That was when I learned what visiting day was really about—all thestuff. The onslaught ofstuffthat arrives with the parents. Thestuffthat’s supposed to sayI love you. Ava’s mom came armed with all of Ava’s favorite things from Manhattan—a box of black-and-white cookies from Zabar’s, a big tub of banana pudding from Magnolia Bakery, and a tote bag of shiny new hardcover booksfrom the Strand, some of them signed by authors. Ava opened each item with delight, sneaking peeks at her dad, who was standing in the corner of the cabin, uncomfortable.
Ava grabbed my hand and motioned for me to sit on the bed beside her. “I can’t wait to share this with you,” she said.
Her mom smiled politely as Imogen brought her parents over, too.
“What did you get?” Ava asked.
Imogen started listing items—her mom’s onigiri, hand-wrapped and seasoned to perfection, slices of her dad’s zucchini bread, cinnamon rolls, lemon bars, and dozens of handwritten letters from her cousins back home she couldn’t wait to read.
As Imogen spoke, I saw Ava’s parents exit the cabin and walk quickly to the side of the building, trying to stay out of sight.
Ava spotted them, too, but she didn’t look. She kept her focus on Imogen and the Wexlers.
But I watched the Cantors, how their faces grew red as they became more animated, more furious, yelling with their hands, throwing their heads back in annoyance. I watched as Mark stomped off, toward the car, and as Ava’s mom rubbed her temples with her fingers. I watched as she closed her eyes and sighed and walked right back into the cabin as if nothing strange had happened.
Mark never came again, and I grew to hate visiting day, how all the well-meaning parents only spoke to me to ask what Roxwood wasreallylike.
Mom and Dad would often pop by, wearing their striped Alpine Lake senior staff shirts to say hello and remind the other parentsI wasn’t some weird charity case. They’d hug Imogen’s parents warmly and shake Ava’s mom’s hand with limp fingers. Then they’d head back to their stations to put on their own tour guide faces. The ones that saidwe’ll make sure nothing bad happens to your precious children.
CHAPTER 37
Now
Christina’s chili grows cold in front of me. It’s dinnertime, only a few hours after I got back from the clerk’s office, and all I want to do is talk to Ava, to get some answers. But I can’t figure out what I even want to ask her.
Hey, is your dad involved in something sketchy?seems kind of messed up. So doesDid you kill Heller and then come into my bed and cry about it?
Someone wraps their arms around my neck from behind and I almost leap straight out of my seat.
“Jumpy, are we!”
I turn around to find Ava crouching down, her face so close to mine. She smells like that blueberry shampoo and her smile is wide as she nuzzles into my hair.
“Sorry, tired.” I don’t know why my first instinct is to lie, but something inside me tells me there’s no way I can confront Ava now, here in the dining hall.
“Well, whatever it is, please snap out of it because tomorrow isvisiting day.” She rolls her eyes. “I cannot believe I have to see the evil stepbitch here of all places.”
I thought I would be rid of the horrors of visiting day by the time I was a counselor, when we were all on the other side of things,plastering on fake smiles and schmoozing with parents. But it gets worse when you’re on the staff side.
“Oi!” Meg says. She pushes back from the table and starts leading our girls out of the dining hall toward evening activity. “You two and Imogen are staying for the all-staff meeting, yeah?”
“Reluctantly,” Ava says, rolling her eyes.
“Ah, shut it,” Meg says. “Report back if there’s anything interesting, right?”
“You got it, boss.” Ava smiles that big toothy grin of hers but drops it when Meg leaves. “These meetings always suck. They want to tell us how to impress the parents and convince them that this place is worth the bajillion-dollar price tag.”
“Let’s make fudge,” I say, desperate to change the subject.
Ava follows me to the coffee bar, where I tear the tops off two packets of hot chocolate and hand her one. She tosses me a single-serve half-and-half and I dump it into the cocoa, mixing the two together to create a dark brown substance sort of resembling fudge. Discovered that trick when we were thirteen. We carry our paper cups filled with the sweet sludge over to the benches and plop down. Ava rests her head on the table and groans.
“Oh my god, it’s going to befine.” Imogen sits down next to me and eyes my fudge. I hand it to her to taste. “The stepbitch won’t even acknowledge you, relax.”
“That might be worse,” Ava mumbles.
Stu clears his throat at the front of the room and everyone shushes. I pull my sweatshirt up over my chin. He launches into a monologue about how we have to be on our best behavior during visiting day, how whatever we put forward will be what these parents take with them for the rest of the summer, how we shouldpolitely suggest they register their children fornextsummer ASAP to take advantage of the early bird discount.
“As you know, many parents choose to have their children re-apply after visiting day. There are incentives for families who book next summer now. Easier to pass the admissions exam. And if we want these kids to come back next year, we better make sure their parents know how much this place means to their children,” he says. I perk up then. There’s an underlying sense of urgency in his voice, one I haven’t heard before.
