” he said, his arm still around my waist.

“Thank
you
,” I said coyly. “You're only twice as bad as you say.” He laughed.

It seemed like Ransome released my hand teasingly, one finger at a time, not fully letting it slip from his until we'd turned toward the bleachers, where more counselors had gathered.

I'm sure we walked back to them the normal way, with one foot rising and moving forward to meet the earth, and then the other, but in my mind I was floating two inches above the ground.

M
y drugstore flip-flops slapped at my heels as I shuffled to the Bath with a beach towel on my arm. The bugle would call for dinner soon, but it didn't matter. I had the night off.

An earthy aroma of mildew, covered by the sharp smell of Clorox, wafted from the showers. One shower-head was running, and a cloud of steam rose from behind the curtain. I was surprised when the water stopped and out stepped Katie Bell with a pink towel piled on top of her head and another wrapped under her arms. A bath pouf dangled from her wrist.

I'd barely seen Katie Bell since the dance on Saturday, and it was already Tuesday. Table seating in the Mess changed every week, so Katie Bell had moved to Table Two, and the Sharks hadn't been scheduled for swimming yet that week. I was feeling guilty again for the way I'd acted about the photo with her at the dance. Twice I'd been to her cabin looking for her, hoping things would be normal again. But her cabinmates had said she was gone—maybe with Molly and Amanda, or at the barn? They didn't know, they shrugged. Had I checked the waterfront? Maybe she was trying out one of the new Sunfish sailboats Fred had just bought. But there had been no wind that day. I had the sneaking suspicion that Katie Bell was avoiding me.

She jumped, startled, when she saw me. The showers were usually empty by this time.

I laughed. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she answered, quickly reassembling her cool attitude.

“Where have you been?”

Katie Bell avoided my gaze, looking instead at the lockers behind me, her shower shoes, anywhere but my face.

“I don't know.” She shrugged, which dislodged her towel. She quickly retucked it. “Around.”

Something had clearly slipped off the tracks between us, but I didn't know how to fix it. Apologizing wasn't the answer I was looking for. I hadn't
done
anything. It was just how I'd felt, what I'd thought. How could you apologize for that? Better to just make up for it, I figured. Say something . . .

“I feel like it's been a while,” I tried.

Katie Bell's hip jutted beneath her towel. “Yeah,” she agreed. To anyone else her tone might have sounded bored, maybe tired, but I knew that tone and I knew Katie Bell. I knew that that tone meant Katie Bell was pissed.

Still, I tried to smooth things over. “Can we hang out soon? I'll bring the Pixy Stix,” I added.

Katie Bell's expression softened a nanometer. A few years earlier we'd discovered we could bribe younger campers to turn over the Pixy Stix they received in their care packages. One summer we'd convinced our entire cabin to write home specifically requesting the colorful paper tubes filled with flavored sugar. When they arrived, we greedily ripped them open and dumped the sugar down our throats. We'd even sniffed it up our noses. That had been Katie Bell's idea. It had made our eyes water and noses sting and caused a nasty crash an hour later, but the sugar high was unparalleled.

“Like we used to,” I pressed on.

Katie Bell's face hardened again, the parentheses that had formed from the corners of her nose to her chin disappearing.

“Well,” she said, turning to put her bath caddy, filled with shampoo, soap, and razor, back on top of the lockers, “it's not like it used to be, is it?”

Her comment stung, partly for the truth of it.

“Come on, Katie Bell,” I urged. “Don't be like that.”

“Like what?” she said fiercely, turning to face me again with her gunmetal eyes.

“Like that.” I smiled, hoping she would too. “I miss hanging out with you.”

“Fine,” she said, rolling her head and eyes dramatically. “I miss you too. Come to my cabin after dinner. And come bearing Pixy Stix.”

As I started to agree I suddenly remembered about my night off.

“Shoot!” My stomach dropped. “I can't tonight. It's my night off. I'm just showering before we leave. I'm going with Winn and some people to the pizza place in town. . . . Can we do it tomorrow?” I asked hopefully.

“Whatever,” said Katie Bell, moving around me for the door. Whatever, as in, No. Whatever, as in, I knew you didn't mean it. Whatever, as in, You're a bitch.

Before I could respond, Katie Bell had stepped out into the sideways sunlight and was stalking up the path to the cabins.

“Katie Bell,” I started to call after her, but the words stuck in my throat like a pill that was too big to swallow.

Later, as I lathered my hair under the water that was starting to go cold, I grew increasingly annoyed until I was finally angry. Katie Bell was right; I knew that. I'd known it since the night of the dance and probably even before that: things weren't like they used to be. But it wasn't my fault! It wasn't my fault that I had been born three months before Katie Bell or that somehow in the past year I had managed to grow up when she hadn't.

I realized my fingernails were digging into my scalp as I scrubbed. Under the lukewarm shower, I closed my eyes and let the suds run down my back and face. I wiped the soap from my scrunched eyes, really trying to wipe away my frustration with Katie Bell.

“Whatever,” I repeated out loud, echoing her words. I didn't have time to dwell on it. I had to get dressed to meet Winn and the others at the Mansion. We were going to Mama Mia's, the ancient pizza place off the highway to town, and then bowling. A few Brownies were meeting us, Ransome included, and while no one in her right mind would construe this night as a date, I had the first-date jitters. Pull it together, Hel, I thought. It's game time.

The dark shapes of trees zoomed by in the night. Unbelievably, I found myself sitting on Ransome's lap in the back of Buzz's car. Sarah had gone back to camp early because of explosive digestive issues she'd told the boys was a headache, leaving us all to ride back with Buzz. When Lizbeth, Winn, Ransome, and I had wedged into the backseat, Ransome had suggested I just sit on his lap. I deflated when Winn offered to sit in the way back, but Saint Buzz pointed out it was full of skeet-shooting stuff. I'd quickly, and gratefully, climbed onto Ransome's lap before any other arrangements could be made.

I was slightly drunk. At the Strike 'n' Spare, the Brownies had bought pitchers of flat beer with their fake IDs, and the one slice of greasy pizza I'd barely eaten at Mama Mia's was not doing its supposed job of soaking up the alcohol. My feet were tingly and my head felt warm and fuzzy. And although my energy was focused on seeming light and petite in Ransome's lap— by shoving my foot under the seat in front of me and propping my weight uncomfortably on one side—I kept returning to the thought of Fred and Marjorie smelling the alcohol on our breath when we checked in back at camp.

I glanced at the glowing numbers on the dashboard of Buzz's SUV—a typical guy car: papers and wrappers littered the floor, boxes of skeet clays slid around the trunk every time we turned, and several empty cans of dip had infused the car with a stale, sweet, tobacco smell. The clock informed me it was only nine forty-five.

“We have an hour,” Winn said, reading my mind. “What do y'all want to do?”

“There's that overlook at the end of the old logging road,” Ben offered from the passenger seat. The poor guy probably had no idea he'd reinforced his reputation with Winn and Sarah as a dud by being mostly silent the whole night. This was the first thing he'd said in hours.

Winn and Lizbeth looked at each other, considering the idea.

“Let's go,” Winn decided. As she said it, she tossed her blond hair over her shoulder in this way that let you know she was a girl up for anything. She, for one, didn't seem to be worrying about a sobriety test from our camp parents at the end of the evening. That was apparently left to nervous JCs like myself.

“Yeah,” Ransome agreed enthusiastically. “Let's go there.”

Behind me, his mouth was so close to my ear, I could feel his breath. Barely, imperceptibly, I let my weight settle into his lap. Ransome gave Buzz directions to the access for the logging road. And as he did, he felt for my hand in the dark. My heart did a somersault into my throat.

Ransome's fingers were long and cool. They were rough from tying and untying a million times the ropes that secured the motorboats. He wrapped them over my hand, which curled in his palm, and hooked his thumb around mine. A warm rush swept from the center of my body down to my toes and to the top of my head.

“Hang a right, here,” he instructed, and Buzz swung his headlights in a sharp arc onto the dark, overgrown road.

The music on the radio (country, but I was too preoccupied at the moment to hate it), punctuated by Winn and Lizbeth's delighted shrieks as we were jostled over the bumpy road, filled the car. But in my head, there was a stunned, expectant silence. This was the first time Ransome and I had really touched—not accidental or incidental, but like he meant it. He
wanted
to touch me.

Buzz's headlights illuminated tangled branches and bushes that choked the side of the road. Just as I started to worry maybe we were getting ourselves lost, the woods thinned and we came to a rocky clearing where the road seemed to drop abruptly over a cliff. Below, the lake spread out in front of us. I'd never seen it from this height.

Buzz threw the car into park and killed the engine, leaving the lights on to shine over the abyss.

“Do you think we need to turn those off?” I asked. I had an irrational fear that Fred would see the headlights from a window of the Mansion and know immediately that it was us. Not that we were doing anything wrong. At least not yet.

Ransome shook his head. “Nah.”

The sound of car doors slamming echoed across the lake, slapping against the water and exposed rock. The others drifted toward the edge of the cliff, where Buzz was already standing, peeing over the side, and I started to follow. Ransome, still holding my hand, gently pulled me back.

“Do you want to sit here?” he asked, motioning with his head to the car. “It's more comfortable.”

I nodded. He released my hand and lifted his weight up and back onto the hood in one swift, smooth motion. I tried to do the same, but my mouth puckered into a surprised “Oh!” when I heard the small tinny thump of metal denting.

Ransome laughed. “Don't worry. This bucket has taken a lot worse. Buzz was shooting at it with a pellet gun the other day.”

As my nervous laugh hung in the air, we both studied the view. The lake reflected the moonlight like ribbons of mercury. The shore was fringed with docks, and through the treetops, I could make out the roofs of some of the cabins and historic cottages that made this lake a favorite vacation spot for generations of families.

At the far point of the lake, where it hooked slightly to the right and narrowed, I thought I could see Southpoint's floating dock and, beyond that, a small clearing dotted by tiny buildings.

“Oh my gosh!” I pointed. “Is that camp? Are those the cabins?” I thought of my campers tucked snugly (I hoped) into their bunks.

Ransome leaned across me to see where my finger was pointing. Our heads almost touched, and his bare arm, below the sleeve of his T-shirt, brushed against mine. It was warm that night, and I hadn't had to wear the pullover now lying in the backseat of Buzz's car.

“Yep,” Ransome said, a little less awed than I was to see camp so distant and small. I guessed he'd seen this view before, having grown up here.

“That's so cool,” I whispered. It looked like a tiny doll village.

I leaned forward and narrowed my eyes to better make out the individual cabins, picking out mine, but Ransome didn't move back to his side of the hood. Our legs were now touching from hip to knee.

“So where do you come from, Helena?”

The random question surprised me, so I laughed.

“Nashville,” I answered uneasily. Ransome knew where I was from. He'd asked the first night out at the riflery range.

“I know.” He grinned irresistibly. “I guess I mean more like . . . what's your story?”

I examined his face for sincerity and smiled when I found it waiting there for me. “You want my life story?” I teased.

“Sure.” He reclined back on the hood of the car, interlacing his fingers behind his head. “Lay it on me.” He smiled. “But keep in mind we only have an hour.”

I lay down next to him. The night was clear except for a few wispy clouds that skittered over the moon. “Well, it all started in a small delivery room at Vanderbilt Hospital. . . .” I began.

He poked me in the ribs, which tickled, and I squirmed.

“I'm kidding,” I said, settling down to actually think about the question. No one, especially no guy, had ever asked me something on the surface so casual, but quietly deep.

I had always thought Ransome was worthy of my crush. He was older and mysterious and cute. But now, suddenly, he seemed worthy of more, worthy of opening up for, worthy of trusting. Ransome the fantasy was slowly becoming Ransome the real person, and a real person I desperately wanted to kiss in real life.

I wished I had a better answer for him. “I don't know how I became who I am,” I observed honestly. “I mean, I grew up pretty normal. Ballet lessons, piano lessons, swimming lessons . . .”

I paused, remembering back to the times I'd been happy—and the times I hadn't. Things had been great right before my father left, everyone getting along and smiling at each other, saying “please” and “thank you” at the dinner table. We even went to the beach that summer, right before it all fell apart. The calm before the storm. Then he was gone and the cloud descended, the one that had kept my mom in bed for days at a time and made me wish I could live at camp.

“Then my parents got divorced,” I said, “and things haven't been so normal since, I guess. Or whatever's considered normal.”

Ransome was quiet. I waited for him to say something to chase away the seriousness that had crept into our conversation. But he didn't.