by Lexa Hillyer
They take a break to pass the Sprite bottle back and forth and finish off the last of the cookies.
“You ever mixed rum and Sprite?” he says, at the exact same time she blurts out: “So what’s it about, the song?”
He screws the cap back onto the bottle. For a long time, he doesn’t answer. “It’s about my sister. She died three years ago.”
“Wow, Ryder.” Joy looks down, her throat constricting. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry, you don’t have to tell me—”
“It’s okay. I mean, it’s not okay, but you know. I don’t talk about it a lot.” He clears his throat and gazes out over the water. “She was in a car accident, driving with her friends. She was the only one who didn’t make it.”
Joy gazes at Ryder, his eyes downturned and thick lashed, his expression unreadable in the darkness. She scoots closer to him on the boulder. She can’t get over the strangeness of it all—how she barely knew Ryder existed the first time around, and here he is now, opening up to her. A whole other reality is unfolding before her, a parallel world of experience that was here all along, she just didn’t have any idea, any reason to look for it.
“Does it ever get easier?” she asks now, truly curious.
“In a certain way it does,” Ryder admits. “I’ll realize I’ve gone whole hours, or days, without even thinking about her. But then, forgetting sucks in a different way. That’s what the song’s about. It’s like the person just keeps disappearing from your life. You thought she was already gone, but then memories start to fade, too, or your dad finally cleans out her old bedroom and donates a bunch of stuff, and with each thing, it’s kind of like she’s gone again and again, ya know? So I guess the answer is yes and no.”
“Does it ever make you, well, mad?” Joy asks quietly. “I mean, how unfair it is.”
“Hell yeah. It makes me mad all the time. That’s the whole thing about life, though, right?”
“What is?”
“It’s unfair. That you just have to accept things, take whatever you’re dealt and work with what you got. There’s a lot I wish I had done differently. I wish I’d been nicer to her when we were little, and stuff like that. I wish I hadn’t burned off all her Barbies’ hair. I wish I’d told her how much I looked up to her.” His voice catches in his throat, and instinctively, Joy puts her hand on his arm. “But you get to a point where at least you’re happy for the time you did have.”
“I wish I could say something that would help,” Joy says, her chest swollen with the weight of Ryder’s confession.
“It’s all right. I can’t even believe I told you. But you’re so . . . easy to talk to. And you’re singing my song, which is pretty sweet,” he says, turning to face her, his clouded expression softening into a smile. “I’m happy about that. I’m happy about this,” he adds, gesturing at the space between the two of them. He leans back onto one hand, still studying her. “Has anyone ever told you your eyes are very intense? It’s like you’re not just looking at me, you’re, like, I don’t know—”
“—sucking you into my soul?” Joy suggests.
“I was gonna say vacuuming me into your vortex.” They both laugh. “No, I mean you’re actually present. Like, you actually care. But you know, your phrasing works, too.”
This close to him, she can see the tiniest bit of stubble along his otherwise smooth jaw and smell his rugged scent of sweat, dirt, and lake water. She feels a confused itch in her arms, caught somewhere between the desire to hug him and run her hands through his hair. She settles on nudging him with her shoulder.
“Come on, we should get back to our cabins. Gotta rest these pipes for tomorrow,” she says, realizing as she does that she’s tired—exhausted, really, maybe from the climb earlier that day, or maybe from something else: the dark secret, eating its way through her.
When Joy slowly creaks open the door to Bunk Blue Heron later that night, the lights have already been turned off and many of the girls appear to be asleep in their bunks. Just before she lets the door close, a tiny beam of moonlight sneaks in, flashing against Sam Puliver’s retainer, its plastic case open in her cubby. It glints briefly in the dark like a metallic grin, and then is swallowed again in darkness.
Sarah Hawking is snoring softly, a comforting buzz, and a few campers on the other side of the cabin are still murmuring to one another in hushed tones. It’s all quiet enough that Joy can hear the crickets outside, too, loudly masturbating, or whatever it is crickets do to make that chirping noise she once mistook for the electricity of stars.
She doesn’t want anyone to wake up and notice her, to ask her where she’s been. She doesn’t want to be forced to tell, to reveal the secret of her shared day with Ryder. In some crazy part of her mind, she can’t help fearing that by morning, she’ll have realized none of this ever happened.
Hurriedly, quietly, Joy strips off her dirty rock-climbing clothes, throws on her pajamas, and dives under the covers of her top bunk.
But before she can even get settled, the crown of Zoe’s blond head appears.
“I can’t sleep,” she whispers.
Joy sighs. Part of her really wants to throw the covers over her head and fall into a deep, blissful sleep, as dark and numbing as the lake itself.
But another part of her misses Zoe so much she can hardly remember why she pushed her away two years ago. And her evening with Ryder has only made that feeling—that missing—more intense. It’s as though a tightly wound clock in her chest has started to come unstuck, winding backward, and with it, all her old emotions have been released.
With hardly another thought, Joy swings back her covers. “Come on, get in,” she whispers back. “It’s quieter on this side of the cabin.”
Zoe climbs up the ladder and, somewhat awkwardly, slides in next to Joy.
Now that they’re lying this close, Joy remembers how often they did this that last summer and how natural it was for them then. So much space lies between them now, like two refrigerator magnets that can’t line up evenly without bouncing slightly apart due to some force within them.
They both settle onto their backs, looking up at the dark ceiling. Joy thinks of watching the clouds passing lazily overhead as she and Ryder sprawled out on the ledge of the climbing course earlier today. She can almost still see them, bright white against the blue.
“Did you hear about Hadley?” Zoe whispers after a minute. Joy shakes her head. “Apparently she gave up her V to Nate Howard after a band practice.”
Joy smiles in the darkness. “I’m just surprised she has slept with anything other than her horn,” she whispers. Zoe snorts. Joy knows it’s mean, but it feels so good, so right, to be gossiping with Zoe again, whisper-laughing together. And at least Hadley’s getting some. Joy has never been with anyone.
At least not yet.
Instantly, Ryder’s face flashes into her mind.
She listens for a while to Zoe’s breathing, wondering if she has drifted off yet and debating whether to force her to wake up and move, wondering if she should tell her about Ryder after all. Instead, Joy lies awake, letting the ceiling turn to swirls of infinite space the longer she stares, thinking about what Zoe said. Thinking about Hadley, and how you never really know anyone. Like Ryder, and the story of his dead sister.
Then she hears Zoe’s voice, whispering drowsily in the darkness. “Joy?”
“Yeah?” Zoe’s shoulder rests against her own, a familiar sensation, even after all this time.
“How come you left us?”
Joy can’t answer right away. When she does, there’s a hoarseness to her voice. “I don’t know. Things were changing. I had to let them.”
She expects Zoe to respond, but at the soft sound of snoring, she realizes her old friend has fallen asleep, her form tucked into Joy’s side, while the night—mysterious and heavy—folds down around them both.
13
THURS
DAY
Three days down. Two days left. Zoe wakes cramped from sharing Joy’s tiny bunk bed and nearly falls out of it when her foot gets tangled in the sheets. She frees herself with a certain sadness. She remembers when she woke up more often in one of the other girls’ bunks than her own, when they were her best solace against even the darkest, most claustrophobic nightmares.
Three days down. She can’t get it out of her head. They’ve now spent three full nights at camp, in the past, and time is running out. Tonight is the talent show. Tomorrow it will be carnival night, reunion night, end of summer, and their plan to re-create the photo will either work or . . .
She shakes her head, willing away the doubts. She needs to focus. Today Zoe is determined to figure out what makes Ellis tick—and where her weaknesses are. With only one more day left before the tournament, Zoe’s options are dwindling: either learn Ellis’s strategy by heart, or convince her—even beg her—to back down. Since just thinking about begging makes Zoe cringe, her plan is to focus on the former. Ellis’s technique must have a weakness. Zoe beat her once before.
She just has to remember how.
Which is why during lunch she heads over to the main offices and walks straight into the Cruz’s private study, knowing that Bernadette Cruz is always roaming the campgrounds checking in on counselors, and can rarely actually be found at headquarters. Sure enough, the study is empty and Zoe relishes the welcome blast of air-conditioning as she quickly locates the campers’ files, flips to Ellis Green, and jots down her address.
As a day student, Ellis participates in only the morning activity sessions, then heads home. Day students don’t stay at camp for afternoon session or dinner, though they do often return in the evenings for special event nights—like the cruise, for instance, or the talent show. Definitely for reunion night.
This morning, Zoe learned from Indigo and Samantha that Ellis is receiving additional private lessons at her house on Monday and Thursday afternoons, about four miles from the campgrounds. Bingo.
What Zoe needs to do is study Ellis when she doesn’t know she’s being watched. Find out what her private trainer is teaching her, then somehow use it against her.
By around two o’clock, Zoe is making her way past the entrance to the campgrounds, trying her best to thumb a ride. It’s another incredibly hot day; the sun is blazing and the dust hovers above the gravel road, trapping in the heat. Zoe has never hitchhiked before, but she has always wanted to. Still, when an old Subaru finally pulls over to the shoulder and a middle-aged mom-type rolls down her window, the glamor of it vanishes and Zoe blushes.
“You all right, sweetheart?” the woman says, squinting at Zoe like she might sprout another head.
“I just need a ride to my friend’s house,” Zoe tells her.
Luckily, the woman shrugs and lets Zoe hop into the car. Within minutes, they arrive at the address Zoe scrawled down. This neighborhood is even fancier than Luciana’s. The giant white house stands at the end of a tremendously long dirt driveway lined with skinny birches. Wide-winged yellow monarchs flutter lazily between the trees like something out of a fairy tale, making it almost seem like the leaves have come alive. She has the distinct impression that she’s entering dreamland through an invisible, gauzy veil.
Zoe gets out of the car and ducks into the trees as she follows the long driveway toward the mansion—it is a mansion, there’s no other word for it—wishing she’d thought out the rest of her plan in advance. It’s possible they have their own fencing piste somewhere in the back—so she decides to sneak around the side of the property and try to locate Ellis without being spotted.
This plan goes well for about three minutes, before her cover is blown by loud barking coming from the screened-in front porch. Two Pomeranians are leaping up and down on their little legs, head-butting the screen and yapping at Zoe. She dodges toward the garage, hoping to find a place to hide, and comes to an abrupt halt as she rounds the corner.
There is Blake, Tali’s crush, hauling a racket and can of tennis balls from a covered shed at the side of the garage.
Zoe gasps and takes a step backward. “What are you doing here?”
Blake tousles his dirty-blond pretty-boy hair with his free hand. “I live here,” he says, staring at her with steely blue eyes—the same blue as Ellis’s, Zoe realizes. And that’s when she puts it together: Ellis must be Blake’s little sister. It makes so much sense—they are both day campers with a reputation for being spoiled, privileged, and highly competitive. Ugh.
“The real question is, what are you doing here?” he says, squinting, with one side of his mouth turned up. She can’t help but notice his pronounced dimples—Ellis has them, too. Zoe can sort of see why Tali thinks he’s so cute. “Spying on me?”
Before she’s able to quip back, a female voice pipes up from behind her. “I invited Zoe over.” Zoe turns to see Ellis, decked out in her fencing gear, her helmet in hand. “We’re practicing together today. Greg thinks I should work with a partner,” she adds.
Blake raises an eyebrow. “All right, then. You girls have fun. Try not to let all that sword play wear you out.” With a smirk, he saunters off to the tennis courts around the side of the garage.
“Come on,” Ellis says, waving her forward. Zoe is too mortified to resist.
“Why’d you cover for me just then?” she asks, her mind racing.
Ellis turns around, walking backward. She grins—much fuller and even more mischievously than her brother. “You. Are. Slow,” she drawls.
Zoe’s not sure if it’s an answer or a taunt, so she just shakes her head and takes the spare helmet and épée Ellis hands her, sliding it easily from its sheath, ready to engage. Her hopes of spying might have flown out the window the second the two yapping furballs on the porch outed her, but she’s not going to miss another opportunity to practice with Ellis.
Entering an open-air deck with the borders of the piste drawn out on the wood, the girls begin to spar, as Ellis’s coach, some glasses-wearing guy named Greg, shouts out instruction after instruction. They are pretty evenly matched, but Zoe is restless, despite a slight aching in her legs from yesterday’s aborted climbing session. She wants to prove to Ellis that she’s not intimidated. She wants Ellis to back off. And so she lunges at her, perhaps more aggressively than usual. Once again, Ellis neatly dodges and returns with a glide, throwing Zoe off balance.
Zoe could not be more flummoxed. How did this girl evade notice the first time around? How in the world did Zoe best her in the past? After another twenty minutes, Zoe is burned out, breathless, and totally fuming. Her cheeks blaze from the exertion, which is good because it serves to hide how mortified she feels. Every time she tries to surprise Ellis, Ellis reacts casually, like she knew the play was coming all along. And every time she tries her usual intimidation strategy, Ellis finds a way to turn it against her.
“Greg, I think we need a break,” Ellis announces, and in one crisp movement, she has removed her helmet and gestured for Greg to head inside. “My mom left your check on the counter,” she calls after him.
“See you next week, Miss Green,” he says with a curt wave before ducking into the house, leaving the two girls alone on the sprawling lawn.
“I just don’t get it,” Zoe confesses, catching her breath at last. “It’s not usually this hard for me.”
Ellis cocks her head at Zoe and slowly approaches. “Want to know my secret?” she asks, her big eyes trained on Zoe with an unreadable expression.
Zoe feels a flicker of distrust, and another of intrigue. “Sure, what is it?”
“Drop your sword first,” Ellis commands.
Automatically, Zoe sets down her épée and puts her hands on her hips, waiting for further instruction. Now that they’re on a break, the sound of Blake’s tennis practice seems louder in the background, echoing across the vast lawn: pong, thwack, pong, thwack, pong, thwack.
Zoe mimics her, then steps back, startled, when Ellis lines her own hands up against Zoe’s. “No, come back, this is the exercise,” she says, looking a little annoyed.
“Sorry,” Zoe mumbles, once again stepping closer to Ellis and lining up their hands.
“You think it’s all about psyching out the other person, but it’s not. It’s actually about trust,” Ellis explains.
It sounds a lot like New Age bullshit, but Zoe waits for more. “So now what?”
Ellis smirks. “You can’t just rely on your strength. You can’t win if you’re holding back. You have to lean in toward your opponent. Put your actual weight into it. Most girls give up their footing too easily, but you’re the opposite. You’re a withholder. You’re so focused on maintaining your stance that you don’t truly engage. The two swords have to share the weight. The connection has to be real, you know? Here, let me show you. Lean toward me,” she orders.
Zoe does as she has asked, and Ellis purposefully backs up. Zoe stumbles forward.
“See? If I don’t engage, it’s not really a fight at all, is it?” she points out. “There’s not enough resistance, no clear next move. Now do it again.”
This time when Zoe leans toward her, putting her weight into her hands, Ellis leans in as well, sharing the weight. They balance like that, their noses almost touching. Slowly, Ellis pushes a little harder, then a little less, and the two girls sway back and forth, almost like a dance—but one that would be thrown off instantly if either of them were to pull her hands away, leaving the other to fall onto her face.
