by D. Melhoff
“It wasn’t just pot—”
“Maybe the dope was cut with something—”
“He never had problems before—”
“Did he give any to you—”
“No, what about you—”
Someone sniffed, and Scott looked down to see Lance putting his arm around Denisha. Beside them, Brynn and Kimberly had huddled together, and across the room, Meegan and Bethany were clutching their anorexic sides as though they might spew up the rest of their already-depleted stomach contents. The office’s garbage can rested between Meegan’s legs, its plastic mouth exuding the hot, acidic stench of fresh vomit.
The sound of boots came clomping down the hall, and Scott turned just as Charlotte appeared in the doorway. Her eyes were electric—zinging from person to person—while strands of wild, untamed hair floated above her head and matched her frazzled expression. “This is serious, ladies and gentlemen,” she announced, storming into the office with two bulging garbage bags clenched in her fists. “Attention.”
The whispers faded but didn’t stop.
“Zip it!”
Jaws clicked shut, and the silence was immediate.
“Since news travel faster than I do, apparently, it seems everyone’s aware of the situation,” Charlotte said, slamming the garbage bags on her desk. “Regardless, let me put an end to the rumors by confirming everything I know at this point. Earlier this morning, Dominique and Erin were found unconscious in Dominique’s hut. Norma has since examined them and…” She paused, swallowing a lump in her throat. When she spoke again, her voice was half as strong. “And I’m sorry. Both of them are gone.”
A pair of sobs sputtered from Meegan and Bethany. Cynthia and Nikki clutched their sides tighter, while Brynn wiped her nose on her hands and tucked them under her legs.
“Nineteen years old,” Charlotte whispered. “Nineteen. Same as most of you. And now I have to tell two moms and dads that their babies are coming home in body bags for no good reason.” She raked her fingers through her hair, building on a wave of frustration. “When someone tells you to behave—when I said impeccably—why does that sound like a challenge? I’m not stupid. You want your fun, but God help me, this? This? You’re adults, guys. You’re role models. What the hell happened?!”
No one coughed.
No one whimpered.
All eyes stayed on Charlotte as sadness and fury whirled in her gaze. “Fun’s over.” She opened a drawer of a filing cabinet and removed two folders, tossing one to Chase and Cynthia each. “Out, everyone. We’ll talk after I make a few calls.”
“What’s this?” Chase asked, peeling his folder open.
“Dominique’s roster for July and August,” Charlotte said. “Cynthia, you’ve got Erin’s. Combine teams. I believe you had the same age brackets, so there shouldn’t be any conflicts. If I’m mistaken, give it to someone else.”
“Bullshit,” Lance said.
“Excuse me?”
“Two people are dead, and you’re too tightfisted to hand out refund checks? It’s fucking bullshit.”
“Bullshit?” Charlotte scowled. “Here’s what’s bullshit.” She seized a letter opener and slashed the two garbage bags on her desk. The plastic tore apart, and a pile of contraband items flooded out of the gashes: glass pipes, bongs, syringes, pill bottles, bags of pot, half a dozen beer cans, and a silver flask with the Johnnie Walker logo engraved on the front. An unopened carton of Scott’s Marlboros tumbled out last, falling onto the floor.
“You went through our shit?” Kimberly said, incensed. “That’s none of your business.”
“When I find two employees buried under a stack of needles, you better believe it’s my goddamn business,” Charlotte said. “Listen to me, everybody. I refuse to shut down a camp that hundreds of kids have been looking forward to because a pair of idiots didn’t know when to stop. It’s cold—and cruel—but it’s the truth. Now unless someone has another suggestion, there are two options as I see it. One, close us down and miss the opportunity to help the kids who really need us, or two, keep going and realize that Dominique and Erin are the ones who made the terrible decision today. Either way, they’re not coming back.”
She paused, but no one spoke up. The room barely dared to breathe.
“Go. Get out. The police will be on their way to pick up the bodies and this,”—she motioned at the pile of substances—“but I think they’ll agree to be subtle about the investigation. Shutting us down hurts more people than it helps. I’ll deal with the media firestorm once the press finds out, but that’s my responsibility, not yours. Your job is to take care of your kids. If anyone would rather go home, I won’t blame you; just let me know by the end of the day so I can arrange a bus for tomorrow.”
“That’s it?” Chase sneered. “You want us to go back to work like nothing happened?”
“Don’t do it for me.” Charlotte nodded at a window where the camp’s children could be seen on the grassy slope below. They were running around playing tag and Frisbee and jump rope—blithe and unaware of the situation going on above them—while Ella and Norma supervised from the sidelines. “Do it for them.”
Another burst of sniffles escaped Meegan and Bethany, and Chase knelt down and began massaging their backs. “Is there any water in here?”
“No,” Charlotte said, “but we’re finished. Go to your groups and put on your best smiles. It’s not easy, I know, but support each other as much as possible.”
The counselors who were closest to the door shambled outside. Scott stood up, swatting the dust off his jeans, and watched Meegan and Bethany cry as Chase continued to massage them. He contemplated staying behind too, but as soon as he passed the girls and caught another whiff of vomit rising out of the garbage can, he doubled his speed for the door and left without looking back.
8
None of them suspect a thing.
Scott watched from the side of the kitchen as a lineup of campers took turns spearing Granny Smith apples with Popsicle sticks and dipping them in a vat of boiling corn syrup. Ella oversaw each dunk. The cook hovered over the industrial propane burners, stirring the candy with one hand while using her other hand to guide the arms of the children who were too short to see over the rim of the pot.
None of them know there are two bodies less than a hundred yards south. Two corpses—two rotting apples—with red dye trickling out of the needle marks on their punctured skin. It’s not sugar and corn syrup, though. It’s crusty, coagulated blood.
Marshall approached Scott’s station with a freshly dipped apple.
“Hey, big guy,” Scott heard Chase say. The two of them were standing beside a table covered with wax paper. “Drop ’er right there.”
Marshall held up his creation, eyes wide, and watched the syrup plop onto the wax like a liquefied Skittle. Just as he was about to set it down, the apple fell off the stick and landed with a gooey thwomp.
“Whoa,” Chase said. “I didn’t mean literally.”
The apple rolled across the uneven surface, gaining speed, and left a trail of cherry ooze in its wake. It dropped off the table, but Marshall caught it a millisecond before it hit the floor.
“Nice save!” Chase shot him double thumbs-up. “Now put it down—carefully, that’s it—and go wash up.”
Marshall set the apple on the table again and left, hopping toward the sink with his crimson-stained hands cradled close to his chest.
Blood, Scott thought. It looks like he’s covered in blood.
He flashed on the image of Dominique and Erin through the haze of hut number seven. Their bruised bodies tangled together with tourniquets tied around their biceps; syringes hanging out of their veins; blood trailing down the track marks on their arms, across their wrists, and into their slack, open palms.
“Excuse me,” a voice said. “Can I write my name?”
Scott snapped out of his trance to see a chubby girl standing in front of him, rocking on her heels and toes.
“Uh, go for it,”
he said.
“I need help.”
“Help?”
“Up, please.”
“Oh.” He looked over at Chase, but Chase was busy helping another kid who had managed to get chunks of caramel stuck in her braids. “Okay.” He bent down and hoisted the girl by her waist—a feat in and of itself—to the table’s surface, and she started drizzling her name in long, careful strokes, pronouncing the letters as she wrote.
“C…A…”
Please be Cate, Scott wished. The speed and quantity of the drizzle was tapering off fast.
“S…”
Casey, maybe? Sweet Jesus, for the sake of my arms, be Casey.
“S…”
“All right,” he said, lowering her to the floor. “Good job, Cass. Excellent penmanship.”
“But my name’s Cassandra.”
“Sorry, nobody chooses their own nickname. Go wash up.” He shooed the girl away and massaged his chest, attempting to relieve the sudden tightness that had built up behind his sternum. A cigarette craving hit him like a wrecking ball, and he wondered how hard it would be to sneak into Charlotte’s office and steal his Marlboros back without anyone noticing. She’s probably burned them by now, goddammit. Guess I’m going cold turkey.
Tyrell approached the table next. “Oh, geez,” Scott said, not in any mood to deal with the troublemaker. “Don’t tell me you wanna write your name too?”
Tyrell didn’t respond. He held his apple over the paper and drizzled his own design: one long stroke followed by two circular loops. When he stood back, he revealed the crude outline of a penis.
Chase happened to catch a glimpse of the glistening dick and let out a snort. “Nice work, Tyrell. You’ve got talent. But here—at least put in some effort.” He took the apple and added a couple veins, surveying his contribution, and then flicked a few scattered pubic hairs onto the masterpiece. “There. C’est magnifique.”
Tyrell smirked and left to wash his hands.
“That’s the first time he’s smiled since he got here,” Scott said. “How do you do it?”
“I don’t know. Just don’t treat them like babies.”
“Then how should I treat them?”
“Like buddies, I guess.”
“Buddies?”
“Midget buddies.”
Scott watched Tyrell approach the lineup of kids at the sink and thought, He’s not a buddy. He’s a shit disturber. Sure enough, Tyrell elbowed his way to the front of the line and shoved Marshall aside, sticking his hands in the soapy water and swirling them with utter impunity. Nikki, the counselor supervising the rinsing station, brought Marshall forward and tapped Tyrell on the shoulder, mouthing the word “apologize,” but Tyrell ignored her and continued soaking his hands, staring into space with his impassive, patent glare.
“Don’t worry,” Chase said, eying the scene at the sink. “Tyrell’s a tough nut to crack. I usually get to know the campers pretty well, but him? Almost zip after two years.”
“Some people don’t like opening up.”
“And some people are damn Fort Knox. All I know is he lives with his grandma. Mean bitch, too. I’ve seen his bruises when we’ve gone swimming.” Then, off Scott’s look: “C’mon, Mamer, grannies ain’t always the sweet and smiley type. Fact is, they can be some of the nastiest scum on the planet. Did you ask her out, by the way?”
“Huh?”
“Nikki.” Chase nodded at the sink. Nikki was standing in between Tyrell and Marshall now, attempting to hold them back as they splashed each other and yelled a colorful array of elementary-school insults: “Farthead!”…“Loser!”…“Dickwad!”…“Butt-monkey!”…“Fatass!”
“Oh,” Scott said. “No.”
“Well in case you do, the offer still stands. You can have the hut tonight. I’m meeting Kimberly in the zip-line tower.”
“Doesn’t anything ruin your mood?”
“Any what?”
“Um, I don’t know, a couple of dead friends, maybe? I thought you knew them?”
“I met Dominique last summer,” Chase said. “But camp friendships are different, man. You see these guys for a few months and then forget about them. Plus, you don’t know what they’re really like. I’m not saying I don’t feel sick about what happened—I do—but if a guy’s playing the game, he’s gotta play to stay in it, you know what I’m saying? It was a terrible mistake, but what’s done is done. No sense moping.”
“And Erin?”
“Erin was new. Barely knew her.”
“Oh,” Scott said. “Well, if I’d died instead, it’s good to know you’d still be here dipping apples and planning tonight’s booty call.”
“Don’t give me that look. Why are you still hanging around, Mr. Holier-Than-Thou? Or did you tell Charlotte you want out?”
“I would…”
“But what? ‘I need the money’? ‘I can’t find another job’? See. Lots of things trump camp friendships.” Chase reached down and tested a couple of apples. The syrup was tacky, but they weren’t wet anymore. “Sex smoothes everything over, man. It’s physical and emotional therapy. Even if you don’t hook up tonight, you may as well start laying the groundwork, right? Sounds like you’re in for the long haul.” He dunked two apples in a bowl of pulverized M&M’s and held them out. “Here.”
“What am I supposed to do with those?”
“Stick them up your urethra.” Then: “Save the day.” Chase nodded across the kitchen to where Nikki was trying to get Marshall and Tyrell to stop fighting. Scott shook his head, but Chase insisted, thrusting the apples closer. Fine, Scott relented. He took a stick in each hand and crossed the room, stepping between the boys, and waved the treats in front of their faces. The kids glared at him and then accepted the bait, snatching the Popsicle stems and storming off in opposite directions, appeased.
Nikki let out a sigh of relief. “Thanks,” she said, combing a strand of hair behind her ear.
Scott straightened up—feeling the heat of Chase’s eyes on his back—and nodded. It was as close as he could get to a smile. “You, uh, you doing all right?”
Nikki shrugged, returning to the dishes. “As good as any of us, I guess.”
Scott watched her hands move in slow, torpid circles beneath the bubbles. He must’ve stared a moment too long, because when he glanced up, Nikki was already looking at him. Her pupils moved back and forth between his, almost imperceptibly, and then she lowered her gaze to the water and said nothing.
“Here,” Scott said, grabbing a dishtowel. “Scooch over.”
Nikki didn’t argue. She sidestepped a foot away to make room for him, and he sidled closer. After another moment of silence, Scott cleared his throat and asked, “So, uh…so where is it you’re from again?”
9
Her hands are firm, Scott thought, tipping his head back as Nikki massaged his scalp and stimulated a wave of nerve endings. Nothing like Brynn’s hands. Brynn’s delicate fingers sliding through sand on the beach; her warm grasp guiding me toward the rowboat.
He was perched on the edge of his bunk bed, tense, teeth clenched together and lips pinched into a flat line. Nikki’s legs were wrapped around his waist—her hips rocking side to side, her ass grinding against his crotch—but nothing stirred beneath his jeans and boxers.
“Mm. Mmm.”
Scott didn’t moan back. Instead, he reached under Nikki’s V-neck and felt the fabric of her bra. Brynn’s breasts, he pictured—he couldn’t help it—were smaller but perkier, and not spaced so far apart. You could park a Boeing in this girl’s cleavage, he thought, and an amusing image came to mind: a miniature airplane touching down on Nikki’s bellybutton and coming to a stop between her breasts. Pushing the thought away, he tugged on her shirt and opened his eyes just in time to catch her torso emerging from the cotton.
There were marks on her body. Dripping black marks, like blood—
Tattoos, he told himself. Tattoos, not bloodstains. Not. Bloodstains.
Nikki reached down and tore Sc
ott’s shirt over his head. Then, with impressive speed, her shorts were off too, and so were his pants.
“Sex smoothes everything over,” Scott heard Chase saying. “It’s physical and emotional therapy.”
Nikki’s hand trailed behind her back and unclasped her bra. Scott watched it drop, expecting a pelvic jolt, but not even her bare chest triggered his sex drive—not when her nipples appeared, nor when she tilted her head and flicked his earlobe with her tongue. For the second time that day, Scott remembered his missing ear plug, and as Nikki stroked his neck with her firm—too firm, too fucking firm—hands, he snatched her wrists and flipped her over, pinning her against the mattress.
He looked down, seeing his limbs wrapped around Nikki’s, and thought, We’re tangled up like Dominique and Erin.
His mind flashed on the morbid scene in the smoke-filled hut. Two bodies lying in a stack of needles, the blood dripping down their arms, their eyes staring at him, dead. Dead, dead, DEAD.
“I—I can’t.” Scott pulled himself away, panting.
“What? What is it?” Nikki asked. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No. Just…not tonight.” Not in these huts where the dead still stare, and not with you and your awful, firm hands.
He sat upright and planted his feet on the floor, shoving his palms against his eyes to try to force out the memory of the corpses.
“We’ll take it as slow as you want.” The sleeping bag rustled behind him, and he felt a touch on his shoulder. “Scott.”
“Stop.”
“It’s fine—”
“I said stop!”
The hand flew away as if stung. Immediately, Scott regretted shouting, but he didn’t apologize. He listened to the sound of scrunching nylon as Nikki tore open the zipper of the sleeping bag and fanned it out like a comforter.
He took ten deep breaths and waited for his pulse to slow. When that didn’t work, he wiped his forehead and lied down, curling up with his back to Nikki.
