I looked over at Jack for backup.
“She already took mine,” he said. “And Dad’s.”
“None of us are going to use our phones for the next twenty-four hours.” My mom put them all in her backpack’s inner pocket and made a big show of zipping it up. When she was finished, she patted the bag. “I’ll sleep on this if I have to.”
“Um,” my dad said. “I kind of need to check on some work stuff.”
“Sam’s going to think I broke up with him,” I complained.
“My friends are going to think I died,” Jack huffed.
“Fine.” Mom rolled her eyes so hard her ponytail bounced. She was wearing a tank top and leggings. With her hair pulled up, she looked like a girl from a distance, like one of my friends. “Twelve hours. We can all do twelve hours, right? Besides, we’re all right here. Who else could we need?”
My mom was in what we called Vacation Mode. She was alternately kind of the best (a ball of adorable, happy energy) and the worst (having big ideas like taking away our phones). She’dbooked a campsite at Hopkins Glen State Park for the weekend, and it was obvious from the moment she’d told us about the trip that we were in for it.
“We’re getting away to nature,” she said. “It’s been so long.”
“The last time we got away to nature in this particular state park, Jack threw up in my mouth,” I said.
“I was four,” Jack said. “It’s not like I had any control over where I barfed.”
“We’re too old for this,” I said.
I thought I heard my dad mutter“So am I”under his breath, but when I looked over at him, he was still methodically tending the fire.
“You two,” my mom said. “Come help me make the tinfoil dinners.”
Jack and I groaned in unison. She knew how to get to us. We were both absolute suckers for tinfoil dinners. Also s’mores. Also Dutch oven peach cobbler, which my dad was the best at making. Everything tasted so good outside.
But that night, as bugs thudded against the zipped-open tent skylight, and as the humidity lay over us like a blanket your parents put on you that you hadn’t ever wanted in the first place, I couldn’t keep from complaining again. It was hot and muggy and Jack smelled like teenage boy.
“Why are we even doing this,” I said.
“To save money,” Jack said, on the other side of my tent. Which was not far enough away.
“We can hear you,” my mom said, from the tent she and my dad were sharing. “You know it’s not about the money.”
“Oh, isn’t it,” Jack said darkly.
“We’re doing this to bond,” my dad said. “And to experience nature.”
“This is the only time we could go, with all of your schedules.” My mom sounded wistful. “Remember when we used to go on vacation for a whole week?”
“Those were the days,” Jack said.
“The days when you barfed in my mouth,” I said.
“It is nice to have July with us,” Jack said. “She’s beenvery busythis summer.”
“So have you,” I said.
“Not the same,” Jack said. His voice had an edge. “You’re goneallthe time.”
“That’s not true.”
“It’s been all Sam, all the time,” Jack said. “The Summer of Sam.”
That made me laugh. “That sounds like a horror movie.”
