“She was the counselor who quit,” another girl says.
“She’s not the new Ellis; she’s Hansson,” Simmons says. “And I know you’ll all be welcoming to her. Right?”
They chorus their agreement, though they’re all sizing me up. I picked out my outfit carefully—a white eyelet shirt with coral shorts—but it seems prissy now. A little too try-hard.
“We get to go second for dessert tonight,” one girl says. I think her name is Nadia. “It’s angel food cake, and we get whipped cream.”
“That’s awesome,” I say, pushing away the image of my mom spraying whipped cream all over our ice cream, then directly into her mouth. Our impromptu girls’ nights anytime my dad is called away for pastor duties. “I love whipped cream.”
“Cabin 3A!” a loud voice yells from near the kitchen. “Line up!”
“That’s us,” Simmons says, appearing behind me. The girls are already prancing toward the counter, talking over one another and to Simmons.
“Well, thanks so much for showing me around,” I tell Anna.
“My pleasure!” She says it like she totally means it. I like her even more than that cookie from earlier. Or it’s a tie, anyway.
She’s saying something about a talent show when, in my right ear, voices rise up. I see motion in my peripheral vision, but the rest happens fast. A warm body slams into my back, a sharp bone—elbow or shoulder—digging in.
“Oof!” I lose my balance, falling into Anna, who braces me.
Behind us, two boys are locked in a howling brawl, but my joints seize up, immobile. I’m wide-eyed, mouth open but soundless, stomach clenched so tightly I almost heave. They’re no older than sixth grade, but they’re a tornado of pale limbs, flying slaps, and fists.
“Hey!” Anna yells, moving in front of me. She backs up, arms out, forcing my legs to step away. “Cool it!”
Jones and Tambe are nearest—at the third-grade boys’ table—and they step in. I wait to hear the snap of Jones’s glasses, but it only takes him a moment to have one of the kids by the waist, lifting him back. His voice remains gentle even in commands. “Hey. Stop. Stop. Breathe.”
Only then do I notice a yellow band around the kid’s wrist. He’s one of Jones’s.
Tambe has the second boy loosely by both arms. Even though the kids have been detangled, they’re still glaring at each other, breathing heavily and ready to pounce. All I can think is that they’re so little—so wiry, their skin so close to their skeletons—to contain so much rage. Jones points at the kid that Tambe’s holding. He has a bleeding scratch mark down his face. “Turn it off, dude. I mean it.”
He directs his own detainee toward the door, hands gently laid on the kid’s shoulders. I hear him say, with no trace of frustration, “C’mon, ya joker. Let’s have a little heart-to-heart.”
The tension hangs, suspended in the air, even after the two brawlers have been escorted out. When the campers begin to talk again, it’s hushed.
“It’s all right, guys,” Simmons says. “Back to dinner.”
My chest tightens in a telltale way, lungs unable to get enough air.
“Excuse me,” I manage to say before hurrying toward the bathroom we passed on our tour. I just don’t want the campers to see me struggling.
But Anna’s right behind me, walking fast to catch up. “Oh no! Are you hurt?”
“No, no. Fine,” I gasp out. Behind the restroom door, I press my inhaler to my lips.
Anna’s mouth is slack as she watches my freak-out. “Jesus, I’m so sorry. Can I get you anything? Should I get Miss Suzette?”
I shake my head, taking the most even inhale that I can. “I’m really fine. Happens sometimes. It’s a random thing.”
More like a panic thing, but whatever. I’m in so far over my head. I don’t know anyone, and I miss my parents and being the one who gives the tour. I don’t have Lukas or any coping mechanism that feels within reach. The tears drip out before it occurs to me to stop them.
“I’m sorry! It’s ridiculous that I’m crying! I’m fine!” I cover my face with my free hand. “I just don’t know what I’m doing here! I’ve never been at a camp like this before, but my mom’s sick, and she wanted me to come.”
Once I get that out, I take another drag of my inhaler.
“Oh, Lucy.” Anna’s hand is warm on my arm. “It’s okay. I’ve been coming to Daybreak since I was a kid, and my first year as a counselor—last year—was still hard. You learn quickly, as you go. I promise.”
My throat warps from an attempted gasp into some kind of gross, sobbing hiccup. “I swear I’m not insane. Everything is just such a mess. I got dumped yesterday. Or . . . well, I got paused.”
“You got what?”
“He paused us. Put our relationship on pause.”
“Oh, God.”
“I know.”
Her hand drops from my arm, and I uncover my face to observe her expression. Probably horrified by this tragic puddle of emotions in front of her. Or judging me for having no perspective. I mean, there’s a pregnant fourteen-year-old at this camp and I’m losing it over a breakup?
“Who pauses someone?” she asks, disgusted. “What an asshole!”
Casual swearwords don’t exactly offend me; they just take me a moment to process—conversational speed bumps. But this one doesn’t even make me feel defensive of Lukas. In fact, I let out a dark laugh.
“What an actual asshole,” I repeat. How strange, the sound of my voice saying that word. It’s like hearing yourself on a recording—is that really me? I wait for the pang of guilt that accompanies any bad language I use, but it doesn’t come. I glance up at the water-stained ceiling, waiting for cracks to form, for God to rain down His holy wrath. There is only the buzz of fluorescent lights.
Anna seems to be on the edge of saying something, but we’re both distracted by the swinging bathroom door. It opens to Simmons’s solid stance and cloud of dark curls.
She takes us in, then focuses on me—my heaving shoulders and wet eyelashes. “You can’t cry in here.”
Her tone doesn’t have a trace of meanness. It’s just a statement of fact.
Anna swivels to gasp at her. “Keely!”
“What? Brooklyn had to pee but heard crying, and it scared her. She came back to the table to tell me.”
“She’s having an asthma attack!”
I shake the inhaler in my hand and curve my mouth upward. It is not a smile.
“Well, go to Miss Suzette or the break room.” Her face softens as she sighs. “I’m sorry; I’m really not trying to be harsh. But if we seem scared or off balance to the kids, then the world seems scary and off balance to them.”
“I—Okay.” Agreement feels easier. Always de-escalate, right? “Fine.”
“And if you’re going to quit, please just do it now.” She says it gently, as if breaking bad news. “I’m sorry. I don’t want the girls getting attached.”