The Names They Gave Us

I hold my hands up innocently. “Okay, okay. Maybe it’s not. I retract the question.”


“Good,” she says, scolding. “Because I just told you a big thing. You owe me.”

“Well, unfortunately for both of us, my life is pretty boring.”

“Please don’t take this the wrong way.” She places one hand on my arm. “But you got paused. That is shitastic. But pretty interesting.”

We stay seated on the piano bench as I try to explain Lukas Pratt. But I can’t capture what a presence he is—more mature than other guys our age. When he speaks in class, it’s well-thought-out and logical; everyone takes his opinion seriously. He’s handsome in a way that belongs at an all-boys school, one with blue oxford uniform shirts and a rowing team.

“So, what does breaking up for the summer accomplish, according to him?” Anna asks.

I open my mouth to say that Lukas is just cautious. I mean, all his running gear has strips of reflective material for visibility. But is breaking up with me really cautious? Or just full of doubt? Especially after my conversation with my mom, I’m lost in the fog of it all. “I . . . don’t know. I thought I did, but I don’t.”

“Hmm. To see if you miss each other? Do you miss him?”

“Yes?” I’m just not sure if I miss him in a serious boyfriend way or in the way that I miss my bedroom at home. That is: It’s mine, and it’s familiar, and I like it. But I’m also fine without it.

“That was convincing,” Anna says with a laugh. “Okay, okay. I am pleased with your gossip offering, so I suppose I will tell you about my megacrush from school. Liam. Liam Teller.”

“Liam,” I say, testing it out. “That’s kind of a sexy name.”

“Right?” My sheet music sits there unturned as we stay up too late, talking about boys and heartache and what we hope to find somewhere in between.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN

On Monday morning, I plant my feet on the end of the pier and survey the still-dim sky. I like swimming in the earliest morning light. Stroke after stroke after stroke—arms cycling, feet kicking. I do a clean freestyle until I’m midlake and panting. And somehow, on the return lap, I find myself thanking God for Anna. The quick prayer is as second-nature as my backstroke. It would be unremarkable, as prayers go— except that I’ve been too angry with God to thank Him for anything in weeks. Maybe it’s a start.

Our class after morning chores is supposed to be with Bryan, but he isn’t in the mess hall. Garcia pulls the counselors aside. “Bryan’s tied up, so I’m gonna give out the art prompts. Can you space out and draw with them? And try to facilitate conversation about what they’re drawing?”

On long stretches of butcher paper, we draw our favorite animals first. It’s a neutral enough topic, and we talk about trips to the zoo and family pets. Thuy doesn’t say anything, but she does draw a cat with a bushy tail.

“A group of dolphins is called a ‘pod,’?” Sofia announces. She’s outlined a pod, arcing above the waves.

“Here.” Payton hands her a crayon. “It’s called ‘stone.’ A good dolphin color.”

“Payton has all the crayon colors memorized,” Sofia tells me.

“Is that right?”

Payton nods. “But my favorite favorite is cerulean.”

She pronounces it “kuh-ROO-lee-un” instead of “suh-ROO-lee-un.” I don’t have the heart to correct her.

“I like your orange dog.” Nadia taps her finger near the fox I’m trying to draw.

I lean against my hand to hide my smile. “Thanks.”

Next we draw “Happy”: more pets, birthday parties, and stick figures holding hands. I gnaw on my lip. What makes me happy, really? Swimming makes me feel . . . peaceful. Disciplined. And with piano, I express my emotion. It doesn’t exactly make me happy.

I did feel really happy at prom in April. Before everything fell apart. Though it’s impossible to capture the crystal detailing, I sketch my dress with a beige crayon. I try to remember how much I loved it before it became forever tied to the worst news of my life. I try to capture my elegant red lip, my hair swept to one side.

Is that the last time I was really, truly happy?

Nadia taps her finger near my drawing. “Is that you as a princess?”

“Not quite. Me at prom.”

“Did you go with a boy?” Payton asks.

“Yes,” I admit.

“Is he your boyfriend?”

I swallow. Honesty. Honesty. “He was.”

“Oh.” Payton and Sofia exchange an awkward oops look. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

The next prompt is “Sad.”

Sad: A mammogram marred by cancer, white webbing over healthy tissue. The idea of my dad and me alone at the kitchen table. An empty seat beside my dad as I walk across the stage in my cap and gown.

Most of the campers seem to be drawing faces with tears bursting out. Nadia is working on flowers beneath a gravestone. Thuy drew a door, a long rectangle with a yellow doorknob.

Sad: Playing the piano at my mother’s funeral because it’s what she would want. “It Is Well with My Soul,” her favorite. How it would break me. Walking home afterward to our silent house. No singing in the kitchen.

Sad: never hearing her voice again.

Sad: never.

“I’m gonna run to the bathroom,” I say quietly, stepping back from the bench.

I get to the hallway before Simmons catches up, touching my arm. “Hey.”

“Hey.” I can’t meet her eyes.

“You okay?”

I wipe my cheek. Of course it’d be her to catch me being weak again. “Fine.”

“Why don’t you take a few minutes? Kick back in the Bunker.”

“No, I’m okay.”

“Lucy.” She steps in front of me so I have to look at her. I think it’s the first time she’s said my first name. I wasn’t even sure if she knew it. “We’ve all been there. That’s kind of the point of this camp.”

I push a curl away from my face, unsure of what to say. That I miss my mom. That every muscle in my body is trying to push me to Holyoke, to prove that she’s real and here. That a therapy activity designed for third graders is crushing me, an almost-legal adult.

Simmons glances at her watch, which is sporty and mint green. “We’ve only got a few minutes left here. Just meet us on the Great Lawn in a bit.”

By the look on her face, I can tell Simmons is not going to entertain any more protests. “Okay. I will. Thanks.”

I’m all set to have a little cry, but when I open the Bunker door, it’s already occupied. Jones is on the couch, clutching a bouquet of Red Vines.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” He lifts the stalks of candy, looking sheepish. “Caught me red-handed. I needed a sugar rush. And a minute alone.”

“Oh. No prob.” I step back. “I’ll just—”

“No! I meant a minute alone from fourth graders. Ha.”

My sigh of relief is probably audible. I open the fridge just to look busy. And casual. See? I’m just looking for a soda. You can just be cute on the couch; I’m not even noticing. “What do you guys have this hour?”

“Bocce and beanbag toss.”

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