Wish You Weren't Here, page 6
“She’s fun.” Lucy squishes in close, sandwiching me tightly between them.
The news doesn’t upset me like they thought it would. Priya is likable. It’s a fact of life as reliable as gravity. Playfully shaking free, I point between them with mock contempt. “You two are traitors to your country.”
I raise my index finger to my ear before tackling them both into the dirt in front of the mess hall.
8
Fuel for the Fire
I get all of my choices for the first week.
Unfortunately, Priya does, too.
So, although it means I’ll have to spend half my afternoon in her presence, it also means that I get a blessedly Pendley-free morning in Gymnastics and at the lakefront.
I’ve found that some of my high jump and long jump skills translate to the vault, and for someone who only gets five weeks of practice a year, I have a pretty decent tumbling repertoire.
The specialist, a Scottish college student with a thick brogue, shouts, “Walking feet!” at least a million times over the course of the session. She puts one senior in time-out for bouncing on things without supervision. A small group of his friends stands nearby and roasts him for the duration of his punishment.
In Windsurfing, I commit the ultimate camp sin, forgetting my sunscreen. So, I’m a little burnt and a lot sore when I arrive at lunch. Gia and Lucy wave me over to a table they’ve claimed to regale me with the stories of their mornings.
Lucy has a long-running crush on one of the hiking instructors, Euphrates. To be fair, he does look like a lost member of a K-pop group, with his boyish grin and swoosh-y silver hair. Everything I know about Euphrates was taught to me entirely against my will. I’ve never done a program with him, but I know all about his nature conservation efforts, his annual family vacation to Costa Rica, and which ice cream flavor he thinks best represents him. It’s Moose Tracks.
It’s the sexiest flavor, Lucy said when she told me last summer.
All of this to explain, when I say Lucy’s distraught as she tells us Euphrates is sporting a shiny new engagement ring, I mean she is distraught.
“I bet his fiancée is amazing,” she says, cupping her face in her palms. “They probably spend their weekends rescuing baby seals and cleaning up national parks.”
Gia says something about how there are probably tons of men cleaning up baby seals.
Lucy’s voice gets more muffled as she squeezes her face tighter. “Not ones who look like that.”
I’m trying to decide whether it would help or hurt to remind her Euphrates is ten years older than us and never had any interest in dating a high schooler when I see Priya walk through the mess hall doors.
She’s laughing, surrounded by known drama kids. I watch her grab a plate of fish sticks and look for a table with her new friends. When she disappears behind a pillar, I lose sight of her. Probably for the best. I can stay calm for Wilderness Adventure.
Except for Lucy’s crisis. But she seems to have temporarily accepted the reality of Euphrates’s marriage. Her hands still rest on her face, but they aren’t squeezing anymore. She listens to Gia with a faraway stare in her eyes.
“We’re working on self-portraits this week. I decided to do a self-portrait of Pat,” Gia says.
The chair beside me scrapes back against the floor, and Priya drops into the seat. “Don’t self-portraits have to be of yourself?”
“That’s such a pedestrian opinion,” Gia answers loftily, rolling his eyes. “Think outside the box, Priya.”
I scrutinize her. “Why are you here?”
Her expression doesn’t change, despite the question coming off much more aggressive than intended. She merely circles a finger in my direction and asks, “Haven’t we been over this?”
“I mean, why aren’t you eating with the theater people?” I clarify.
She hums and takes a bite of a fish stick. “They all have Art in the afternoon, so they’re going back to Quad 2 to eat. Plus, I’m maximizing my Gia and Lucy time.”
Gia preens. “As you should.”
“Do you like Theater?” Lucy asks, valiantly resisting her heartbreak.
“Yeah, so far. We just voted on the play for the first three weeks. I wanted Little Shop of Horrors, but I think it’s going to end up being Into the Woods.”
“What part are you auditioning for?” Lucy asks.
Having indulged in a musical-theater phase myself, I wonder how I would cast Priya. Not the Baker’s Wife or Jack’s Mother. Maybe Cinderella. Little Red Riding Hood? She’s annoying. It would depend on her—
Wait. “Can you sing?”
Priya scoffs. “No, absolutely not. I’m not auditioning.”
“Then why are you doing Theater all five weeks?” I ask.
“Design,” she answers. “I love costumes and set design. I think that’s what I wanna do. You know, eventually.” She gestures vaguely to the future.
“That’s so cool!” Gia says, shooting me an apologetic wince.
“Thanks. I’ve been doing it for a while. I make all my clothes.” She runs her hands down her body.
What? I examine today’s outfit, a pair of well-tailored linen pants and a button-up crop top. Both white, of course. They don’t look homemade.
“But I’ve been told I look like I’m a cult leader, so.” Priya cocks an eyebrow at me.
Gia shrugs. “Well, if you’re gonna be in a cult, at least you’re the leader.”
I rake my gaze over her, taking in the sleek low bun and pair of aviators perched atop her head. “You don’t look like you’re in a cult today. You look like…” I pause to think. “The world’s cleanest archaeologist.”
“Oh, yeah,” Lucy says, tilting her head. “I see it.”
Priya frowns appreciatively. “Hmm. I could be down to excavate fossils.”
“Fossils are a step up from a cult,” Gia says. Then he bites his lower lip to suppress a grin and continues, “That is not a sentence I ever thought I’d say.”
Lucy shrugs. “I’ve heard you say weirder.”
Gia manages to look affronted and pleased all at once.
Priya shoves the last of her fish sticks into her mouth and says, “Please. Say weirder.”
* * *
—
I like wilderness survival as much as the next guy, but there is one reason and one reason only that I signed up to take it this week: Senior Twilight.
Every summer, the senior campers spend their last Friday night in the woods outside of Quad 3. The hiking instructors take them to different starting points, leaving them alone with a backpack of equipment and a walkie-talkie for emergencies. At dawn, they make their way back to the big fire pit at the edge of the woods. Every single person at Fogridge wakes up early to watch the seniors come home. All of camp sits in the field, bundled up in their comforters and sipping hot cocoa, to hear Pat announce each senior’s name on a bullhorn as they break the tree line.
Obviously, it’s not mandatory. Campers can opt out for any reason and many do. Gia, for example, has always adamantly denounced the Twilight. He maintains that one of these days a camper is going to slip and die and Fogridge will get shut down.
And that won’t be me, he always says. It will not be me.
On the other end of the spectrum, Lucy has been begging Pat to let her participate in the Twilight since way before we were seniors. With the amount of hikes and backpacks she’s done, she could probably survive alone in the nearby wilderness indefinitely.
Even though I’m not nearly as outdoorsy as Lucy, I can’t fathom skipping it. To me, Senior Twilight is an essential rite of passage, like a quinceañera or walking at graduation. I want to stroll back into camp a triumphant badass, the way I’ve always imagined. I’ll be damned if I’m the unprepared one who dies and gets Fogridge shut down. Or worse, has to walkie for help. So, as much as I’d rather be doing something fun for this activity block, taking Wilderness Adventure is a necessary evil.
But it’s not worth anything if I can’t learn to start a fire. I offer my tinder a telepathic bargain. If you catch fire, I’ll give you a million dollars. Bark doesn’t have a brain. There’s no way it could possibly know that I don’t have a million dollars.
I lower my flint and strike it with the steel. Not even a spark.
“Julia, use the magnesium,” says the wilderness adventure specialist, Phantom. He’s a short, ripped white guy with a blocky face. His haircut is precise, but his beard is wild.
“Juliette,” Priya and I correct at the same time.
She’s somewhere behind me. Our entire program group crouches in the dirt, trying to start fires. Unsuccessfully, needless to say.
“Sorry, Juliette.” Phantom walks over and plants his Chacos right in front of me. “Go ahead.”
He watches me scrape a mound of magnesium onto the kindling. I strike the flint again. Nothing happens.
“Use the flat edge,” Phantom says, pointing at the steel. “Not the serrated edge.”
I flip the steel over and strike the flint again. This time, there are sparks, but the bark still doesn’t catch. I groan. Maybe it does know I don’t have a million dollars.
“That’s better, keep going!” Phantom’s Chacos continue down the line of campers.
I rock back on my heels and massage my knees, taking the opportunity to survey the fire makers to either side of me. Phoebe, on my right, can’t seem to build her structure before the flame goes out. To my left, James Manor, avocado farmer and zebrafish owner, has nicked his finger with the steel blade and keeps having to stop to wipe his blood onto his shorts.
“You okay?”
“It’s not that bad. It’ll stop,” James says, though the frequency with which he wipes his hand only seems to increase.
Staring at the small stain on his thigh, I tell myself that I could probably get through one measly night without fire. But what if there’s an emergency? What if I spill all my water and I need to boil some from a creek? What if climate change suddenly worsens and the temperature drops below freezing on a California summer night? What if I develop a debilitating fear of the dark?
I start in on the tinder again, trying to guess what it might find more useful than money. What does fire like? Houses? I can get you a house. Steel clangs against flint.
Suddenly, the bark catches. I scramble for my twigs, blowing gently on the flames as I build a little triangle. The twigs catch, but all at once, they go out again. I sigh and wipe my brow, frustrated. It knows. It knows I can’t get it a whole house.
I grab a new handful of bark and shred it into thin pieces, scrape the magnesium, and draw back the flat edge of the steel. Okay, not a real house. But I could do, like, a little dollhouse or something. That’d be fine for you. You’re only a little fire.
The bark lights.
I’ll take Woodshop, I promise the fire. I’ll build you a dollhouse. Two stories, if you want. I prod the tinder. Licks of flame start to climb the sticks. They crackle as they burn.
“Yes! Good job!” Phantom shouts behind me, but halfway through my turn, he continues, “Priya, this is a beautiful log cabin. Everyone, come take a look.”
I scowl at my fire. The last twig burns out, and the structure collapses into a black, charred heap. I kick a leg out, sending ashes flying.
Whatever. Now I’m never going to take Woodshop.
9
The Cockroach of Bankstown
The second Priya steps through the door of Polaris, I jump on her. Figuratively, of course. “How do you know how to make a fire?”
Priya settles onto her bed and pulls off her shoes. The knees of her white pants are tinted brown with dirt. She scratches at the stains absently. “I like Survivor.”
I shake my head. “Okay, you did not learn that from watching a reality TV show.”
She whips her head up, an uncannily predatorial look in her eyes—a tiger about to pounce. “Survivor isn’t a reality TV show. It’s the reality TV show.” Is she excited to yell at me about this? “And I didn’t learn it just from watching. I learned it for my audition video.”
I can’t stop shaking my head like a malfunctioning robot. “You auditioned for Survivor?”
“No.” She chuckles patronizingly. “I audition for Survivor. I have for ten years.”
I’m still shaking my head in disbelief. “We were six ten years ago.”
“I was seven.” There’s the Priya I know, splitting hairs over the four-month difference in our birthdays. She continues, “They never would’ve accepted me that young, but my parents let me apply anyway. It’ll be a funny story when I win. I’ll be like the next Adam Klein.”
I don’t ask who Adam Klein is; he’s clearly a Survivor guy. I’m more focused on the way she casually threw his name out, like I should also be deeply familiar with this show’s lore.
A myriad of questions swirl in my brain, but I go with “Do you think you could win?”
“Of course. When they finally let me on. It’s all about winning people over and getting them to work with you. That’s my area of expertise.” Pausing, she squints at me, biting her lip.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to decide…Are you familiar with the Cockroach of Bankstown?” She fights a smirk. “King George? Blessed by Macedonian Jesus? As strong as a Lebanese housewife?”
I feel like I’ve fallen into an alternate dimension. “What the hell are you talking about?”
She’s so alive when she answers, her body practically radiating with a near-religious fervor. “There’s an Australian version of Survivor. Not to be confused with season two of Survivor, which was filmed in Australia,” she adds quickly.
“Oh, of course not,” I say, amused.
“And there’s a contestant, George Mladenov?” She waits for a reaction. I shrug, so she plows on. “I think you’re him.”
I roll my eyes, refusing to take the bait. “Don’t fancast me.”
The smile doesn’t drop from her face, but there’s a change behind her eyes that I don’t like. Gone is that blazing passion, extinguished in a moment. I want to grab it, bring it back.
I groan, loud and aggrieved. “Fine. Tell me why I’m George.”
She lights up. “George’s first season was Brains vs. Brawn. He was a brain—”
“You think I’m a brain?” I interrupt.
She waves a hand dismissively. “That’s not important. Anyway, he was a mastermind. Absolutely ran the game. He gets to the final two, where you have to convince the eliminated players to vote for you to win, and just…gives the worst speech possible. He’s like”—she affects a bad Australian accent—“ ‘I was the king, and you were all my pawns.’ He lost, clearly.”
I stare, confused. “And that’s me?”
“Just listen,” she scoffs. “A few seasons later, they do Heroes vs. Villains, and George is cast as a villain.” At my pointed look, she says, “Not important. He goes in with a huge target on his back ’cause he’s a domineering a-hole, and they all want him out. But then he connects with people. He makes allies who respect the way he plays. He improves his past game’s flaws. He wins them over, not by changing who he is completely, but by finding a middle ground.”
This feels entirely too personal. “Are you…calling me a domineering a-hole?”
She pinches the bridge of her nose.
“Wait, am I the old George or the new George?” I frown. “Or is this like a ‘two Georges live inside you, the one that survives is the one you feed’ thing?”
“Well, when you phrase it like that, it sounds ridiculous.” She laughs, rolling her eyes.
I can tell she’s trying. So, I try to sound as nonjudgmental as possible when I ask, “And you think you know me well enough to psychoanalyze me like this?”
“That’s the thing.” Priya sighs, picking up her phone and popping it in and out of its case. “I’m not sure. I think you and I are still between seasons.”
My cheeks suddenly feel like they’re on fire. I step back, out of her sight, and press my hands to my face. “Did George win? That second time?”
I hear the smile in her voice. “You’ll see.”
My lips part silently, my thoughts scattered to the wind. “Oh,” I sputter. “Are we gonna watch it?”
“If you want,” she says lightly.
I laugh, but—it’s the weirdest thing—I think I do want.
10
Space Garbage
Fogridge is quietest in the morning, when the fields are wet with dew and exhausted counselors are asleep. I always enjoy being out here when it’s like this, even if I’ve never loved the act of running itself. If I don’t do it, though, I’ll feel like a coiled-up spring all day.
Barto, a kayaking specialist, is hauling colorful boats into the water when I reach the lake. He waves without pausing. Only specialists, who live separate from the campers and have nights off, are out this early.
I bank east, toward Arts, to avoid Quad 3’s busy morning setup.
My footfalls drum an unrelenting rhythm into the sand walkways of Quad 2. A slight mist hangs in the air, lending the area a magical feeling, though some of that is just Arts itself.
Each building has its own design, which specialists change whenever they get bored. Currently, Ceramics is Alice in Wonderland–themed. Its concrete platform, painted like a chessboard, sits under a big open-air tent. Gauzy mosquito nets hang down on all sides. Chairs are decorated like shiny technicolor mushrooms. A cartoonish bust of Pat wears a miniature crown adorned with heart-shaped plastic rubies.
Wind chimes, spiraling helixes, and pinwheels dance outside Painting. The converted barn that houses Textiles sports faux stained-glass windows from a project a few summers ago; they feature a saintly looking Pat fighting devil-Pat. The grassy lawn in front of Photography is littered with wooden standees, the kind you put your head in at carnivals. One is a kneeling knight, sword in hand. His word bubble reads I Solemnly Swear to Always Shoot in Landscape.
