But I ignore their banter. I clutch the St. Anthony figurine, slowly trying to suffocate the plastic man in my tight hand. “He said it before every meet. And I would stand there, trying not to breathe in whatever he ate for dinner the night before, thinking what dream is he talking about? The dream of winning our relay? The whole damn swim meet? Those aren’t dreams. Those are accomplishments. And stupid ones at that.”
“Well, did you win?” Dori asks.
“Every time,” I say and then correct myself. “Almost every time.”
“Winning isn’t a stupid accomplishment, Zander. It feels good. You should be proud of the fact that you’re a good swimmer,” Madison says.
“That’s my point. It didn’t feel good,” I say.
“Well, then how did it feel?” she asks.
I set the St. Anthony figurine down next to me on the bench.
“It didn’t feel like anything.” I make it a point to glance at Cassie before I finally say, “I didn’t feel anything.”
The circle goes quiet for a while. When I can’t stand the silence in my head, I repeat the Camp Padua prayer over and over since I can’t remember my French words. Anything is better than silence.
We pray to Saint Anthony that the lost be found. That the soul be free. That life be everlasting.
Over and over. Over and over. Blocking out the dead air.
Madison eventually moves on and says we’re going to play a team-building game. We’re all on a plane and it’s going down, but there’s a boat that will save us and get us to a deserted island. We can take one thing as a group, but we all have to agree.
“You have five minutes to decide. Now is the time to work together, ladies.” Madison looks down at her watch before telling us to start.
It takes a while for anyone to pipe up, but eventually Cassie does.
“We don’t need five minutes because I know what we need.”
“We need water,” Katie says.
“No we don’t, Fingers. We’re surrounded by water.”
“You can’t drink salt water,” Katie counters.
“We’ll boil it.” Cassie shrugs.
“Then we need matches,” Dori says.
“That’s a waste. We can just rub two sticks together,” Cassie says.
Madison taps her foot on the ground. “Three minutes.”
“What about a phone?” Hannah offers.
“Yes, I’m sure Verizon has a cell tower on a deserted island, Razor Blades. Genius.” Cassie shakes her head.
“Don’t call me Razor Blades.”
“Why not? You’re cutting up your limbs for attention. I’m just paying attention.”
“I don’t cut myself for attention.”
“Then why do you cut yourself?” Cassie crosses her arms and gives Hannah a look of real curiosity.
Hannah looks around at the group. “I still think a phone is a good idea.”
“Thirty seconds,” Madison sings.
“It’s a terrible idea and I already told you I know what we need.”
“So tell us,” I say.
Cassie gets a crooked smile on her face and talks slowly. “If I was on a plane that was going down . . .”
“Fifteen seconds,” Madison says.
“And the only option was living on a deserted island with the four of you . . .” Cassie leans in and talks in a hushed voice. “. . . I’d grab a bottle of Beano, so I can kill myself.”
“Time’s up.” Madison says with an exhale. “You’re all dead.”
Cassie smiles. “Guess I won’t need the Beano after all.”
CHAPTER 11
Mom,
Podcast club sounds horrible.
Z
PS—Sorry about the letter.
The rain starts just before dinner. A crack of thunder ripples through the sky right as I make it to the mess hall. I hold my arm out and let a few drops of rain hit my skin. The bonfire Kerry promised us tonight will most likely be cancelled. I won’t complain about that. I got twenty new mosquito bites a few nights ago while we sat around the Circle of Hope with Hayes leading us in singing old cowboy songs and “Kumbaya” as he played the guitar.
A raindrop sits on my arm on top of one of my swollen bites. I rub the water into my skin. I’m glad it’s raining.
Bek sits alone at our dinner table before anybody else makes it to the mess hall. I grab a salad and lemonade, and then I go back and add a dollop of yellow-and-orange macaroni and cheese to my plate.
“I need your help,” I say to Bek as I sit down.
He takes a bite out of his fried chicken. “Who are you?”
“Zander.”
“I don’t know a Zander.”
“Cut it out, Bek. I’m having a problem remembering my French words.” I pick at my macaroni. It’s definitely the kind made with powdered cheese.
“Who’s Bek?”
“You,” I say.
“I don’t know a Bek.”
“Fine. Alex, I need your help. You’re the only person here who speaks French.”
“I thought you said my name is Bek.”
“It is.”
“Then who is this Alex you speak of?” he asks.
“That’s you, too.”
“I believe you have mistaken me for an old French boyfriend of yours named Alex Bek. Though I will say, that doesn’t sound like a French name. What’s your name again?” Bek asks.
“We’ve been sitting at the same table for over a week, Bek. My name is Zander.” Right then, Grover sits down next to me with his tray full of food. My stomach goes from being properly placed in my belly to clogging my throat. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye.
“Welcome to our table,” Bek says to Grover. “You wouldn’t happen to be Alex Bek? Zander, here, is looking for her ex-French boyfriend.”
“The name’s Grover Cleveland.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Zander’s future boyfriend.”
All my body heat travels to my face and I want to punch Grover, and at the same time, I don’t. I couldn’t hurt him. I just don’t know what I want from him.
“It’s nice to meet you, future boyfriend of Zander, Grover Cleveland.” Bek shakes his hand like this is the first time they’ve ever met.
“Same here.” He nods.
“What is going on?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Bek says.
“Of course, you don’t.” Grover pats him on the back. “You were hit in the head by a baseball and now are suffering traumatic amnesia from the collision.”
“How do you know?” Bek asks Grover.
“I saw it happen.”
I groan. “You both are ridiculous.” I shovel a large spoonful of macaroni into my mouth.
“I acknowledge that.” Grover winks at me.
“I don’t,” Bek says.
I should have known better than to ask Bek for help. We don’t even know if Alex Trebek is his real name. But my frustration begins to melt as the rich, buttery taste of macaroni and cheese coats my mouth. The film stays on my teeth and tongue.
“Oh my God,” I moan.
“You can just call me Grover.”
I ignore the comment and shovel another spoonful into my mouth and another.
“Take it easy there, Little Miss Piggy.” Cassie plops down in her seat with a tray full of cherry tomatoes and cucumbers.
“Shut up,” I say with a full my mouth. “It’s so good.”
“It’s macaroni and cheese, Z, not an orgasm.” Cassie bites down on a cucumber.
“You’ve had an orgasm?” Bek asks. “Tell me about it.”
“You wish, Baby Fat.”
“I thought my name is Bek.”
“It is.” Grover pats Bek on the back again and he asks me, “Haven’t you ever had macaroni and cheese?”
I stop midchew. The entire table turns to look at me. I swallow the food in my mouth with a gulp.
“Sure.” I wipe my lips clean.
“You’re lying,” Bek taunts and points at my
face.
“You should know,” I bite back.
“Macaroni and cheese is like a fucking kid food group. Everybody eats macaroni and cheese. What the hell is wrong with your family, Z?” Cassie asks.
I flinch at Cassie’s words. What is wrong with my family? How do I tell her nothing and everything at the same time?
“Seriously, you’ve never had mac and cheese?” Grover asks, leaning on the table, his eyes searching mine. I silently beg him not to blink, for fear a tear would run down his cheek and I’d have to wipe his skin dry and admit that I can’t remember the last time I saw powdered cheese.
Kerry claps three times to get everyone’s attention. “The only way to be found,” he yells. I blink and look away. I set my spoon down and push my tray away from me.
Is to admit we’re lost . . .
“Due to the rain, we have to change our plans for this evening. Instead, tonight will be game night.” Kerry points to a large cabinet filled with board games sitting in the corner of the room. “When you’ve cleaned up your dinner, feel free to grab a game and let the fun begin. Those needing nightly medication can see the nurse at the Wellness Center.”
The macaroni and cheese on my tray stays untouched for the rest of dinner. When I’m done, I dump it into the trash.
Solitaire. That’s what I want to play tonight. I attempt to grab a deck of cards from the game cabinet when Grover steps in my way.
“Guess who?”
“Is this another one of your games with Bek?” I ask and try to move around him, but he steps in my way.
“No.”
“Then what is it?” I ask.
“Guess who?”
“I don’t need to guess who!” I yell. “I know who you are. You’re Grover Cleveland.”
“No,” he says with a crooked smile on his face, and then he holds up a box. “Guess Who? The game. Do you want to play with me?”
I look around at the people staring at me. And they are staring.
“Fine.” I snatch the box from Grover’s hands.
“By the way, you’re cute when you’re mad.”
“I’m not mad. I’m frustrated.” I set the game down on the table and open the box.
“That’s good.”
“How is that good?” I ask.
“Do you know how many people in this world don’t actually know how they feel? I mean, with my heightened emotional state, I have a hard time identifying ham from turkey on my sandwiches, let alone how I feel. And actually both sound really good right now.”
“You should try it,” I say.
“What? Ham or turkey?”
“No. Admitting to how you feel.”
“You know how I feel.” Grover wiggles his eyebrows at me.
“About me, maybe. But not about you.”
“Well, I guess right now I feel hungry,” he says.
“We just ate.”
“You know what sounds good? Saltines. Did you know that it’s virtually impossible to eat six saltines in under a minute?”
“What?” I ask, confused as to how we got to this topic.
“Yeah, your mouth gets too dry.” Grover nods. “We should try it.” He’s gone from his seat before I can tell him that I’m not hungry for saltines or any other food. I should have stuck with the solitaire, but Grover always seems to trap me. He won’t take no for an answer, and part of me likes it, but the other part desperately just wants him to leave me alone.
“Found them.” Grover plops back down in his seat. He pulls a bunch of individually wrapped saltine crackers, like the kind restaurants give out with soup, from his pockets. He leans over the table to hide the stash with his arms.
“Where did you find those?” I ask.
“In the kitchen.”
“How’d you get in the kitchen?”
“Not telling.” Grover smiles. “Now, who goes first?”
“I’m not doing this.”
“Come on. Don’t you want to see if you can do it?” he asks.
“Who cares if I can eat six saltines in under sixty seconds?”
“I care.”
“Why?” I lean in and rest my arms on the table, mimicking his posture.
“Because it will prove my point.”
“And what point is that?” I ask.
“That you’re not like anyone else in the whole world. That the odds of there ever being another person exactly like you is one in infinity.” Grover lays his hand on top of mine and his face turns serious. “And before I go crazy, I want to be able to brag that I know a real person who can eat six saltines in under sixty seconds.”
I glance down at his hand that’s over mine. Not one speck of my skin is showing. He’s covering me.
“Fine.” I grab the crackers and start unwrapping them.
“The rule is one minute, no water, and you have to eat every crumb,” Grover says, glancing at the clock.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“I can.” Grover winks at me. “Are you ready?” When I nod, he takes one more look around and whispers, “Go!”
I start to shovel in crackers. They’re salty and taste delicious. I swallow a few bites before the saltines start to congeal in my cheeks. I work them around with my tongue, gulping down small pieces.
“You’re cute when you binge.”
“Shut up,” I hiss with a cracker lisp and spit a few crumbs on the table.
Grover points. “You have to eat those.”
“Shut up!” I pick them off the table and pop them in my mouth. I can’t believe I’m eating already-been-chewed bits of food off a dirty mess-hall table. I’m sure my parents didn’t read about this in the camp brochure.
“Thirty seconds.”
Grover’s eyes focus on me like this is the greatest thing he’s ever seen. I smack my lips together, trying to find any sort of saliva that might help get the crackers down my throat. I don’t want to let him down. He finally admitted something about himself, a thing I’ve noticed he never does. And I want to do this for him. I need to. As I chew, I realize at this moment I wish I could fix the proverbial broken chair Grover is sitting on. I wish I could hold it together so his life never falls apart.
“Ten seconds,” he says.
But the dryness sets in. I swallow a little chunk and then another one, but it’s not happening fast enough. My mouth is a desert.
“Five seconds.”
I make one last attempt to take down everything in my mouth, but nothing happens. You can’t prevent life from falling apart. That’s what it does best. It crumbles and withers and wilts until nothing but crumbs and lost pieces are left. When time is up, I sit across from Grover, my mouth full of saltines.
“That was awesome,” he says.
I swallow until my mouth is empty. “See. I’m just like everyone else.”
“With saltines, maybe.” Grover wipes a crumb from the table. He holds out the game cards to Guess Who? And just like that, we move on, like I didn’t just let him down. “You start,” he says.
I glance down at the person I’ve pulled. His name is George. He has blond hair and glasses and resembles my dad slightly.
“Does your person have red hair?” I ask.
Grover shakes his head. “No.”
I flip down all the people on my board with red hair.
“Does your person have red hair?”
“No.”
Grover knocks down his people.
“Does your person have blue eyes?”
“Yes.” Grover blinks repeatedly.
I knock down everyone with brown or green eyes until I have seven people left.
“Does your person have glasses?” Grover asks.
“Yes,” I groan.
Grover knocks down his entire board so that only three people are left.
“Does your person have a hat on?” I ask.
“No.”
I knock down one person.
“Did you play this game when you were little?” he asks.
/>
“Why?”
“Just asking.”
“Yes,” I say. “Does your person have brown hair?”
“Did you play with Molly?”
“Does your person have brown hair?” I repeat.
“It’s my turn to ask the question,” Grover says. “Did you play this game with Molly?”
“No.” My teeth clench.
“Why not?” he asks.
“She was too little to play. Does your person have brown hair?”
“Still my question. What was Molly like?”
“She had blonde hair,” I offer.
“And . . .”
“Brown eyes.”
“And . . .”
I groan. “Tan skin. From my mother’s side.”
Grover flips down all the people on his game board and grabs my hand across the table. “I don’t want to know what she looked like, Zander. I want to know who she was.”
Grover’s hold is strong on me, but it doesn’t hurt, more the opposite. His hand is warm, like a blanket. It makes my eyes sting.
“You don’t talk about your family,” I counter.
“I find you more interesting,” he says.
“I think you’re avoiding your problems.”
“That’s true. So are you. We’re a perfect pair.” Grover rubs his thumb against my skin. “What was Molly like?”
“Let go of my hand.”
“No.”
“Why do you always have to touch me?”
“Because it reminds me that you’re real. And that makes me happy. See, I do admit to some things.”
“This doesn’t make me happy.”
“We can’t always be happy, Zander,” Grover says.
“I know that.”
“How do you know that? Is it because of what happened to Molly?”
A bead of sweat drips down my back. I can feel the sweat collecting in my hair. It’s not going to stop. This will never stop. The chair will always break and things will fall apart and I will be left with the rotten pieces of what used to be sitting at my feet. And there is no way to put it back together.
I pull my hand free and run from the table, knocking our game all over the floor. Outside, the rain pummels the ground, making everything sloppy. A clap of thunder rolls across the sky, and I jump as I run toward my cabin. But something catches my foot—a rock or tree branch—and I fall. My knee tears open.
“Wait, Zander! Please stop,” Grover yells at me.
The Odds of Loving Grover Cleveland Page 8
