“Duty calls.” He walks backward a few steps. “Thanks again.”
As I walk out with Nadia a few minutes later, I notice a line of symbols, hung in a neat line across the back wall. There’s a cross—dark metal, but the same size and shape as the driftwood cross in my Holyoke bedroom. A Star of David, a crescent moon with a dangling star that I think is for Islam, and a star inside a circle. Then a spoked wheel like you’d see on a ship, and what looks like a number 3 with an added curve. That one I’ve seen before, but I can’t place where. Each rests on a single nail. Pendants of faith.
I touch the bottom of the cross. I hope you’re seeing this, I think at God. I hope you see how hard I’m trying here. I hope you see that I’m trying to haul myself back up.
I know it doesn’t work this way, trading goodness for godly favors—for healing. I know that God’s grace is just that: grace, undeserved. Unearned. Still, my mind sends whispers heavenward: Please fix her. Make her better. Please. Please.
Please.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Three days pass in a tornado of morning laps, name learning, cabin cleaning, watercolor painting, planet facts. Everything is a camper question: What is this? Why are we doing this? What do you think about forest fairies? Can you do a handstand in the lake? I go to bed when the girls do every night, eyes half-closed before my head finds the pillow. Somehow, I manage to get up early and swim, but I’m tired down to the core of myself—to the marrow, to my skeleton.
By the time we make it to Friday, I surprise myself by dreading my night off. The fullness of each day—the chatter, the activity, the flurry of on-to-the-next-thing—quiets my mind. When despair about my mom or confusion about Lukas drifts in, an earnest third grader pops up with her next question. Their little voices chase away the fog.
I wonder if my mom knew that this would happen—that constant, heavy-lidded busyness would give me peace.
The homemade banner announces the talent show in an arch above the meeting hall’s doorway. Yellow cut-out stars adorn the walls, already shedding gold glitter. I pity the cabin that has meeting hall cleanup for Pitch-In tomorrow.
“Hansson!” Anna calls out, waving to me. She’s saved me a seat, and I can’t even hide my relief.
“Welcome, Daybreak campers!” yells a boy who looks thirteen or fourteen. He’s wearing a white T-shirt with a tie drawn on it in Sharpie. “I’m Jeremiah, and this is Lydia, and we’re your hosts for the evening!”
As the night goes on, we watch fumbled magic tricks, belted-out solos, and self-choreographed dances. A spoken-word poem that gives me chills; a sincere, out-of-tune guitar performance that puts a lump in my throat; a sketch that is goofy and surprisingly well acted. Anna grips my hand as one of her Green Team campers showcases fancy soccer footwork, and whispers “yes” under her breath when it goes well. And between, the MCs introduce each act with index cards and charisma.
“Next up,” Lydia says, “we have a special treat for you. Our biggest ensemble of the night! Give it up for Daybreak’s choir: the Silver Linings!”
One of the older kids came up with the name yesterday, after “the Daybreakers” was deemed violent and “the Sunbeams” was vetoed for corniness. And so we—we nonviolent, noncorny choristers—amass before the entire camp.
Jones nods at me, signaling the start. I play cheerful, Beatles-style chords, and the kids stay on beat admirably. Their eyes are alert in concentration as they sing out each note. It’s not perfect, but it’s totally perfect. I just wish the audience could see Jones’s face, his open-mouthed grin as he cues each section.
Before the last chorus, I cut out completely, like we practiced. Unaccompanied, the choir still sounds robust, full of life. In the front row, Rhea swipes a knuckle across her lower lid, blinking with glassy eyes as the kids insist, again and again: With a little help from my friends. And when everyone claps, our ragtag choristers look delighted with themselves, bowing. Jones holds a hand out to acknowledge the pianist, but I wave it off, embarrassed even as people cheer.
Thank you, Jones mouths to me. It’s the first time this week that I’ve felt fully a part of something, this thing we made—even if it’s just one song and a few rows of proud-to-the-brim kids.
When I sit back down, Anna clutches my arm. “Hansson, that was so good. I didn’t know you could play the piano like that!”
Next up, five ninth-grade girls appear in matching clothes—white tanks and black shorts. Jones is still standing at the front, now holding a trumpet. Playing the festival, D’Souza had said about the Fourth of July day off. Apparently he’ll be playing trumpet. He settles into a stance, loose hipped, the mouthpiece at his lips. He blasts the first notes, and the girls provide percussion, stomping and clapping in perfect unison. They speak the lyrics, which I vaguely recognize—a girl group song from a few years back.
The synchronicity is exact and graceful, somewhere between a military company and a ballet company. Long hair flies as they stamp out choreography. Intensity, arms out in sharp lines.
The younger campers sit slack-jawed and mesmerized. Some sway their arms and rock their shoulders, getting into it. As the girls’ last powerful step vibrates across the floor, the whole camp rises up in cheers and shouts of the girls’ names.
Someone screams, “Yeah, Jones!??” and he lifts one hand before turning it to display the girls like they’re the Showcase Showdown prize on The Price Is Right.
“I didn’t know he could play the trumpet,” I whisper to Anna, echoing her words.
“Oh yeah. It’s, like . . . what he does. Plays, teaches lessons.”
Earlier this week, I questioned why Rhea would have a talent show the second week of camp. Why not wait till the end? It would give them more time to prepare, for the camp culture to gel. But I get it—I entirely get it. She’s giving everyone the opportunity to say, This is part of who I am. This is what I’m good at. This is what I want you to see in me.
The show runs later than 8:00 p.m., and we herd the campers back for bedtime. Our girls are still singing and dancing as they change into pajamas, seemingly nowhere near sleep.
“Sorry they’re all riled up for you,” Simmons whispers to Garcia.
Garcia shrugs. “They’re really into Matilda, so it’s fine. Are you sure you want your night off? I don’t know if I can live up to your narration.”
“Ha,” Simmons says, but she looks pleased. “You’ll be great.”