Now
The kids are decked out in their brightest reds, whites, and blues, and the special events counselors must have spent all night hanging the Fourth of July–themed pennants from every building at camp. Everything is festive, shouting outdon’t you love America?!
“Fourth of July is fucking weird,” Imogen says. Afternoon swim is canceled today to make room for the annual relay races and hot dog eating contests, so we’re sitting in lawn chairs sucking on watermelon slices, watching our girls tie themselves to each other with bandanas and hobble down the field for a three-legged race.
“It’s like, why are we celebrating the fact that our country was built on racism, elitism, and colonialism?” Imogen shakes her head and tosses her rind in the garbage next to her.
“God bless this bullshit,” I mutter.
Even with all the bizarre patriotic crap, I always love this time of year. It’s a few weeks into session, when everyone has fallen into a rhythm. Friendships have solidified. The competitive kids have found their tennis partners. The dorky kids have figured out that Mom’s woodworking shed will accept them no matter what. And the counselors who are desperate for a fling have paired off,zeroing in on the places around camp where muffled moans can’t be heard.
Imogen leans back in her Adirondack chair so her face is next to mine. “Tommy and I were thinking about heading behind the stables after fireworks tonight. Can you cover with Meg for me?”
I snort. “Obviously.”
She smiles. “I’m pretty sure we’re gonna have sex this time.” Some kid at the lemonade cooler turns around, her eyes narrowed with curiosity.
I smack Imo on the shoulder. “Shh!”
She holds a hand over her mouth. “Sorry.” Then we both break out in laughter.
“What’s so funny?” the kid asks.
“Imogen farted.”
Imogen smacksmethis time but the kid giggles. “That is funny.”
I throw Imo a side look likesee. She laughs even harder. Tommy glances at Imo from across the relay race and sticks out his tongue, wiggling it like a snake.
“Oh my god, I’m gonna barf.” I pretend to heave over the side of a chair, and the motion makes Heller’s ID badge press into my stomach. I never took it out of my sweatshirt pocket.
Imogen covers her face with her hands and starts kicking her legs out in front of her. “Stop, I’m dying!” she says through laughter.
Ava plunks down in her seat and lets out a sigh. “Were we this awful when we were Ramblers?” she asks, wiping sweat from her forehead. “Because if I have to comfort one more kid who’s worried—not about missing her parents, mind you!—about the stupid friendship dynamics of being nine years old, I’m seriouslygoing to scream.” She reaches for my lemonade and takes a sip. “I seem to have missed the memo that we’d actually have to take care of kids this year. These little brats...”
But Ava trails off as Mellie walks by, smiling wide at the three of us. Like nothing happened last night. Like Studidn’tsay something weird about Ava’s dad. But something must pass between them because for once, Ava looks a bit unnerved.
“ ‘These little brats’ what?” Imogen asks.
“What?” Ava says.
“You said...”
Ava waves her hand. “Whatever, all I know is we definitely didn’t fight about silly shit like they do. Can’t they be grateful they’re here at all?”
I want to remind her that wedidfight. Viciously. With words that singed our skin and left scars so permanent I feel them in my sleep. But Imogen shrugs and smiles wide at Tommy, who’s still making googly eyes at her from across the race.
Ava’s twin sisters walk by wearing matching jean shorts and white shirts with red stars on them. They both have red bandanas tied around their ponytails, red laces in their white sneakers. They look happy, skipping and holding slices of watermelon. I’d love to see them branch out and make friends with the other girls in the cabin. Caroline maybe, who thinks it’s cool they live in Florida because her grandpa is in Boca Raton. But I know there’s no use forcing friendships here. The girls will revolt and end up hating each other instead.
I smile at them but Ava practically snarls in their direction. I say a silent prayer that they don’t notice. They know to keep their distance from their older half sister.
Ava shudders. “Don’t they know wearing matching outfits is forbabies?”
I want to remind her that theyarebabies, and plus, we were obsessed with matching when we were that age. We always had three-way phone calls before camp to make sure we would be in sync when it came to things like the annual Hoedown Fourth of July. Red tees and denim shorts. Matching glitter to press onto the apples of our cheeks. But when I open my mouth, Imogen throws me a look and I give up, knowing when the twins are involved it’s best not to say anything at all.
---
The whole camp gathers for the Fourth of July barbecue on the main lawn, and the air smells of charcoal and grill smoke. Big long tables are lined with burgers, hot dogs, and vats of slaw. Over by the dining hall, Christina sets up an ice cream sundae bar that seemed to stretch a mile long when I was little. Soon, when the kids are stuffed and sleepy, we’ll lead them to the massive soccer field, the farthest, most remote area of camp, for a fireworks display. Heller told me once that the Alpine Lake show iswaymore impressive than the one put on by the Town Council, so everyone in Roxwood would drive their trucks to the Applebee Grocer parking lot, which is on a hill and has a great view of camp. There, they spread out blankets and lawn chairs on the gravel so they can watch the fireworks explode into the sky.
