by Riley Sager
I smile, pretending that they’re right. What none of them understand is that the point of the game isn’t to fool others with a lie.
The goal is to trick them by telling the truth.
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
My second night at Camp Nightingale was as sleepless as the first. Possibly worse. No electricity in the cabin meant no air-conditioning, no fan, nothing to act as a shield against the late June heat. I awoke before dawn, sweaty and uncomfortable, a patch of warm moisture between my legs. When I dipped an index finger into my underwear to investigate, it came back stained with blood.
I was seized with panic, unsure what to do. I knew about menstruation, of course. The girls in my class had been given “the talk” the year before, much to the relief of my mother, who was spared such awkwardness. We were told why it would happen. We were told how it would happen. But my gym teacher—kindly, clueless Miss Baxter—had neglected to tell us what to do when it happened.
Ignorant and fearful, I crawled out of bed and awkwardly climbed the ladder to the bunk above mine, afraid to part my legs too much. Rather than ascend one foot at a time, I gripped the ladder’s sides and lifted both feet up each rung in quick, bunk-shaking hops. By the time I reached the top, Vivian was already half-awake. Her eyes fluttered beneath a swath of blond hair that covered her face like a veil.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m bleeding,” I whispered.
“What?”
“I’m bleeding,” I said again, stressing the second word as much as I could.
“Then go get a Band-Aid.”
“It’s between my legs.”
Vivian’s eyes opened fully as she swiped the hair from her face. “You mean—”
I nodded.
“Is this your first time?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck.” She sighed, partly out of annoyance and partly out of pity. “Come on. There are tampons in the latrine.”
I followed Vivian outside, waddling like a duck down the mulch-covered path. At one point, she glanced back at me and said, “Quit walking like that. You look like an idiot.”
Inside the latrine, Vivian hit the light switch by the door and led me to the nearest stall. Along the way, she grabbed a tampon from the dispenser attached to the wall. I sequestered myself inside the stall, Vivian whispering instructions from the other side of the door.
“I think I did it right,” I whispered back. “I’m not sure.”
“You’d know if you did it wrong.”
I remained in the stall, humiliated, humbled, and not sure how to feel. Womanhood had officially arrived. The thought filled me with sadness. And fear. I began to cry all the tears I had managed to hold back the night before. I couldn’t help it.
Vivian, of course, heard me and said, “Are you crying?”
“No.”
“You totally are. I’m coming in.”
Before I could protest, she was in the stall, closing the door behind her and nudging me aside with her hips so she could join me on the toilet seat.
“Come on,” she said. “It’s not that bad.”
“How would you know? You’re only, like, three years older than me.”
“Which is a lifetime. Trust me. Just ask your older sister.”
“I’m an only child.”
“That’s a shame,” Vivian said. “Big sisters are awesome. At least mine was.”
“I always wanted a sister,” I said. “One who could teach me things.”
“Like how to shove cotton up your twat each month?”
I laughed then, in spite of my fear and discomfort. In fact, I laughed so hard I momentarily forgot about both.
“That’s better,” Vivian said. “No more crying. I forbid it. And since I’ve already gone above and beyond the call of duty here, I am offering up my services as surrogate big sister. For the next six weeks, you can talk to me about any damn thing you want.”
“Like boys?”
“Oh, I happen to have lots of experience in that area.” She let out a rueful chuckle. “Trust me, Em, they’re more trouble than they’re worth.”
“How much experience?”
“If you’re asking if I’ve had sex, the answer’s yes.”
I shrank away from her, suddenly intimidated. I’d never met a girl who’d done it before.
“You look scandalized,” Vivian said.
“But you’re only sixteen.”
“Which is old enough.”
“Did you like it?”
Vivian flashed a wicked grin. “Loved it.”
“And did you love him?”
“Sometimes it’s not about love,” she said. “Sometimes it’s just about seeing someone and wanting him.”
I thought of Theo just then. How handsome he was, with muscles in all the right places. How looking at him made me feel deliciously unbalanced. Only in that cramped stall with Vivian did I understand that I had experienced the first flush of desire.
The realization almost made me start to cry again. The only thing that stopped me was the sound of the latrine door squeaking open, followed by the slap of flip-flops on the tile floor. Vivian peeked through the crack in the stall door. She turned back to me with wide eyes and mouthed two words: Holy shit.
Who is it? I mouthed back.
Vivian answered in an excited whisper, “Theo!”
Water began to blast inside a shower stall. The one in the far corner of the latrine. I started to feel dizzy as my brain filled with the same stew of emotions I had felt the night before. Warmth. Happiness. Shame. I was in the same room with a boy who was showering!
No, not a boy. A man.
And not just any man. Theo Harris-White.
“What do we do?” I whispered to Vivian.
She didn’t answer. Instead, she moved. Out of the stall. Toward the door. Dragging me with her, the two of us incapable of making a silent retreat. Vivian giggled madly. I tripped and slammed a shoulder into the paper towel dispenser.
“Halt!” Theo called from the shower stall. “Who goes there?”
Vivian and I exchanged looks. I’m certain mine was deer-in-headlights panicked. Hers was delighted.
“It’s Vivian,” she said coyly, drawing out the end of her name into an extra syllable.
“Hey, Viv.”
Theo said it so casually that jealousy bloomed in my chest. How lucky Vivian was. To be known by Theo. To be greeted with such easy familiarity. Vivian noticed the envy in my eyes and added, “Emma’s here, too.”
“Emma who?”
“Emma Davis. She’s new.”
“Oh, that Emma. Cool, fashionably late Emma.”
I let out a squeak, shocked and elated that Theo knew who I was. That he remembered leading me to Dogwood in the dark of night. That he had noticed me.
Vivian elbowed me in the ribs, prompting me to meekly reply, “Hi, Theo.”
“Why are you two up so early?” he asked.
I froze, one hand latched on to Vivian’s wrist, silently begging her not to tell him the truth. I wasn’t sure if a thirteen-year-old girl could die of embarrassment, but I certainly didn’t want to find out.
“Um, going to the bathroom,” she replied. “The real question is why you’re here. Isn’t there a shower in the Lodge?”
“The water pressure there sucks,” Theo said. “Those pipes are ancient. Which is why I haul ass out of bed extra early and shower here before any of you girls can stumble in.”
“We were here first,” Vivian said.
“And I’d be grateful if you’d finally leave so I can shower in peace.”
Vivian looked down at me, smirking, and whispered, “He means jerk off.”
It was so dirty and inappropriate that a laugh burst out of me. Theo heard it, of course, and said, “I mea
n it, guys. I can’t stay in here all day.”
“Fine,” Vivian called back. “We’re gone.”
We departed in a torrent of giggles, me still clutching Vivian’s wrist, the two of us twirling each other in the predawn. We spun until I grew dizzy and everything—the camp, the latrine, Vivian’s face—became a glorious, happy blur.
10
It takes me hours to fall asleep. The silence is once again too oppressive for my Manhattanite ears. When I finally do manage to drift off, my sleep is stormy with bad dreams. In one of them—the most vivid—I see the long-haired woman from the photo found in Vivian’s trunk. I stare into those distressed eyes until it dawns on me that it’s not a picture I’m looking at but a mirror.
I’m the woman in the photograph. It’s my absurdly long hair trailing to the floor, my dark-cloud eyes staring back at me.
The realization jolts me from sleep. I sit up, my breath heavy and my skin coated in a thin sheen of sweat. I’m also struck by the need to pee, which tugs me reluctantly from bed. Careful not to wake the others, I fumble in the darkness for my flashlight and those newly purchased boots, which I stuff my bare feet into once I’m outside. The flashlight remains off as I indulge myself with a view of the darkened sky above. I’d forgotten how different night is here. Clearer than in the city. Unmarred by light pollution and constant air traffic, the sky spreads out like a vast canvas painted midnight blue and studded with stars. The moon sits low on the horizon, already dipping into the forest to the west. It’s such a beautiful sight that I get the urge to paint it. Which, I suppose, is progress.
Inside the latrine, I hit the light switch by the door. Fluorescent bulbs overhead hum to life as I head to the nearest stall. The same stall, coincidently, where Vivian led me on that fraught, frightening night.
To this day, it amazes me how I entered the latrine that night feeling one thing and left feeling the complete opposite. Going in, I was terrified by the ways my body could betray me. I departed riding a wave of laughter, still clutching Vivian. I remember how happy I was in that moment. How alive I had felt.
The memory of that time makes me sigh as I prepare to leave the stall. I’m stopped by the sound of the latrine door being opened. At first, I think it might again be Theo. A sad, silly thought, when you get right down to it. But it’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility, seeing how we’re both back here after all this time.
Instead, when I peek through the crack in the stall door, I see a girl. Long, bare limbs. A flash of blond hair. She stands at the row of sinks along the wall, checking her features in the mirror. I check them, too, shifting slightly in the stall to get a better view of her reflection. I spot dark eyes, a perky nose, a chin that tapers to a point.
A gasp leaps from my throat as I push out of the stall, calling her name.
“Vivian?”
I know I’m wrong even before the girl at the sink spins around, startled. Her hair’s not as blond as I had thought. Her skin is more tanned. When she fully faces me, I see the diamond stud in her nose, winking at me.
“Who the hell is Vivian?” Miranda asks.
“No one,” I start to say, stopping myself mid-lie. “A camper I knew.”
“Well you scared the shit out of me.”
I have no doubt. I scared myself as well. When I look down at my hands, I see I’m clutching the charm bracelet, the birds rattling. I force myself to let go.
“I’m sorry,” I tell Miranda. “I’m confused. And tired.”
“Can’t sleep?”
I shake my head. “You?”
“Same.”
She says it with forced casualness, which instantly tips me off that it’s a lie. I’m good at that kind of thing. I was trained by the best.
“Is everything okay?”
Miranda gives me a nod that soon veers into a slow shake of her head. The movement highlights the redness of her eyes and the faint shimmering lines that run down her cheeks. Tears, recently dried.
“What happened?”
“I was just dumped,” she says. “Which is a first, by the way. I do the dumping. Always.”
I go to the sink next to her and turn on the tap. The water rushing from the faucet is blessedly cold. I run a paper towel under the stream and press it to my cheeks and neck. The feeling is delicious—crisp water against my skin evaporating in the heat, the vanished droplets leaving pinpricks in their wake.
Miranda watches me, silently seeking comfort. It occurs to me that’s also part of my job. One I’m woefully unprepared for. Yet I know about heartbreak. All too well.
“You want to talk about it?”
“No,” Miranda says, but then adds, “It’s not like we were serious. We’d only dated for, like, a month. And I get it. I’m gone for six weeks. He wants to have fun this summer.”
“But . . .”
“But he dumped me by text. What kind of jackass does that?”
“One who clearly doesn’t deserve you,” I say.
“But I really liked him.” More tears glisten at the edges of her eyes. She refuses to let them fall, instead using a fist to wipe them away. “It’s usually the other way around. Normally I couldn’t care less about guys who really like me. But he was different. You must think I’m, like, such a baby.”
“I think you’re hurt,” I tell her. “But you’ll feel better sooner than you think. By the time you get back from camp, he’ll be with some—”
“Skank,” Miranda says.
“Exactly. He’ll be with some skank, and you’ll wonder why you even liked him in the first place.”
“And he’ll regret dumping me.” Miranda checks her reflection in the mirror, smiling at what she sees. “Because I’m going to look so hot with my camp tan.”
“That’s the spirit,” I say. “Now, go back to the cabin. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Miranda heads to the door, giving me a wiggle-finger wave as she goes. Once she’s gone, I stay behind to splash more cold water on my face and compose myself. I can’t believe I’d momentarily thought she was Vivian. Not a road I want to go down again. Those days are over. No thanks to this place and all these memories that keep returning like a bad habit.
When I step outside, even the sky is familiar—a shade of grayish blue that I’ve used often in my paintings. Muted and melancholy and just the tiniest bit hopeful. It was that same color when Vivian and I bolted from the latrine in the wee hours of the morning, laughing with abandon, the rest of camp sleepy and silent. It had felt like we were the only people on earth.
But there had been a third person also awake, as Vivian soon reminded me.
Come here, she whispered, standing by the latrine, her elbow bent against its cedar wall. There’s something I know you’ll want to see.
With a grin, she gestured to two planks in the latrine’s exterior wall. One was slightly crooked, leaving a crack big enough for light to trickle through it. Occasionally, the light would blink out a moment, blocked by someone on the other side of the wall.
That someone was Theo. Still in the shower. I heard the rush of water and his faint humming of a Green Day tune.
How do you know about this? I asked.
Vivian grinned from ear to ear. Found it last year. No one knows about it but me.
And you want me to spy on Theo?
No, Vivian replied. I dare you to spy on him.
But it’s wrong.
Go on. Take a look. He’ll never know.
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly parched. I edged closer to the wall, wanting to get a better look, ashamed by that want. Even more shameful was my need to please Vivian.
It’s fine, Vivian whispered. When you get an opportunity to look, you’re a fool not to take it.
So I looked. Even though I knew it was wrong. I leaned in and placed an eye to the crack in the wall, at first seeing nothing b
ut steam and the water-specked shower wall. Then Theo appeared. Skin slick. Body smooth in some places, matted with dark hair in others. It was the most beautiful, frightening thing I had ever seen.
I didn’t watch him for very long. After a few seconds, the wrongness of the situation crashed over me and I turned away, red-faced and dizzy. Vivian stood behind me, shaking her head in such a way that I couldn’t tell if she thought I had looked too much or not enough.
Well, how was it? she asked as we headed back to the cabin.
Gross, I said.
Right. She bumped my hip with hers. Totally gross.
I’m halfway to the cabins when a strange, sudden noise gets my attention. It’s a rustling sound. Like someone walking through the grass to my left.
My thoughts turn instantly to Casey’s story about the victims of Lake Midnight. When something appears on the edge of my vision, I think for a split second it’s one of the ghosts, ready to drag me to a watery grave. Or one of the rumored survivors’ grandsons wielding an ax. I switch on the flashlight and swing it toward the noise.
It turns out to be a fox slinking toward the forest. Something is in its mouth—an unknown creature, now dead. All I can make out is blood-slicked fur. The fox pauses in the flashlight’s glare, its body coiled, eyes glowing greenish white as it stares at me, deciding if I’m a threat. I’m not. Even the fox can see that. It trots on, unconcerned, a dead limb of whatever’s in its mouth flopping as it vanishes into the forest.
I, too, resume walking, feeling a little bit frightened and a lot foolish. The mood persists as I reach Dogwood. Because that’s when I notice something out of the ordinary as I reach for the doorknob.
A light. Tiny and red. Flaring like the tip of a cigarette.
It glows from the back wall of the cabin in front of ours. Red Oak, I think. Or maybe Sycamore. I aim the flashlight at it and see a black rectangle tucked into the nook where the two sides of the roof connect. A slim cord drips down the wall to the ground.
A surveillance camera. The kind you see in the corners of convenience stores.
I turn off the flashlight and stare at the camera’s lens, which shimmers slightly in the darkness. I don’t move a muscle.