The Odds of Loving Grover Cleveland

by Rebekah Crane

  She stays still on top of the water. I smile down at her.

  “You’ll never have lice again,” I say.

  She looks at me with hard eyes. “Stop holding on so damn tightly.”

  I take my other arm away, and Cassie floats by herself. She didn’t give up.

  And I let go.

  As we walk quietly back to the cabin, Cassie pulls a box of Lemonheads out of her sweatshirt and offers me some. It’s her sweatshirt now, a fact that makes me happy, truly happy.

  I swirl the sugarcoated candies around in my mouth, careful not to bite into them. I don’t want to eat too fast. It’s better when they dissolve on their own. Longer and better.

  “My mom is afraid I’m going to die,” I finally say when we get back to the girls’ side of camp.

  Cassie looks at me. Her face doesn’t hold a judgment, at least not on the surface.

  “I’d say every mom is afraid of her kid dying, but my mom wouldn’t give a shit if I died.”

  “That makes me sad,” I say.

  “It makes me angry.”

  I look down at the ground. “It made me angry that my mom is so afraid of me dying.”

  Cassie shoves my shoulder. “Now, that makes me sad,” she says, and then she’s silent for a while.

  “Tell me something about your sister,” she eventually says.

  I take a shaky breath. The request is unexpected. “I could hear her in her room down the hall from me, just breathing. It put me to sleep every night. Like a really fucked-up lullaby,” I say. “And I miss it. I miss it a lot.”

  “But you’re not mad anymore.”

  I shake my head. “And you swam tonight.”

  She smiles. “Say it again.”

  “You swam tonight.” Now it’s my turn to be silent. Cassie pats my burned shoulders. I’ve never been happier to feel my sunburn. “What do we have if we don’t have hope?” I ask.

  Cassie laughs. “Reality.”

  “But maybe sometimes what we hope for becomes a reality.”

  “Maybe,” she says.

  The reality is that Molly is dead.

  And it hurts.

  I will die.

  And it hurts.

  Breathing is life.

  And it hurts.

  All life ends.

  And it hurts.

  I need to live.

  Even if it hurts.

  “Shit.” Cassie’s voice surprises me.

  “What?”

  “The window.” Her voice shakes. “The window is closed.” Cassie points to our cabin.

  “Shit,” I say and run my hands through my hair. The moment before I pull a few strands loose, Cassie stops me.

  “When the door opens, sneak into the crowd,” she says.

  “What?”

  “Act like you were asleep the whole time.” Cassie takes off her Arizona sweatshirt and hands it to me. Her hot-pink bathing suit lights up in the dark.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Put it on. Act sleepy.”

  “What are you going to do?” I say louder.

  Cassie smiles. “You taught me how to swim, right?” She pushes me toward the shadows of the cabin. “It’s called teamwork, Z.”

  She starts singing then. “She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain” echoes between the cabins as she runs, knocking on doors, and waking everyone up.

  TRUST

  CHAPTER 18

  Dear Mom and President Cleveland,

  It is a fact that we will all be a statistic some day. Did you know that the odds of drowning are one in 1,073? I now know a girl who will not be that statistic.

  Your son,

  Grover Cleveland

  Cassie is placed in solitary for a week. She has to sit with Kerry and the counselors at all meals, where she is still only eating with a spoon and knife, and sleep in Kerry’s personal cabin with Madison, while he sleeps in one of the boys’ cabins. A “counselor in training” named Anne, who’s a sophomore premed major and who most days assists the nurse doling out medicine, sleeps in our cabin.

  The first day Cassie isn’t with me, I swim down at the lake in the afternoon, until it starts to rain. When Kerry hears a crack of thunder, he makes us all get out and tells us to find another activity, preferably one inside, but I sneak back to the cabin.

  It’s extra musty as I listen to the plunk of rain on the roof and stare at Cassie’s empty bed. I put her sweatshirt on it. She’ll need it when she gets back. I flip through the Seventeen magazine I brought to camp. The cover is gone and the humidity has made the pages wavy and crinkle when I open it. I turn to the article on how to flirt without being obvious and read the list of rules.

  Keep eye contact.

  Don’t play with your hair.

  Act confident.

  Smile.

  Show off your neck.

  This is ridiculous. I close the magazine. I don’t like that Cassie isn’t here. I feel alone, a feeling I used to like, but not really anymore.

  I walk over to her bed and touch the bare mattress.

  Inside the mess hall, campers gather around an old television, watching a movie. I find Grover sitting at the back of the group. Cassie is tucked in the corner, her arms crossed, as she sits between Kerry and Hayes. She looks tortured.

  I sneak up and sit behind Grover. His tall torso blocks my view of the screen, and he’s wearing a bright blue tank top. I can see all the bones that run along his shoulders and collarbone. His skin is golden from being out in the sun.

  I lean in a bit and smell the coconut sunscreen on his skin.

  Grover turns around with a wicked grin on his face. He knew I was behind him.

  I motion toward the door, and, quietly, we sneak out of the mess hall, but I steal a look at Cassie before the door closes. She gives me the middle finger. I do the same back. We both smile and I feel better already.

  Grover and I stand in the rain for a moment as I play with my hair, unable to look at him. I try to remember the rules to flirting. I’m pretty sure I just broke them all. I finally blurt out, “What movie is playing?”

  “The Breakfast Club.”

  “I’ve never seen it. Is it good?” I ask.

  Grover shrugs. “It just started.”

  A raindrop hangs seconds from dripping off of Grover’s chin. I watch it as it collects more water and gets heavy. The moment when I think I’ll reach up and wipe it away, it falls to the ground. I stand in the rain, disappointed yet again.

  “Do you want to go back inside?” I ask.

  He shakes his head.

  “It’s wet out here,” I say.

  “I don’t care,” he says. “Do you care?”

  I do care, about so many things I didn’t before, but not about the rain. “I’m starting to,” I say.

  “Follow me then.” Grover smiles.

  We walk down to the beach. I slip off my flip-flops and feel the wet sand between my toes. I even wiggle them around so I can feel every grain stuck on my skin. But when Grover moves to step onto the dock, I grab his arm.

  “Probably not the best place to be during a thunderstorm.”

  “You’re right. The experience could be shocking. Did you know the odds of us getting hit by lightning are one in seven hundred thousand?” He steps onto the dock.

  “Did Bek tell you that?” I ask.

  Grover looks at me over his shoulder. “The odds are in our favor. Not to be struck by lightning, that is. Other odds, not so much.”

  “I’m pretty sure the odds increase when you’re on a metal dock.”

  “This is probably true.” Grover motions for me to join him on the death trap. But I guess all of life is a death trap, so I follow him. We sit down on the end and he puts his feet in the water.

  “So what odds aren’t in your favor?” I ask.

  Grover’s wet hair sticks to his forehead and he wipes it back as he gets out his notebook. He flips to a page and holds his hand over it to protect the paper from the rain. “The odds of dating
a millionaire: one in 215. Not bad. The odds of winning an Academy Award: one in 11,500. Still more probable than lightning.”

  “Wow.” I put my feet in the water next to him. Raindrops splash around us and on the surface of Lake Kimball, making it murky.

  “The odds of writing a New York Times bestseller: one in 220. The odds of being in a car accident: one in 18,585.” I watch Grover read from his notebook. He doesn’t look at me. “The odds of getting arthritis: one in seven. The odds of dying from heart disease: one in three.”

  “These are all general statistics. I asked what odds aren’t in your favor?” I say.

  “The odds of getting cancer: one in two,” he says. “That’s not good for anyone.”

  “Grover, tell me something about you.”

  He looks out across the lake. Houses and cabins line the shore across from us—it all looks so normal, but Grover doesn’t. For a moment, he seems like a lost kid longing for one of those houses to be his reality.

  Then he seems to snap back together. He looks down at his notebook.

  “The odds of becoming president: one in ten million. Did you know Grover Cleveland was one of the fattest presidents?”

  “I don’t want to know about that Grover Cleveland. I want to know about you,” I say.

  “But the president was way more interesting. For starters, his real name wasn’t even Grover, it was Stephen.”

  “I don’t want to know about the president!” I yell.

  “You’re mad. I can tell. That’s good. Mad is good. You’re finally acknowledging how you feel.”

  I grab Grover’s hand. “I want to know how you feel.”

  “You’re touching me right now, so I’m feeling warm in inappropriate places.”

  I drop his hand, like it’s something gross. It’s not. But I feel his pain and I know he feels it, too.

  When I stand up on the dock, he looks at me.

  “Tell me why you won’t eat apples,” he says.

  “We’re not talking about me.”

  “You are so much more interesting. And Molly, tell me something about her,” Grover says. A crack of thunder rolls overhead.

  “What are you afraid of?” I say slowly.

  “Well, that sounded close, so right now, I’m kind of afraid the odds of getting struck by lightning just went up.”

  “Fuck the odds,” I say.

  “I love it when you talk dirty.” Grover smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. I stay silent as thunder rumbles through the sky and the upturned corners of his mouth fade into a straight line. His lip quivers in the rain. “The odds of being schizophrenic when you have a schizophrenic parent: one in ten,” he says. He doesn’t read that one out of his notebook. It’s memorized.

  The air is pushed out of my lungs like someone just punched me.

  “Fuck the odds,” I say again. I hold out my hand for him to take as thunder rolls above us.

  He looks at my palm.

  Rain falls between us.

  “I can’t,” Grover says. “I can’t.” He leaves me on the end of the dock to fight the odds alone.

  I look out at the gray water. It doesn’t look dangerous.

  “Durga, Durga, Durga,” I say.

  I strip off my clothes and dive in.

  CHAPTER 19

  Dear Mom and Dad,

  Odds are I will probably die of cancer or heart disease even if I eat spinach. Because everyone dies. And spinach leaves a film on my teeth. I hate the film.

  I’ve stopped eating spinach.

  Z

  Kerry runs down to the beach and yells for me to “get out of the water this instant.” A group of campers stands on the deck of the mess hall watching.

  “Are you trying to get killed?” he screams.

  “No. But the odds of dying are one in one.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” Kerry’s anger seethes through his clenched teeth.

  “That’s why I’m here, right?”

  Kerry glares at me. “Get your things and head back to your cabin to change for dinner.”

  I collect my clothes from the end of the dock and notice something next to my shirt. Grover’s notebook and pen. I flip to the back page and start scribbling.

  When I see him at dinner, I set the notebook down on the table.

  “You left this on the dock.”

  “Finding my lost items. Thank you.” But Grover doesn’t look at me. Those are the only words he says all night.

  The rain lasts into the evening, forcing us to stay in our cabins after dinner. Dori asks if she can paint my toenails. Hannah and Katie listen to music and write letters home. Counselor in training Anne reads a book with a half-naked guy on the cover, and I can’t stop staring at Cassie’s empty bed as Dori puts cotton between my toes.

  “What color?” Dori asks.

  “Huh?” Cassie’s pillowcase has a hole in it, so do her sheets around the edges. She’s been sleeping in rags.

  “What color?” Dori holds up her bag full of different-colored nail polish.

  “You pick.”

  Dori paints them red. I barely notice. When she’s done, I waddle—my toes separated and pointing toward the ceiling so they don’t smudge—with Molly’s quilt in my arms over to Cassie’s bed. I don’t know what the odds are for having a sister die, but it doesn’t matter anymore. I lay the quilt down, so Cassie can use it when she gets back. Then I look at each girl in the cabin. Someone did this. Someone closed the window.

  The next day, breakfast with Grover is as awkward as dinner was. Bek tells us that he’s the reincarnation of Paul McCartney.

  “Paul isn’t dead,” Grover says.

  “That’s what you think.” Bek speaks with a mouthful of food. “He was shot by that guy in Central Park.”

  “That was John Lennon.”

  “That’s what you think,” Bek says again.

  “No.” Grover says. “That’s what you think.”

  “That is what I think,” Bek counters.

  “Correct.”

  “Correct.” Bek nods. “I think I’m choking. Can someone give me a Heimlich?”

  “Who cares? You’ll just get reincarnated again,” Grover says.

  “Good point.” Bek pretends to die and come back as Justin Timberlake.

  In group share-apy, Cassie looks tired, or maybe she’s well rested because she can’t sneak out in the middle of the night like she’s been doing. But the scowl on her face would say otherwise.

  “Why is trust so important?” Madison says, as she walks around the circle. No one says anything, just like always. “Come on, ladies,” she groans.

  Hannah sits pigeon-toed staring at her feet and rubbing her covered arms, like she wants to curl up in a ball and disappear. Katie leans her face up toward the sun, closing her eyes. Cassie has one leg up on the bench and is picking dirt out from under her toenails and wiping it on her shorts.

  Dori finally raises her hand and takes St. Anthony from Madison. “Trust makes you feel secure.”

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s total bullshit,” Cassie pipes up.

  “Why do you think that?” Madison asks, handing the St. Anthony statue to Cassie.

  “Trust only gives you the illusion of security,” Cassie says.

  “So you can never fully trust anyone?” Dori asks.

  “You trusted your mom and she still married an asshole,” Cassie offers.

  Dori sits back in her seat. “That’s true.”

  “See. Trust is a scam created by authority.” Cassie points at Madison. “Mads would like us to think she wants what’s best for us, but what she really wants is to get experience for grad school and do it with an older man this summer.”

  “That’s not true, Cassie. I do care.”

  “Please, I see how you look at Kerry.” Cassie rolls her eyes.

  “Please do not start down this path, Cassie,” Madison says.

  “Start down this path? I was born on this path. Nobody gave me a choice where to star
t.”

  “That may be true, but you have a choice where you go.”

  “I do?” Cassie says sarcastically. “The problem with trust is that it’s a scam. If you don’t trust anyone, you won’t get hurt.”

  “People are human, Cassie. They make mistakes,” Madison says.

  “And you want me to trust people who make mistakes?”

  “No one is perfect.”

  “What mistakes have you made, Mads?” Cassie glares at her, intrigued. “Huh? Why are we the ones always sharing? Why don’t you share your dirty little secrets with the group?”

  Madison looks around startled and unable to speak, her face turning pale. Cassie sits back savoring the moment, but I can’t join her. For a moment, Madison actually looks broken—broken like we’re all broken. When she regains her composure, Madison puts her counselor persona back on and says, “This isn’t about me. Without trust, we lose faith. If we lose faith, we lose hope, and without hope, what do we have?”

  “Reality,” Cassie bites.

  “You’re just afraid,” Hannah says. She doesn’t look at Cassie when she says it. Her eyes focus on the hole she’s digging in the ground with her shoe. Hannah doesn’t see Cassie’s eyes get big. I can practically witness the fire ignite in her brain. She walks over to Hannah and puts her leg up on the bench so her scar is close to Hannah’s face.

  “You’re damn right I’m afraid, Razor Blades. And you’re a pussy.” Cassie touches Hannah’s long-sleeved shirt. “You probably use your shaving razor to slice up these arms. Would you like me to introduce you to someone who can do that for you?”

  Hannah shakes her head.

  “You should be afraid, too.” Cassie turns back to the group, her eyes wilder than usual. As I watch her, I know something is off. “Trust? Faith? Hope? Those are pretty words to make us feel better about reality. But the world is not pretty. Hannah is not pretty with her cut-up arms. Katie is not pretty with her burned-out puke fingers. Dori is not pretty in general. And we still don’t know why Zander isn’t pretty other than her odd obsession with French people.”

  “And what about you?” Dori asks.

  Cassie’s shoulders fall. “I’m the ugliest of them all because I can’t pretend. I can’t wear a shirt to cover my scars or duck into the bathroom every time I want to puke the ugly out of me. I don’t have a choice. It’s all over me. That might be the only thing you can trust.”