Don't Ever Change

by M. Beth Bloom

  “That’s wonderful,” the writer says. “If I had to give myself advice ten years ago, I would tell myself to write every day. Doesn’t matter what.”

  “What if you’re not inspired?” I say.

  “That’s sometimes when the best writing comes out—when you feel challenged, when you don’t want to write because it’s too hard,” she says. “If you only wrote when you felt inspired, you wouldn’t find something new inside of it, you wouldn’t uncover anything.”

  “What about writing what you know?” I ask.

  “That works for some people, not really for me.”

  “So this is entirely made up?” I say, holding out the book.

  “Well, it’s fiction,” the writer says. “But there’s truth in fiction, right?”

  “I think so,” I say.

  “Me too,” Foster says.

  “What are your names?” she asks.

  “Foster and Eva,” Foster says.

  “You’re cute,” the writer says. “Who should I make the book out to?”

  “To Eva,” Foster says.

  “Foster,” I say, “that’s too nice, don’t do that.”

  “Well, I know you haven’t read it yet,” he says, smiling, and I nudge him.

  Outside Book Soup, Foster’s holding his keys, so I reach for mine too. I wish one of us didn’t have our keys so we could drive home together. Foster asks where I parked, and I’m sad when I tell him, “That’s my car right there,” less than twenty feet away. He says he’s parked much farther down, out of sight, so I offer to be a gentleman and walk with him along Sunset to his meter.

  “Are you having a good summer?” Foster asks as we cross the street.

  “I am,” I say.

  “And you like camp?”

  “I like my campers. Pretty much.”

  “What about the other counselors?” Foster asks.

  I’ve barely ever thought about any of the other counselors besides Foster; I only know the names of two or three of them. I shrug, say, “Jen seems cool.”

  “Do you mean Jennifer, Jenny, or Genesis?” Foster asks.

  “Jenny?”

  “Trick question. No Jenny.”

  “Foster, it took me forever just to learn my campers’ names!”

  “Well, now it’s time to move on to the counselors.”

  “I want to,” I say.

  Foster shoots me a skeptical look.

  “I do want to!”

  “Making friends is cool, Eva.”

  “Did you read that on a bookmark?”

  “I’m serious. You might meet someone you like. You might meet one person in the entire camp that you like.”

  “I already like you.”

  “You didn’t used to.”

  “But then,” I say, tapping on my forehead, pointing to my brain, “I gave you a chance.”

  “Think of it as extra credit.”

  “Well, I love extra credit.”

  When we get to his car, Foster takes a long time to put his key in the door’s lock. Then he and I both go to talk at the same time, and then both say, “No, you go first, no, you.”

  I start: “You know Kerry Ward?”

  “From PE freshman year. She was in Roush’s class too.”

  “Right,” I say. “To you, did it seem like I hated her or anything?”

  Foster just laughs.

  “What, why are you laughing?”

  “I remember you wrote on her short story about that traveling circus, ‘I’m excited to see what you write next, especially if what you write next is a lot more interesting than this.’”

  “How do you know that?!”

  “Kerry told everyone,” Foster says, laughing again.

  “Okay, listen, I’m not a bad person.”

  “I know, you’re awesome, Eva,” Foster says, still laughing.

  “I wasn’t trying to, like, cut her down, or anything.”

  “So you’re a little snobby,” Foster says, smiling. “So what?”

  If I’d known all through high school that one day there’d be a boy—a boy who sat only two or three desks away from me for four years—who would react to my snobbiness with a casual, un-judge-y “So what?” then everything might’ve gone a lot, lot differently.

  But I know now. So maybe things can go differently now.

  Maybe I can grab Foster and kiss him on the lips just for a second, real fast, and then go running across Sunset, dodging cars and laughing, with a Regular Book in my hand and a Regular Feeling too.

  Happiness, that’s what.

  26.

  WE SHOULD’VE STAYED ON THE HILL

  SUNDAY NIGHT, AFTER dinner, there’s an earthquake. Nothing too big, but it means the next day at camp we have to do earthquake drills all day. The drills are pretty pointless—or if not pointless, then at least unnecessary—because basically every camp activity takes place in a giant open outdoor space. So unless the ground split in two and swallowed us whole, there’s not much an earthquake could do to harm us. But still, at nine, and then at eleven, and again at two, the special alarm sounds and all the groups gather on the main field. Some come dripping wet, straight from the pool, and some come still chewing, carrying the rest of their lunch or snack. But my girls are the only ones who come carrying pink-and-turquoise-decorated books, already silent when Steven strolls by for roll call.

  “Everyone’s here,” I tell Steven’s assistant, a short, mustached man with a bandanna around his head.

  He turns to my girls and shouts out the camp cheer. None of them respond with the camp callback.

  I smile and shrug, shielding my eyes from the sun. “At least they’re quiet and calm,” I say. “It’s a good way to react.”

  In a real emergency situation, I actually think my group would do the best. Look at them: Alexis Powell softly spinning my clipboard against the grass; Jessica Avery swatting at a fly; Lila and Alyssa and Renee comparing designs of friendship bracelets. They’re unpanicked and undisturbed. When the last drill is over and Steven blows his whistle, I motion to my girls to stand and they do, one at a time, wobbly, wiping grass and dirt off the bottoms of their shorts.

  “Okay,” I say, rubbing my hands together when I have their attention. “Let’s go.”

  I turn and they start following me, but halfway up a hill I realize, not for the first time, that I have no idea where I’m leading them. But Alyssa seems confident, holding Rebecca’s hand, who’s holding Billie’s hand, everyone all holding hands in a chain, hiking up the hill behind me.

  “Alyssa,” I say, “how long have you been coming to Sunny Skies?”

  “Since I was seven,” Alyssa says.

  “You really know how camp works.”

  “What do you mean works?”

  “I mean, you could take over. Like if I wasn’t here.”

  “Where are you going?” Zoe asks.

  “You can’t go anywhere,” Jenna says.

  “Can I go too?” Alexis says, jumping up and down.

  “I’m not leaving. I just feel like promoting Alyssa,” I say.

  “To what?” Alyssa says.

  “Co-counselor.”

  “Then can I be CIT?” Rebecca asks.

  “No, all the campers have to stay campers,” I explain.

  “Co-counselor’s cool,” Alyssa says. “Even if it’s not a real thing.”

  I look back. From our vantage point on the hill I can see most of camp, laid out below. This is probably what my mom means when she tells me to take a Bird’s-Eye View of things, to look at a situation from some faraway point and not from the inside. From where I’m standing, the camp looks pretty peaceful, all the different groups in different areas doing different things: playing H-O-R-S-E on the basketball courts, diving off the diving boards at the pool, sitting outside the Craft Shack at the long wood tables gluing glittery junk to pinecones. From up here it all seems to be running smoothly, an ant farm laid on its side, everyone in their zone, doing their thing. And all the ants are people, and
any of these people could potentially be a friend. I decide right then: I’m going to be the Un-Eva; I’m going to learn some names, give some chances.

  I sit down on the grass, and the girls plop down around me. Alexis hands me the clipboard; it says we were supposed to be at Outdoor Cooking with the boys ten minutes ago.

  “Outdoor Cooking.” I sigh.

  “Sucks,” Alyssa says.

  “What do you want to do instead?”

  Alyssa looks at me like she can’t believe I’m asking.

  “Seriously, what do you guys all want to do?”

  “I like sitting here,” Jessica says.

  “What if there’s another earthquake?” Maggie asks.

  “Then we’ll slide down the hill and break our legs,” Jenna says.

  “We’re not going to break our legs,” I say, in a voice that sounds like my mom’s.

  “Earthquakes are cool,” Alyssa says.

  “My cat got lost during an earthquake two years ago,” Lila says, and then Renee says, “We put posters all over the neighborhood.”

  “Did you find him?” Alexis asks.

  “No,” Renee says, and Lila says, “His name was Mr. Baggy Jeans, but my brother called him BJ.”

  “You should write about it,” Alyssa says.

  “Yeah,” Billie says, “write a story about Mr. Baggy Jeans.”

  “That’s such a good idea,” I say. “Let’s all write about something we’ve lost. Everyone here has lost something, right?”

  Most of the girls nod, but some of the girls are already writing. I feel happy and extra proud because we’re like the awesome underdogs, and not underdogs like we’re the slowest or the dumbest or the ones no one is rooting for. It’s more like we’re the outsiders, and I love that about my group. I love that we’re spending the last hour of camp up on a hill, writing together, doing our own thing, because who says we’re not united and who says we’re not forming a bond and who doesn’t love an underdog?

  I look at the clipboard again. 2:30–3:30, Outdoor Cooking w/ Foster’s group. I tap Alyssa on the arm, and she leans in closer.

  “I haven’t seen Foster all day,” I whisper.

  “So?” she whispers back.

  I lean in closer. “So, you know I like Foster.”

  Alyssa’s eyes go wide and she pulls away, hand over her mouth, blown away.

  “I want to go see him, but I also want to stay here,” I whisper. “The girls are being so sweet, writing on their own, it’s amazing. What should we do?”

  “You’re asking me?” Alyssa whispers.

  “I’m asking my co-counselor,” I whisper.

  “Hmm. Let’s go to Outdoor Cooking then.”

  “Why?”

  “Because then I can see Corey too,” Alyssa says.

  “Alyssa,” I whisper.

  “The girls won’t care, they’ll go wherever you want and do whatever.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. Duh. You’re older, and you’re the one in charge.”

  “Well, now I feel bad,” I whisper.

  “I never feel bad,” Alyssa whispers.

  “You should have my job then.”

  “I’m just a kid,” Alyssa says, like I’m dumb.

  I rouse everyone and we march down the hill, but when we get to Outdoor Cooking, it’s just the boys and Corey; I don’t see Foster anywhere. Before I can ask where he is, Steven walks up, looking really serious. He tells everyone that he’s taking over Foster’s group for the rest of the period and that he’ll walk both groups to End-of-Day Ceremonies. I can’t tell what’s going on and feel afraid to ask, but then Steven gives me a really serious look, so I can tell things are definitely not great and maybe Foster’s even in trouble. I gather my girls in a circle and tell them there’s nothing to worry about, but I have to leave them with Steven for a while.

  “Just for a few minutes,” I say.

  They all shout, “Noooo!” super sad and distressed. Even Alyssa looks a little upset, which means the girls do need me and they do want me around, even if I don’t really know what I’m doing. I wonder if maybe we should’ve stayed on the hill and then I worry that I’m always learning the wrong lessons in important lesson-learning situations and this is something I have to work on. But now I have to go.

  We all huddle together and put our arms around the girls on either side of us, and then I say, “Whirled Peas,” Alyssa says, “Curl Powder,” and we give a big squeeze.

  “Foster’s in the counselor break room,” Steven tells me.

  “There’s a counselor break room?” I say, and normally Steven would laugh at something like that, but this time he doesn’t. He looks concerned.

  “You can go talk to him for a bit and then meet us back at the amphitheater for End-of-Day.”

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  “Everything’s going to be fine,” Steven says without a smile. Then he looks past me, at my girls, his face filling with a new concern as he notices they aren’t outdoor cooking at all, but scribbling in journals.

  27.

  FORESHADOWED

  FOSTER STANDS WHEN he sees me. At first I can’t tell what to do—give him a hug, or wait to see if he hugs me—but Foster’s so explicitly sad that I just go to him and wrap my arms around him. Instead of hugging back, Foster just shakes his head and rambles. It seems like he finally took my advice, though, because he starts somewhere in the middle.

  “Not because of the earthquake,” Foster says. “Because of something else, some heart arrhythmia condition, have you heard of that?”

  “No.”

  “But they thought it was the earthquake, because something fell on him and hit him from up on this shelf above his bed.”

  “Did he . . . die?” I say.

  “He’s dead.”

  I feel lost so I just start guessing: “Foster, was it your brother? Was it your dad? Was—”

  “What?” Foster interrupts, confused.

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “Didn’t Steven tell you?”

  I shake my head.

  “Brandon Gettis.”

  I don’t know who Brandon Gettis is.

  “He’s a camper. He’s seven,” Foster says. “He’s in Eli’s group.”

  I don’t know who Eli is.

  “His brother’s Trevor Gettis. From my group.”

  I remember Trevor. I love Trevor. I ask if Trevor’s okay.

  “He’s not coming back to camp.”

  “That’s so sad,” I say. “What’s Eli going to tell his group?”

  “Steven’s going to tell them.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll tell the guys tomorrow,” Foster says. He looks like he’s about to cry. “When I was a CIT, Trevor was in my group too. The Gettises, they’re a really nice family.”

  “Trevor’s amazing,” I say.

  “It was just some sudden heart attack.”

  “Can kids get heart attacks?” I ask, even though I’m realizing I guess they can.

  Foster nods and covers his eyes.

  Even though it’s terrible, even though it’s the worst thing ever, I try to imagine if Lila’s brother died, the one who called Mr. Baggy Jeans “BJ.” I imagine if he died and I had to tell my girls. I probably wouldn’t be able to. I’d probably make Alyssa do it, because she never feels bad about anything. Then my eyes start to get wet, and I choke up. Foster’s so good, he’s such a good counselor, that I know how much this hurts him. I rack my brain for something completely incredible and soulful to say, because I want to make Foster feel better and I also want to be the Best Possible Eva.

  “You know, these kids are sort of precious.” I touch his hand.

  Foster looks at me and smiles. He nods.

  “It’s the saddest story,” I say, and I don’t need to tell Foster he can have this one, because it’s the story Foster’s been writing since we were freshmen.

  It’s the story he’s always written, and now
that it’s become real, it feels like anything’s possible. Anything can happen.

  Anything can end any way.

  28.

  FRENCHING FOSTER

  THERE ARE CERTAIN very adult, very serious movies about grief and mourning and loss that my parents don’t like me watching, probably for pretty sensible reasons. But I watch them anyway, and what I notice happens a lot is that the man and woman become so agonized by the suicide or the baby drowning that their pain, their crushing heartache, mysteriously transforms into what I can only call . . . horniness.

  Standing so close to Foster, being so moved, my emotions feel like they’re mysteriously transforming too.

  Foster’s lips part, and that’s my entrance: it’s where my tongue goes. We’re so literary, Foster and I; our stories have stories inside of them. Like how this is the story of a boy dying unexpectedly, but when you dig deeper, it’s also about two people finding one another after years of being right in front of each other’s faces. I’ve read novels where it’s like that, and I get what they’re saying: He was always there, he’d been there the whole time, I just didn’t realize it! And sometimes that feels phony, but sometimes it feels like it’s absolutely true. And this time, for me, it’s absolutely true. And if that’s a cliché, so what, I’m living it.

  It’s strangely normal, Frenching Foster. He closes his eyes, and it gets even better: we’re licking each other’s lips, stroking the sides of each other’s face. When I was thirteen, I was obsessed with being an amazing kisser, but later on you realize it’s a waste of time, because boys want to kiss you whether you’re any good at it or not. Now I just try to match their speed, respond to their motions, and they mainly seem satisfied.

  But Foster’s so tender. He’s so vulnerable, and he cares so much. He’s so sad about Brandon Gettis that the sadness is making his lips, his tongue, his hands more serious, more intent. He’s like some Back from the War kisser, or some Train Station Farewell kisser, which is completely different from Elliot, or from anyone else I’ve kissed.

  Elliot, ugh.

  Now, unfortunately, I’m thinking about Elliot and can’t stop.

  I’ve always felt ambiguous about the idea of the Bad Boy. Like, I know morally we shouldn’t find that attractive, but I guess realistically we can’t always help it. Now I’m realizing maybe it’s just the phrase itself that’s the problem. Bad Boy sounds kind of cute—there’s something dumbly adorable about it. But Bad Person sounds awful. Saying “I’m in love with a Bad Boy” might make your friend giggle or blush, but saying “I’m in love with a Bad Person” is just disturbing. I’m not labeling Elliot as some Officially Bad Person, but I am saying he’s a Bad Boy, and if the two could be recognized as being part of the same category, we’d all save ourselves a lot of time and trouble.