The Names They Gave Us

“I know. But you never showed that to her. You’re tough stuff too, baby. Real tough stuff.”


Somehow, I’m sniffing pitifully inside her arms. And I think—as I worry I will even when I am old and gray—I want my mom. When does it stop—the longing to be mothered?

It’s almost dark when I leave Miss Suzette’s cabin, and the camp has gone quiet. Another Friday night off, but I guess I’ll go to bed early.

“Hey, Hansson!” Anna’s voice calls. “Where ya going?”

When I turn, they’re pooled at the mouth of the woods. Waiting. Anna, Simmons, Tambe, Jones. In plaid button-downs to protect from mosquitoes. Backpacks slung over their shoulders, just like last week. Anna’s holding a thermos and a bag of marshmallows. Jones is carrying a gallon jug of water and a few long metal skewers. The other two have unlit camping lanterns, glossy green and burnt red.

Taking my confusion as hesitancy, Anna hollers, “Don’t tell us you’re practicing piano. You can take a night off.”

When I approach, Jones steps forward a few paces, asking quietly, “Are you okay? We’ll stay back with you, if you want.”

“I did not agree to that,” Tambe grumbles.

“We heard you could use a s’more,” Anna says. “And by ‘s’more,’ I mean a s’more and a stiff drink.”

“Well, tell her the rules,” Simmons says flatly. “She might not want to come.”

Anna hip-bumps her. “Oh, Keels. You’re the only one who hates feelings.”

Okay, now I’m confused: alcohol, s’mores, and feelings?

Tambe takes pity on me and explains. “What happens on Friday nights stays on Friday nights. Can you handle that?”

I want to say, scornfully: Who am I going to tell? But instead I say, “Sure.”

“Then let’s go,” Tambe says, his back already to me. The lantern swings at his side, the rusty handle creaking. Anna and Simmons troop after him, chattering about funny things the campers have said this week.

“Can I carry something?” I ask Jones. The leaves crunch under our shoes as I walk alongside him.

“Oh, sure.” He reaches over to hand me the skewers. Just having something to hold makes me feel included. The metal is warm from his palm. “You’re sure you’re okay? I’ve seen a lot of stuff, but . . . that was intense.”

“I’m okay now. But yeah, I was terrified.”

“Were you?” He glances over. “Fooled me. You looked so sure that she would be fine.”

“I was just trying to keep her calm. My mom’s a nurse, and that’s always what she does.”

“I was gonna say . . .” He smiles, rubbing at the back of his neck. “You must have experience. I was just frozen.”

“My mom has a, like, very mild peanut allergy. Her throat gets a little itchy. But she basically uses it to get an epinephrine prescription in case I’m ever discovered to have a bad allergy.”

Jones laughs, a surprised ha! “That’s, like, questionable ethics as a nurse . . . but excellent mom skills.”

“Exactly,” I say, rolling my eyes. “And she made me use the practice pen to learn and everything. She’s going to be thrilled it came to good use, which I swore it never would.”

As we hike, Anna and Tambe are practically bouncing, talking over each other and occasionally breaking into song. Simmons collects fallen branches in a stack across her arms.

It’s not long before I’m following them off the trail, dodging between trees. I notice that a few small plants beneath our feet are squashed, clearly trod on last week. The path opens to a little clearing surrounded by trees—as near a circle as you’d find in nature. There’s a metal fire pit in the center and logs arranged around it. We’re closer to the lake than even on the standard trail, but a little higher up. It feels farther removed than a five-minute hike from camp.

The routine unfolds quickly, and I have no place in it. Simmons arranges the kindling in the fire pit, and Tambe leans over it, focusing. Anna airs out a cherry-red tartan blanket while Jones unloads the rest of his backpack. As the fire sparks and snaps, filling the small space with the scent of summer and burning, I wish I had something to set up.

“That’s an impressive fire,” I tell Tambe.

Jones surveys the flames. “I think that’s a record, even for you.”

Tambe raises his arms and shrugs his shoulders in some kind of dance. “Scouting, bitches!”

I wait for Simmons to sit down before I pick a log spot. Once I do, she reaches over to me, holding out a clear glass bottle. It has a green cap and a label that I can’t read, but I’m almost positive it’s alcohol.

“Oh, no thanks.” I’ve only tried alcohol twice. The first time was at a party freshman year, the weekend before Lukas moved to town. That alcohol was also clear. It felt fizzy on my tongue and tasted like raspberries that had been in the fridge about a year too long.

She shrugs and takes an extra drink. I have the distinct feeling that she only offered it to make me feel childish for passing.

“So, Lucy,” Anna says. She’s settled on the blanket, peeling open a chocolate bar. I realize it’s jarring to hear my first name. “How was your week?”

“Oh, good.” The lie dissipates over the fire, a single syllable that seems to create silence. “Yeah.”

“Mohan,” Simmons says. “Tell her.”

Tambe shoots me a look. Apparently, they use first names when alone, and his is Mohan. “Friday nights, we speak the truth. Even if it’s ugly. Even if we have to bitch about campers to get it out. It’s necessary, yeah? To vent, to have a place where we turn off the counselor for a bit.”

“Okay . . . ,” I say, hesitant. I’m wondering if I just agreed to high-stakes Truth or Dare.

“Okay.” Anna’s smile is pointed. “So how was your second week at Daybreak, really?”

Now I wish I’d taken a swig of alcohol. “I’m . . . really tired. Like, bone-deep tired. I feel like I could curl up anywhere—on the ground here—and just pass out.”

Anna snorts. “Me too. I do not have my camp legs yet.”

“So,” Jones says. “You’re from White Hills. You play the piano like a boss. What else? Family?”

They’re trying to get to know you, I remind myself. This is a good thing. “Mom and dad. No siblings.”

“What do your parents do?” This question is from Anna, who is now breaking the chocolate bar into squares.

“My mom’s a school nurse.” Do I say it? I mean, what am I going to do, lie? “My dad’s a pastor.”

That gets their attention. Anna snaps her head up. “You’re a Preacher’s Kid?”

“Ah. A PK. So that explains the no drinking,” Tambe says.

But Simmons, I notice, retracts her head a little, studying me. It’s a protective expression, though I’m not sure what I’m threatening. Or maybe she’s just adding this new information to what she knows of me. I don’t get the sense that it’s in the Pro column.

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