“This is my last summer at Alpine Lake,” Imogen says. “It’s... I want to act. I can’t do that if I come back to Vermont every summer.” Imogen looks at me with those beautiful bright eyes.
“You too?” I turn to Ava.
Ava nods. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with my life, but I’m not going to be a counselor forever.” She sighs. “Next summer, I need to start figuring it out.”
Tears prick my eyes but I know what they’re trying to say: They don’t care if they get caught. They have nothing left to lose.
I take a deep breath. Neither do I.
“Okay,” I say. “We’ll check out the winter cabin.”
Levin blows his whistle and everyone starts gathering their kids and packing up their things, a signal that yet another camp tradition is over—at least until next year.
“We can try to get into the cabin tomorrow,” I say. “That’s when Mellie and Stu have their night off.”
I look at Imogen and Ava, their faces hopeful but worried, trained on me. “Are you guys sure about this?” I ask.
Both of them nod without missing a beat. Together in unison, they say, “Yes.”
---
I leave our little meeting feeling buoyant and hopeful for once. I finally have a plan to find out the truth about Heller and all it took was telling Ava and Imogen every single thing that happened. It shouldn’t have been that hard. I should have known they wouldn’t back away. We’re still sisters by choice because we will always be. I’m a fool for ever doubting that.
“Goldie!” Meg calls. She’s rounding up all the Bloodroot girls, counting their heads and making sure they’re all here. “Can you go to Willa’s shed and pick up a bunch of popsicle sticks?”
“Log cabins before bed?” I ask.
Meg shrugs. “Never understood why it’s fun but the girls want them.”
“On it,” I say. I take the long way to the woodworking shed, listening to the faint hum of lightning bugs as I make my way through camp.
When I arrive, I rap my knuckles against the door. “Knock, knock.” Mom is hunched over a two-by-four, refining its edges with sanding paper. Safety goggles are snapped onto her head and she’s wearing an old striped senior staff shirt, stained with paint. “Making another cabin sign?”
She stands up and dusts off her jean shorts. “Those things havegotto stop breaking.” She holds open her arms and I dive in for a hug. She smells like sawdust and acrylic paint, woodchips and pine. She smells like our old knit quilts, like Sundays.
“How ya doing, baby?” she asks. “Feel like I’ve barely seen you.”
“It’s been a weird one,” I say.
“That’s an understatement.”
She blows on the wood in front of her and reaches for one of the darker stains and a paintbrush.
“Can I grab a bunch of popsicle sticks?” I ask. “Log cabins.”
Mom gives a knowing smile. “Of course. They’re somewhere in the dresser by the hammer wall.”
I rifle through the plastic set of drawers, nodding my head along to whatever soft rock is on the stereo.
But then Mom clears her throat. “Actually, let me help you,” she says, scooting the bench back.
“It’s okay. I got it.” I pull open the bottom drawer and spot the popsicle sticks, but before I can grab them, Mom lunges at me and bumps me out of the way.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says.
But then I see her grab a piece of paper, folded neatly, tucked up against the back of the drawer.
