The rumor never spread around camp, thanks to the fact that a junior counselor was caught smoking weed with a camper, anactualscandal that engulfed camp for a full week.
No one talked about Ava’s dad’s dealings after that. Not Imogen. Not me. And no one talked about the biggest revelation of all: that after everything Mark Cantor put Ava through, she still came to his defense without a second thought.
CHAPTER 39
Now
Ava’s true to her word, and even at lunch—when we see her dad taking selfies with the twins from across the picnic tables— she hides her face from him, curtained behind hair.
“He hasn’t come looking for you?” Imogen asks, gentle but concerned.
Ava lets out a puff of air, exasperated. “How many times do I have to tell you, Im? My dad isnotlike your dad. Or yours, Goldie,” she says without looking at me. “He’s a prick.” She stops talking abruptly and I know it’s so she won’t cry.
“I thought...” Imogen says, poking at the potato salad on her plate.
“You thought nothing,” Ava snaps. “You have no idea. Both of you, with your perfect families. You’ve never known what it’s like.”
She stands in a huff and leaves.
Imogen looks at me, concerned. “What the fuck was that?”
“I have no idea.”
“Did you talk to Mark? During cabin time with the twins?” Imo asks.
I shrug. “Not really.” It’s true. Meg sweet-talked and smiled and patted all the girls’ hair, charming the parents until they left for whatever activities their children wanted to show them. I hungback and smiled pleasantly, repeating Heller’s email to journalists over and over in my head.
What have you done, Mark Cantor?
“So fucking weird,” Imogen says, shaking her head. “Well, let’s... try to keep them away from her. We’ll do a full debrief later.”
“Sounds good,” I say. Imogen clears her plate and heads over to say hi to some of her campers. I steal a look at Jordie and Bianca, blissed out on parental love. How could their dad not treat Ava with the same devotion? For all she has, for all that is at her fingertips... there’s no way this doesn’t crush her.
But then Mark Cantor looks up from Bianca, who’s deep in conversation, explaining the stories behind each of her ten friendship bracelets, and scans the tables. An icy chill shoots up my spine as his gaze lands on me. For a second I wonder if he recognizes me, but when I look closer, it’s as if he’s looking right through me, a random girl. No one he should concern himself with. Not at all.
---
Levin gave specific instructions for all of the lifeguards to plaster big-ass smiles on our faces and pretend like we’re waiters at a five-star hotel. The usual playfulness and camaraderie have been replaced with fake laughs and hidden eye rolls. But the parents are oblivious, cooing over their children as they watch them flap around in the lake and show off their waterskiing skills.
Stu talks up some of the heavy hitters—parents whose kids are VIPs, thanks to their donations or status. I shield my eyes from the sun and spot him slapping a cable news anchor on the back,chuckling at what must be an off-color joke. I imagine he’s talking about how the guy’s daughter, some uncoordinated twelve-year-old, is bound to be an Olympic swimmer one day.
Levin snorts next to me. “God, I hate visiting day.”
“But you seem normal,” I say.
“COD,” he says. When I give him a quizzical look, he explains, “Child of divorce.”
“Ah,” I say. “Well, it always sucked for me, too.”
Levin glances at me sideways, almost impressed. “Yeah, I guess Willa and Lou were always working. Musta been weird when you were a camper.”
I shrug and scan the waterfront. Ava and Imogen are both up top, on cabin duty, so I’m alone down here. The parents all look alike, with their designer athleisure or their preppy sweater sets. Lots of big floppy hats and sunglasses, handbags that are meant to be taken to Michelin star restaurants, not a summer camp. It’s like peering into so many of these kids’ futures.
But there’s one guy whodoesn’tlook like everyone else. Mark Cantor. There he is, walking down the hill, trailing behind the twins, who are dragging their towels along the gravel. His eyes are glued to the phone in his hand, but Bianca and Jordie look free, like they have no cares in the world. They each have one of their mother’s hands as they lead her down to the lake’s edge. Mark waves them off and sits down on the towel wall. He doesn’t look up from his phone.
Instead of freshly ironed khakis, he’s wearing the midlife crisis special: expensive-looking joggers and a tight white T-shirt that probably costs more than my winter coat. Thousand-dollar sneakersare tied to his feet. He’s got a casual way about him, with gold aviator sunglasses and thick dark hair. He’s tanned from spending all his time in Palm Beach, but he doesn’t resemble the other high rollers here, the old stuffy guys who are dressed for a golf game.
Mark looks... relaxed. And because of that, since he’s lazing around here like he doesn’t have another daughter on the same property, like he may not have been involved in some massive scam that led Heller to his death, something inside me snaps.
