The Odds of Loving Grover Cleveland

by Rebekah Crane

  I skip everything yellow and head for the salad bar at the end of the line. I fill my plate with as many colors of the rainbow as possible—green leaves, yellow peppers, red tomatoes, black olives, and, instead of salad dressing, a spoonful of cottage cheese. I even opt out of milk and settle on water, for hydration purposes.

  When I pass a basket of apples at the end of the line, my feet stop in their place. I stare at the pile of fruit and pick one up, holding it close to my face. Its polished exterior shines in the dim yellow light of the mess hall, making its red skin look so edible. It’s good for me, nutritionally speaking, and for a second, I even consider putting it on my tray.

  “Wondering if you should eat the forbidden fruit?” Grover asks over my shoulder.

  My eyes stay focused on it. “We never have apples in my house.”

  “Allergy?”

  “No.”

  “Just a general dislike for the fruit?”

  But I can’t do it, no matter how good it might be for me to eat one. I set the apple down. The food line is backed up behind us. “Something like that,” I say, and grab a whole-wheat roll instead. No butter.

  Grover, Cassie, and I sit at an empty table. While Grover’s tray has a heaping spoonful of macaroni and cheese and chicken fingers, Cassie has a measly serving of iceberg lettuce and five carrots.

  “That lettuce has no nutritional value.” I point at her tray. “It’s practically all water.”

  “Do I look like I’m interested in nutritional value?” Cassie picks up one piece of lettuce and stuffs it in her mouth.

  “I guess not,” I say and start to break my roll into three pieces. When I was little, my mom taught me that three pieces is the polite thing to do. I’m not sure what’s so impolite about two pieces or seven pieces or three million pieces for that matter, but my mom is a stickler for politeness and all things leafy and green. She holds on to these things like they’re a life vest that can save her from drowning, but breaking her bread into three pieces won’t save her. And when you hold on to things too tightly, they just rot in your grip.

  I glance at the bin full of apples again. But not even my mom would be disappointed that I walked away from those.

  “Zander,” Grover says.

  “What?”

  “Hoping maybe the bread crumbs will lead you home?” He smiles and points down at my hands. I’ve shredded my roll into little tiny pieces that are now scattered all over the table. I scoop them up quickly and put them back on my tray.

  I can’t look at Grover when I say, “I don’t want to go home.”

  When everyone has made it through the food line, the camp owner, Kerry, gets up at the front of the mess hall and silences everyone. “It’s a camp tradition to pray to Saint Anthony of Padua, the patron saint of lost things, before our meal. Let’s take a moment and bow our heads.”

  I look around the mess hall instead of following his directions. Every counselor has his or her head bowed. When Cassie picks up a knife and pretends to slit her throat, I utter a light laugh. I can’t help it.

  “We pray to Saint Anthony of Padua for three things. That the lost be found. That the soul be free. That life be everlasting.”

  “And that I get laid,” Grover says. Kerry looks up with an annoyed expression on his face. “Isn’t he the patron saint of lost things? I’m looking to lose my virginity.”

  “Please take this seriously,” Kerry says.

  “Believe me, I’m serious.” Grover makes a cross over his heart.

  “Let’s eat.” Kerry shakes his head and moves to sit down at a table with the other counselors.

  “Nice one, Cleve,” Cassie says, taking another bite of her lettuce.

  “I can’t help it. It’s my heightened emotional state. Things come out of my mouth that shouldn’t. Like that Zander has pretty eyes.” Grover sets his fork down and looks at me. I mean really looks at me with the corner of his lips curled up.

  “They’re just brown. Lots of people have brown eyes.”

  “One in two people to be exact.”

  Cassie groans. “You won’t lose anything to her. She said she has a boyfriend. All you’ll get from her is a massive case of blue balls.”

  Grover’s eyes don’t leave mine. “Did someone say balls?” He winks. I look down at my plate with bread crumbs scattered all over as my cheeks heat. Coop doesn’t make me blush. He doesn’t make me anything other than better at French conjugations, and I like it that way.

  I steal a look at Grover, uncomfortable with how little space is between us, when someone plops into the seat next to me. A short, fat kid with blunt blond hair cut straight across his forehead sits breathing heavily, his eyes wide on me.

  “They’re trying to kill me,” he says.

  “Who?” I ask.

  “The counselors.”

  “Why?” Grover leans across the table toward the kid, intrigued.

  The kid looks around the mess hall with wild eyes. He eases back in his seat. “Okay, they’re not trying to kill me. But I heard they run secret experiments on campers in the middle of the night.”

  “Really?” I ask. The kid nods.

  “That’s why they lock us in.” He pokes me in the shoulder and laughs. “I’m just kidding.”

  “What’s your name, guy?” Grover gets out his notepad.

  “Tim.” The boy grabs a piece of bread from my tray and stuffs it in his mouth.

  “Nice to meet you, Tim.” Grover holds out his hand. “I take it because the ladies can see you, you’re real. So what got you into this place?”

  “I killed someone,” Tim says with a mouthful of food, while he shakes Grover’s hand. “And actually, the name’s Pete.”

  “Who’d you kill, Pete?” Grover asks.

  Pete takes my water and slugs down a gulp. “I’m just kidding. And actually, it’s George.”

  “Okay, George.” Grover makes a note. “Let me guess . . .” He puts his pen to his lips. “Compulsive liar?”

  “I’m not a compulsive liar.” The kid sits back in his seat, his brow knitted, and shakes his head. “Fine. Maybe I am. But I could be lying.”

  I glare at him, totally confused. “So what’s your real name?”

  Tim/Pete/George looks me square in the eyes. He can’t be more than a freshman in high school, with rosy-red baby cheeks and pale skin that would burn if exposed to five minutes of sun unprotected, like me. “Alex Trebek.”

  “Like the old guy from Jeopardy?” I ask.

  “That’s not your fucking name,” Cassie groans.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “How do we know you’re not lying?” I ask.

  “I’m not lying.”

  “But you’re a compulsive liar, so anything you say could be a lie,” Grover says, tapping his pen on the side of the table.

  “Maybe I’m lying about being a compulsive liar.” Alex Trebek takes another swig of my water.

  “Then that makes you a compulsive liar.” Grover’s eyes narrow, like he’s thinking hard.

  “But my name really is Alex Trebek.”

  Grover shakes his head. “But you could be lying about that.”

  “So basically, we can’t trust a word you say,” I cut in.

  “Correct.” Alex nods.

  “But what if he’s lying about that?” Grover points his finger at Alex and snaps. “Then that means we really can trust what he says.”

  “My head hurts.” I bend down, pressing my forehead into the cool table.

  Grover pats me on the back. “This is fascinating,” he says and continues. But all I can pay attention to is Grover’s hand on my back. It’s hot through my clothes. When I can’t take it anymore, I peel my head off the table and scoot my chair away from Grover.

  Alex Trebek stays at our table for the rest of dinner. I eat a few bites of what’s left of my bread and my salad. The spinach leaves a gross film on my teeth, but I don’t touch my water because Alex drank half of it. With all this humidity, I’m not sure I actually need to
drink water to stay hydrated anyway.

  When everyone is finished eating, Kerry walks us through the camp’s very extensive cleanup regimen. “Put your tray here. Dump any leftover food here. Stack plates here. Napkins go in the recycling bin. And hand your silverware to the counselor at the end of the line.” Kerry points to the male counselor standing behind a table, a bus bin in front of him.

  “Let me,” Grover says, moving to stack all of our trays on top of his. Cassie and Alex Trebek, or whatever his real name is, hand theirs over willingly, but I keep mine.

  “I’ll do it.”

  “I don’t mind.” Grover smiles at me.

  I clench the tray tighter. “No, thanks.”

  “A feminist. I like you even more, Zander.”

  Grover begins to clean up, but I keep my distance. I’m not sure what I expected from a camp like this, but so far, the first day has been beyond weird. Between Cassie, Alex, and Grover, I’m not sure where I fit. Nowhere probably, which is a good thing. If my parents just understood that nowhere is an actual place, it’s just not the place they want me to be, everything would be okay. I’m fine there. Just fine.

  Commotion erupts a few minutes later at the other end of the line, where the counselor is collecting silverware.

  “There are only eight pieces here.” The guy glares at Grover with an accusatory eye. “Where’s the last piece?”

  Grover shrugs but doesn’t say a word. The longer he’s silent, the more annoyed the counselor seems to get. I sit down and look at Cassie, who’s lounging back in her seat like she’s enjoying the show. Eventually Kerry walks over to assess the silverware situation. When he sees that Grover is the accused camper, he lets out a long, exaggerated breath.

  “Where’s the fork, Grover?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yes you do. You know exactly where it is.”

  “Kerry, you of all people should know that sometimes things go missing without any explanation. We just lose them. If that wasn’t the case, I’d make sure never to lose my mind, but based on statistics, there’s a pretty good chance one day it will up and leave me. My mind will be lost. Forever.” Grover takes a breath. “Kind of like the fork.”

  Kerry rolls his eyes. “Where were you sitting?”

  Grover leads him over to our table, the whole camp silently watching. I focus down at my hands as Kerry walks up to us.

  “Cassie.” Kerry lets out another huff. “I should have known.”

  “Known what?” she snaps.

  “That you had something to do with this.”

  “Why are you so obsessed with silverware anyway?” Cassie asks.

  “For starters, this camp isn’t made of money.” Kerry ticks things off on two fingers. “And secondly, as promised in the brochure, we ensure the safety of all of our campers. That includes counting the silverware. Now, where’s the fork?”

  “I don’t know.” Cassie looks off, seemingly undisturbed.

  “Yes you do.” Kerry’s face swells with anger, the vein running down his forehead beginning to bulge.

  Cassie glances back up at him, a serene look on her face that is starkly juxtaposed with Kerry’s. “Pieces go missing all the time. The world is an imperfect place,” she says.

  Kerry clenches his jaw and moves his strong gaze to Alex Trebek.

  Grover sits back in his seat, extending his legs under the table. “You won’t get anything out of him. Particularly the truth.”

  “Do you know where the fork is?” Kerry asks Alex.

  “What’s a fork?”

  Kerry groans. His eyes come to me next. “You’re Zander, correct?”

  “How did you know that?” I ask.

  “I make it a point to know all of the campers.” Kerry glances at Cassie out of the corner of his eye. “It’s why we ask for a picture with your registration. Again, for safety reasons.”

  I sit back in my seat, feeling slightly betrayed. My parents sent Kerry a picture of me? What else did they tell him? I squirm in my seat, unsettled by the fact that a man who is a complete stranger probably knows things about me I don’t want anyone to know. And it was my parents who told him.

  “Do you know where the fork is, Zander?” Kerry asks.

  “I . . .” I look from Grover to Alex to Cassie. She’s sitting, lips puckered and arms crossed over her chest. I know Cassie has the fork and, at the same time, I know I don’t want Kerry to get it back, just like I don’t want Madison to teach me how to ride a horse or to paint my nails. Cassie narrows her eyes at me as if this is all just one big test. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.

  “Fine.” Kerry looks back at Cassie. “Someone will just have to go without a fork for the rest of their stay.”

  Cassie scoffs. “Like I’d eat anything that requires a fork anyway.”

  When Kerry walks away from our table, Grover, Alex, Cassie, and I look at each other like we just got away with a crime. Grover’s lips break into a large grin.

  Kerry announces loudly to the rest of the campers that dinner is officially over.

  “It’s not easy searching for what we’ve lost,” he says. “Especially when it’s ourselves we have to find. Let’s get some sleep. Those in need of medication, please meet at the Wellness Center.”

  Cassie gets up quickly and, without another word, walks out of the mess hall. She doesn’t even bother saying thank-you to us for covering her ass.

  “You look worried, Zander,” Grover says, coming to stand next to me.

  “I’m not worried.”

  “Good,” he says.

  Grover begins to walk away, but I stop him. “What if there’s a fire? We’re locked in.”

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “Physical constraints pale in comparison to mental ones. Now, repeat after me. We pray to Saint Anthony of Padua that the lost be found. That the soul be free. That life be everlasting.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Aunt Chey,

  My counselor is Madison. I hear she did it with a raw hot dog in high school. I hope she’s reading this right now because I know she’s standing behind me WATCHING ME WRITE THIS.

  Kisses,

  Cassie

  The line at the Wellness Center for medication is long. Dori, Hannah, and Katie are all there. When I walk past, Dori stops me. She’s holding a small Dixie Cup.

  “You don’t take anything?” she asks.

  “No.”

  Dori shakes her head. “That’s right. You’re here because your ‘parents signed you up.’” She rolls her eyes as she shoots her pills like a shot of liquor.

  “It’s Prozac,” Hannah says, showing me what’s inside her cup.

  Cassie walks up next to us. “Boring.” She stretches out the word. “Everyone’s on Prozac.”

  “What about you?” I ask her. “No meds?”

  “You think I’d let any doctors come close to me? They won’t give me what I want. Plus, I’ve got all the medicine I need.” She starts to walk away, but I grab her arm to stop her.

  “Where’s the fork?”

  Cassie pulls away from my grip but doesn’t respond. She shakes her head as she leaves, her skinny legs even skinnier in the twilight.

  At the cabin, we brush our teeth and get dressed for bed. Dori takes the bunk above my bed, and Cassie is on the lower bunk next to me with Hannah on top. Katie is the sucker who has to share a bunk with Madison. I glance at the duffel bag stuffed under Cassie’s bed filled with her “medication.”

  “Lights out in fifteen minutes, girls,” Madison says. “Sleep is important.”

  I lie in bed, on top of the single sheet, and flip through the Seventeen magazine I picked up at the airport on the way here. I bought it so my dad wouldn’t talk to me on the flight, but I didn’t actually read any of the articles. For each page, I counted to one hundred in my head and then flipped it. It worked. My dad listened to a podcast on his phone the entire flight, and I got the solitude of counting in my head.

  Just me . . . the thought make
s me remember the quilt stuffed in my bag, and I have to choke down the bile that rises in my throat.

  I focus back on the magazine. The dim light of the sunset creeps through the window above my bed, but even then it’s hard to see the words on the page. Both Hannah and Katie plug their ears with headphones and turn up the music so loud I can hear the heavy beat. The camp doesn’t allow any cell phones. When my parents told me that, it was a relief. A summer without a single call from my mom sounded nice.

  She is a compulsive texter.

  Did u remember to grab the lunch I packed u?

  I made u a hair appointment for Friday.

  Let’s practice driving after school.

  I’m making lasagna for dinner.

  Drink at least 64 ounces of water today.

  The sun will set at 5:45.

  At one point this past year, it got so bad that my English teacher took my phone away and carted me down to the office. Mr. Ortiz said he couldn’t teach with all the dinging.

  He even called my mom with my phone. She apologized and actually cried. I could hear her sobs through the receiver. Mr. Ortiz felt so bad that he gave me back my phone and said if it ever died, I could use the one in the English office. Then he apologized for saying the word died.

  “I mean—if it ever runs out of batteries,” he corrected himself.

  The no-phone rule was the only fight my parents had about Camp Padua. My mom yelled so loudly about how unfair it is that I can’t have one, I could hear her shrieking voice in my room with the door closed, and then she threw something against the wall. By the time I came down to dinner, whatever she had smashed had been cleaned up. My mom made portobello vegan stroganoff, and my dad said it was his favorite thing she’d cooked in at least a year. The Camp Padua brochure never moved from underneath the magnet on our refrigerator.