“That’s just not the way they do things.” They, meaning Tauredians, as Summer had dubbed them after the first week. If Taured wasn’t going to name them, Summer felt entitled to. Her mother had scolded her for using the name, so now Summer used it solely in her head.
“But it’s the way we do things,” Summer argued. “You said I would never have to sleep away from you—you promised me after Dad died.” The Kids’ Camp argument had been gaining speed for a week, becoming a bristling point between them. At the last group meeting, held in what had been the old prison chapel, Taured had informed everyone that the children would no longer live in the main building with their parents during the week, but would be assigned to sleep and be educated in the children’s building. Before anyone could ask, he cited the reasons: “Your children are too dependent on you, and they need to be taught to be dependent on God. They can’t hear His voice if they’re hearing yours.”
There were murmurs of agreement, but there were also whispers of concern. The loudest being Summer, who immediately turned to her mother and said, “What?”
“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” Taured had said. “We will still share all of our mealtimes and free times together,” he explained to the confused faces. “Kids’ Camp is an exciting time for your children’s education and your growth as individuals. Each parent and child team will have time together and time apart.” He looked directly at Lorraine when he said this.
He’d taken a long time to drag his eyes away from her before saying, “As some of you have expressed, now that our numbers are growing, we need a more scheduled way of life. We’re going to try this and see if it works. If not, we’ll adapt to what’s best for the group.” That had seemed to soothe the room.
They’d been here through the summer, their life merging with this place: its people, its chores and its quirks. For the most part, it had felt like a vacation to thirteen-year-old Summer, who delighted in her farm chores and enjoyed the overall community bustle of mealtimes and evenings. But as she’d listened to Taured’s words, she’d known things were about to change, and she had a sick feeling. Her mother had the uncanny ability to look her in the eyes and calm her down, and she was doing it now, slow and steady, from her own bed, where she sat propped against the wall, her legs hanging over the side of the bed.
“I’ll be mere yards away. I hardly think that constitutes sleeping away from me.”
“It’s a different building.”
Mama’s words made sense, but Summer didn’t care. Adults lied all the time: they told you things were fine when they weren’t, and they acted like they themselves were fine when they weren’t.
“Look, this is the way they do school here. We said we’d stay and try this out. You and I both agreed, remember?” Mama’s eyes were large as she spoke, and Summer knew what she was thinking because she’d said it a hundred times: if this didn’t work out, they’d have to go live with her parents. Summer’s grandparents sounded pretty awful. They’d made her mother earn her dinner when she was little by how many prayers she said in a day. And she had to go to church five days a week, no matter what. They didn’t believe in music, or television, or card games, or even holidays, because those things were evil distractions.
“Grandpa and Grandma would let us sleep in the same room.” She said this with finality, and she knew it would hurt her mother. Suggesting she’d rather be at the place her mother hated the most was her lowest blow yet.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do,” she said back. “You said your parents made you do things you didn’t want to do and that made you hate them. And now you’re making me do things I don’t want to do.”
Her mother stood up, like she’d had enough, but instead of shrinking back, Summer stepped forward, her anger reaching a new peak. “You’re a liar like Daddy!” she shouted.
Whatever her mother planned to do was drained out of her in that second. Her face went slack and soft and then she began to cry. Summer felt low. That’s how her dad described his worst moments. But instead of saying sorry like she wanted to, she turned her back on her mother and went to her own bed, where she lay facing the wall. Shame was her blanket as she lay perfectly still, hardly breathing, listening to her mother cry. Sometime after that, her mother left the room. It felt like something had changed between them in those few seconds. Summer couldn’t stand it. After an hour of sulking, she swung her feet off the bed and went to find her.
The cafeteria was empty at this time of day, a gray room with gray tables and gray chairs. The air always smelled like canned corn and wet cement. But the lady who ran the kitchens, Alfreda, left the coffee out, and sometimes her mother would stop there to fill her mug.
She found Taured instead.
The strong smell of oregano lingered in the air from a previous meal—lasagna. He wasn’t sitting at his usual spot, and at first, Summer didn’t recognize him. He was wearing a T-shirt and jean shorts and he had a baseball cap turned backward over his dark hair. Summer felt strange seeing him like this. He looked like a normal person, someone you’d see walking down the street in California. She stood frozen in the doorway, wondering what she should do, when Taured looked up. He smiled when he saw her, and the ruptured feeling in her gut mellowed out.
Summer widened her lips in a smile to match his, and he gestured her forward.
“You looking for your mom?”
“Yes,” she said, taking a hesitant step forward. “Have you—?”
“Yeah, she was just in here. Come and sit down, Summertime.”
She looked around to see if anyone else was around; Taured was hardly ever alone, and Summer thought about saying no, but it was hard to say no to an adult she barely knew. She was supposed to be polite, so she walked slowly to the table closest to the kitchen door and sat opposite him. A bowl of apricots sat next to his elbow, and as he watched her, he split one open and flicked out the pit, eating that half first. He pushed the bowl toward her and Summer chose the brightest, orangest one. Imitating his movement, she split it open and stared at the brown pit inside. It was the shape of an eye, and when she popped it out, it was rough to the touch. Summer ate the apricot, pushing the pit into the pocket of her shorts. The fruit was soft and sweet, like a marshmallow. It was cool that they grew them here; she’d seen kids her age hanging out in the orchard from a distance.
“Did you have an argument?” he asked. He split another apricot and again pushed the bowl toward Summer.
“Yes,” she said. She swung her legs beneath the table, feeling guilty all over again. What if he asked them to leave and they’d have to go live with her grandparents?
“I had a little brother, he was barely younger than me—eighteen months—so we were like twins,” Taured said. “One of my first memories is of us—me and Chris—fighting like our lives depended on it: biting, hair pulling, kicking. That’s all we did, fight. It drove my mother crazy.” He stopped to laugh at something Summer couldn’t grasp, his entire face glowing with the memory. She wished she had memories that made her face glow like that.
“Until it was time for me to go to preschool.” Taured paused to stare at the ceiling, one corner of his mouth lifting, and Summer got the feeling he was somewhere else. “I remember being at preschool and missing him so badly all I wanted was to go home, and then when I did get home, we were happy to be together.”
“No more fighting?” Summer asked.
“We were best friends after that. As it turned out, we needed space to be our own individual people.”
“But you were just little kids.” Summer rolled one of the apricot pits between her palms under the table.
“Little kids are people, too!” he insisted with mock outrage.
Summer laughed at his expression and shrugged. She hated this part, when you were supposed to say something back that made the adults feel good about what they said.