Five Summers

by Una LaMarche

  He braced his hands on the door frame and leaned in, blocking the light so that the setting sun hovered behind his head like a halo. He looked both angelic and predatory, Skylar thought. He was probably a little bit of both. She felt a shiver of longing. How had she let things get so out of hand? Skylar wracked her brain for what she could say to Emma that would make Adam’s visit seem innocent.

  But when she looked up, she realized she didn’t have to say anything. Adam was looking right past her. His smile was for someone else.

  “I’d love to,” Emma said, “but we’re all going to the bonfire together.” Skylar knew she was the only one who could see the corners of Emma’s smile turning down ever so slightly.

  “It’s fine,” Skylar heard herself say through the dizzying hum of blood suddenly flooding her head. “You should go.”

  “Really?” Emma could barely hide her delight.

  “We’ll meet you there,” Maddie said. “Right, Jo?”

  Jo caught a Skittle in her mouth and shrugged.

  “I’ll take good care of her,” Adam said as Emma slipped into her canvas flats and joined him in the doorway.

  “Bonfire starts at seven sharp!” Jo called after them.

  “See?” she said to Skylar and Maddie. “I knew he was going to be a problem.” She tossed back another handful of Skittles, grumbling, “No drama my ass.”

  Skylar climbed back up onto her bunk and buried her face in her pillow. She felt like crying again, but she didn’t know how she could explain it to the others. She’d spent so much time worrying about hurting Emma that she never considered she might get hurt in the process.

  Emma

  The Fourth Summer ♦ Age 13

  End of First Session Dance

  “Friendship Rule: Best friends think you’re beautiful even when you don’t.”

  “HOLD STILL!”

  Emma gritted her teeth as Skylar dragged the brush through her wet, tangled hair.

  “OW!”

  “I know, I know, and I’m sorry,” Skylar said, lisping a little from the bobby pins she was holding in her mouth. “But I promise it’ll be worth it.” She patted Emma’s shoulder. “Now, head down.”

  Emma stared at the tile floor of the girls’ bathroom. It was the only building at camp that had a full-length mirror, and in addition to torturing her scalp, Skylar had brought along a bag full of outfits she was going to force Emma to model. “Remind me again why I can’t just have a ponytail?” she asked.

  “Because you have a ponytail every single day, and this is the only dance all session and you need to look like you’re trying.”

  “Trying to what?” Emma lifted her head and Skylar pushed it back down, working on a snarl at the nape of her neck.

  “Trying to look good! I mean, no offense, Em, but you act like you’re still ten years old. You don’t pluck your eyebrows, you don’t shave your legs—”

  “That hair is blond,” Emma protested.

  “—you don’t paint your toenails, you never wear your hair down or wear skirts, and you sometimes still wear your retainer during the day.”

  “My orthodontist says I have to,” Emma said helplessly.

  “Well, he’s not trying to get someone to kiss him.” Skylar put her hand on Emma’s chin and tilted her face up to the mirror. “I would never have gotten a boyfriend last year if I wore my glasses to school.”

  Skylar had not stopped talking about her boyfriend, Cole, since she’d arrived at camp. He was fifteen, but in the pictures she’d taped up inside her trunk, he looked even older.

  “See?” she said. She had brushed out Emma’s hair and pinned the sides back. “This looks like you’re trying, but not too hard. It’s very girl next door.”

  Emma examined her reflection. “I guess so,” she said. “But if I’m the girl next door, what are you?”

  Skylar smiled at herself in the mirror. She wore a loose, white, off-the-shoulder peasant blouse and a long, gauzy yellow skirt. A silver and turquoise necklace hung halfway down her chest, along with her tangled blond waves. She’d borrowed feathered earrings from their counselor, Sasha. “I’m boho,” Skylar said proudly.

  “You know that those letters rearranged spell hobo, right?” Emma teased.

  “Hey, don’t be jealous just because you can’t pull it off.” Skylar brushed her bangs out of her face.

  “I’ll never be the third Olsen twin,” Emma sighed.

  “Not with that attitude,” Skylar said. “Now, let’s pick your outfit.”

  Emma watched as Skylar draped out maxi skirts and halter tops over the closed bathroom stall doors. She felt totally fine in her T-shirt and jeans, but she knew Skylar would make her change into something tighter, something that Emma would spend all night self-consciously adjusting.

  “I know you’re trying to help,” Emma said. “But . . . isn’t the whole point that he’s supposed to like me the way I am?”

  “You’re still going to be the way you are, just better,” Skylar said. “Try these.” She shoved a handful of dresses at Emma and ushered her into a stall.

  The barn was set up the same way it had been for every dance of every summer—folding tables pushed up against the far wall with plates of knock-off Oreos and Chips Ahoy!; pitchers of water and weak lemonade floating with tiny, amoebic swirls of concentrate; and white Christmas lights Gus had strung from the rafters, which reflected onto the polished wood floor in constellations of egg-shaped orbs. Mack’s mix tape—which Jo swore was actually a tape, as in cassette tape—flowed out of two big box speakers set up against the northern wall, under the loft. The mix was always the same, and there were never any Billboard Hot 100 hits. It started off with the Beatles, moved on to Motown, and then took a strange Simon & Garfunkel detour (Emma’s dad would have been in heaven) before ending with a slow dance to “In the Still of the Night.” That song was the reason Skylar made her dress up. Well, Adam Loring was the reason. But the point was to bring him, the song, and Emma together at the same time.

  Emma looked down at the maroon batik maxi dress Skylar had insisted made her look like “a gypsy goddess.” It bunched around her (still absent) chest and drooped down to the floor, giving her the approximate shape of a deflated toadstool.

  “I feel awkward,” she whispered, not budging from the door frame.

  “You look fine,” Maddie said unconvincingly.

  “You have to trust me,” Skylar insisted, adjusting the straps and tucking in the tag. “I know it’s not your normal look, but sometimes getting out of your style comfort zone is the only way to get a guy’s attention.”

  “Did you read that in a magazine or something?” Jo scoffed. She was wearing the same camp T-shirt, track pants, and running shoes she’d had on all day . . . although something was different. Her eyelashes looked darker and thicker than usual. Emma would have asked if she was wearing mascara if she didn’t know Jo so well. Jo would have sooner picked up a sick of dynamite than a makeup brush.

  “My mom was a model,” Skylar said matter-of-factly. She seemed to take it for granted that everyone’s mom doled out fashion advice alongside the mashed potatoes at dinner. Emma’s mother wore shapeless cardigans and hopelessly uncool black peg pants, and when Emma had asked her to help teach her how to shave her armpits that winter, her mother had looked at her like she’d asked for a cigarette. “Sweetheart,” she’d said. “We have hair there for a reason. Do you really want to mess with evolution just to fit in?”

  Just then, a group of senior girls pushed past, and Emma clutched at the fabric against her legs. She had to pull it up a little to avoid tripping on the hem.

  “Let’s get out of the doorway,” she hissed.

  “Yeah, I love this song!” Maddie danced out to the middle of the floor, where scattered clusters of campers were swaying gracelessly to the dated music. Dancing had not been exactly what Emma had i
n mind—hiding in the shadowy corner near the cookies was more her speed—but Skylar and Jo had already followed Maddie, shimmying their hips but laughing at the same time to make sure everyone knew they weren’t really trying to look cool. Emma was confused. Was she supposed to try or not try? Or try, but make it look like she wasn’t? Either way, she knew she was failing. So she tried not to think about her ridiculous outfit or about the bobby pins pinching her scalp as she reluctantly joined her friends. At least Adam wasn’t there yet. She silently thanked the universe for its small favor.

  By the time Adam, Nate, and the rest of their bunk showed up, Motown was blasting from the speakers, and Mack was moving around the barn demonstrating dance moves like the twist and the monkey, to Jo’s horror. Luckily, Emma saw Adam before he saw her, so she had time to pin her arms to her sides and look uninterested. But Adam hung back, hugging the perimeter with Zeke and the twins. After briefly conferring with his friends, Nate made a beeline for the girls.

  “Hey, Jo,” he said. Emma noticed dark stains spreading from the underarms of his blue button-down shirt. It was sweltering outside, and inside was worse.

  “What’s up?” Jo asked, stopping to stretch her quadriceps.

  “Um, I was just wondering . . . do you want to dance?” Nate kept his eyes on the floor.

  “I am dancing,” she said.

  This seemed to throw him. “Oh, I mean, like . . . later.”

  “I’ll probably be dancing later, too,” she said. Nate stuck his hands in his pockets and shuffled away.

  “He was asking you to dance,” Emma whispered. “One on one.”

  Jo looked uncomfortable. “Well, what was I supposed to do?”

  “I give up!” Maddie cried.

  “This is what you’re supposed to do,” Skylar said. She turned to Zeke, who was standing a few feet away by the snack table with Adam.

  “Hey, Tanner!” she called. “Wanna dance?”

  His blue eyes got wide. “Yeah!” he said, tossing his Dixie cup of lemonade into the trash.

  “See?” Skylar said. She directed it to Jo, but Emma knew the display had also been for her. She had to set her Adam plan in motion. She picked up her dress and walked over to where he stood, slouched against a thick support beam. He had taken care to look somewhat disheveled, with his untucked button-down and flip-flops, but Emma noticed that his hair had been reshaped from his usual hat-head into something resembling a pompadour.

  “Hey,” she said. “Can I join you?”

  “Sure thing.” He smiled. “You look fancy.”

  Emma rolled her eyes. “Skylar dressed me,” she explained. “I wish I had just worn regular clothes.”

  “No,” Adam said. “I meant you look nice.”

  “Wanna join us?” she asked. “Poor Nate’s out there by himself.” They watched Nate, who had joined another group and was attempting to dance with Jo by proximity, scramble to dodge Maddie’s flailing arms, which were encircling Jo in an invisible lasso.

  “Sorry,” he laughed, “But I’m not going out there.”

  “Come on! It’s fun!” Her entire plan hinged on getting Adam onto the dance floor. She could never just ask him to dance like Skylar had done with Zeke—it would be way too weird—but if they happened to be dancing near each other and a slow song happened to come on . . . well, that was different. Emma realized she had more in common with Nate than she wanted to admit.

  Adam shook his head. “It’s lame.”

  “You didn’t think it was lame last year. In fact, I remember you winning the limbo contest.”

  He shrugged.

  “There must be someone you’d dance with,” she pressed. The corners of his mouth twitched up. “Aha! I saw that.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You like someone.”

  “Maybe.” He smiled and wiggled his eyebrows teasingly. Emma knew she was treading in dangerous waters. Adam was a flirt, but she didn’t really want to know if he genuinely liked someone else. Then again, they were friends. A friend wouldn’t care. And Skylar always said the best way to get a guy to like you was to pretend you didn’t care if he liked you.

  “Okay, spill. Who is it?” Emma steeled herself for the sucker punch she knew she was asking for.

  “What if I said you?”

  Her stomach lurched. Her mouth fell open. Adam burst out laughing.

  “Relax, I’m kidding. I just wanted to see your face.”

  Emma forced herself to smile, and it was so hard that for a second she felt like she still had braces, with rubber bands connecting her upper and lower jaw. “Very funny.”

  “I still feel weird telling you, though,” he said, lowering his voice. “It’s someone in your bunk.”

  “Skylar has a boyfriend,” she said, reaching for a cookie.

  “You know those aren’t real Oreos, right?” he asked.

  “I don’t care; I love them.” She reached for another, almost out of spite.

  “Anyway, it’s not Skylar,” he said. “Give me some credit for originality, please.”

  Emma swallowed hard, the barely-chewed chunks of chocolate wafer scratching her throat. “Then who?”

  He nodded his head to the right, and Emma looked over to see Aileen Abrams leaning against the wall, talking to some of the senior girls. Aileen had a brown shag haircut, big brown eyes, and a tiny button nose that made her look like Bambi crossed with Justin Bieber. She was pretty, but not that pretty. Not prettier than Emma, on a good day, anyway.

  “Aileen?” she asked incredulously.

  He shrugged again. “Do you think she likes me?”

  “Why do you care what I think?”

  He looked hurt. “Because I trust you. And you’re a girl, so you know girl stuff.”

  Emma softened. He was genuinely asking for help. But still, her heart ached. She liked him the most when he stopped trying so hard to impress her.

  “I’m sure she likes you, Adam,” she said quietly. “Everyone does.”

  “Aw, you’re just saying that.”

  “No, I’m not.” She looked at him helplessly. “You’re a great guy. She’d be crazy not to like you.” And I’m crazy to like you, she thought.

  He flashed her a crooked grin. “You’re the best, Zen. You know that, right?”

  She forced her rubber-band smile again, trying to remember the last time he’d called her that. It was a nickname you gave to your buddy, not to someone you had a secret friend-crush on. Not somebody you would ever slow dance with, anyway.

  Emma

  Reunion: Day 1

  THEY TOOK THE SCENIC ROUTE TO THE FIRE PIT, cutting through the woods that separated the girls’ cabins from the open expanse of the north field. The setting sun cast a sherbet-colored light through the trees, and above them, the thrushes called back and forth to each other, their unhurried notes floating down on a breeze that made the hair on the back of Emma’s neck stand up. There was no path, so Adam walked in front, holding branches out of the way and alerting her to wobbly rocks and tangles of tree roots that poked out of the dirt like gnarled fists. Emma couldn’t help but marvel at his deftness as he navigated without so much as a second of hesitation. He’d obviously cut through the same path many times before . . . which, of course, begged the question, what was he doing on the girls’ side of camp? But she tried to put that out of her mind. She had to, if she didn’t want to fall; her ankles seemed to buckle almost every time she took a step.

  “I’ve gotten rusty,” Emma said, laughing as she narrowly avoided slipping on a patch of pine needles.

  “You’re just out of practice,” he said, climbing over the low stone wall, nearly hidden by thick green moss that separated the woods from the open expanse of the north field. He reached out a hand to pull her up and over, and as their fingers touched Emma felt a rush of déjà vu.

  “I’m sorry about din
ner,” she said as they waded through the knee-high grasses, yellowed by the dry spell that summer, and onto the dirt path that wound around the perimeter of the field and then out through the woods to the shore.

  “I’m sorry about dinner,” he said. “I’m the one who bolted.”

  “Yeah, but before that, you seemed like you needed to talk and I didn’t let you.” Adam didn’t answer. “So . . . did you need to talk about anything?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess I just don’t really feel connected lately. Does that make sense?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Although that’s a little vague. Where’s the disconnect?”

  “Other people, I guess,” he sighed. “Camp. All of it.” He stopped and looked at her. “I feel like I have a lot of empty relationships.”

  Emma tried not to react. She knew they were on a platonic walk, and she wasn’t expecting some swooning declaration of love, but she also wasn’t interested in being treated like the token non-sexual female friend he’d decided to confide in.

  “I mean, I’ve spent all this time here and I’m just the guy everyone likes,” he said.

  “That sounds rough.”

  “I’m not trying to sound like a dick,” Adam laughed. “I mean, they just like hanging out with me. They don’t actually care. They just want . . .” He trailed off.

  “Your body?” Emma finished sarcastically.

  “No!” He looked at her and smiled mischievously. “Okay, sometimes. But no, I was going to say they just want the fun, party-guy me. I feel like no one really knows me.”

  Somewhere, Emma thought with a smirk, the world’s tiniest violin played for the poor, misunderstood playboy. “Adam,” she said, turning to face him. “We’ve talked about this before. The way you act can sometimes be totally different from the way you actually are. If you want people to stop treating you like the fun party guy, then don’t be that guy.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “Of course you’re right. How come you’re the only one who gets that about me?”