by Lexa Hillyer
Another wash of annoyance spreads through her. “Tali, I hate to break it to you, but this isn’t all about you.”
“Guys, let’s not fight,” Luce interjects. “Please! We’re in this together, so we need to just figure out what to do next. Okay? And let’s move off the field, where we can talk in privacy.”
She leads the way toward the line of trees behind the rec hall.
As they walk, Joy looks around. “Actually,” she says, her face going contemplative. “Maybe this isn’t as crazy as we think. . . .”
“What do you mean?” Zoe asks, hoping her input is actually helpful this time. Now that they’re hidden in the cool shade of a couple of oaks, she’s starting to feel less nauseated.
Tali gives her a slight glare.
Joy goes on. “What I mean is, haven’t there been strange things that have happened on past reunion nights?”
“What, like alums getting drunk and throwing up in front of their own kids?” Zoe says, fully aware that she’s babbling, that she’s the one being unhelpful now. She sits down on the grass, and the other three join her, gathering cross-legged, just like they used to.
“She’s right,” Luce chimes in. “There was the time Minna Spencer’s dog came back.”
The memory, though dim, creeps back into Zoe’s mind. “That’s true—the cocker spaniel?”
“Yeah,” Luce says, nodding thoughtfully. “It ran away when her parents dropped her off in June, and she was devastated that summer. Then it came back two whole months later, on reunion night.”
Zoe sighs. “That’s definitely a bit odd, but not quite up there with time travel.”
Tali looks from Zoe to Joy and Luce, then back at Zoe again, as though she has just confirmed that time travel is real.
Which she basically did.
“True,” Tali adds, “but there was also the time Petra fell off the spinning swings and everyone thought she could have broken her neck and died, but she turned out to be miraculously fine.”
Luce nods. “She didn’t even have a bruise.”
“So,” Zoe says, tugging a piece of grass out of the dirt and twisting it between her fingers. “What we’re agreeing on here is that this is just some awesome reunion night fluke?”
“My mom told me once that Okahatchee translates to something like Water of Possibility.”
Now it’s Tali’s turn to roll her eyes. “Next you’re gonna tell me some brochure B.S. about the natives who believed photographs steal your soul.”
“Huh. That gives me an idea,” Joy says. She’s doing her best to stay positive, and Zoe feels an instant wave of gratitude. She speaks slowly, as if she’s working it out as she talks: “It all comes back to the photo booth. It must. Remember how it short-circuited while we were inside it?”
“I don’t get it,” Luce says, looking panicked.
“We need to get back into the photo booth,” Joy says. “Maybe we can somehow undo all this.”
“But the photo booth isn’t even here.” Luce crosses her arms as if she’s freezing, even though it must be mid-eighties. “Mom only brings it in for reunion night. And if today is the relay, then it’s a Monday. And we still have five more days before the Friday of reunion night, when we can even try.”
Tali gapes at her. “So . . . you’re suggesting we hang around in the past for five days and then . . . take a bunch of glam shots in the photo booth and hope it works like a time machine in the other direction? And how do we know we’re really in the past in the first place, not just some—”
“Alternate reality?” Luce fills in, wide-eyed.
Tali rolls her eyes. “I was going to say drug-induced hallucination.”
“Well, we do look exactly like we did two years ago,” Zoe says, fumbling in her pocket to see if the old photo strip—the one Joy had wanted to bury—is still there. “I’ll show you.”
She pulls out the photo strip . . . and gasps.
“What?” asks Joy.
“It’s . . . it’s . . .”
“What?” Luce asks.
Tali grabs the photo strip from Zoe’s hands and says it for her. “It’s . . . blank.”
“The photo from two summers ago?” Joy asks.
“The photo from this summer,” Luce says slowly.
“Right.” Tali nods. “It’s totally erased. Gone. Like it never happened.”
Zoe stares at the blank photo strip over Tali’s shoulder. It’s true. It’s like some giant eraser has come and smudged out the images of their smiling faces . . . and with them, the last two years of their lives.
“It’s blank because it hasn’t happened yet,” Zoe says.
“What are you suggesting?” Tali frowns.
Zoe shrugs. “I don’t know . . . maybe we have to, like, take it again.”
“Take that photo again?” Luce asks.
An idea starts to unfold in Zoe’s mind, shining brighter and brighter, like the sun as clouds part to reveal it. “Yeah. Maybe we have to re-create the photo. Maybe we have to re-create our pasts in order to get back to the present.” It makes an insane sort of sense as she thinks about it. “The photo booth did this. Instead of taking a new photo of us, it caused some sort of glitch in the time-space continuum. It untook the old photo of us, thereby reversing time, and—”
“This is absurd,” Tali says, crossing her arms.
“How can we know it would even work?” Luce adds.
“Well.” Joy looks at all of them. “Do we have a better idea? Anyone?”
“True,” Zoe says. “It’s as good a plan as we’ve got. Although . . . if we have to duplicate it exactly”—Zoe realizes what this actually means and feels sick—“I need that fencing medal from the photo.”
“Oh crap,” Joy adds. “I’ll need that stupid talent-show crown! And Tali will need those boxers. . . .”
Luce adjusts her weight. “I was wearing the merit badge, which I earned for helping Ricky—shit. Shitshitshit.” She squints back out at the playing field where the counselors are breaking down all the relay equipment. “Someone else already helped Ricky. How am I going to get that badge?” Her voice breaks again, and Joy reaches out and squeezes her hand.
“You’ll find a way. You have to,” Tali says bluntly.
“But we need to be careful,” Zoe says. Of the four of them, Zoe knows in her gut that she’s the one who really gets it. She didn’t spend most of sixth grade obsessively watching and rewatching all of Dr. Who for nothing. If this really is the past—and she still isn’t completely convinced of it—then it has become clear that already things are not going the way they did that last summer. And changing the past—no matter which sci-fi movie you’re watching—is never a good idea. “Whatever we do, we’ve got to be sure not to rewrite history. If this is the past and we somehow got thrown back into it, then we need to do everything just like we did it before, until we can find a way to fix this. Do you guys understand me? This is important.”
Tali nods. “She’s right. We need to get to that photo booth and retake those photos. We’ve got to try. I mean, what if we end up getting stuck back in time? Would we have to relive the last two years all over again?”
Zoe shudders. “Possibly. I’m not promising it’ll work, but it’s not like we have much of a choice. We have to move forward, and hope this plan works. And like I said, we need to try to follow the past exactly like it happened the first time. Otherwise . . .”
“Otherwise what?” Luce demands.
Zoe wishes she wasn’t so afraid. She wishes it didn’t feel like the trees were closing in on them, like the world was spinning just a little too fast. Part of her keeps thinking: This can’t be real, this can’t be real, this can’t be real. But the words that come out of her mouth make it sound real as hell. “If not, then we could stay trapped in the past forever.”
6
There�
��s something very “Circle of Life” about the dinner call at Camp Okahatchee: a blaring horn at exactly 6:30 p.m., which sounds like a mix between an enormous trumpet and one of those old-school conch shells, and then the ensuing flood of campers—the seven- to twelve-year-olds herded in organized lines from their bunks by their head counselors; the thirteen- to fifteen-year-olds converging from their afternoon sports and activities; everyone flowing together like tributaries into a larger river, headed toward the chaotic delta of the dining hall’s barn-style double-door entrance.
Luce always had dinnertime down to a science: expertly navigating the steady stream of other campers, surging ahead so she could secure a spot at picnic table 17, the one farthest from the bathrooms and the busy food line, the table with the best light in the early evening.
But today, she feels like a leaf pulled along by the current—undirected and uncertain, unable to stop. Unmoored. Unmoored, unprecedented, unwitting. Without an anchor, never having happened before, unconscious.
After the relay race was curtailed due to Ricky’s injury—a fractured ankle, just like two summers ago (just like this summer)—the girls were eventually sent back to their cabin, Bunk Blue Heron. (Nobody knows, not even Luce or her mother, why the girls’ bunks are named after animals and the boys’ bunks are simply numbered.) Now she shuffles toward the dining hall—wearing the purple and yellow flip-flops she found tucked neatly under the corner of her bottom bunk, waiting for her like a pair of obedient puppies—as though compelled by a malicious force. She feels itchy and antsy, sticky and confined, as though she’s been forced to put on an old, still-wet one-piece.
The other girls may be referring to what happened as another one of Okahatchee’s reunion night “miracles,” but Luce personally does not want to be back, does not want to have to consider the repercussions this could have on the time-space continuum, as Zoe put it. She does not want to pretend to be someone she’s not: her former self.
As soon as she steps through the giant entryway, inhaling the smell of limp pizza and squishy, mayonnaise-drenched pasta salad, Andrew calls her name.
“Luce! Hey, Luce!”
The relief is immense; his voice anchors her, finally, and she’s so drawn in, she doesn’t even bother to scan the crowd for Zoe, Tali, and Joy. Another thing she isn’t prepared to do: pretend to be close again, like they were that summer. This summer.
Luce weaves her way through the packed dining hall, careful not to bump into anyone’s tray. As she nears table 13—square in the middle of the mayhem—Andrew’s grin grows so wide it seems to take over his whole face. He looks almost exactly the same, except for his facial hair, which is basically nonexistent. Luce feels something pull inside her chest. She realizes that in Andrew’s mind, they have probably been together for only approximately five weeks. Five weeks! The idea seems crazy to her now, after more than two full years. How is she supposed to act around him?
Will he know something’s wrong?
This Andrew is still getting to know Luce. He has never seen how ridiculous she gets when watching corny old Disney movies. He hasn’t yet held her hand while she cries, waiting for Amelia to undergo surgery. He hasn’t even seen Luce’s boobs. Second base is still a few weeks away, in his dorm room at Brewster. . . .
“Hi, babe—er, Andrew,” she says, trying to seem casual. She’s already completely unsure how to behave. Do they call each other babe yet, or did that start later, at some distant point post–second base?
Luckily, he doesn’t seem to notice. He slides down on the picnic bench to make more room for her, then immediately throws his arm around her shoulders and kisses her cheek. She leans into him, marveling at how good it feels to be next to him. His smell is a little different—more sunscreen and less of the sharp spice of the deodorant she knows he’ll switch to eventually.
“You aren’t hungry?” he asks.
She realizes that it didn’t even occur to her to get a tray for dinner.
“I guess not. Mind if I just have a bite or two of yours?” She reaches over his tray and grabs his plastic fork, skewering a slice of pepperoni straight off his pizza. It leaves a gooey trail of cheese behind, which Andrew doesn’t seem to mind. He never seems to mind.
“They didn’t have any pineapple,” he says apologetically. “I know it’s your favorite.”
Luce stares at him for a second, midchew. She still orders her pizza with extra pineapple. Usually she likes how Andrew tries to take care of her. No one else ever does—people always assume Luciana Cruz doesn’t need help.
But this feels wrong—shouldn’t there be those heady, crazy sparks between two people when a relationship is just beginning? Shouldn’t she be harder to read? What always felt wonderfully comforting and easy now feels too easy, like a downshift, or when they make those crappy PSATs that are way too unchallenging to be the real deal.
“So I heard the Orange team would have come in first place, if it hadn’t been for the Ricky thing,” Andrew says, going for a giant bite of his pizza.
“Yeah, well, we wouldn’t have won anyway, after I botched the whole baton pass. I was pretty, um . . . distracted, I guess.”
Andrew finishes his pizza in one final bite, his Adam’s apple bobbing like he’s a snake downing a mouse. It always amazes Luce how quickly boys can put away food.
“Apparently the pain was so bad, Ricky actually started crying,” he says. “It’s broken, I think. Jade and Mark had to practically carry him to the infirmary.” Luce knows that Jade will go on to transfer to a performing arts high school for her senior year—she’s always had a flair for drama. In fact, she’s always had a flair for being at the center of other people’s drama.
Andrew finishes another bite of pizza. “She got the merit badge right on the spot.”
Luce’s heart stops. Jade got the merit badge.
He registers the look of complete shock on Luce’s face. “Hey, what’s the matter?” he asks, touching her back lightly. “Should I go get you some salad or something? You probably shouldn’t skip dinner after relay day.”
“No, no, I’m fine, it’s not that, it’s just—” Luce pauses, trying to figure out how much to tell him.
“Just what?”
“Just that I was kind of hoping I’d get the merit badge this year, is all. I really, really wanted it.” I need it in order to undo a cursed photo booth incident and bring me back to the present! “What am I gonna do now?” She starts to feel queasy. Briefly she toys with the idea of telling her mom. After all, if there’s one person who understands the mysterious workings of Camp OK better than anyone else, it’s her. But then . . . would her mom get mad? Would her mom even believe her?
It’s too loud in the dining hall; too hot. Zoe said they had to be super careful—they had to act exactly like they did the first time around, but here she is, failing already.
What can it mean? Will we ever get back to our real lives, or will we be caught in a time loop forever, permanently paused at fifteen? Will we have to start over from here? The sounds of campers shouting and laughing and the clang of trays being slammed down onto tables and milk cartons being punctured by straws all converge into a single wave of sound, threatening to drown her.
“I’m sure you’ll get a different badge, Luce,” he says gently. “You get one every summer. ‘I do what I can to honor the values Okahatchee has taught me’ and all that. Right? So don’t put so much pressure on yourself.”
Luce gapes at him. “You remember that?” He just directly quoted her acceptance speech—the one she has repeated three summers in a row, once when she was an Eagle, once as a Hawk, once as a Wolf. And if all was going to happen like it was supposed to, she’d be giving that same exact speech again this year as a Blue Heron. It never struck her before how repetitive summer camp had been for her. Always the same badge, always the same speech, always the same tepid applause, always the mild sense of accomplishment t
hat got quickly washed away like a shell by the tide.
Andrew smiles at her sheepishly. “I remember it all, babe. Everything about you, anyway. Besides, it’s one of the things I like most about you.”
“What, how freakishly predictable I am?” she asks, half-wondering if this is in fact what he means.
“No, Goofy,” he says, touching her nose. “How you always do the right thing.” He touches her chin now, moving her face slightly closer to him, and starts to kiss her. The kiss is sweet—tender and nervous. An early Andrew-Luce kiss. He tastes of salty pepperoni, mozzarella cheese, and root beer. She tries to enjoy it. This is Andrew—her Andrew. The one she fell in love with two years ago and is still in love with to this day . . . whatever this day actually is.
But for some reason, his words bug her. You always do the right thing.
She has got to stay focused on her goal. Stay in control. Somehow or another, she must manage to win the badge back from Jade—do something so honorable that it forces her mother to change her mind and reassign the honor to Luce. There’s got to be a way to undo this mistake. It can’t be that hard. She can still fix this.
Luciana Cruz can fix anything.
7
Unsurprisingly, Tali takes the longest time to shower, despite the fact that the rickety wooden stall is lined in a faint slippery sheen of green mildew, its corners draped with ancient-looking spiderwebs. By the time she trudges back to her bunk with her plastic shower caddy in hand, wrapped only in a threadbare standard-issue camp towel that feels far too meager for her body, the other girls have gone to dinner without her.
Other than Sarah Hawking, rummaging fruitlessly for a lost sock behind her bed, the rest of the cabin is empty. Even so, Tali feels self-conscious as she towels off and slips into her bra, an A-cup, one strap at a time, trying hard not to look at her young, not-fully-developed-yet boobs and her awkward, bony shape. She misses her subtle curves, her ability to raise one shoulder slightly at a guy or give him a certain look, and know, deep down, that she can have him if she wants him. It’s like she’s been completely stripped of her superpower, and now she’s back to gangly-skinny-loser Tali. The Tali who doesn’t get noticed by boys and doesn’t get invited to the best parties and who, when she steals her mom’s credit card to buy a new outfit, is then teased for trying too hard and wearing the wrong thing. It took years of effort to learn how to be effortless.
