by Shane Bolks
His eyes skim my shirt, skirt, then shoes, his answer clear on his face.
“Excuse me.” Ice-cold rage coursing through me, I stand and stalk away. It feels like all eyes are on me as I walk past the other front-row girls and through the club. Behind me, the show goes on, and I give the club’s door a vicious push. I hate to leave good fashion. I hand the valet my ticket as the door swings open behind me.
“I grow tired of chasing you. I do not like standing on street corners and arguing. It is common.”
“I guess I’m just a common girl.”
He spreads his arms. “What did I do now? Do not tell me you didn’t like me touching you. You were wet.”
I dart a glance at the two remaining valets. They are trying very hard to pretend they didn’t hear that last part.
“Well, that comment’s going to be in the paper tomorrow.”
He dismisses the valets with a wave, then gives me a narrow look. “I embarrassed you inside?”
I shake my head. “It’ll take more than you feeling me up to embarrass me.”
“Then what is the problem?”
“You treated me like a whore!”
The valets aren’t even pretending not to listen now, but as they’re both frowning at Nicolo, I figure they’re on my side.
“I gave you pleasure.”
“Bullshit. You wanted to see how far you could go. I’m not some royalty groupie, following you around and waiting for a handout. You think because you’ve got a title, you can do whatever you want. Guess what? I’m not impressed.”
He doesn’t respond, and I don’t know if his silence is out of agreement or anger.
The valet pulls up with my car and holds the door for me.
“You know what, little Prince Nicolo? Why don’t you go home and enjoy your droit du seigneur there, because this American isn’t interested in stroking your ego.” I climb in, punch the button, and the BMW’s top goes down. “Or any other part of you.”
The next day, Gray doesn’t say anything about Nicolo on the drive to the basketball camp, and I’m glad.
“This is a pretty area,” I say when we’re out of the city.
“Yeah. At least the last moments of my life will be spent in—Jesus, watch out for that truck!”
I wave his whining away. “Loosen up. You’re supposed to be a cool camp counselor today.” Grayson just winces as I pass an eighteen-wheeler, narrowly avoiding colliding with another car as I skirt in front of the truck a second before the oncoming car passes us.
The camp is on Fox Lake in Ingleside, an area west of Chicago. As I drive into the Illinois interior, the traffic thins, the lanes narrow, and the trees thicken. We pass pine, maple, oak, linden, and butternut trees. The buildings and houses disappear, and we drive by cornfields and farmhouses.
The area reminds me of Lake Geneva, Wisconsin—about ninety minutes from Chicago—where my parents have a cottage. Gray and I call it a cottage because everyone else does, but I doubt most people would consider a mammoth structure with two stories, a formal dining room, five bedrooms, three and a half baths, a pool, a garden, and a boathouse a cottage. Of course, compared to the medieval-style castles and English manor houses down the street and across the lake, our house is a mere cottage.
The first year we stayed in Lake Geneva for the summer, I was six and Gray was ten. There aren’t a lot of happy memories with my family. My mom can be really cold and my dad was sort of absent, busy with business. In later years, Gray was in trouble all the time or zoned on drugs, but that first summer in Lake Geneva was like a fairy tale.
It was the July Fourth holiday, and we had two things on our minds: fireworks and swimming. We spent hours in the water. I must have asked Gray to throw me off the end of the dock a hundred times, and he did it every time. At night we built a campfire, although my mother argued that we had a perfectly good fireplace inside, and sat on logs roasting marshmallows for s’mores. I burned or lost all mine in the flames, but Gray gave me his, and I ate s’mores until I was sick.
“Yeah, you stole all Mom and Dad’s attention, and you stole my marshmallows, too,” Grayson says when I mention that summer. My tires crunch as we turn off the main road onto a smaller gravel one that will take us back to the camp. Almost immediately, the sky above us is obliterated by the thick foliage of criss-crossed tree branches above us. I was reluctant at first, but now I’m glad I agreed to come. The day is gorgeous—sunny and mild—and maybe I’ll be able to sneak away from the kids and lay out by the lake for an hour. I know, I know, UV exposure, but it’s too pretty out to stay inside today.
“Please, you weren’t innocent, Grayson. You only gave me the marshmallows so I wouldn’t tell Mom and Dad you were kissing that chick from the house next door. What was her name?”
“Hell if I know. See up ahead? That’s the parking—slow down. Jesus Christ!”
I slide into a parking space. “How are you getting to the lake tomorrow? Want me to pick you up in the morning?”
Gray sighs. “I don’t know, Allie. I know we always get together for Memorial Day weekend, but I don’t feel like having it out with Dad again this year. Maybe it would be better if I stayed home.”
I stare at him. “And leave me all alone with them?”
He shrugs.
“Oh, come on. Who’s going to dunk me in the pool? Who’s going to sneak into my room in the middle of the night and scream, ‘I’m a vampire!’ and scare the crap out of me?”
“Mom?” His lips thin, which is the model version of a smile.
“Right.”
We climb out of the car and head toward a cabin with a sign reading “REGISTRATION.”
“I think the last time she went in your room unannounced, she was more surprised than you.”
“Shut up.”
“What was that guy’s name? Tony? Travis?”
I give him a playful shove. “Go away.”
And he does. He leaves me to my own volunteering. I glance around, taking in the stereotypical rustic-looking cabins, mess hall, volleyball and basketball courts. In one area, canoes are stacked in bunches. Beyond that is a trail I assume leads to the lake, which isn’t visible from here.
The atmosphere of the camp reminds me of Covenant Harbor, the camp across from Maytag Point in Lake Geneva. I begged to be allowed to attend the summer when I was eight, and I lasted about two hours. The counselors wouldn’t let me shower and blow-dry my hair right after swimming, and that was that. Hopefully, this experience will be better.
Four hours later, it’s almost two, and I’m still stuck in Registration. I’ve learned that this is a Bible camp for the churches in this area during the week—Camp Risen Son—and used by the city of Chicago on the weekend for a program to benefit inner-city kids.
I’ve also learned how to extract a splinter from a dirty big toe, how to check for lice, and how much Bactine to apply to a cut.
Now I’m showing kids how to make hand puppets from brown paper lunch bags. It beats going through medical forms and waivers for three hours, like I had been, but it’s a far cry from Gray’s job, which is playing basketball outside with the kids we’re supposed to be inspiring. So far all I’ve inspired is a headache. And I’ve been cooped up inside without AC all day.
Cindy, the perky twenty-three-year old camp counselor supervising activities, bounces in the door—literally, because her blonde hair is in pigtails—and says, “Hey kids! Time for a snack! Popsicles and snow cones in the cantina!”
I’ve noticed that every sentence she utters is exclamatory.
The kids drop their projects and stampede for the door, and Cindy! and I are left standing in the detritus of paper bags, crayons, yarn, and glue sticks.
“Oops!” she says. “I guess I should have asked them to clean up first! I’ll round them up and we’ll clean this in a jiffy!”
She bounces back outside, and I kneel down to start cleaning up the mess. I’m wearing frayed jean shorts and a tank top, my hair pulled into a long, straight
ponytail. Even so, I’m hot and sweaty, and there’s a SpongeBob SquarePants sticker on my knee. “Fudge this,” I say to no one in particular, peel the sticker off, and head outside.
The camp feels deserted, but when I look a few yards away I see kids and volunteers spilling from the cantina. Poor Grayson, he’s got kids dangling from his arms and one clinging to each leg.
I head the opposite way. I’m just a few yards into the woods behind the registration cabin when I start to see patches of Fox Lake through the foliage.
All I can think is: Very hot. Lake cool.
I break out of the woods and into a huge smile. The lake is gorgeous—blue, calm, and at present forgotten. There’s a dock down the shore a bit, so I stride over there, shake off my flip-flops, and stick a toe in the water. Heaven.
I pull my toe out and look over one shoulder, then the other. I look across the lake, squinting in the sunlight. No one.
Fudge it. I’m going in. I shed my tank top and shimmy out of my shorts, then hop into the water in my white cotton bra and panties.
The water at the side of the dock only comes to my belly, so I wrap my hair into a bun on top of my head, and squat down until my shoulders are submerged. I linger for a moment, enjoying the feel of the sun, the cool water, the soft sand between my toes, and then I hear someone laughing.
Fudge! I scoot under the dock and peer through the slats, but I can only see the edge of the woodline in front of the dock, and the laughter came from the right.
“No, you’re sweaty from playing basketball all day!” a familiar voice exclaims. Cindy!
Thank God. If it was one of the kids, I’d get arrested for indecency with a child or something. I’m about to pop out from under the dock when I hear the low rumble of a man’s voice. Cindy! and one of the male counselors? So I’m not the only one who’s abandoned her duties.
I can still come out, but I decide to wait and see if they keep walking. I’d rather not jump out of the water wearing only my underwear if at all possible.
Cindy! giggles again, and I glance through the slats. She’s at the end of the dock, her back to the lake and her boyfriend facing me. I can’t see who he is, but his voice sounds familiar. Gray? No.
Then the guy puts his arm around Cindy!’s waist, spreading his hand over the small of her back. My own skin warms in response as he pulls her decisively, confidently against him and lowers his head to kiss her. My heart starts pounding—partly because I’m afraid they’re going to have sex right here at the end of the dock and I’m going to be stuck in the lake while they go at it, and partly because Cindy!’s guy is hot. I don’t know what he looks like, but simply watching the way he kissed her turns me on.
I peek through the slats again, but they’re still kissing. His hand hasn’t strayed under her shirt or moved to cup her ass yet, so maybe they’ll stop soon. Cindy! laughs, and I edge out from under the dock to get a better view. (Oh, come on, like you wouldn’t?) She reaches up to hug the guy, and he leans forward to return the embrace.
Dave.
8
Let’s Face the Music and Dance
Oh, my God. What the fudge is Dave doing here? What the fudge is he doing kissing Cindy!?
Fudge. Is Cindy! his girlfriend?
“Wait, basketball,” I mutter to myself. Dave likes basketball and he’s a professional, so that’s why he’s here. But why is he kissing Cindy? Argh! Who cares if he’s kissing Cindy?
Okay, stop talking to yourself and think about how to get out of here. Rory’s mom, Sunshine, is always saying that if you focus and direct your thoughts, you can change the world. She probably didn’t mean change it by making Dave and Cindy! go away, but it’s worth a try.
I duck back under the dock, close my eyes, and concentrate. Go away. Go back to camp. Omm…
God, I feel like an idiot. I open one eye and peer through the slats. Cindy!’s heading back into the woods! Yes! Thank you, Sunshine.
No, no, no. Dave isn’t leaving with her. He watches her walk away, then turns back to the lake and stands, hands on hips, staring at it.
It’s water, Dave. Move on. Ommm…
But he doesn’t move on, and suddenly I realize he’s not staring at the lake, but at the dock. There’s no way he sees me under here.
Fudging-A! My clothes are up there.
Dave frowns and steps onto the end of the dock.
Don’t be curious, Dave. Ommm. Walk on. Walk on. Omm.
He starts down the dock. I swear, sometimes he does stuff just to piss me off. His footsteps echo above me, and I crouch back into the shadows. I’m going to have a word with Sunshine about all this energy-focusing crap.
Dave stops, bends down, and picks up my tank and shorts. “Armani? Who cuts up Armani jeans? Who leaves”—he pauses and peers through the slats—“is someone down there?”
“Go away.”
He crouches down. “Allison?”
“No, it’s not me—I mean, her.” Damn.
“Are you naked under there?”
“No. Go away, Dave.”
He looks at my clothes, then back at me. “What are you doing?”
Irritating man! Why does this stuff always happen with Dave? Why does he always see me at my worst? Why doesn’t he ever see the glamorous Allison?
I duck out from under the dock, kneeling so my shoulders remain submerged in water. “Hand me my clothes. Stop grinning like that.”
“Sorry.” He holds my shorts and tank out, the clothes looking very small in his hand, but as I reach for them, he snatches them away.
“Dave!”
“You should have gone skinny-dipping.” He eyes my bra strap. “If you get back in these clothes with wet underwear, you’ll be uncomfortable the rest of the day.”
He’s right. I knew there was a reason people skinny-dipped. Well, another one.
“Here.” He untucks his white T-shirt and pulls it over his head.
“What are you doing?” Not that I mind seeing his bare chest a foot from my face. I remember one time he told me that he played football at UCLA. He’s got the perfect build for it.
“Use my shirt to dry off. You’ll have to go commando, but it’s better than wet underwear.”
Hmm. That’s actually a pretty good idea. His shirt will be wet when I give it back, but in the sun, it’ll dry fast.
“Fine.” I stand upright and put two hands on the deck to hoist myself up. Dave holds out a hand.
“Come on, I’ll pull you out.”
“Thanks.” I wasn’t looking forward to scrambling onto the deck in my underwear, which I think I mentioned was white cotton and in which I am now the star of my very own modified wet T-shirt contest.
Dave hauls me up, then hands me his shirt. He doesn’t make a big deal of looking me over, but he doesn’t look away, either. God, why couldn’t he be a lecherous jerk? He’d be so much easier to hate.
“So, what are you doing here?” he asks as I slip his T-shirt over my head. It smells like things I’d associate with him—campfire smoke and pine. Masculine things. The shirt falls to mid-thigh.
“I’m volunteering. My brother’s working here.”
“Your brother? That’s got to be Grayson.”
“How’d you know?” I pick up my shorts and reach under the shirt to wriggle out of my panties.
He shrugs. “You two look a lot alike. Same”—he gestures vaguely—“oversupply of gorgeousness.”
I glance at him sharply. Why did he say that?
“Want me to turn around?” His gaze lingers on the hem of the T-shirt. My hands are hidden beneath, but it doesn’t take much to figure out they’re on the waist of my panties.
“Why? My modesty’s shot anyhow.” I drop the underwear on the deck and step into the shorts.
“So you have modesty?”
I lift the shirt to button the shorts. “And you were being so nice.”
I unsnap the bra, extract one arm then the other, and drop it to the ground. It lands on Dave’s tennis shoes. Turning
my back to him, I slip off his shirt and shake out my tank top.
“Do they have a class to teach girls how to get out of bras like that?” he says to my bare back. “So, you’re a 32C.”
I tug the tank on, then spin around and snatch my bra out of his hands. “Hey!” I scoop up my panties, fold them and the bra, and start for the shore. “Thanks. I really didn’t want to be arrested for indecency with a child.”
“Probably should have thought of that before you stripped down.”
I glance over my shoulder. “Wow. Ya think?” I say and keep walking.
“Nice to see you, too. You’re always sweetness and light.”
“Save it for Cindy!”
At five o’clock, I’m starving, I’m bored, and I’m tired of all the hormone-infested boys staring at my braless chest. They’re nipples, kids. Get over it.
Finally Grayson stomps into the registration cabin, where I’m now helping the nurse out with three kids who rolled around in poison ivy. “Hey, ready to head home?” Grayson asks.
I glare at him.
“That’s a yes, I see. Hey, guys, what happened?”
“Poison ivy,” the three eight-year-olds answer in unison. “It itches.”
“Is Miss Allison making it feel better?” an unwelcome male voice says. I glance toward the door as Dave and Cindy! walk in.
“Tell her to kiss it. That usually helps.” Dave winks at me, and Cindy! giggles.
I am barraged by pleas from the three boys for me to kiss their boo-boos. I persuade them to let me kiss their foreheads, as they didn’t get the poison ivy there, and I kiss all three before they scamper to the parking lot to board the bus home.
“You know my sister?” Gray asks Dave, who’s got his arm around Cindy! now.
“Yeah. I’m friends with Hunter and Rory.”
Grayson frowns, and I say, “High school.”
“Oh, yeah. Rory was cute, and that Hunter kid took you to homecoming, right? I didn’t know they were together.”
“They got together a few months ago.”
“Cool. So, Dave, Cindy, want to go get a beer? I don’t know about you, but these kids could drive you to drink.”