“And, right on cue,” Ava says. I follow her gaze to a silver Mercedes SUV driving slowly down the hill. A handmade sign is taped to the passenger side door.WE LOVE YOU,BIANCA AND JORDIE!A petite bottle-blonde hangs out the window, waving wildly to thetwins, who are standing on their tiptoes behind the fence, only a few feet away.
“Guess she hired a driver,” I say without even thinking.
But Ava doesn’t respond and when the car careens around the traffic circle I can see why. Her dad is sitting in the front seat.
---
Ava drops her arm from around my shoulder.
“I thought you said he wasn’t coming?” I ask.
Ava shakes her head, her mouth hanging open. Imogen rushes over. “Was that...?”
I nod and grab her hand. Together we envelop Ava and try to hustle her over to the tennis courts, but she stops us, her feet defiant. She pushes us away and shakes her head.
“Was that really him?” she asks.
“Wasn’t he supposed to be in London this weekend? Wimbledon, right? His fund has a box there?”
“Always. He only came to visiting day that one time because Mom said she’d divorce him if he didn’t,” Ava says. “He was cheating on her the whole time and then left us anyway.”
Imogen laughs and weirdly that seems like the right thing to do, so I let out a snort, too. A small smile spreads on Ava’s face and soon she’s got a full belly laugh going that shoots through her whole body and all the way from her dark roots to the platinum tips of her hair.
Ava leans forward and rests her hands on her knees to keep herself from falling over. I don’t know why but I do, too, and soon we’re all balls of tears and laughter and grasping hands and arms.
“Oh man,” Ava says, wiping her eyes. “This is so fucked up.”She glances back over at the fence where all the kids were standing, and we see that it’s only the stragglers who are left. The kids who come from overseas or whose parents are always late. My heart stings for them and their worried expressions.
Ava straightens her spine and her face is determined, sure, different than it was only minutes before.
“What are you going to do?” Imogen asks.
Ava sighs and looks over toward lower girls’ camp where we all know her dad and stepmom are heading for Bloodroot, ready to unpack boxes of treats and smother the little girls with love and affection like all the other parents who’ve invaded our camp.
I expect her to say something shocking and brilliant, something that would explain the placid look that’s taken over her face, something that would indicate she has a plan to make her asshole of a father pay.
But she turns back to us and shrugs. “Ignore the motherfucker.”
CHAPTER 38
Then
I only saw Ava get violent once. And it was for such an unexpected reason.
It was the first week of super senior summer, our final as campers. A bunch of us were lounging in the Adirondack chairs during rest hour playing cards and talking about the best dining hall hacks, like how to assemble a makeshift McMuffin.
After a little while, a yellow bus pulled into the traffic circle and out poured the boys—Tommy, Dale, and their cabins, all the guys we had grown up alongside. They were wearing Alpine Lake basketball uniforms, shouting obscenities as they came back from playing another camp up in Maine.
Ava whistled as they walked by. That summer she liked to say that if she got catcalled in New York, she could do the same to the boys here. Even the playing field. Let them know how it felt.
Dale and Tommy looked up and elbowed each other. They broke off from the group and jogged over to us, sweaty and red-faced. A few of their bunkmates followed.
“You guys win or what?” Ava asked, shielding her eyes from the sun.
Both of them looked at Ava, curious, but didn’t answer.
“Celebratory parade or pity party?” Imogen asked.
Tommy nudged Dale, who looked at him nervously. The other guys stood behind them, shifting their weight from foot to foot. “Ask her,” one mumbled.
