“What happened?” Grover asks.
“I woke up on the side of the pool, my coach’s mouth on top of mine.”
“Coach Garlic Breath?” Cassie asks. “Oh my God, that’s disgusting.”
“My dad signed me up for camp the next day.” I fold my arms in my lap. “That’s why I’m here.”
No one says anything for a moment. When Grover puts his hand on my back, I don’t pull away. I’m done pulling away.
“Voici mon secret,” Bek says, surprising me. We all turn to look at him.
“Uh-oh, the French radio station must be coming through.” Grover knocks Bek on the side of the head. “Is that better, bud?”
“Here is my secret,” I repeat what Bek said in English.
“It’s from The Little Prince. My mom always read the French version because she was from Quebec.”
“Wait.” Grover tries to make eye contact with Bek, but he doesn’t look up. “You said your mom was from Quebec.”
“Yeah. She’s kind of dead.”
Cassie, Grover, and I look at each other, unsure if Bek is actually telling the truth. The corners of his mouth pull down into the deepest frown I have ever seen. The kind of frown your face makes when you’re about to cry and you can’t control it, like your emotions are forcing their way to the surface and they won’t be denied.
“She read it to me every night before bed. I share a room with two of my younger brothers, but she always took time just to acknowledge me.”
“How many siblings do you have?” I ask.
“Six. She was busy, but I always knew she noticed me when she read that book.” Bek picks up another piece of candy and unwraps it. “My dad doesn’t really do that. He’s kind of sad all the time now because she’s gone and he works a lot . . . and he’s kind of an ass. So now, no one notices me.”
“So you lie to get noticed,” Grover says.
Bek puts the Jolly Rancher in his mouth. He doesn’t say yes or no. Cassie eyes him up and down like she’s seeing him for the first time.
“Well, since we’re confessing things, I guess I should tell you guys that I sign myself up for camp every year,” Grover says.
“What do your parents say?” Bek asks.
Grover looks at Bek and shrugs. “It’s better than playing on a baseball league all summer.”
And then out of the sadness and reality that’s circling around us, laughter begins to bubble up in me. “I can’t believe you sign yourself up.”
Bek’s frown starts to lighten. He snickers.
“Baseball would require running,” Bek says.
“Now, that’s the truth,” Grover says.
“I’m too fat to run.”
“Another truth!” Grover points at him, his face bright. “I think Bek is cured. Is your name really Alex Trebek?”
“Yes.”
“Man.” Grover rubs his chin. “Now I think he’s lying again.” Bek’s shoulders start to bounce. Mine mimic his, as my head gets light and fuzzy. “Answer: A psychological disorder categorized by the compulsive or pathological behavior of a person toward lying,” Grover says.
I raise my hand. “What is compulsive liar?”
“Correct!” Grover points at me.
“I’ll take dead sisters for one thousand, Alex,” I say.
Bek snickers hard through his teeth as his stomach jiggles. “But I really am Alex Trebek.”
“No, I really am Alex Trebek.” Grover points at himself.
“No,” I say. “You’re Grover Cleveland.”
He nods. “I am Grover Cleveland.”
Suddenly our giggles move into a full-blown fit of hysterics. I clutch my stomach because it hurts from laughing and eating and letting all my secrets out. But I feel better, even in this musty equipment shed.
It’s all finally out. The weight that pulled me down to the bottom of the pool is gone. I’m lighter. I gasp in tiny breaths, as my eyes water over with tears that spill down my face. This is what it feels like to cry happy tears. In this damp, humid place, the sun is back.
Cassie stands up from the circle and starts clapping, slow and steady. We all stop and look at her. The only sound in the shed is her skin smacking together. Cassie’s straight face has washed away and anger sits there now. I swallow down my giggles and wipe clean the tears from my cheeks. Her eyes narrow on all of us.
“Well, isn’t it just so funny how sad you all are with your sad stories.” Her voice is strained. I can see the muscles tighten on her neck. “Poor Bek and his dead mom. Poor Zander and her dead sister.”
“Cassie.” Grover attempts to touch her arm, but she yanks it away. She’s shaking. Her eyes burn in the dull light of the equipment shed.
“At least you have a family to be sad about.” Her words smack me in the face. No one moves. Cassie grabs the duffel bag off the ground and throws the shed door open. Before any of us can call her back, she’s gone.
CHAPTER 22
Dear Mom and President Cleveland,
I have found my first lady.
Your son,
Grover Cleveland
Bek runs after Cassie. He’s out of the shed before Grover or I can say a word. I watch his round silhouette bounding over the sand and up the stairs toward the mess hall.
“I think Bek is in love with Cassie,” Grover says, sitting back on his hands.
“Should we follow her?” I start to get up, but he holds me still with his hand on my leg.
“She needs to cool off.”
I look down at his hand, resting on my skin, and nod.
Candy wrappers lie all around us. I collect them all into a pile, like a sugar junkyard.
“So Molly . . .” Grover says.
I organize the plastic wrappers, unable to look him in the eye. “Now you know why I said I don’t know anything about her. I mean, she was two when it all happened. I didn’t get the chance to know her.”
“You know her, Zander.” When Grover says that, I look at him. “You just know her for what her life was. Sometimes that’s all we get.”
“She didn’t have a life.”
“Maybe not the way we think of life, but it was a life nonetheless.” Grover pauses. “Kind of like my dad.”
“Molly deserved better.”
“So does he.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Grover scoots closer to me and says, “Maybe we can either be mad at what we don’t know or deal with what we do know. And you don’t know what her life would have looked like. Molly could have turned into a heroin addict or . . .” Grover puts his fist into his mouth and bites down onto it. “Joined a sorority in college.”
Grover’s other hand hasn’t left my leg. It’s warm.
“She never would have joined a sorority.” One of my cheeks pulls into a smile.
“Fine, she could have been homecoming queen.”
“Well, now you’ve taken it too far.” I smile fully. My eyes rest on Grover’s hand. “What about you?” I ask.
“The chair will eventually break.” Grover’s finger circles my skin. “To exist means knowing that one day you won’t, right?”
“But that doesn’t mean we stop living,” I say. I try to melt the lump that forms in my throat, swallowing over and over, as I look at him. But it stays. I don’t want anything to happen to him. I want Grover to stay exactly like he is. I want to hold his chair together until my hands bleed.
“Where do you live?” I ask.
Grover smiles but doesn’t look up. “Less than five miles away. You can see my house from the H dock.”
“What?”
“I remember when Kerry opened the camp. I was six. My mom read about it in the paper. Since she can’t really leave my dad, it just kind of fits that I do something local.” Grover looks up at the dull light hanging from the top of the shed. “I like to think that I was meant for this place. It makes me feel better about . . . everything.”
“Can I see where you live?” I ask.
Before Grover can
make it go away, I see sadness sitting on his face. I see a little boy with broken parents living in a broken house who just wants to meet people who are broken, too, so it doesn’t hurt so badly. And then it’s gone and my Grover is back.
We walk to the end of the H dock. The lights are still out at camp, but around the lake, houses are lit up. I forgot that people vacation on Lake Kimball, and people live here. I’ve blocked them out, like I’ve blocked out everything else beyond the border of this place. As Grover stands behind me, I can feel his chest inches from my back. He leans down, resting his head on my shoulder, and points off to the right.
“See the house with the blinking red light?” Grover whispers in my ear.
I search all the lights until I find it on the other side of the lake.
“I do,” I say, happy. I see him now.
I turn to face Grover, my nose almost touching his shirt. My head barely reaches the top of his chest. I breathe him in as my eyes drift up from his shirt to his collarbone to his neck and finally rest on his lips. They’re round and moist and painted a few different colors from all of the candy we ate. Sugar is still on them probably. I lick my own lips.
“Don’t leave,” Grover says.
“What?”
“Don’t leave. I’ll be right back.”
He runs off the dock, shaking it with every step and leaving me alone. I want him back by my side the moment he’s gone. I wrap my arms around my body as my stomach twists in tight knots, and the breeze on the water picks up. Grover was blocking me from the cold. I don’t like being here without him.
But he’s back before my worry gets out of control. He huffs and puffs across the dock until he’s standing right in front of me. He takes a step closer. My nose is inches away from the center of his chest, from his heart. The wind stops. Time stops. Life pauses so I can take this moment in. He exhales a tired breath as I look up at his face and finally let out the air I’d been holding in to keep everything inside of me steady.
“I had to get something to eat,” he says.
“Of course.” I start to roll my eyes, but what he has in his hand stops me. He holds up the red, shiny object. Grover takes a bite of the apple. I watch his lips curve around it with ease. “Watch out. There’s poison in there,” I say.
“It’s worth the risk,” he counters with a mouthful of apple.
I bite the side of my lip as I wonder what the inside of Grover’s mouth tastes like. I’m jealous of the apple.
A drop of apple juice sits on the center of his lips, like a tiny bubble of sweetness. I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. Forget candy, I want that drop. I want it like I want breath. Grover takes another bite and a pinhead of juice lands on my bare shoulder. I wipe my finger over it and put it to my mouth. It tastes more like sunscreen than apple juice. It’s not good enough. This is not good enough. And Grover makes it look so easy. The way his lips curve and press and gnaw at the apple. I gasp in a weightless breath as the bottom of my stomach gets tight. I don’t know what I want more—Grover or the apple. Or both. I want them both. I want to feel both, and I know I won’t be satisfied with life if I don’t have them. I will always be lost. And Molly will always be dead. And I will always be one moment from sinking, one moment from shattering, one moment from really living. Glass can break, but that doesn’t mean it’s weak. Sometimes the shards are all we get.
I look into Grover’s eyes and tilt my chin toward his mouth. “I acknowledge the poison. But life is worth it.”
“Amen.” Grover leans in close to my face. He smells sugary. I place my hands on his chest and feel his heart beat. He is alive and I am alive.
“Let me taste it,” I say.
Grover pulls my chin toward his. I suck in his sweet breath.
And his lips connect with mine.
They’re warm and soft, and for now, they’re all for me. The taste of apple swirls from Grover’s mouth into mine as our lips part and our tongues meet. Sweetness floods me. His sweetness, the apple’s, mine, they tangle together. If there is poison in this, I’ll risk it. I will risk a life with poison to have this moment forever.
I lean into Grover, my hands moving from his chest to his neck. I pull him closer to me. I run my tongue over his lips, grabbing every speck of flavor I can. Like I’ve been starved my whole life and I’m just realizing it. And now I can’t stop wanting more of everything.
Grover’s hands come up to my shoulders. He gently pushes me away. When air touches the spot where Grover’s lips just were, I’m disappointed.
He stammers, “I . . . I’m worried my heightened mental and emotional state won’t recover from this moment. I might explode if kept like this too long.” I feel my cheeks heat. I look down at Grover’s shorts. He grabs my chin and shakes his head. “For once I’m not talking about that,” he says.
“That’s a relief.” I smile.
“If I did explode, would you put me back together?”
I take the apple from Grover’s hand and inspect it. It’s not without fault. A brown bruise sits on the skin.
“I prefer you broken.” I bite into the bruise on the apple and swallow it down. Then I toss it into Lake Kimball. It doesn’t sink and I can’t help but giggle.
Apples float.
Grover and I make it back to the Circle of Hope just as Kerry gathers all the campers around him. Grover squeezes my hand one time before letting me go.
Madison exhales a dramatic breath. “You made it back.”
“I did.”
“And everything’s all right?” she asks.
“No.” I smile. “Everything will never be all right. But maybe that’s the point.”
Madison smiles and nods. “Maybe.”
Just then, Cassie sidles up next to me.
“Blah, blah, blah, she’s fine, Mads. Go take a Xanax.” Cassie pulls me away, her nails digging into my arms. “Aren’t you going to ask me if I’m okay?”
“No. I know you’re not okay,” I say.
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Cassie says.
“Why not?” I ask. Cassie starts pacing in front of me, her eyes focused hard on the ground. I watch her closely. “Cassie, what is it?”
“I’m sick of being red. I want yellow.”
“What?”
“Didn’t you hear me?” Cassie gets in my face. Her eyes lock on mine. “I’m sick of being red. I want yellow. I need to retake my swim test.”
My worry melts away as a large smile pulls my cheeks high on my face. I touch my lips and remember how Grover felt.
“Yes,” I say. “You do.”
CHAPTER 23
Chère Cassie,
Je t’aime.
Cordialement,
Alex Trebek
At breakfast the next morning, Cassie tells Madison that she wants a retest. She even follows all the rules of her punishment, sitting at the counselors’ table without any dramatics or arguments.
“Please,” Cassie asks, a fake wide grin on her face, and Madison agrees.
I go through the line, grabbing an extra piece of toast, and bring it over to Cassie.
“Are you trying to make me look like Bek?” she asks.
“Eat it. You need it.”
Cassie groans. “It better not have butter on it.”
“Trust me. I know you better than you think.”
She narrows her eyes and wipes her finger across the dry bread.
I shrug at her before walking away, then watch her from across the mess hall to make sure she takes at least a few bites. She does. She doesn’t eat the whole thing, but she eats some, which is better than where she started.
After breakfast, I stay in the mess hall to decorate our papier-mâché masks. Hayes sets out paint and gives us what he calls an “intention” for the activity.
“Let the world know who you are today. For today is all we have. Yesterday is gone and tomorrow may never happen.”
Grover puts his finger up in the air. “Technically, this moment is all we have if you really
think about it. And then it’s gone. Isn’t it weird that everything that’s coming out of my mouth is going directly into the past? Like just a few seconds ago when I said, ‘technically this moment is all we have.’ That is a memory now. And that is a memory now. And that is a memory now.”
“Yes.” Hayes seems to falter in his evenness.
Grover points at him. “You saying that is now a memory! So what you really want us to do is paint who we are presently, knowing that it will be who we were in the past the second it’s actually there.”
“Yes.” Hayes drags out the word like he’s not sure what is really going on. I nudge Grover in the side.
“Got it. Geez. I’m gonna need to think about this.”
“I think you think too much,” Hayes says.
“I think you’re probably right about me thinking too much. But if all of life turns into a memory the moment after it happens, all we really have are our thoughts. And mine have a possible impending expiration date, so I better use them while I can. Don’t you think?”
“Sure.” Hayes now looks totally confused. Satisfaction spreads on Grover’s face. “Let’s get started.”
“Let’s make some memories!” Grover yells.
But I’m too distracted thinking about Cassie and Grover’s lips and the fact that who we are at this moment is not who we will be. I don’t want to waste time wondering who I am. I just want to be.
When Hayes asks us all to show our completed masks to the group, mine is blank.
“Interesting choice, Durga, and quite poetic,” he says.
“Genius,” Grover counters. His mask is a replica of Abraham Lincoln, top hat and all. “No one knows what Grover Cleveland looks like, so I went with the popular president, but you get it.”
The Odds of Loving Grover Cleveland Page 15
