Neon T-shirt guy and one of his friends come over to me, panting. “Nice race,” he says. “I knew if I gave you a hard time it would light a fire under you.”
“As if,” I retort.
He grins and extends his hand. “I’m Jake.”
I shake it. “Cassidy.”
“This is Chase,” he says, pointing to his friend. “We’re working at Pinewood this summer.”
“So I gathered.” I’m not giving either of them any encouragement.
“I guess we’ll see you at the beach party later?”
I nod politely, and they head off toward the Pinewood buses.
Sergeant Marge marches over, brandishing her clipboard. “Where are your campers?” she demands. “You’re supposed to be with them at all times.”
Over her shoulder, I see my trio trot across the finish line together. “Do you mean these ones?” I ask innocently, slapping them each a high five. “Way to go, ladies!”
Sergeant Marge shoots me a look as she checks off their names. “Nobody likes a smart aleck, sport.”
After the rest of our teammates cross the finish line, we all head over to the General Store to collect our hard-earned ice cream cones. The bus ride back to camp nearly deafens me, thanks to the boisterous, nonstop songs. What is it with Camp Lovejoy and singing?
Back at camp, I hit the showers, then head to the Dining Hall.
“I’m starving,” I tell Jess, who’s on the porch steps handing out bag lunches. I grab one and peer inside. Ethel and Thelma must have their hands full getting ready for the big barbecue later today, because the contents are pretty low-tech: PB&J, an apple, and an oatmeal cookie.
“You’re always starving,” Jess replies, sneaking me a second bag. “Bug juice is down at the water ski beach.”
“Bug juice” is camp’s all-purpose term for drinks: fruit juice, punch, soda, and lemonade.
I saunter down to the lake, where I find Jess and our campers sitting on beach towels with Megan and Becca and the girls from Balsam.
“Nice race,” says Becca.
“Thanks! It was fun.”
There’s a burst of hilarity from the towels over near the kayaks. We all look over to see a group of older campers laughing hysterically about something. With Camp Pinewood due here shortly, the giggles and whispers that started a few days ago have reached a crescendo. I suspect that some contraband mirrors are floating around too, because the girls on the Hill are looking a lot spiffier than usual, and there have been some lip gloss and mascara sightings.
Boys can do that to you.
It even happens to me now and then. Not very often, though, because in my opinion there are very few guys worth busting out the lip gloss for. Neon T-shirt guy, for example, is not lip gloss–worthy.
“So do you still think you’ll be able to stop by the bookstore tomorrow on your day off?” asks Jess, handing Freddie a wet wipe. Freddie is our messy camper. She ends up with food on her somewhere after every meal. Today it’s peanut butter on her nose.
“Yep,” I reply. “No problem.”
When Jess rounded us up the other night, all excited about a homesickness cure, it didn’t take long for the mother-daughter book club to get on board. We know a great plan when we hear one.
The only fly in the ointment is Felicia, who’s dead set against the whole thing.
“A camper-counselor book club? That’s a stupid idea,” she’d said when we invited her to join us.
Jess thinks it’s because Felicia was never in a book club herself, and she’s always been a little jealous of ours and how close we are because of it. Emma says it’s because Felicia thinks the books we read are beneath her mighty intellect. “If we were reading Dostoevsky or something,” she told us afterward, “she’d be all over it.”
Whatever Felicia’s reasons, we decided we’re going to go ahead with our plan anyway.
“Do you think we should invite some of the other cabins?” Emma wanted to know.
Jess shook her head vigorously. “Nope. Let’s just keep it to Nest, Balsam, and Twin Pines. It’s more special that way, plus our cabins are the ones most in need of a homesickness cure.”
This made sense, and we all agreed to keep the book club a secret from our campers until the first meeting. Our next step was picking something to read. Emma said she knew the perfect book, of course—she’s read just about every book on the planet—and the next day she called the local bookstore to place our order. We’re all chipping in to pay for them, as a gift to our campers.
“Attention please!” It’s Sergeant Marge, marching up and down the beach, armed with her bullhorn once again. “Finish up and clean up, ladies! The buses from Pinewood will be arriving here approximately one hour from now.”
Judging by the squeals from the older campers, you’d think she just announced that we’d be eating nothing but dessert for the rest of the summer. Of course, the youngest campers start to squeal too, even though they don’t quite get the whole boy thing yet. They worship the girls on the Hill, though, and follow them around camp like puppies.
Rest hour is impossible. Jess and I try to get our girls to settle down, but they’re way too excited. Not that I don’t feel a little excited myself—not about the soon-to-be arriving boys, but about the fireworks. Who doesn’t like a good old-fashioned Fourth of July?
Which starts with a song, of course:
You’re a grand old flag, you’re a high-flying flag
And forever in peace may you wave.
You’re the emblem of the land I love.
The home of the free and the brave.
Jess’s Camp Chorale greets the Pinewood buses as they arrive, bursting into song on cue as the boys clamber off. I sidle up next to Becca as they reach the finale:
Ev’ry heart beats true ’neath the Red, White and Blue,
Where there’s never a boast or brag.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
Keep your eye on the grand old flag.
“Hey, Old Glory!” I whisper slyly, slipping my arm around her shoulders.
She shrugs it off. “Don’t start with me!” she warns, but she’s smiling.
I love to push Becca’s buttons. Years ago, way back when we were in seventh grade, the mother-daughter book club put on a fashion show to help raise money for the taxes on Jess’s family farm. Becca was in her snotty stage back then, and we teased her mercilessly about this one red, white, and blue outfit she had to model. Just to give her a taste of her own medicine, of course.
As soon as the boys are off the buses, Sergeant Marge and the head counselor from Pinewood hustle us all up the road to Upper Meadow, where they have a whole lineup of games planned. We cheer our campers on for the sack race, and the egg-on-a-spoon race, and the tug-of-war. The best one is the cracker whistling contest, which is hilarious because the littlest campers are so serious, stuffing their mouths full of salty crackers and then puckering up all determined to win, and of course they can’t keep their faces straight because we’re all hooting and hollering, trying to distract them and make them laugh. Tara Lindgren, who cries at the drop of a hat, is so frustrated she bursts into tears right on cue. Emma is ready with a tissue, though. She’s gone through a lot of tissues since camp started, comforting her campers.
Finally, it’s time for the three-legged race, which is a free-for-all for everyone in both camps, including the cabin counselors, who are teamed up in pairs.
“On your marks!” calls the head counselor, and Jess and I hop over to join the other counselors at the starting line. The two of us are so poorly matched it’s ridiculous—Jess is just a whisker over five feet tall, and I tower over her at six feet—and we get to laughing so hard as the race starts that we fall down after just a couple of ungainly steps.
“Nice form, Cassidy!” calls a male voice, and I turn to see neon T-shirt guy—what was his name? Jack? Jake?—trot by in perfect sync with another Pinewood counselor. He’s not wearing his neon T-shirt anymore, of course. He’
s in a regulation gray Pinewood polo. He gives me a brisk salute as he passes us.
Pretty much everybody else passes us too as I struggle to scramble to my feet and drag a still-laughing Jess across the finish line.
After the games are finished, we all head back down the hill to the lake for open swim, and then it’s time for the barbecue.
“One of each, please,” I tell Artie, who’s manning the grill, and he obligingly serves me up a hamburger and a hot dog.
“Growing girls need food to grow on,” he replies with a wink.
I really like Gwen’s husband.
I pile a huge helping of Ethel and Thelma’s homemade potato salad onto my plate, add an ear of corn, a piece of watermelon, some baked beans, and top it all off with a bag of chips. Grabbing some bug juice, I go to look for a seat.
“Over here!”
It’s neon T-shirt guy again.
I ignore him, and shading my eyes I search for Jess and our girls. They’re crammed in around one of the picnic tables, and Jess waves me away with an I’ve got it covered gesture. I shrug, heading reluctantly to the Pinewood table instead.
“Hey, guys,” I say, taking a seat on the bench.
“Hey, Cassidy,” Jake—or is it Jack?—replies. I feel kind of bad for forgetting his name, since he clearly remembers mine. “Chase and I would like to introduce you to our campers.”
Like Emma and Felicia, the two of them have the youngest cabin.
“You took a lot of food,” pipes up one little boy in glasses at the far end. He’s staring at my heaped-up plate.
“Yes I did,” I reply, keeping a straight face. “Growing girls need good food to grow on.”
He looks at me suspiciously. “You’re not still growing.”
Across the table, Jack/Jake is grinning at me again.
“You don’t think so?” I raise my eyebrows. “I was your height just a couple of months ago.”
He stares at me, and so do the rest of the little boys at the table, trying to figure out if I’m teasing them or not. They look so puzzled I finally have to laugh. “You’re right, I do eat a lot of food, but then I have to,” I explain. “Athletes need to keep their strength up. I’m playing hockey at Boston University this fall.”
“You don’t want to tangle with a Terrier, Jake,” says Chase, nudging his friend as he looks at me with new respect.
Jake. I file his name away for future reference.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Jake replies, smiling.
After dinner, I join my cabin again, and we loll around the waterfront, playing horseshoes and sand volleyball with Nest and Balsam and the younger campers from Pinewood while we wait for the fireworks.
Which is when I get even for the three-legged race.
I time it perfectly, too, waiting until everyone’s attention is riveted on the bursts of color in the sky. Then I grab the cooler full of slushy leftover ice and sneak up behind Jake and Chase.
“HAPPY FOURTH!” I bellow, sloshing the cooler’s contents over their heads.
They both let out gratifyingly high-pitched squeals of rage, and I sprint for cover. I barely manage to get away, and then only because I know the terrain and they don’t. I stay hidden behind the boathouse until the fireworks are over and it’s time for Pinewood to leave. Once the two of them are safely on one of the buses, I emerge to join the throng of girls waving good-bye.
“You’d better watch your back!” yells Jake, sticking his head out the window when he spots me.
I just laugh.
“We’ll even the score when you least expect it!” Chase promises.
I’m still laughing as the buses chug up the hill.
The next morning I’m awake early, excited about my day off. First, though, I swim over to Cherry Island and back with the Polar Bear Club—the campers and counselors who get up at 5:30 a.m. every Tuesday and Thursday to make the one-mile round-trip swim. It’s a good way to vary my workouts.
After breakfast, I sign out at the office, where I’m given my cell phone back for the day; then I hop in the minivan and head for Pumpkin Falls. The bookstore isn’t open yet, so I grab a couple of doughnuts from Lou’s Diner (completely canceling the benefits of my workout, but hey, it’s my day off), and wander over to hang out on one of the rocking chairs on the porch of the General Store. I have a zillion text messages waiting for me, and it takes me a while to sort through them. My heart skips a beat when I see that there’s one from Tristan.
IN CHICAGO. TIME 2 TALK?
Unfortunately, his message is from three days ago.
SORRY, I text back. JUST GOT THIS NOW. STILL IN U.S.?
I wait a bit, but there’s no reply. I try calling, but it goes straight to voice mail. He must either be on the ice or traveling. I can’t keep track of his competition schedule.
I think about calling my sister Courtney, but then I remember it’s, like, six a.m. in L.A., so I call my mother instead.
“Sweetie!” she cries when she hears my voice.
I smile. “Hey, Mom!”
We talk for a while—she’s wrapped up in wedding plans, of course, and fills me in on every little detail—and then I ask to say hi to my little sister.
“Miss me, Monkey Face?” I ask when she gets on the phone.
“I heard that!” says my mother in the background. She hates it when I call Chloe “Monkey Face.” Which is why I do it, of course.
“When are you coming home?” Chloe demands.
“Four more weeks,” I tell her. “Ask mom to show you on the calendar. But I’ll see you soon for Parents’ Weekend.”
I hear barking in the background, and then heavy panting on the phone, which Chloe is clearly holding up for our dog.
“Murphy wanted to say hi too,” my little sister says when she gets back on. “Do you miss him?”
“Not as much as I miss you,” I tell her.
“Do you want to talk to Murphy again?”
“I’d rather talk to you.” Chloe ignores me, of course. I hear more panting, so I try to coax a bark out of Murphy, which alarms an older gentleman sitting near me. He gets up and moves to a rocking chair farther down the porch. Despite my efforts, Murphy doesn’t bark back. He’s pretty ancient now, and almost completely deaf.
It’s close to ten by the time I get off the phone, so I head down Main Street to Lovejoy’s Books. The bell over the door rings as I enter, and a golden retriever who’s napping on a dog bed in front of the sales counter raises its head and glances over at me with idle curiosity.
“Hey, boy,” I say, squatting down to give him a pat. Despite what I told my sister, I really do miss Murphy.
“She’s a girl, actually,” says a voice from the other side of the counter. “Her name is Miss Marple.”
“Miss Marple like in the Agatha Christie mysteries?”
“Got it in one,” the voice replies, and I straighten up to see a tall woman—as tall as me if not a little taller, in fact—smiling at me.
“My stepfather is a big Agatha Christie fan,” I tell her, smiling back.
I try not to stare as she steps out from behind the counter. She’s dressed kind of like a cross between Mrs. Wong and Mrs. Chadwick back in her “it’s a whole new me” phase. A few years ago, Becca’s mother had a midlife crisis and underwent a transformation, egged on by Megan’s friend Wolfgang, the fashion editor of Flash magazine. Mrs. Chadwick cut her hair in this spiky style and started wearing bizarre clothing in superbright colors and loud animal prints. Becca was mortified, of course, but the rest of us thought it was hilarious.
The bookstore lady is decked out in orange leggings, earthy-crunchy sandals, orange-and-white striped socks, and a loose, flowing white top and beads. Lots of beads.
“How can I help you?” she asks.
“I’m here to pick up an order for Emma Hawthorne,” I tell her.
Her eyebrows shoot up. “So you’re the one who ordered two dozen copies of Understood Betsy?”
“Sort of. Emma’s actually the one who
ordered them—I’m just her friend. We’re counselors together at Camp Lovejoy.”
The woman’s face lights up. “That’s where my nieces are spending the summer! Do you know Lauren and Pippa Lovejoy?”
“Sure. Pippa’s in Nest—she’s one of Emma’s campers.”
“Well then, you’re practically family! And seeing how that’s the case,” she continues briskly, going back behind the counter, “I’m prepared to offer you the special family discount.” She rings up our order, which ends up being almost twenty dollars less than we’d calculated.
“Hey, thanks,” I tell her as she slides a box of books across the counter.
“Why so many copies, may I ask?”
I explain about our mother-daughter book club at home, the plague of homesickness at camp, and Jess’s brainstorm about starting a book club with our campers to try to tame it.
“Splendid idea!” says the bookseller when I’m done. “Nothing beats bibliotherapy.” Seeing my puzzled expression, she adds, “Book therapy.”
“Right.”
“I’m sure the girls will love reading Understood Betsy—it was one of my favorites when I was growing up. Have you read it?”
I shake my head.
“You’re in for a treat. Speaking of which, how would you like to take yesterday’s leftover pumpkin whoopie pies back to your campers?”
“I never turn down food.”
She laughs. “A girl after my own heart. Hang on a sec while I get them.”
She disappears into the back office, reappearing shortly with a second box. “Here you go,” she says, stacking it on top of the first one. “They’re our signature treat.”
“Wow, thanks!”
“You’re welcome.” She sticks out her hand. “True Lovejoy.”
I shake it. “Cassidy Sloane.”
“Hope to see you in here again, Cassidy Sloane.”