thought, Dumb jock . Then I felt guilty for thinking it. Then I felt turned on. Then I sucked air and words into my chest. And when I opened my mouth, I said, “I like that idea. Ribs and beer. Melrose. Pick any night when I’m off duty.”
My heart pounded like wild fists, but Bennett just yawned and stretched his arms. “I forgot I even said that,” he said. “I must be tired.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, we don’t have to.”
Bennett laughed. “You want ribs? Who am I to deny Miss Angeline?” He stood. Stretched. Gave my ponytail a noncommittal tug. Then he jogged down the steps and vanished.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The second Saturday of camp, the youngest girls decorated the cafeteria for the social (Lewis’s Camp-ese for “dance”). Before it began, Miss sat against the wall in our hallway in the dorm, wearing jogging shorts and a T-shirt, complaining, “This is going to be so gay ,” as everyone else walked around in towels, borrowing one another’s clothes, battling the humidity with blow dryers. Whitney had her music cranked up, and Eden was dancing in the hallway, piling her hair up on top of her head, letting it fall as she twitched her hips. When no one joined her, she danced to the bathroom to shower.
I was sitting outside of Eden’s room, pretending to do something important with my cell phone.
“So gay,” Miss went on. “So retarded. Who are you all dressing up for anyway? There’s no one hot at this whole camp, except Bennett, and he’s, like, a dad.”
Spider slid down the wall across from her, wearing a mustache of white foam.
“You’re bleaching your mustache ?” Miss said.
Spider pointed to it, and then said something in sign language.
Whitney came out into the hall wearing skintight jeans and a hot pink tube top. “Maybe you should wear a North Carolina State bikini,” Whitney said, nudging Miss’s arm with her foot. “Brendan would get such a trombone in his pants.”
When Whitney and Miss began to giggle, Spider, across from them, waved her hands frantically, pointing to her mustache bleach. Finally, unable to contain herself, she jumped to her feet and ran.
From inside the bathroom, she roared, “Trombone!” and exploded into laughter. “Whitney! You made my bleach fall off!”
Harriet stepped into the hallway wearing a black turtleneck dress.
“You’re going to sweat to death,” I told her.
“No, I won’t.”
I returned to my phone, pretending not to notice Eden walking out of the bathroom in her towel and flip-flops, another towel twisted around her wet hair.
“Harriet, are you going to a funeral?” Miss asked.
“No.”
“I see. Are you a ninja?”
Harriet pulled her turtleneck over her mouth and nose, and then headed back to her room.
“Sorry. I mean, are you a mime? No. I didn’t mean that. Are you a stagehand? Are you going to change the set between acts in the dark?”
Whitney snorted, but her laughter stopped abruptly when Eden pointed to her and said, “I was totally going to wear jeans, too.”
Whitney sighed and leaned against the wall, a brown roll of fat inflating like an inner tube between the button of her jeans and the bottom of her cropped shirt. “Of course you were.”
“I’m obsessed with jeans,” Eden said.
“Congratulations,” Miss said. “You just won the Most Retarded Sentence of the Week Award.” She stood and whispered something into Whitney’s ear, and Eden watched for a second, blinking rapidly, and then wandered into her room.
From the bathroom, Spider called, “Don’t say ‘retarded.’ It’s insensitive.”
“I can say whatever I want,” Miss called.
“It’s a free country,” Whitney said.
I stood, facing Miss. “You don’t have to be mean.”
“Who was mean? I’m not mean.”
“Harriet looks pretty,” I said.
“She’s gorgeous,” Miss said, yawning. “I must be jealous.”
“You didn’t have to make Eden feel bad.”
“Eden jacks my style!” Whitney said. “She tries to
My heart pounded like wild fists, but Bennett just yawned and stretched his arms. “I forgot I even said that,” he said. “I must be tired.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, we don’t have to.”
Bennett laughed. “You want ribs? Who am I to deny Miss Angeline?” He stood. Stretched. Gave my ponytail a noncommittal tug. Then he jogged down the steps and vanished.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The second Saturday of camp, the youngest girls decorated the cafeteria for the social (Lewis’s Camp-ese for “dance”). Before it began, Miss sat against the wall in our hallway in the dorm, wearing jogging shorts and a T-shirt, complaining, “This is going to be so gay ,” as everyone else walked around in towels, borrowing one another’s clothes, battling the humidity with blow dryers. Whitney had her music cranked up, and Eden was dancing in the hallway, piling her hair up on top of her head, letting it fall as she twitched her hips. When no one joined her, she danced to the bathroom to shower.
I was sitting outside of Eden’s room, pretending to do something important with my cell phone.
“So gay,” Miss went on. “So retarded. Who are you all dressing up for anyway? There’s no one hot at this whole camp, except Bennett, and he’s, like, a dad.”
Spider slid down the wall across from her, wearing a mustache of white foam.
“You’re bleaching your mustache ?” Miss said.
Spider pointed to it, and then said something in sign language.
Whitney came out into the hall wearing skintight jeans and a hot pink tube top. “Maybe you should wear a North Carolina State bikini,” Whitney said, nudging Miss’s arm with her foot. “Brendan would get such a trombone in his pants.”
When Whitney and Miss began to giggle, Spider, across from them, waved her hands frantically, pointing to her mustache bleach. Finally, unable to contain herself, she jumped to her feet and ran.
From inside the bathroom, she roared, “Trombone!” and exploded into laughter. “Whitney! You made my bleach fall off!”
Harriet stepped into the hallway wearing a black turtleneck dress.
“You’re going to sweat to death,” I told her.
“No, I won’t.”
I returned to my phone, pretending not to notice Eden walking out of the bathroom in her towel and flip-flops, another towel twisted around her wet hair.
“Harriet, are you going to a funeral?” Miss asked.
“No.”
“I see. Are you a ninja?”
Harriet pulled her turtleneck over her mouth and nose, and then headed back to her room.
“Sorry. I mean, are you a mime? No. I didn’t mean that. Are you a stagehand? Are you going to change the set between acts in the dark?”
Whitney snorted, but her laughter stopped abruptly when Eden pointed to her and said, “I was totally going to wear jeans, too.”
Whitney sighed and leaned against the wall, a brown roll of fat inflating like an inner tube between the button of her jeans and the bottom of her cropped shirt. “Of course you were.”
“I’m obsessed with jeans,” Eden said.
“Congratulations,” Miss said. “You just won the Most Retarded Sentence of the Week Award.” She stood and whispered something into Whitney’s ear, and Eden watched for a second, blinking rapidly, and then wandered into her room.
From the bathroom, Spider called, “Don’t say ‘retarded.’ It’s insensitive.”
“I can say whatever I want,” Miss called.
“It’s a free country,” Whitney said.
I stood, facing Miss. “You don’t have to be mean.”
“Who was mean? I’m not mean.”
“Harriet looks pretty,” I said.
“She’s gorgeous,” Miss said, yawning. “I must be jealous.”
“You didn’t have to make Eden feel bad.”
“Eden jacks my style!” Whitney said. “She tries to
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