by K. M. Walton
He shook his head.
I turned to leave, then paused and looked back one last time. Not coyly through my lashes. No flirtatious wink. This was pure vulnerability—the look of the homesick girl he’d met during camp check-in, not the stranger I’d been playacting since.
His expression softened and he held my gaze for a long moment before walking away.
• • •
“Do you think you’re the first camper to lie about stupid things?” Kat unrolled more toilet paper and handed it to me with a no-nonsense expression. She’d been sent to find me and now we were curled up on her bunk while I sobbed and filled her in.
“I’m Katie at home. Do I strike you as a Katie?” She didn’t wait for my answer. “Here I get to be Kat. No big deal.”
“I’m Susannah.” I sniffed.
She crinkled her nose. “No, you’re Suzie. But you’re Suzie who’s homeschooled and hates scary movies. I don’t care. You don’t have to be anyone but you, but if you want to pretend—go for it.”
Maybe she didn’t care—maybe the rest of my cabin mates wouldn’t care what lies I told. But Mal did.
• • •
“This is me.” I held up the collage I’d spent hours making after I begged out of the afternoon hike by telling the truth: I had the beginnings of a migraine. Luckily, the crafts cabin was dim.
Even luckier—when I’d stopped by the cabin afterward, my pillow crinkled.
Talent show. 8 p.m. Back porch.
I’d counted down every second. And now I was standing on Mal’s porch, my fingers still covered with Modpodge and glitter. They trembled as I held the paper out. “I’m a middle child. I’m homeschooled—and I love it. I’m into politics, and soccer, and gaming, and watching cat videos on YouTube. Ava’s my best friend. I live near Boston. I’m allergic to shellfish. My favorite foods are anything chocolate and carrots dipped in peanut butter.”
He took the paper, studying the wrappers, letters, and photos I’d glued on every inch. “I’m a girl who made stupid decisions three weeks ago. Who wanted to know what it’d be like to be someone else. Who thought ‘Suzie’ was way cooler than she was. And who has fallen helplessly for the guy in front of her.”
Suzie was officially dead. I didn’t need—or want—her anymore.
But that didn’t make the seconds pass faster as we stood silently in a soundtrack of crickets and the distant talent show applause. I studied my chipped toenail polish, his bare feet. The boards of his deck. Counted to thirty. I was sucking in a breath to apologize again and leave him alone, when he groaned.
“You didn’t have to be cooler. I like the girl who was homesick before her mom left.” He shook the paper. “I like this girl. I like you. By all means, reinvent yourself; that’s what camp’s for… But you don’t need to lie about who you are.” He took a deep breath before lifting his chin and gluing his eyes to mine. “Not when you’re this spectacular.”
His expression was full of understanding and forgiveness I hadn’t dared to expect. “Really?”
“Really.”
His dimples emerged. As I grinned back, the sky exploded with a ferocious summer rain. I giggled at Mal’s surprised squeak as drops landed on his forehead, slid down his nose, splashed on his hands as he hastily tucked my collage beneath his shirt.
I threw my head back. Twirled and spun on legs that felt foamy with giddiness. I caught raindrops on my tongue, on my cheeks. They washed off salt from my earlier tears, leaving me clean and light and ready to meet his eyes and his hand. Meet him step for step as he closed the gap between us, laughing every bit as hard as me.
Our mouths met too. For the first time, but the sparks were both new and familiar, explosive and soothing. He tasted of rainwater. Of campfires—like the ones that were currently all tinder and matches in my stomach.
Mal pulled away first. He tugged a dripping lock of my hair. “How are we going to explain this?”
His words were loud with laughter and I leaned in to swallow them—
“Start thinking, because I would very much like an explanation.”
The deep voice made me shriek and jump backward—the rain and wet clothing suddenly freezing without Mal’s warm body pressed to mine. Downright glacial once I turned to match the person with the voice.
“Inside. Now. Both of you,” demanded Mr. Alastair.
For weeks, I’d wondered about the inside of his house. About the growing-up pictures of a freckle-faced boy. But dripping on his front hall rug, I was too preoccupied by the lecture to look around.
“—inexcusable. You both knew better! This sneaking around—”
“Hang on a sec, Dad.” Mal didn’t wait to see his father’s face turn redder. He dripped down the hall and dripped back carrying a sweatshirt, which he handed me before turning to his father. “Okay, continue.”
Even if my teeth weren’t chattering, I wouldn’t have refused—this was our only chance to have a shared-sweatshirt moment. I inhaled his scent as I slipped it over my head.
“I forbid you two to even look at each other on camp grounds. Malcolm, you know your consequences; head upstairs and start packing. Suzie, you’ll be calling your parents in the morning. Right now I’m escorting you to your counselor.”
• • •
The gossip burned through camp. Suzie + Mal became a tragically romantic story and I was more popular, more sought out then I’d ever dreamed. Lots of suggestions that I “talk about it” and sympathetic offerings of perfectly toasted marshmallows.
But all I wanted was to be left alone.
Once Mal’s scent faded from his sweatshirt, I left it on the front porch of his house. I’d slipped an apology note in the pocket, but had no idea if he received it. There were certainly no more notes flowing in the reverse direction—my pillow was crinkle-less each night.
And my days, all five that remained of my time at camp, were Mal-free. I’m not sure if he was stuck in the back of the kitchen, locked in his room, or banished to Siberia. I spent the time setting the record straight with my campmates, undoing all my lies.
And then time ran out.
I’d grown to like the girls in my cabin. I doubted I’d keep in touch with any but Kat, but I’d online friend the rest and offer up birthday greetings and such.
Kat, however, I clung to, and she clung to me. Repeating our plans to meet up in Boston when she got home from her last month at camp. “You’ve got to see the cannoli place I was telling you about. And I want to try the game you’re coding.”
“Done and done.”
“Speaking of done—” her red lips pulled down in frown. “He’s not here.”
“What?” I stopped scanning the crowds of parents arriving, girls leaving, camp personnel carrying bags.
“I saw Mal get in his mom’s car this morning. It’s not back.”
“Oh.” I licked my dry lips. I shouldn’t have been surprised. But still. “I didn’t know… Thanks.”
She hugged me. “Hang in there. I’ll email you Saturday.”
“Susannah! Over here!” Mom called from behind me.
Kat and I suffocated each other in one last hug. I said, “Be kind to whoever takes my bunk.” She stuck out her tongue.
I shouldered my duffel bag, turning around to face Mom. For now she was too happy to see me to get into drama, but I knew we had a hundred miles to discuss the consequences she’d threatened on that horrible camp-office call home.
Mom engulfed me in her arms. “C’mon, my wayward camper. Let’s get this show on the road.”
I stared out the window as we bumped down the drive. I wanted to memorize the trees, the lake, my last glimpse of Mal’s back porch.
“Want to stop for lunch? One of the other moms told me about the cutest café in town.” Mom was chirruping and I just wanted to keep my head pressed against the cool glass.
“Wha
tever.” Which made me roll my eyes at myself for being so stereotypically sulky.
I wished I’d kept his sweatshirt, because at least then I’d have a memento. And I could’ve pulled the hood up to shade my eyes, because they were starting to water—the sun glare, I told myself.
One last glimpse. That was all I’d needed.
Mom hummed along with a song, the same Dave Matthews one that had been playing when she dropped me off. The same one Mal had been picking out on his guitar. I skipped to the next track.
Mom frowned. “I thought you loved that song.”
“I used to.”
She squeezed my knee as she maneuvered into a parking space. “The café’s right over there. Go snag seats. I’m going to pop in this candle store.”
“Candles?”
“I’ll be five minutes—ten—you won’t even miss me.” Mom winked.
I eye-rolled in response and shuffled though the café’s blue door. Wind chimes above it made everyone sitting at the mismatched tables turn. They were wearing bland welcoming smiles. At least I assumed everyone was smiling—I saw two smiles, then stuck on the third and dismissed everyone else in the restaurant.
Because smile number three was dimpled. Was Mal’s.
He stood up. “You made it.”
“I—what?”
“I might’ve called your mom yesterday. Might’ve spent all week talking to mine, begging her to see that I was serious about you.”
“You called my mom?” I sat my shaky legs down in the chair he’d pulled out. “You’re serious about me?”
He nodded. “Turns out I’m going to need a ride to Boston. Know anyone headed that way?”
“Your great-uncle? Lives in Boston?” All squeaky questions, slow to process.
“Which, your mom and Ava—who has been working your mom from her side too—inform me is only a quick train ride from your house.”
I nodded.
“So your mom is graciously letting me borrow part of your back seat—with the understanding that I’m surrendering myself to her interrogation for the length of the drive.”
“You’re coming with us?” This fact was finally starting to penetrate, leaving me breathless and grinning. “I’ll make sure she gives you time to interrogate me. Because I’m sure you’ve got questions.”
“I might,” he answered.
I leaned in until my smile rested on his and reached up to finally, finally give into my urge to trace his dimples.
Author photo © Rebecca J. Romero
Tiffany Schmidt is the author of the YA novels Send Me a Sign, Bright Before Sunrise, Hold Me Like a Breath, and Break Me Like a Promise. When she’s not writing about superstitions, life-changing nights, or organ-trafficking crime families, she can be found chasing her impish sons and puggles around their backyard, baking, running, or watching Netflix with her saintly husband. While the rest of her family is ridiculously musical, Tiffany can’t even clap to a beat and is frequently encouraged to “just lip-synch” during long car rides. Visit TiffanySchmidt.com and follow her Twitter and Instagram @TiffanySchmidt.
THE RIDE
A SHORT STORY INSPIRED BY JIMMY EAT WORLD’S “THE MIDDLE”
By Suzanne Young
Going away to college was one of the scariest choices I made as a young adult. I was starting over, and part of that meant leaving everything I’d ever known behind. Everyone. “The Middle” by Jimmy Eat World seemed to sum up my excitement, my fear, and ultimately—my perspective. I held on for the ride and it changed my life.
For my grandmother Josephine Parzych. Every story is for you.
—Suzanne Young
I’m still a little high when I pull a tube of lipstick from the plastic bag. I’d randomly bought it at Walgreens, along with a stack of Slim Jims and a Hershey bar. I don’t even wear lipstick. I pop off the cap, and laugh when I see the color is a bloody shade of red. I pose in front of the mirror in Melissa’s living room, and try it on.
“You’ll never come back,” she calls to me. I look over my shoulder at her, only my upper lip ringed, and see Melissa shake a cigarette from her pack. “Once you leave town, I’ll never see you again.”
“That’s not true,” I say. “Plus my gram lives here, so I’ll obviously come back.” I smile winningly at her because after six years of friendship, she shouldn’t worry about this kind of crap.
Melissa and I met in middle school, the only two people who refused to wear swimsuits on pool days. Luckily, the teacher couldn’t fail us because of it, but we did have to spend time in detention. And nothing bonds a couple of troublemakers faster than unjustified punishment time.
I finish putting on the lipstick and stare at my reflection for a moment, unrecognizable, before grabbing a tissue and swiping it over my mouth. Melissa laughs and says I should have listened to her. She was right. I look weird in makeup.
The lipstick isn’t really the issue though, although I guess it symbolizes our problem. I’m willing to take a chance, try something different. Melissa is content exactly where she is.
“Sure,” she says, taking a drag of her cigarette, and talking through the smoke. “You’ll visit, but you’ll never live here again.”
When I got accepted into college, I thought that Melissa would be coming with me. I thought we’d be going to parties and sneaking in late to class together. I hadn’t considered that she wouldn’t have applied there, let alone not applied anywhere. It wasn’t until I signed my loan paperwork that she told me she wasn’t going. She was staying here, in this tiny converted apartment above her mother’s garage.
The air conditioner hums loudly in the window, not quite achieving enough coolness to justify its noise. I sit in the worn armchair, the one covered in cat hair, and face Melissa.
“Why would you say that?” I ask. “Besides, where would I go during breaks or after I graduate? College doesn’t let you stay indefinitely.”
She shrugs one shoulder and lets her eyes wander to the muted TV. “You don’t belong here. You never did.” She looks at me and smiles. “And I know you know that.”
She’s being serious, reflective, and I can’t deny she’s hurting my feelings. Shouldn’t she want me to stay? I feel like she pushing me out the door.
“Look,” she adds. “I’m not saying it’s bad, or whatever. But it’s like the other day when you thanked the lady at Dillard’s so hard that she thought you were being sarcastic and threatened to kick your ass.”
“True story.”
“Or your dumb exes—going away will be the best thing for you and them.” She’s not wrong about my exes either. They are dumb, and sure, there’s been a bit of relationship trauma in my past. A little back-and-forth. I’ve gotten my heart broken, broken a few myself. But I’m certainly not worried about how any of this affects them.
Melissa’s cat, Louie, saunters into the room, looks at her, and then lunges onto the back of my chair to camp out behind my head. I don’t dare reach to pet him; I still have scratches from last time.
“I’m not sure what to say here,” I tell her, my stomach knotting up. “I want to go to college. But I’m still coming home. This is my home.” I want to defend myself, but I can’t deny there is a small tug of freedom—the fact that I’m leaving when it seems like no one else ever has. But it’s scary as hell to walk away.
Melissa’s smile fades and she smashes out her cigarette in the crowded ashtray. “Okay, Leigh,” she says. “Whatever. So what time are you leaving tomorrow?” She turns her dark eyes toward me. She’s shutting me out emotionally.
“About eight a.m.,” I say. “I’ve got to finish packing tonight.”
“Is Gram driving you?” she asks.
“Yep. She’s already packed the cooler with sandwiches for the drive. In case I get hungry.” We laugh because my grandmother assumes everybody is always hungry.
I di
dn’t really want Gram to drive me, but with my comforter, clothes, and mini-fridge, it wasn’t like I could take it on the train. And I would have used my own car, but I sold it so I’d have some savings when I got to college. I’ll have to work, but at least this way, it won’t have to be full-time. And it’s not like you use a car much when you live at the dorms. Everything’s in walking distance.
Besides, I can always take the train home on the weekends if I want.
Melissa and I draw out our last moments, taking about nothing important, avoiding the dreaded goodbye. When I get up to leave a half hour later, she doesn’t stand. She lights another cigarette.
“Call me after you meet your roommate,” she says. “Hope she doesn’t suck.”
I smile, not even trying to start worrying about that yet. “I’ll be home soon,” I say. My throat feels tight, my eyes itch. I watch Melissa clench her jaw, and then she nods and says goodbye.
• • •
It takes three tries for me to get the trunk closed on my grandmother’s car in the morning; I’ve definitely overpacked. I sip on a hot chocolate (I hate the taste of coffee), as we drive off. I woke up on the wrong side of the bed—Melissa’s words bothering me more than I wanted to admit. Because if I’m not coming back, where’s home? I have no idea where I fit in anymore.
I feel like shit.
“I don’t know how to program this damn thing,” my grandmother says, touching all the buttons at once on her navigation system. I laugh, and enter the address of the dorm, but we both groan when it says it’ll be three and a half hours until arrival.
We settle in for a long drive. Gram blasts the air-conditioning, and soon I have to turn it down because the tip of my nose is freezing off. And I keep thinking about what Melissa said.
“Are you worried that I won’t come home?” I ask my grandmother, looking sideways at her.
Gram crinkles her nose, like she doesn’t understand the question, and glances at me before turning back to the road. “Well, I hope you’ll come and visit me.”
Although she says it sweetly, Gram-like, it sinks my heart. “So you don’t think I’ll come back here to live?” I ask, a catch in my throat.
