The Ghost of Danny McGee, page 3
“Well, that’s what we do here. One way or another.” He gives her a warm smile. “You two have made a great decision, doing this together. There’s no true bond like a bond formed in childhood, you know. I think you’ll be surprised what you learn this summer. If everything goes according to plan.”
Logan frowns. “I don’t think we have much of a plan.”
Again, it’s as if he is laughing at a joke she missed, something whispered in his ear while she was looking away. “No, of course not. No one does. There’s never a set plan here. That’s really the beauty of the whole thing, isn’t it? No—what I mean is, if the camper cooperates with all the goals you’ve laid out. I mean, if her experience this summer is everything you want it to be.”
Logan folds her hands in her lap. The stream of daylight falling over her through the windows seems altogether too harsh; she is very much aware of the paleness of her own skin, the fine creases and slack. “Her,” she repeats with a breathy laugh through her nose. “That’s funny.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s just, I think you’re the first person I’ve talked to who refers to her. Not me.”
He scoffs, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “You’ll have to forgive me. You know, this time of year, I’m spending more time with the campers than with the clients. Sometimes I forget all about you, to be honest.” He chuckles to himself.
The conversation carries on for some time. Byron is charming, for all his digressions and off-putting smiles—the quirks of a mad genius, allegedly. Logan is surprised when he brings up the subject of Hugo Baker. Surprised, but finds it admirable. He wants to know if she is uncomfortable with the news, if it played into her decision to come back. She tells him honestly: it was her husband who was really upset. He talked a lot about getting their money back, about taking the moral high ground. The reality, she knows, is that he was scared. He was never sure about the summer to begin with. Baker’s presence was just a fair excuse to raise a stink. She stops short of saying as much to Richard Byron.
He nods, and his gaze is set in a firm line, adamant, when he says: “You have to know, Mrs. Gill, that if I—if anyone with Phoenix Gen—thought that he could be a danger to any of our clients, we would not have accepted his application to the program. I mean that. The truth is, if he is guilty of what they’re accusing him of, or not—” Here, he holds up two defensive palms and frowns evenly, as if to clarify that he is not trying to pass judgment one way or the other. Logan knows that gesture well. It’s a gesture men his age are fond of, a blanketing shrug to smother debate. “The truth is, on the other side of that lake, it doesn’t matter. Once the consciousness transfer goes through, he won’t be guilty, or innocent, of anything. Any more than you will be. A kid is just a kid. Does that make sense?”
Logan looks toward the windows. She can see the taut surface of the lake through the trees and, if she squints, the edges of a groomed lawn far on the other side. “Yes.” She nods. “It does.”
She imagines, for a moment, the notorious filmmaker sitting in this same leather seat. How differently their conversation must have gone.
“You seem agitated. If you have any other questions, about any of it, please go ahead and ask.” Byron folds his hands on his desk, thumbs twiddling. “That’s what this meeting is for.”
Logan shakes her head. A stray lock has fallen from her bun; she tucks it habitually behind her ear. “No. No, I don’t think I have anything to ask. It’s just a little overwhelming at this point. Even the second time around. I’m still thinking about her, I guess.”
“Well, that is perfectly understandable. I can’t blame you.” He leans back in his chair. A tiny, mischievous grin blooms on his lips. “Would you like to meet her?”
Logan freezes, hovering on the edge of her next thought. “Are you serious? I thought that wasn’t allowed.”
He laughs heartily, shaking his head. Then he shifts forward to type something into his desktop. “It can be a little much for some people to handle,” he explains carefully. “But since this is your second summer, and you seem to have a reasonable head on your shoulders, Logan, if you don’t mind my saying . . .” He clicks his tongue, then looks up from his screen and bobs his chin at her. “Ready?”
Logan cannot say that she is, but she nods. Her hands twist in her lap as she slides forward on the leather seat. He swivels the screen to face her.
It appears to be live footage. Logan looks down into a small, tidy room, at a white-sheeted hospital bed. An attendant leans over the body on the bed; when they move aside, she and Byron have full view of the girl. Logan’s breath catches in her throat.
She knows that girl. There are those boyish round cheeks. She knows that sloping nose, those downy brows. The thin, mousy hair tucked neatly behind her ears. The skinny arms and legs, the mole above her knee, the scarcely protruding points of her chest.
“Oh,” she breathes.
“Pretty incredible, isn’t it? That’s her.”
The girl’s eyes are closed, her face blank. Her breath rises and falls in a perfect, shallow rhythm. Something cold and heavy sinks into Logan’s chest. A cry of protest, of horror, lodges deep in her stomach. She is naked, exposed; she wants to rush into that room and cover her up. “That’s . . . me.”
“No,” Byron corrects her. “Now, that’s the critical point. You are you. That is no one. But, in a couple of days, when the transfer goes through, that will be you. And you will be no one.”
After a pause, he brings his hand to his desktop. With a light clack, the girl is gone. He swivels the screen away from her view again. Logan realizes she has nearly slid off the front of her chair.
“So, what do you think? Did we do all right on her?”
“Perfect.” Logan swallows a deep breath. The heaviness in her chest dissipates, rising into an ethereal joy. “Perfect, just . . . Well, I’m sure it’s taken care of already.”
“What is it?”
“The glasses. It’s really important to me that she—that I—wear those glasses.”
“The red ones, right?”
Logan nods, taken aback. It’s impressive for a man of his stature to remember such a small detail. “Yes, exactly. The red ones.” Big and owlish, scarlet frames. She hid behind those glasses until high school.
Richard Byron assures her it will be taken care of. He wishes her a perfect summer as he ushers her out the door. Logan is still shaken and nearly asks for another look at the girl. She holds it back. She will see her again, soon.
week two
Sam
Everyone is given a new wardrobe. The clothes are plain, generically American, all denim, khaki, and flannel. White and gray, forest green, and garish, Christmas red. They could belong to any generation. Anything personal the counselors brought with them is scrutinized by Campbell and the assistant directors. If it has a drastic cut or a commercial logo, it has to go.
“Come on,” Elias groans in front of the mess hall one morning, peeling off his T-shirt to toss into Nick’s waiting hand. “I won’t wear it in front of the kids!”
“Then you shouldn’t wear it at all,” Nick says. He folds the shirt before Sam can read the slogan on the front.
Hair is cut, dye washed out. Tattoos must be small and coverable. Piercings are restricted to female earlobes. On their second morning at Camp, the counselors line up to trade in their phones for wristwatches—clunky and burdensome, each with the same sickly green digital face. That afternoon, they sit through a lecture with a language coach, who teaches them to check their slang and adjust their vocabulary, to speak neutrally and properly once the campers arrive.
“Fuck this,” Rosie hisses under her breath, making Sam snort with laughter. “Grammar is so elitist.”
The point of the training isn’t for them to have good grammar, Sam knows, but to strip them of the telltale signs of their generation, of any generation. Camp Phoenix is meant to resemble anyone’s childhood, and at the same time, no one’s. It is a time and space entirely of its own. In another afternoon training, they discuss the process that brings the campers to Camp. Not in detail—just the basics, as much as the counselors need to understand. They go over the policies regarding their relationship to Phoenix Genetics and its clients. Psychologists from the facility teach them how to instill a sense of normalcy, to establish a routine, to build a secure environment the campers will have no need to question.
They have to memorize the terms of their work contracts before they sign them.
Counselors will not take photographs of clients while Camp is in Session. Counselors will not discuss clients’ personal matters outside of Camp. Counselors will not have contact with those outside of Phoenix Genetics’ employment while Camp is in session. Counselors will never, under any circumstances, reveal the nature of the Camp program nor details of clients’ lives to campers.
There are other, simpler rules, most of them unspoken. Stay on the trails. Don’t break curfew. Wear your sunscreen.
In the mornings, the counselors are put to work setting up Camp, getting the place ready for the campers’ arrival. The chores are exhausting and poorly supervised, and they muddle through them clumsily, drunk on sunshine and each other’s company.
“Why do we have to do this, again?” Jeremy grunts, slopping a shovelful of barnyard mud over his shoulder.
It’s Saturday morning, and they’re supposed to be setting fenceposts around the goats’ pen. Sam sits against the barn wall in a sliver of shade, watching the boys work. The day is getting hotter. She wipes her lips with the back of her hand, tastes grit and salty sweat.
“Goats have to live somewhere, buddy.” The boy working between Jeremy and Elias has an elfish face and a cheeky, childish grin. He drums his fingers along the fencepost he’s holding, constantly tapping, the nervous habit that earned him his nickname.
“Give me that, Taps.” Elias tugs the post from his fidgeting hands. He measures it against the hole Jeremy dug, frowning. “Gotta be deeper.”
Jeremy shakes his head. He was allowed to keep his floppy hair for the summer—every generation has its deadbeats, Sam supposes. “You know what I mean,” he says. “Why do we have to do this?” Not waiting for an answer, he takes the fencepost from Elias and wedges it between his legs, swiveling his hips to hit them with it.
“Oh, is that accurate?”
“Almost.”
Sam grunts at them from the barn wall: “If someone else did this, what would they do with us?”
Elias squints at her. He picks up his shovel and tosses a scoop of mud in her direction—it falls just short of her boots. “Hey, thanks for your contribution, Sam. What are you doing over there?”
“I’m supervising.” Sam nudges her sunglasses up her nose. Her head is pounding. “The hole needs to be deeper.”
Her hangover has only gotten worse since breakfast. There is a ritual to this pre-Camp week: work, train, drink. At night, they are cut loose to wander the empty property. They light the campfire and skinny dip in the lake, test each other’s boundaries. Friendships and flings, new and reignited, settle into place. The nights are as important as the days. A strong bond between the counselors is crucial, the assistant directors tell them, for an authentic summer—for the next ten weeks, they are the only people in the world. Last night’s bonding was particularly aggressive. Sam woke up at dawn in a floating rowboat. It was punishment, apparently, for her bitter loss in their elaborate tournament of drinking games.
Taps picks up another fencepost from the pile and holds it like Jeremy, between his legs. “Hey, Germ!” he crows across the mud. “Let’s joust!”
When the boys eventually give up on the fenceposts, they all retreat into the cool shade of the barn. It’s a massive building of graying wood slats, designed to look decrepit beyond its years, the floor paved in a decade’s worth of straw and grime. Against the far back wall is a rickety ladder. They scamper up it one by one, shoving and bickering, into the barn loft.
The shallow, dusty room at the top of the ladder is called the Nest. Mismatched couches and loveseats and old floral rugs are littered haphazardly over the rotting floorboards. Hazy light streams through the window over the barn doorway. They have a water cooler, a humming refrigerator, a bare overhead bulb, and a bookshelf stacked with board games and loose cards and old smut novels. In the center of the room, a worn rope ladder leads up to a crawlspace tucked into the peak of the ceiling beams. Someone is up there now; Sam can hear two voices. One is Rosie’s.
“Hello!” Taps bellows upward. Jeremy opens the fridge door and tosses beer cans over his shoulder at them. Sam catches hers before she has a chance to protest—they’ll tease her again about the rowboat if she does.
Rosie’s head appears in the crawlspace. “Hi. What are you doing?”
“Taking a break. What are you doing?”
“Campbell wanted us to count the extra riding boots up here. See if he needs to order more.” Rosie climbs agilely down the ladder. Behind her is Phoebe, a new hire this summer they’ve all taken a liking to; a tall, awkward girl with an endearing lisp.
Jeremy flops onto a couch, raising a puff of dust—from his clothes or the cushions, no one could guess. He flashes an awkward smile at Rosie, which Elias must catch, because he grins knowingly at Sam.
“We keep boots in the shagging attic?”
“Yup. Do you have to call it that?”
“I guess I can think of something better.”
“Smash pad,” Taps suggests, cracking the tab on his beer can. “The hook-up nook.”
“Hook-up-don’t-look-up,” says Elias, peering up the rope ladder as Phoebe lands on the floor slats. Sam snorts.
The Nest is stifling and smelly in the heat of the day, but it’s their place, the only place on Camp property not polished to perfect authenticity for the campers. They settle onto couches, beers in hand, and talk. The conversation turns quickly to cabin assignments. Everyone will be given their group lists this afternoon. They’re all nervous, anxious to see the names and ages.
“Hummingbirds,” says Rosie. “Or Chickadees. There’s less drama with the little ones.”
“More boogers,” Sam points out.
Elias holds his cold beer to his forehead, flushing from the heat. “No way. I had the Wrens last summer, remember? You know how many times I got woken up because someone peed the bed? Older is the way to go.”
“It’s so weird,” Phoebe says slowly. She leans against the back of Elias’s couch, scratching at a blistered palm. “I mean, they’re all up there now, right?” She nods in the direction of the lake. “And we’re sitting here, talking about them . . . peeing the bed.”
Sam nods. She felt the same way a year ago—she still does. “It won’t feel as weird when they get here. They’re just like kids. You forget everything else.”
“Yeah,” Jeremy laughs. “Except, today is the weirdest. Just wait ‘til you see the names on your list.”
“Dane said there’s some big ones this year.” Elias says. He shoots Rosie an irritated look as she opens her mouth to protest, cutting her off with a wave of his hand. “I’m not just talking about him. There’s more. Henry Owens, the Olympic diver. That Chinese guy that owns the space tech company—I can’t remember his name, but he’s stupid rich. Katie was talking about some famous author. Oh, and Oscar Delario—remember him? That senator with the whole dirty pictures scandal?”
“Yuck.” Rosie rolls her eyes. “I’ll let that kid drown in the lake if I get the chance.”
Phoebe frowns down at Elias over the back of the couch. “Wait. Why don’t you know your group list already? Couldn’t Nick tell you?”
The rest of them laugh, and Elias shakes his head in a huffy, well-rehearsed way. “My brother and I aren’t exactly friends at Camp.”
“No one’s Nicky’s friend,” Jeremy adds snidely. “We’re all his inferiors.”
“That’s a little harsh,” says Rosie. “He’s a nice enough guy. He’s just . . .”
“. . . Too serious about his job to ever take the stick out of his ass,” Elias finishes for her. “Not that I mind. I’ll always have a job here, once he runs the place.”
Sam sits up on her couch, suddenly conscious of all their eyes on her. She runs a thumb over the chill, sweating wall of her beer can. “You think that’s going to happen?” she asks Elias. “You think Nick wants to run Camp?”
Elias shrugs. “I don’t see why not. If Campbell ever retires, I don’t know who else Chard would pick. Not Gabe. Definitely not Dane.”
“He wouldn’t hire another director?” Phoebe asks. “From, like, outside?”
“Outside?” Rosie smiles, gesturing for the beer in Elias’s hand. He passes it to her reluctantly. After a long, heavy gulp, she says: “It’s not really like that. No one gets into Camp Phoenix from outside unless you’re coming through a consciousness transfer. It’s a closed ecosystem. Cooks, maintenance—everyone here has some kind of tie to Phoenix Gen. Except for us.”
“Oh.” Phoebe chews a fingernail thoughtfully. Then, quieter, asks: “So, why do they hire us?”
For a moment, the Nest is quiet. Sam shrugs to herself. Taps, drumming on his kneecaps, is the first to speak. “Chard has his methods,” he tells the new girl. “Listen, don’t go down that road. If you start thinking too much about stuff, you won’t survive the summer. We’re here to wipe their butts and get paid. That’s it.” He tilts his head to drain his beer, tapping against the bottom of the can. “Germ,” he says through a belch. “Toss me another.”
Phoebe’s expression gives her away. Her eyes shift around the Nest, glancing at them all in turn, overwhelmed. Sam can hardly blame her.
After lunch that afternoon, they move the tables in the mess hall aside to form a circle of folding cafeteria chairs. The stagnant air smells like sweat and sunscreen and the mud caked on the hems of their jeans. Counselors and assistant directors chatter in their seats, folding their hands, crossing and uncrossing their legs in anticipation. Sam sits between Rosie and Elias with a buzzing in her ears.
