I set my knife down beside the sink. “Well, Sullivan, I’d say that most days the whole Camp Dog Gone Fun experience rates somewhere between a Disney World vacation and going to the dentist.”
Sullivan pops another slice of pepper into his mouth. As I watch him chew, he reaches out and tucks a strand of my hair—an escapee from my only-when-I-cook ponytail— behind my left ear. He takes the rare opportunity to study my face. “More puzzle work tonight, right?” he asks.
I want to turn away. I can feel my face burning, the skin on my cheeks crawling. But Sullivan’s blue-eyed gaze has my head in a vise grip.
If he’s going to kiss me again, I wish he’d just do it. Maybe I even want him to.
Victoria makes Sullivan eat a lot of veggies, so his breath is always fresh, like a salad. And I like the way his skinny hands rested so firmly on my shoulders during that quick first kiss in the boathouse, like he knew that if he didn’t keep me grounded, I’d fly out of there like a startled seagull. Truth is, I felt safe in the darkness with him.
But I can’t stand having Sullivan stare at me like this under the hot kitchen lights.
Because I’m sure that the truth, the ugly truth, is written in bold letters somewhere on my face.
So I step back and grab a serving spoon off the counter. Wielding it like a sword, I back Sullivan out the kitchen door.
Sullivan checks his watch. “Later, ‘Gator,” he calls over his shoulder as he bounds out the screen door and takes a flying leap from the top of the porch stairs to the ground. It’s his job today to round up the seven old dogs with hypothyroidism, the four old dogs with diabetes and the five young dogs with epilepsy for their twice-daily trek into Dr. Fred’s office for their medications.
I reach up to switch the range fan on HIGH.
SIXTEEN
Sometimes, in the evenings, after the dogs are all bedded down in the barn and Brant’s left for home, Dr. Fred lights a bonfire down on the small strip of sandy gravel on the south shore that he calls the beach and invites the rest of us to join him. Sometimes he gives us geography and history lectures to fill the time. Sometimes he does chemistry experiments or imparts wilderness survival tips. Mostly he tells stories; gruesome Chinese fairy tales and synopses of old Hollywood horror movies are his favorites. It seems that Dr. Happy-All-the-Time has an edge after all. I like it.
Sometimes Nicholas brings down his guitar. When she found out he played a little, Victoria paid to have it couriered from his grandmother’s house.
“Keeping your hands busy with constructive things is never bad, Nicholas,” she told him the morning she brought it over to the island from town.
Brant the sicko piped up. “I know how to keep my hands busy.” He made a jerk-off motion behind her back.
Anyway, back to Nicky, pudgy fingers and all. He’s not a bad guitar player. No Carlos Santana, but not terrible either.
But then there’s Johanna, shrieking out old Celine Dion ballads. Johanna is convinced—hello, delusional—that she’ll be a huge star someday. On the bright side, Johanna’s singing keeps the biting insects away. And the dogs love it; they howl in the barn like crazed backup singers.
When all else fails, Taylor is always eager to offer up some of her tortured poetry for critique.
Me? I put together ingredients for S’mores. Good enough.
Tonight Dr. Fred begins his campfire session with a lecture on the history of the Thousand Islands region.
I can’t believe that the big heap of granite rubble they call Camp Dog Gone Fun is actually a remnant mountain peak—one of more than a thousand remnant peaks poking out of the St. Lawrence River. Join all the peaks together and they make up an ancient mountain chain that was scoured, molded and eventually flooded by several glacial advances and melts.
I stare into the bonfire’s flames, unsettled by the knowledge that the Thousand Islands were once interconnected. Does it mean that each individual—even me—might actually be part of a bigger “we”? That maybe humanity is just a different type of mountain chain?
Some people might feel all warm and fuzzy about that possibility. Me? I feel crowded.
Sullivan isn’t around tonight. Grounded or not, it’s Thursday, which means he’s back in Riverwood, having his legislated weekly visit with his dad. During the school year, when Sullivan lives with his father, he visits Victoria and Dr. Fred every Saturday. Sounds like a complicated pain-in-the-ass arrangement to me, but Sullivan says it’s the only life he’s known since he was three years old. He doesn’t even remember his parents ever living together. He says both of them blame their divorce on Rusty, an Irish setter they owned when Sullivan was a baby. Rusty developed a seizure disorder. During a particularly rough patch, Victoria started spending more time with Dr. Fred than with Sullivan’s dad.
Oops, as Johanna would say.
After the divorce, Mr. Vickerson got custody of Sullivan. Victoria got custody of Rusty. Dr. Fred doesn’t seem the type to break up a marriage. Then again, no one would have guessed that my father was a perv either. Who would have thought he’d have had the time, between operating a successful restaurant, taking part in local fundraisers, running six miles a day and being seen around town playing the role of good husband and father?
Moral of this story: Adults can’t be trusted. Maybe no one can be trusted. Maybe you can’t even trust yourself.
Nice world.
I’m not sorry that Sullivan is away for the night. I need a break. We’ve been spending every spare dog-free, food-free moment in Dr. Fred’s storage shed under a hot bare bulb, working that German shepherd jigsaw puzzle on top of a three-legged ping-pong table propped up with milk crates. The puzzle is big, the pieces are small, the lighting is harsh and Sullivan keeps kissing me, so it’s taken hours and hours of no-longer-free time for Sullivan and me to get the jigsaw just one-quarter done. And with over three weeks still to go before the concert, my biggest worry is keeping the shed door barricaded 24/7. It takes no imagination to picture Judy storming the place, tipping over the table and destroying our hard work.
I know I could/should be in the shed alone now, working on the puzzle, going at it great guns without the distraction of Sullivan’s fast-flowing river of conversation and unexpected kisses. But like I said, I need a break. And while no one at the campfire would necessarily miss me, they would miss the S’mores.
Across the campfire, Victoria spears a marshmallow with a bent coat hanger and holds it over the low flames. I wonder what she thinks, or if she even knows (I hope not), about Sullivan’s bizarro lust for me. I don’t think there is any official camp “no messing around” rule, but Victoria is pretty protective of Sullivan, always reminding him to put on suntan lotion and eat his greens and zip up his windbreaker on rainy days. I doubt that making out with the “volunteer” help is part of the life plan Victoria has mapped out for Sullivan. She probably thinks he should be kissing teen environmental activists and class representatives. Not...me. Especially not me.
“Storm’s coming,” Victoria says, waving her flaming marshmallow at the sky.
It’s true. The moon disappeared a while ago behind increasingly thick clouds. The headlamps and party lanterns winking from the cabin cruisers out on the river are scattering for shore, a sure sign of troubled weather on the way.
Within minutes the cool evening breeze morphs into a stiff wind. Low, persistent rumbles compete with the crackle of the fire and the smashing of rogue waves on the beach.
At the first flash of lightning and drops of rain, Dr. Fred calls it a night. He douses the fire with a big bucket of river water, and then, without preamble, he strides quickly through the trees and across the field, motioning for everyone else to tag along to the barn. “Storm phobia means canine pandemonium,” he remarks.
Joke’s on him. Most of the old dogs are curled into themselves on top of blankets or stretched out on their sides on the cool tiles, fast asleep after a day of serious exercise and socializing, oblivious to the electricity in the air and t
he rain pounding the roof. A few of the younger, inexperienced pups whine and circle around Dr. Fred, looking for no more than head pats and some of the dog treats they know he keeps stuffed in his pants pockets.
Only Judy is a mess, howling and whimpering and quaking with every flash of lightning.
BOOM! The rafters shake. There’s another flash. Judy sees me and charges, jumping into my arms like a 130-pound toy poodle. We collapse in a heap.
I push her bulk aside long enough to struggle to my feet. “Come on, Judy,” I say, yawning and gesturing for her to follow me, though it isn’t necessary; she’s got her head stuffed under my armpit like a furry black basketball. We head for the barn door.
“Sarah?” Dr. Fred calls.
“Judy can sleep on the floor in my cabin,” I call over my shoulder before making a mad dash through the storm to the cabin cluster. It’s so late, I’m so tired, and the storm, while not especially fierce, seems to be stalled over the island. If I stay with Judy here in the barn until the weather clears and the big sucky dog is asleep, I’ll never get any rest.
I’ve never hosted a sleepover before.
I switch on the light in my cabin and take in the small space. There’s just enough room to lay out an old blanket for Judy on the floor between the bed and the dresser.
But Judy has other plans. Ten seconds after we reach the cabin, there’s another blinding flash of lightning. With a howl and one enormous bound onto the loft bed, Judy wiggles herself under my duvet. Come up and join me, her big shiny eyes plead.
I don’t remember Brownie ever talking to me with his eyes and body the way Judy does. He never tried to sleep in my bed either. Not that he’d ever had the opportunity. Dad made Brownie sleep in the garage, even in the winter.
I know Dr. Fred’s dog-training books would advise me to reach up and haul Judy off my mattress by her scruff. But I also know that she’d jump right back up with the next flash of lightning. I consider letting Judy take the damn bed and sleeping on the floor myself, but if she were to jump off the loft bed sometime in the night and land on me, I’d be dead. Squashed flat like the Wicked Witch of the East under Dorothy’s house. Like dog poo squished under a boot.
Only one thing to do.
I climb up beside Judy, reaching over her to yank the cord that turns off the light. I lie down and squirm around, trying to get comfortable. Lightning flashes again and Judy pushes up against me, whimpering. There’s room for both of us on the narrow bunk, but just barely.
Loud rumbles continue, shaking my flimsy cabin walls like a minor earthquake, for a good half hour more, but as the lightning diminishes, Judy settles. Her fur smells of dirt and grass despite all her swimming. Her feet smell like nacho-cheese Doritos. Judy sticks out her juicy tongue and licks my cheek, panting hot, kibble-scented breath in my face and nuzzling her wet nose into my neck. “Thank you,” she seems to be saying, as if I am personally responsible for sending the storm packing.
If only I had that much control over her life. Or my own.
Great. Judy snores. I’ll never get to sleep.
This time, the joke’s on me. Cramped in that loft bed, overheated by a giant fur ball who refuses to budge, fur tickling my nose, damp doggie breath polluting the air, I sleep. Deeply. Dreaming of toasted marshmallows, guitar music, cool breezes and warm wet kisses.
Weird.
SEVENTEEN
After lunch cleanup a few days later, I’m down on the beach with Judy, taking my so-called afternoon break. It’s quiet out on the channel today. A few freighters chug along in the distance, but there’s not a tourist boat in sight. Gentle waves lap at the shore with a sound like little dogs lapping water from their bowls.
Judy is stretched out in the cool gravel beside me. She’s been bounding in and out of the river for the past half hour, chasing sticks and seagulls. Finally she’s ready to take a break too. Catch a few dog zzzzzz’s.
Footsteps crunch toward us along the beach path. Sullivan plunks down on my other side. “You okay?” he asks me, kicking off his high-tops—purple polka-dots today— and digging his toes into the gravel.
I toss him what I hope is an “everything’s peachy” grin, but it feels strained and lopsided, more like a sneer or grimace. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Sullivan frowns. He hunches over and starts piling small rocks, flat and smooth from years of river erosion, one on top of another until his structure collapses. “You were so quiet at lunch.”
I snort. “Nicky and Brant were talking enough for all of us.”
“Ah, they were just joking around,” Sullivan says, lying back on the beach, resting his palms behind his head.
Something hot and sour pools at the back of my throat. “What’s so fucking funny about having your bare-assed baby pictures passed around the table like they’re a bowl of potato salad?” I snarl. Little drops of spit fly out of my mouth.
Sullivan sits up and laughs. “Not my fault. Nicholas found one of Mom’s old photo albums on the bookshelf in the rec room.”
“Didn’t you even...mind?”
“Mind what?”
I blink hard. “Mind that everyone could see your bare ass!”
Sullivan cranes his neck down and around in a goofy attempt to check out his own backside. “Why would I?” he replies, grinning. “I have a nice ass. Didn’t your family ever take any bare-assed baby photos of you?”
I grab a big rock off the beach, wishing it were a grenade, except it’s me that might explode. I toss it far out into the river, where it lands with a loud KERPLOP.
Sullivan reaches over and squeezes my shoulder. “Don’t be such a prude,” he snickers.
“I’m not a prude.”
“Then I guess suggesting a round of strip poker tonight wouldn’t be out of the question?” Sullivan asks, his eyes bright with amusement.
Just ignore him, just ignore him, just ignore him, I tell myself.
“No? Maybe we could listen to a few Barenaked Ladies CDS?”
I suck air in, holding my breath as long as I can, waiting for the earth to open up and suck me down into the dirt.
“Sarah?”
“I thought you wanted to work on the puzzle tonight, Sullivan!” I growl. “Or would you rather not? Because it’s your damn puzzle. I don’t care if—” I stop, because I do care. No puzzle, no concert. No concert, no treasure hunt for me. “Sorry,” I mumble, because I am. I really wish I could laugh as easily as Sullivan does about being the “butt” of Brant’s and Nicky’s jokes.
Sullivan raises an eyebrow at me and lets out a low whistle. “Wow...are you ever an Oscar today.”
“What the hell are you talking about now?”
“An Oscar. You know? Sesame Street? Oscar the Grouch.”
I’d leave now, but I don’t have the heart to rouse Judy, who’s snoring away, her soft black ears flapping in the breeze. “Aren’t you supposed to be hosing out the barn this afternoon?” I ask Sullivan. Maybe he’ll take the hint and leave me alone.
“Actually...Mom sent me to check on you.” Sullivan blushes.
Figures. “Victoria worries too much.”
“It’s a refreshing change for her to be worried about someone other than me.”
“What’s she got to worry about you for?” I ask. I’m curious because Sullivan seems to me like the poster boy for normalcy, if you can get past his weird shoe fetish, his motormouth and his thing for me. And if I can get him talking about himself, maybe he’ll stop pestering me with questions.
Sullivan takes in a long breath and chews on his lip. His expression reminds me of that day in the canoe, when I’d asked him a similar question about Victoria’s over-protectiveness, and he’d told me to watch out for a nonexistent piece of driftwood.
But he doesn’t hedge this time. “Well, you might as well know, seeing we’re...you know...friends. I had cancer. Leukemia.”
I blink hard. “You did?”
Sullivan draws a tic-tac-toe board in the dirt with his finger. “First grade. Wit
h Mrs. Fenton. Don’t you remember?”
“You were in first grade with me?”
He draws an X in the center square, solemn now. “We shared a glue stick in arts and crafts.”
“No. I always shared a glue stick with a kid named Steve.” Steve had thick, curly brown hair, a Ninja Turtle lunch box, and Disney Band-Aids on his knees and elbows almost all the time. He got a bloody nose—a real gusher—one day. The class was making Thanksgiving turkeys out of brown lunch bags and construction paper. I remember because Steve dripped blood on my turkey. Mike Kindale got jealous. He said the blood made my turkey look like “a real turkey just after my daddy’s shot it.” He wanted Steve to bleed on his paper-bag turkey too, but Mrs. Fenton rushed Steve to the office for first aid instead.
Steve never came back.
Except, it turns out, he did. Sullivan laughs. “Steve was a nickname. Short for STV. Sullivan Thomas Vickerson is too big a mouthful for any six-year-old kid.” He nudges me and motions down to his tic-tac-toe board. “Your turn.”
I draw an O in the top left corner. “That was you? God. I’m sorry. Wow.”
“Yeah, I didn’t make it back to school until—”
“Grade two.” It’s all coming back now. “We had Mr. Baldwin.” I was sharing glue sticks with a girl named Sylvia by then, so I’d barely noticed the skinny “new boy” with thin spiky hair and a Scooby Doo lunch box. The boy who went by the name Sullivan.
I peer at him now through my hair. He looks healthy enough to star in a breakfast cereal commercial. “You really had cancer? You’re okay now, right?”
Sullivan shrugs and puts an X in the bottom right corner. “It’s been almost ten years since my last treatment. I went into remission ahead of schedule. Never had a relapse. Probably never will. Dr. Walters says I’m one of those few lucky kids who breeze through cancer—if you can get past the unluckiness of getting cancer at all. But tell that to my mother. If I get the sniffles or a hangnail or even just a headache, there’s Mom, standing vigil. Usually by the phone, since I’m with Dad most of the year.”
Leftovers Page 6