by K. A. Tucker
Now we go for days with our paths never crossing and, when they do, he’s usually grilling me on my grades, my tennis scores, and any boyfriend who he needs to approve. Every so often, he’ll poke his head into my room at night—his tie hanging loose around his neck, his face drawn from exhaustion—to see if I’m awake and, if I am, he’ll settle down beside me and tell me about the derelict factory he just bought or the famous architect he just hired. Details of his day that my mother and brother have no interest in hearing, but that I absorb like a blanket of comfort as I curl against him, hanging onto every word.
“Just tell him to work less, then. He’ll listen.”
Mom chuckles, and it’s an oddly dark sound. Oh, you naïve girl, I hear it murmur. “Your father is not an easy man to be married to, Piper.”
I’m not as naïve as she thinks. I’ve read the papers, heard the whispers around school of kids echoing what they overheard their parents mutter about doing business with Kieran Calloway. I know that my father is successful because he is formidable. He can be a tyrant when it comes to getting what he wants, and a vindictive bastard when he doesn’t get it.
He’s just never been that way with me.
I let my gaze drift over the grassy fields and milling teenagers again, ready to shift the conversation away from our pending family crisis. “You’re right. This is so much better than spending the summer in Europe with Ava and Reid,” I murmur dryly. My best friends should be landing in Rome right about now, chaperoned by Ava’s stepmother, a twenty-seven-year-old model who has no clue about her basic obligations as a parental figure. Ava plans on taking full advantage of that.
Mom sighs with relief. Happy that I’m relenting on divorce talk for the moment, likely. “You’ve always been a good kid, Piper. I just think you could stand to make a few new friends with . . . different priorities.” Her forehead furrows slightly, her recent Botox injections keeping her disapproval from showing too much. “We wouldn’t be doing you any favors by handing you a credit card so you can lounge by hotel pools and shop all summer. Your father and I agree on that much, at least.”
“Well, I could have worked at Dad’s, if he had found me something better than a receptionist’s position,” I argue.
“You’re sixteen.” Her platinum-blonde bob sways with her headshake. “Besides, you have your whole life to get sucked into that world. Right now, I want you to experience normal teenager stuff. And being a camp counselor will look really good on your college application.”
I roll my eyes. “Mom. Grandpa has a campus building named after him.”
“See? This is exactly the attitude I don’t want my children to have.” She waggles a finger. “And, who knows? You might decide that you don’t want to work for your father, after all.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I’ve been fascinated with what my father does for as long as I can remember, and she knows it.
“Well, look at your brother—”
I lift a hand in the air to stop her, my annoyance flaring. “I am so tired of talking about Rhett.” He’s all we’ve talked about for the past nine months, since he decided Brown and the family business aren’t for him, dropped out of college, and took off to Thailand to live in a hut and teach English. My dad has all but officially disowned him. It certainly hasn’t helped with our family dynamics, either.
“I know. Just . . .” She sighs heavily. “Please try this summer. For me.” Her normally glowing complexion looks tired and worn.
“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” I grumble reluctantly, but I cap it off with a smile, reaching back to pat my sleeping bag roll. “With my shiny new potato sack that I get to sweat in for the next eight weeks.”
“And it isn’t because of the car your father promised you at the end of the summer, if you agreed to this?”
My hands fly to my chest with my mock gasp. “How could you even suggest such a thing? I’m deeply wounded.”
“Right.”
“But just so you know, I’m getting the C70. With leather seats. And every other upgrade. Limited edition.” Dad insists that my first car has to be a Volvo because he’s convinced they’re the safest cars on the market? Fine. I’m picking the most expensive model.
She chuckles softly and then leans in to plant a kiss on my cheek, her Chanel No. 5 wafting into my nostrils. “Come on. Let’s get out of this car. I’m dying to see what’s changed.”
“We’re bunking together for the summer.” The stocky blonde girl presses a hot, sweaty hand against mine. She’s manning the registration desk—a folding table set up on the grass beneath a maple tree, surrounded by blue coolers brimming with soda cans and boxes filled with red nylon bags and potato chips—and, by her solid stance and the tidy line of pens and paperwork, seems to be taking the job seriously.
“Hey . . .” I check the name tag affixed to her tomato-red camp T-shirt, tight across an ample chest and rounded belly. “. . . Christa.” It’s handwritten in unnaturally perfect, bubbly penmanship, the letters alternating between fuchsia and black, with powder-pink daisies drawn in each corner.
Obsessively neat. Crafty. A scrapbooker, likely.
“So, you’ve never been to Wawa before, right? ’Cuz I don’t remember seeing you here.” She does a quick once-over of my dress with her sapphire eyes. She’s wearing jeans, though it’s far too hot for them, even in the shade. The pink cast and dewy sheen over her otherwise pale skin tells me she’s feeling the oppressive heat.
“No. But my mom has.” I throw a thumb over my shoulder, pointing in the general direction that my mother scurried off in like a child charging a playground, babbling about a totem pole. Noise buzzes all around us—piercing laughter, doors slamming shut, the relentless shrill of the cicadas, the annoying whir of a riding lawn mower. “She used to come here every summer.”
“This is my twelfth year here. Fourth as a counselor.”
“Wow.” I do the quick math. That makes her at least nineteen years old.
She laughs, and it comes out sounding like a series of small snorts. “Yeah. That’s probably why I’m lead counselor this year.” She lifts her chin with that proclamation.
And very proud of the title, it would seem.
“So, anyway, boys’ cabins are on the right side, girls’ are on the left. We meet in the middle for all activities and meals.” She thrusts a nylon bag toward me. “Here’s your welcome kit. It has your T-shirts, flashlight, and counselor handbook. You’ll need to read it, but just to highlight the most important rules—no cell phones, no altering of staff uniforms. Oh, and obviously, no smoking or drinking.”
My hands go in the air. “No worries here.” I hate cigarettes and I’m not much of a drinker.
“Help yourself to a snack,” she says, gesturing to the coolers. “Our welcome meeting is at four in the pavilion, dinner’s at six, ice breakers and bonfire start at eight.” She rhymes off each item smoothly, like she’s been doing it all day. “Breakfast is between eight and nine A.M. Campers start showing up at one. Tomorrow will feel like the longest day of your life.” She taps a clipboard filled with signatures. “Activities sign-up sheets for the next two weeks. Every counselor has to supervise one activity per week. My word of advice—avoid archery.” She pushes her T-shirt sleeve up to show me a small white scar marring her thick bicep.
“Noted. I’m actually more afraid of the drama session, though.” I’ve never relished the stage, and a week of helping a bunch of kids muddle through their lines sounds agonizing.
I’m beginning to see why Christa was appointed lead counselor. I’m guessing she knows the ins and outs of this place better than anyone else and she’s definitely giving off those “responsible person” vibes.
But what’s it going to be like to bunk with her?
I push any dour thoughts that come with that aside. “So, how many counselors are there here, anyway?”
“Forty. Thirty-three returning, six campers who’ve moved up to junior counselors. And you.”
My gaze dr
ifts to where a small cluster of people collide with squeals and hugs, as if the yearlong wait to see one another has been excruciating.
And I’m the only outsider.
“Ashley!” Christa hollers at a girl passing by. “Come here!”
The tall, willowy girl trudges over in worn Birkenstock sandals, pushing loose strands of her frizzy strawberry-blonde mane off her face. The rest of it—reaching halfway down her back and seemingly as wide as it is long—is held back by a colorful bohemian head scarf, the emerald green in it matching the base color of her flowing floral tank top, and her eyes.
My gaze can’t help but stick to her face—to the thick layer of brown freckles that coats her cheeks, her nose, her forehead—and I instantly take pity on her. I know one other girl afflicted with such freckles—Rachel, from my English class—and I’ve heard the cruel things guys say about her. When I get too much sun in the summer and the fine dusting of pale brown spots appears over the bridge of my nose, I always use concealer to hide them.
There’s no hiding these freckles, though.
“This is Piper,” Christa says. “I need you to show her around Wawa.”
“Of course!” the girl exclaims in a chirpy, upbeat voice, showing off a set of braces with her wide smile before pressing her lips together, as if self-conscious. “What cabin are you in? We can drop off your stuff first.”
“Nine,” Christa answers for me. “Counselors share the bunk closest to the door. My stuff’s on the bottom.”
I suppress my annoyed sigh at the thought of climbing up and down a ladder in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. I guess my new roommate doesn’t believe in drawing straws.
“But first . . . choose.” Christa slides the counselor activities clipboard forward across the table, warning in an ominous voice while pointing to the scar on her arm as a reminder, “And choose wisely.”
I grab the pen and begin flipping through the clipped sheets, though I’m fairly familiar with my options after having spent hours going through the camp website last week. White Pine had stables for horseback riding, and its prime location near the coast of Maine allowed for scuba diving and sailing. But here, in the heart of upstate New York, camp activities are limited to the basics. Kayaking, swimming, hiking . . . They don’t even have tennis. They do have badminton, though, and thankfully, a spot is still available, so I quickly scrawl my name down for that. Finding my second mandatory activity is not as simple. My options have been whittled down to knitting, archery . . . and drama.
I knew we should have gotten here earlier.
“Does it matter if I’ve never done something before?” How am I supposed to help a kid aim an arrow?
“You’ll learn. And there’s always someone who’s done it before.”
Ashley leans in over my shoulder to peer at the sheets, her button nose scrunched up. “I made everyone in my family scarves for Christmas last year.”
“Knitting it is.” I sigh as I jot my name down, wondering if it ever gets cold in Thailand. Rhett didn’t come home for the holidays last year. Can you mail a scarf to a beach hut?
My mom appears out of nowhere then, rushing excitedly toward me. “Can you believe they still have the exact same corn roast pot? Oh, Piper . . . just wait until you dip a freshly picked and boiled cob into a pot of melted butter. You’ll have it running down your chin and all over your forearms . . .”
I cringe at the thought of grease clogging my pores. “Gross!”
“I know!” She laughs out loud and then reaches out to offer Christa her hand. “I’m Alison Calloway, Piper’s mom. I’m so happy she’s spending her summer here. I’ve been telling her about this place forever.” Her eyes are alight as she takes in Christa and Ashley, and I can see the wheels churning inside her head, can hear the excited voice whisper-screaming, “Piper’s made her first lifelong camp friends!”
Don’t get your hopes up, Mom.
“Please take care of my little girl for me. She’s only sixteen.”
“Mom.”
“We will, Mrs. Calloway,” Christa promises sternly, as if accepting a mission request.
“So you used to go here?” Ashley asks, her wide eyes taking in my mother in her silk tank top and coral capris, diamonds adorning her earlobes and fingers, a string of freshwater pearls finishing the look nicely. It’s an outfit more suited to lunching at the country club than dropping her daughter off at what my father called a “low budget” camp.
“I did! Many years ago.” Mom laughs, well aware of how ill-suited she is to her old life. “By the way, was that Russell I saw going into the kitchen? Because I swear it looked just like him, but that means he’d have been working here for, what, forty-three or forty-four years?”
“Forty-five years, this summer,” Christa confirms.
“Wow!” my mom gasps with astonishment. “He was always my favorite. I have to say hello to him before I go. Which,” she checks her diamond-encrusted wristwatch, “is really soon if I want to get to your aunt Jackie’s by dinner.”
An odd rumble and sputtering sounds behind us. We turn to watch a boxy pea-soup-green hatchback park next to my mom’s shiny black Porsche. With its multiple dents and scrapes along the passenger door, the two of them side-by-side looks almost comical. I have no idea what that car is, but it’s definitely old and not in a good, classic-car way.
The driver’s-side door opens and a tall, lean guy emerges. He lifts his arms above his head and arches his back with an exaggerated stretch before reaching down to slide his wallet into the back pocket of his baggy black jeans.
A flock of people runs toward him.
“I didn’t think Kyle was coming back.” Ashley’s emerald eyes keenly watch him.
“Yup.” Christa sighs with resignation. “Why . . . I don’t know.”
Kyle. I file that away as I watch him take turns slapping hands with the guys and hugging the girls, his cheeks lifting with a broad smile. He’s sporting a punkish hairstyle, his chestnut-brown hair short on the sides but longer on top and at the back, where a two-inch strip runs down the center. It’s been gelled to stand on end.
I struggle to make out his face from this distance—he has on dark, shield-style sunglasses—but I have that odd gut feeling that when I do finally see him up close, he’s going to be jaw-droppingly gorgeous.
“I guess they’ve relaxed the dress code since I was here last,” my mother murmurs, and I can’t tell whether she disapproves. She always has been a huge proponent of my school’s uniform guidelines, which includes modest hairstyles.
The guy—Kyle—observes my mom’s car a moment and then says something to his friends. Who showed up here in that? or something along those lines, I imagine. A few fingers point our way, and suddenly Kyle’s walking toward the registration desk, his focus on us.
Maybe on me.
The flutters in my stomach tell me that I hope it’s the latter.
Christa begins busying herself with the pens next to the activities clipboard, lining them up in a perfect row. Is she an obsessively neat person?
Or is she suddenly nervous?
At forty feet away, I note that Kyle is lean but has a muscular frame. At thirty feet, I’m able to size up his solid, angular jaw. At twenty-five feet, I decide his faux Mohawk suits the shape of his face just fine. At twenty feet, the sun flickers off his full mouth and I notice the silver ring through the left corner of his bottom lip. At ten feet, I realize he has my favorite type of nose on a guy—long and slender, not too prominent. At five feet, he slides off his sunglasses to show me irises the color of burnt sugar.
My gut was one hundred percent right.
“Oh! Look, there’s Russell!” my mom exclaims. “Come on, Piper, I want to introduce you to him before he disappears again,” she urges, hooking a slender hand through my arm.
“Uh . . . But Ashley is going to give me a tour . . .” I stall, eagerly waiting to hear Kyle speak.
“I’ll find you over there in a minute!” Ashley waves me
off, her excited eyes glued to Kyle.
I guess that settles that.
With a small huff, I let Mom pull me toward the mud-brown building and the man in a black-and-white checkered cook’s uniform, peeling carrots into a bucket at the picnic table. “Get on Russell’s good side and he’ll give you a double helping of his homemade chocolate pudding whenever it’s on the menu,” she says in a low voice. “And trust me, that stuff is currency around here.”
“Just like prison.”
“Hush!” She swats playfully at my arm. “Your aunt Jackie and I never had any money to buy candy at the canteen, so we’d trade our bowls to kids for . . .” She rambles on about SweeTarts and Snickers bars; meanwhile I glance over my shoulder.
Kyle is chuckling at something Ashley’s saying as he shifts from foot to foot, a red nylon welcome bag dangling casually from his fingers.
“Piper?” my mom calls out, slowing. “What do you think?”
“Uh . . . Yeah, sure.”
“Were you even listening to me?”
I meet her gaze. “No. Sorry. What?”
Frowning, she peers back to see where my focus was, just as Kyle turns to find our eyes on him. He smirks and casts a small wave.
“Ahh . . . I see,” Mom murmurs knowingly. “So it’s going to be the boy with the Mohawk, is it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mumble, my cheeks heating. “And it’s a Fauxhawk.”
Chapter 3
NOW
When I unlock and open the front door to my condo that evening, my mind is still swirling with memories.
Kyle has lingered in my thoughts all afternoon, like the constant prick of an embedded thorn—impossible to ignore. I was late for my one o’clock meeting and mentally absent for all of them, as a summer long since filed away into the past came flooding into my present. Even David, normally too self-involved to notice anyone else’s struggles, paused his relentless press to confiscate Mark for his own needs long enough to ask if I was feeling all right.