The Winter Lodge by Susan Wiggs

knew for a fact that this camp cost an arm and a leg, which his family could easily afford. Not Joey’s, though. He was going to camp on scholarship, which meant Rourke’s father was secretly picking up the tab.
    Not out of the goodness of his heart, though. Rourke’s father was completely paranoid. That was what Rourke figured, anyway. The guy was freaked. He was sending Joey to camp so Rourke wouldn’t be alone among strangers. In a way, worrying about attacks on his family probably made the senator feel important. And that was what Drayton McKnight was all about—feeling important.
    That, and being perfect. No, thought Rourke. Looking perfect. Looking like you had the perfect family and the perfect life. “Make me proud” was the phrase Rourke heard most often from his father. It was a sort of code. By now, Rourke had figured that out. It meant he had to win at every sport he played. Get straight A’s in school. Learn to use his looks and confident smile to win people over so they would vote for his father each election year.
    All that stuff, it was so easy. He was big and strong and had no problem conquering any sport he tackled. And getting good grades? All you really had to do was listen to what the teacher said and figure out what he wanted you to say back to him. Rourke was a politician’s son. He knew how to do that.
    He couldn’t wait to get to Camp Kioga, where nobody cared what his grades were. He pinched the inside of his lip between his teeth to keep from smiling.
    “Your hair is too long,” his father said suddenly. “Julia, why didn’t he get a haircut before we let him run wild all summer?”
    Rourke didn’t move. This was a crucial moment. On a whim, his father might decide they needed to head right back uptown, to the ancient barbershop where electric clippers were used to buzz white sidewalls around the ears of hapless boys.
    He kept staring out the window. Raindrops raced backward across the glass, the silver tracks like streams of mercury. He spotted two of them that were neck and neck, and picked one as the winner, tensing as it pulled ahead and then fell back. Finally, the raindrop merged with the others and he lost track.
    “He did have a haircut,” Rourke’s mother said. She was using her soothing, reassuring voice. The one she used when she didn’t want Rourke’s dad to get upset. “It’s the same cut he always gets.”
    “He looks like a girl,” the senator remarked. He leaned forward, closer to Rourke. “You want to spend the summer looking like a girl?”
    “No, sir.” Rourke kept staring at the rain-smeared window. He held his breath, praying his dad wouldn’t order the driver to turn uptown.
    “It’s fine, really,” Rourke’s mother said.
    Way to tell him, Mom, Rourke thought cynically. Way to stand up to the bastard.
    “Mildred Van Deusen told me all three of her boys will be on the same train,” his mother continued. “Rourke, you ought to see if you can find them. Maybe you can sit with them.”
    Bingo, Rourke thought, watching his father’s interest shift. Rourke had to hand it to his mom. She might not be any good at standing up to his dad, but she sure as heck knew about diversionary tactics.
    The Van Deusens were one of the richest, most important families in the district, and anytime Rourke’s dad saw a chance to connect with them, he jumped on it.
    “I’ll be sure to look for them,” Rourke said.
    “You do that, son,” his dad said, apparently forgetting about the haircut.
    “Yes, sir.”
    And then, thank God, they arrived at Grand Central. There was a mad shuffle as they got his backpack and duffel bag out of the trunk and made sure he had his ticket and travel documents. The honking of taxi horns and whistles and shouts of porters filled the air. The marble archway opened to a salon that swarmed with travelers and panhandlers, vendors and performers. Mr. Santini came around with an umbrella, sheltering the three McKnights from the rain. Joey