“The psycho-girlfriend-in-a-jealous-rage thing is like something from one of those movies my sister loves to watch. I always thought those plots were such bullshit. Like, does love really mess with people’s heads so bad they decide they have to kill someone they can’t have? I guess it happens, but I don’t get it. Especially when you’re our age. Just cry for a week and burn all their stuff, and move on and get over it. Don’t murder them and ruin both your lives forever. I mean, yeesh. Who does that?”
“I’m still just really surprised. In the days before the murder, if that’s what it was, Jackson and Lainie seemed extra lovey-dovey and good. No bickering or breakups and stuff like before. I’d heard they were actually planning to stay together after camp—that Jackson broke up with the girl from home or was going to, and they’d decided to give long-distance a shot. I was glad for them. They seemed in love.
“My friend heard that wasn’t true, that they weren’t planning on staying together, just making the most of the time they had left. But either way, it didn’t seem like there was trouble. They seemed really happy and tight.
“I never in a million years would have believed something like this might happen to them.”
“The last week of camp is so weird. This was my fourth year and it’s always like that. Just . . . weird. Extra intense. There’s like this whole sense of doom hanging over everything because you’re hyperaware every second that something you love is about to die.
“I mean, not die like that, but it’s ending. Camp is ending, it’s almost over, and it’s sad. It’s so sad. But also you’re still there, there’s still another week left, and you don’t want to waste it being sad, but it hangs over everything. Everyone’s a little grumpy and it sucks. It sucks every year. There’s nothing you can do about it. It’s hard. Extra emotional.
“I think everyone’s just really aware of the end coming, and some people react with this urgent extra closeness—like, desperate clinging—and others start to pull away before the end even gets there—like, preparing themselves—and there’s all this hopelessness of knowing this world is about to end, we’re all going our separate ways, and what we had can never be replicated. Even if you come back next year, it will be different. Different people, different dynamics. Still amazing, but different. It always ends. And whoever you were at camp kind of ends with it, because back home, no one will get it. The stories, the inside jokes. It’s stuff only your camp friends can understand. And you still have them, but it’s changed. You’re not together anymore. It’s sad. I really hate it.
“So, yeah. I wasn’t paying that much attention to Lainie and Jackson or whoever because I had my own friends to say goodbye to while still trying not to make it seem like goodbye yet. Trying to squeeze the most out of my own last few days of summer. But it’s a lot and I get how the emotions could make you snap. Every year, everyone cries on the last day, but some people really break down and get weird about it. Not weird like murderous, but weird like . . . I don’t know. I’m just rambling. I’ll shut up about it now.”
November 10
Dear Lainie,
Someone hacked the Camp Cavanick website last night and changed the logo to “A Summer of Fun. A Life Sentence for Murder. Exclusively for Teens!” The text below it promises “outdoor adventures, exciting challenges, confidence-building, friendship, and the chance to become fish food when your summer sweetheart loses her shit.”
The main photo’s been replaced with one of you, me, Nitin, and Jackson, sitting on the stone wall. Jackson looks at the camera smugly, like he just said something clever. You’re laughing and leaning into me, caught mid-blink. My mouth’s partway open and my hand’s partway up, as though I’m making a counterargument. Nitin’s side-eying Jackson like, Dude, what the fuck.
Jackson’s uncle made a comment about the “sick mind” of the person responsible, but it’s exactly the kind of thing Jackson would find hilarious. In fact, if he weren’t dead, I’d be certain he’s the one who did it. Jackson loved dark humor. It was one of the best things about him.
I keep thinking about something Jackson said, maybe two weeks before the end. We were alone by the wall, waiting for you to pee and get changed, and you were taking freaking forever. It was hot, and I was impatient, but Jackson seemed in a good mood. I said something about the wait and he shrugged. “Yeah, I’m used to waiting on Meghan.”
“What would Meghan do if she knew about this?” I said. I lifted my chin toward our cabin.
Jackson smirked. “About what?”
I didn’t smile.
He sighed. “She’d probably row here from Italy just to slap me. Or kill me,” he said seriously. “As painfully yet efficiently as possible.”
“That seems fair.”
His smirk twisted into a grimace. “Actually, worse. She’d delete me from her phone and never acknowledge my existence again.”
His shoulders slumped and he looked so bummed, I got worried and a little panicky. I shouldn’t have asked about Meghan. I don’t know what I’d been thinking.
This was bound to cause trouble in your relationship. Another breakup. More of his shit. This time partly my fault for reminding him of his guilt. You would be furious.
But you walked out of the cabin in your sunny-butt yellow shorts, Jackson brightened, and it was like the conversation never happened.
I was so relieved. The best thing for all of us was for the question of Meghan to go away. That’s why I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry.
But I can’t stop wondering what she really would have done.
If Meghan didn’t know then he was a lying, cheating asshole, she certainly knows now. But I don’t know what she thinks about it. I can’t tell.
I’ve watched videos of her entering the courthouse with his family, her expression grim, her posture perfect. I’ve studied photos of her at the funeral, dressed in black, wiping tears. I’ve zoomed in on her face, closer, closer, until her pupils fill the screen.
Would she really have been capable of murdering him? The pixels don’t tell.
I’ve zoomed in on the rest of us too: you, me, Jackson, Nitin. Maddie, Rachel, Emma, Bree. Chef Beverly and Mika. A bunch of randos I don’t even know. I’ve searched the face of every camper and counselor in every pic I can find from the summer. We look normal. Silly. Carefree. Alive. The pixels don’t reveal what any of us are made of. The closer you get, the more the truth blurs.
Maybe a killer only looks like a killer in the moment just before, during, or after.
Maybe a liar, a good one, never shows it.
Maybe none of us know what we would or wouldn’t do until the second it happens.
Whoa, Ian just texted. Dina told me he might, but I still didn’t expect it.
Whoa whoa whoa.
Love,
Kayla
November 12
Dear Lainie,
I don’t remember what your last fight with Jackson was about—the one before you kissed me the second time. It got hard to keep track. They were always over petty things, flaring up at almost random moments. But the fights themselves weren’t petty at all. They hurt you.
You said it yourself: “That sticks-and-stones rhyme is utter bullshit.”
The fights were never really over what they seemed to be over. Deep down, they were about you needing him, and him treating you like you were disposable. That’s it. Every time. He hurt you so bad just by not really giving a shit, and you acted tough and doled it out as well as you took it when you were face-to-face with him in the moment, but as soon as we were alone afterward, you would crumple. His words were like an ice cream scoop digging out your chest—digging and digging, until the sides were scraped raw.
He hollowed you out, but the pain accumulated.
“He takes you for granted. That’s not going to change. Aren’t you tired of this?” I said that day for the millionth time.
You wiped tears and snot on the sleeve of your hoodie and nodded. “I know.” But knowing never stopped you from
hoping the next time might be different.
You chose the wrong person to trust with your heart. His not wanting you enough only made you want him more, and there was nothing I could do to shake you out of it. (Dr. Rita said Freud might have a thing or two to say about your desperation for Jackson’s attention and your father’s similar indifference. It made me hate her in the moment, but there’s an appeal to thinking you couldn’t help it.) It was so imbalanced.
It hollowed me out too, seeing you hurt like that. I felt useless and helpless and drained, time after time. Because what could I do? I could be angry for you, or sad with you. I could listen and commiserate and try to make you laugh. I could tell you again you deserved so much better, but I couldn’t make you believe it—not deep down enough to convince you to truly walk away.
It hurt me to see you hurting, and it hurt even more to have you listen and agree, while knowing anything I said was just a bandage—one you would rip right off at the first chance to let him wound you again. It happened every time.
Except the last time. Somehow, the last time, my words got through. Maybe calling you out on the kiss had done it—woken you up to how messed up over him you’d become. Or maybe you were finally too exhausted to let things continue. I don’t know. Whatever the cause, something shifted that day. I said the same words and you sniffled the same agreements, but it seemed to sink in.
“You’re right,” you said. “I’m done. For real this time. I promise.” You squeezed my hand as though crushing my fingers would convince me. “We only have a week left, and we’re going to make the most of it. You and me, together like before. Fuck Jackson. I’ve already wasted enough time on him. I don’t need anyone here but you.”
I braced myself for the backslide, but you meant it.
That first full day of being back to us was like coming up for air after swimming the full length of a pool underwater. We’d made it. We’d reached the other side and I could breathe again. I know you felt it too.
We were giddy with relief. Others were starting to get sad about the end approaching, but I was happier than I’d been in weeks. We had six days and nights left to pack as full as we could. And after that we would text, visit, and write. We’d already promised. I wasn’t sad that camp was ending in less than a week. I was elated you and Jackson had ended first.
You were back. We were back. Nothing could come between us. Remember?
The next days were the best days. I thought we’d weathered the storm and come out closer and stronger. I had no idea we were smack in the eye of the hurricane. Did you?
I don’t think so. You’re a good actress, but not that good. I’ve always been able to read how you’re feeling. When the winds picked back up and blew you off your feet, I saw it in your face right away. After two and a half blissfully Jackson-free days, he’d returned. I knew it before you spoke. Your eyes had that floaty, faraway, dazed-but-fine-with-it look. Your lips twitched with the secret.
“Oh no,” I said as you approached. “No. Tell me you didn’t—don’t do this. Don’t take him back again. Please.”
You slid in across from me at the picnic table by the lake and shook your head, but your smile still held the news I dreaded. “It’s not what you think,” you said.
It was exactly what I thought.
“I didn’t take him back. I’ve been ignoring him for days, just like I promised. And I’ve felt great. He came up to me this morning and I totally shrugged him off. He tried telling me he misses me and I said, ‘Too bad for you. And too bad you didn’t appreciate me when I was willing to be around. I’m over it. Your loss.’ And I turned and walked away.”
I waited. I knew there was more.
“So when he came to find me again and was like, ‘Can we talk?’ I was like, ‘Whatever,’ because there’s nothing he can say that would make me go back to that, you know? He has a girlfriend. I’m just some challenge for him—like, a mountain he wants to climb, just to prove he can—and not even one he takes seriously. But he can’t reach the top because I’ll always be too much mountain for him, and it makes him want to tear me down, like you said. I know that now. I get it.”
“Uh-huh.” A thousand sirens were going off in my head. Couldn’t you hear them?
“But . . . Kayla . . . he gets it too. He really does.” I kept my mouth shut. You couldn’t even make eye contact. “He wants us to try again, and he promises, promises things will be different. He broke up with Meghan because he realized he loves me. He wants us to be together for real.”
You looked at me then, and the hope in your face broke me open. You wanted me to be happy for you. You wanted me to believe.
“He begged. Like, down on his knees. Begged and apologized for everything he’s put me through. It sounds corny, but it was actually really sweet,” you said. “You’ll see. He’s changed.”
I wanted to point out those theatrics sounded exactly like more of the same. He’d even made his apology all about him. A spectacle.
But you’d already made up your mind. Even if I said the words out loud, you wouldn’t hear them. So I didn’t.
The fifth rule of crime is: Always Stick Together. Where you went, I went. So I followed you back down the rabbit hole.
Here we are: Off with your head.
Love,
Kayla
November 13
Dear Lainie,
It’s Friday the 13th and I’m thinking of you, because who else claims thirteen as their lucky number?
I feel like that says so much about you, though I don’t know exactly what. That you’re completely unsuperstitious, for one. (Ugh, that’s apparently not a real word, but those red dots won’t stop me. SUCK IT, SPELL-CHECK. Haha, maybe I’m a rebel after all.) That you like to push your luck, for another. (Is it still pushing your luck if you aren’t superstitious? I’m going with yes, so shush.) That you’re cooler and more badass than any fool with a regular old lucky number, for sure.
I don’t know why primes are inherently cooler than other numbers, but they are—which is strange, since they’re mostly so odd.
Ba-dum-ching! (Sorry. Sorry! Please stop groaning. Sorry.)
My lucky number is eight. Le sigh. Without you, I’m not all that interesting.
In English today, Ms. Pan had two words up on the board that looked like random-letter barf, but were not: triskaidekaphobia and paraskevidekatriaphobia. Triskaidekaphobia is a fear of the number thirteen. Paraskevidekatriaphobia is a fear of Friday the 13th (the day, not the movie). They come from the Greek words for thirteen, fear, and Friday. I will never remember how to spell or pronounce them, but I love that they exist.
When I told Dina, they immediately began calculating how many Scrabble points each word would be worth if it could fit on a Scrabble board, which it could not. Dina is possibly even more random than I am. I wonder sometimes what you would think of them.
If it weren’t your favorite number—if you had a hint of triskaidekaphobia—maybe you would have thought twice when I said, “Well . . . thirteenth time’s the charm, right?” at the news of you and Jackson getting back together. Instead, you hugged me and beamed, and felt lucky, I guess.
Things really did seem different with him the last week, though, I admit it. He seemed sweeter. More attentive and appreciative. Much closer to the kind of boyfriend I thought you deserved. I was glad to see you happy. But it was hard for me too.
With Jackson no longer being such a shithead, you needed me less, and abandoned me a lot more often. I’m not blaming you—please don’t think that. I know you didn’t leave me out on purpose, and I get why you needed time alone with him. It’s not like I wanted to hang around while you guys made out or whatever. But it still felt lonely.
Even when we did hang just you and me, your attention was often elsewhere. That stank. But what could I say? Don’t spend time with your boyfriend? I wish you’d break up again even though you’re happy? It’s not fair that he’s being good to you now? Your top priority has to be me? No way. Express
ing any of that would be ridiculous and kind of psycho.
It was a problem with no good solution, so I tried to just let it be. To not mind sharing you. To trust we were good and you loved me. To assure myself you weren’t really slipping away. To stop measuring the sides of our awkward, uneven triangle.
The fact that Nitin had stopped hanging out with us made the problem much worse. If he’d still been around, it would have been a group thing, instead of Jackson intruding on you-and-me time, or me intruding on you and Jackson. I don’t know if he got sick of Jackson or all of us or what, but he was barely around and he never snuck out anymore. I asked Jackson point-blank what he had done to push Nitin away, but Jackson scrunched up his face and said, “Huh?” and I dropped it. It definitely struck me as weird, though.
Maybe I should have tried hanging with other people too, but we only had a few days left. I didn’t want new friends, or to forfeit my time left with you. It was third wheel or nothing, so I went with third wheel.
It was fine, mostly. The three of us fell into a rhythm that worked pretty well. I stopped saying “Ew” when he kissed you in front of me (you’re welcome) and he didn’t pout when we cracked each other up over something he wasn’t in on or didn’t get. I’d have preferred getting you all to myself, and so would he, but we each respected why the other was important to you, and tried to make the best of it. A truce, for your sake.
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