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“Oh, and I’m in Delta Tau Kappa,” he adds. I’ve never even considered joining a sorority and it seems like everyone here does that kind of stuff. On weekends they probably throw raging keggers and underwear parties. I’ve seen stuff like that on TV.
Nearly everyone is older than me and is a returning counselor. Parker, Will, and I are the only new hires. Most people are dressed in shorts and tees, but this one guy is dressed in camo pants and big brown hiking boots. Eric (“I refuse to play the animal introduction game”) wears a Braves cap, chews gum, and is twenty-one and a senior at Auburn. He doesn’t laugh along with everybody else and he rolls his eyes when anyone mentions a frat. He seems very into the whole Camping Experience because he keeps bringing up fly-fishing and trailblazing.
“It’s great to meet everyone,” Megan says. “Let me go over our schedule for the next two days. Tonight we’re going to focus on ethics and Bible studies we’ll do with the campers, but tomorrow and Sunday we’ll do a run-through of a week at camp. We’ll grill out and we’ll go swimming, canoeing, kayaking, and creek stomping. I encourage you all to get to know each other. Each week you’ll be paired with a new counselor of the opposite sex. Our groups of campers consist of twenty boys and girls, and your cabins will be side-by-side. You and your co-counselor are responsible for your group all hours of the day, except for during activities, when campers rotate among us. ”
I wrap my arms around my leg and drop my chin onto my knee. Thinking of children reminds me of Emily’s baby and what I did. I shut my eyes.
Megan tells us who our partners are for week one. Parker pouts when she hears she’s been paired with über camper Eric while Will’s paired with Andrea. Matt’s with Catfish Carlie and I’m matched with Bumblebee Brad.
He lifts his chin and winks at me. Not in a creepy way, but in a friendly way. I decide I like Bumblebee Brad.
“One last thing,” Megan says, twirling her whistle like she’s doing nunchucks. I’m afraid she’ll put somebody’s eye out. “Everyone gets weekends off. But no one is allowed to be here over the weekend—it’s a liability for the regional conference. As some of you know, we had to fire two counselors who broke this rule last year. ”
We take a break before our camp tour and our first session: “A Practical Introduction to Sharing God’s Love with Young People. ”
I dart away from Great Oak before I have to speak to anyone. I go to my Volvo, to grab my sketchpad and pencils and to check my cell, and surprisingly, I don’t have any missed calls. I can’t believe my parents haven’t called a bazillion times already. And Emily usually calls me once a day, but I haven’t been answering.
Not since our fight.
I angle my phone toward the sky. I don’t seem to be getting any reception here. Not even one bar. I should be using this time to talk to God about everything anyway. And I’m glad I don’t have to feel guilty about not picking up Emily’s calls.
I drop the cell into my car’s cup holder, stealing a deep breath. I take in the purple and pink sunset. This isn’t bad so far—I mean, besides the fact most of these counselors seem obsessed with their fraternities. I noticed Andrea playing with her necklace made of Greek letters, and the Jeep parked next to me has a “Greek for Life” Delta Tau Kappa bumper sticker and no doors (must be Matt’s).
He drives a Jeep with no doors?
I lean my head against my steering wheel and pray and hope and think about the sign. The sign I desperately need.
Without Emily, without soccer, and without my relationship with God, who am I anymore? Can you forgive me? I pray.
Can I forgive myself?
The memory of the fight floods my mind and won’t go away. I clutch my steering wheel.
Three weeks ago, I let myself into Emily’s room to find her sitting at her desk, mascara and tears staining her cheeks. I hugged her and helped her to the bed.
“Mom found the paperwork,” she whispered. “She found the paperwork from the women’s center in my backpack. ”
I rubbed my face. Told my heart to stop pounding. “And?”
“She and Dad asked me to move out. They’re beyond pissed. ”
“They want you to move out now?” I exclaimed. “We graduate in three days!”
“After I graduate. ” She pointed at an ad for a studio apartment on her laptop screen. “I guess I won’t work at camp. I’ll go to Nashville early so I can make more money. It’s only three months until college starts. ” Even if she didn’t have her parents’ support anymore, at least she had her scholarship.
I clutched the bedspread, not looking directly at her. Her parents kicking her out didn’t surprise me. They’re all about appearances. They’re the type of people who wear fancy clothes so people will think they’re rich, but behind the scenes they’re drowning in debt. Having a daughter pregnant out of wedlock would make them gossip fodder for our entire church.
“You can move in with us if you need to,” I said.
She nodded and the tears flowed down her cheeks again. I hugged Emily for the longest time. Then I chewed on my thumbnail.
“Stop biting your nail,” she said. Since she had come back from her symphony camp in D. C. last summer, she’d been bossy. I took my thumb out of my mouth.
“Can we pray together?” I asked quietly.
“Why?” Her eyebrows furrowed.
“I need to. ”
Several heartbeats went by before she said quietly, “I can’t pray with you anymore. ”
“Why?”
“I’ve told you. I don’t buy it. Any of it. ”
I leaned over onto my knees. I didn’t understand what she was saying. All I knew was that I needed my friend and I needed to pray.
“For me?” I asked. “Please. ”
“I don’t get why you need to pray. Nothing happened to you. ” She folded her arms across her stomach and hunched over.
It didn’t just happen to her. It happened because she decided to sleep with Jacob. “That’s not true,” I said. “I sinned. I sinned to help you—”
She sniffled. “You didn’t sin. ”
Why couldn’t she understand that I’d shoved aside everything I believe in, everything at the core of who I am, to help her? By taking her to the women’s center, by holding her hand while the doctor spoke to her, I gave up who I am. I gave up the relationship I had with God and openly defied Him to help her. I sat in the exam room while it happened.
I told her all of that.
Her face went red and her eyes glossed over.
“I’m just asking you to pray with me,” I said. “Please. ”
“You’re being a judgmental bitch,” she replied, wiping a tear off her cheek. Her eyes popped open, as if she couldn’t believe what she’d just said.
I couldn’t believe it either.
Pain crushed my chest. I stood up from her bed and wiped my hands on my jeans. “I just…needed to pray. ” I barely got the words out before I started crying.
She jumped up, knocking a pillow to the rug, reaching out a hand to me. “Kate—I’m sorry—”
Without saying anything, I left her house and haven’t picked up a call from her since. Not because I don’t miss her, because I do, but because I lost part of myself that day and I don’t want to lose even more.
I pray for the sign; I want Him to tell me that what I did, helping to end a baby’s life, is okay. Because everything within me says it’s not. If I hadn’t taken her to the center, maybe she would’ve changed her mind about aborting the baby. Maybe her parents wouldn’t have freaked out on her.
I have a billion what-ifs and no way forward.
I pray to God, telling Him I want my Emily back. Because without her, and without knowing what I’m supposed to do next, life kind of feels like french fries without the salt.
Here in the now, something smashes into the driver’s side window, rattling it. I jump, hitting my head on the car’s ceiling.
“Ow!
” I rub the top of my head.
I climb out, carrying my sketchbook and pencils. Matt hustles up to retrieve a basketball bouncing beside my car’s front left tire.
He’s not wearing a shirt, and seeing his muscles nearly makes my heart stop. Then his blue eyes and tan biceps are right in front of me.
“Sorry about that,” he says, smiling down at me. He has a dimple in his chin.
He should be a bicep model. Is there such a thing as a bicep model? Like hand models who model watches and rings? I guess a bicep model would show off tattoos.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” I say, touching my head.
He tosses the basketball up and down. “I wanted to ask…do I know you?”
“You look so familiar—”
“Did you go to camp here when you were little?”
“Yeah. ”
He grins and looks around. “Are you King Crab Kate?”
I cover my mouth with a hand. “Oh my gosh—you’re Miniature Poodle Matt!”
He drops the ball, rushes forward, and hugs me. His arms and chest are all sweaty, but I hug him back.
“I totally won our cannonball contest,” I say. “I beat you so bad. ”
“Sure, keep telling yourself that,” he says, releasing me. We fought about that contest for days.
“You shared your ice cream with me. ” I smile.
“I took you to the Thursday Night Dance!”
I touch my mouth, remembering how he pulled me behind the art pavilion and quickly pecked my lips. He looks at my face and I know he remembers.
“You were my first kiss,” he says, pointing at me.
And my only, I think.
Now we’re both laughing.
“Matt!” Brad calls out. “Can we get the ball back?”
After he hurls the ball back into Brad’s hands, Matt picks up his black T-shirt from the asphalt and slips it over his head, then gestures toward the path. We fall into step with each other and stroll down the trail.
“Why aren’t you wearing shoes?” I ask.
He looks down at his filthy feet. “Cutting to the chase, eh?”
“Yep. ”
“A few years ago? I got into marathoning. I’ve done seven. ”
“You’ve run seven marathons?” I exclaim.
“I want to try to run the Chicago marathon barefoot. ”
“Barefoot. ”
“Why not?”
“Sounds cool. Maybe after that you could run a marathon dressed up as Miss Piggy or Elvis or something. ”
He stops walking and a smile spreads across his face. “Or I could run the marathon dressed as Miss Piggy. Barefoot. ”
“Pigs have hooves, not feet. ”
“Now you’re getting too complicated for me. I can’t run a marathon in hooves. ”
We’ve paused next to this big fat cedar tree, smiling at each other. He peels bark away from the tree’s trunk, catching my eye. I can’t believe this is the Matt I knew when I was eleven. He’s changed so much. The quiet, skinny boy I knew wore glasses and had a comb-over. Always had a Hardy Boys book in his hand. Shy. He rarely smiled. But I remember how he smiled at me.