She wipes her hands across her cheeks and takes a deep breath. She’s about to say something, but the timer Booker set on my watch starts beeping and panic crosses her face. “You better go, Caleb. And you can’t tell anybody you saw me crying.”
“It’s a deal,” I say, standing. “As long as you don’t tell anybody that Booker swam the length of the lake twice today.”
I see her smile before I turn and take off running.
* * *
Lucy,age 14
“You have to wear that dress, Lucy. The white top makes your boobs look bigger, and the black skirt makes your butt look smaller.”
In my head, I know that my friend Alyssa thinks she’s giving me a compliment, or is, at the very least, being helpful. It’s August, and we’re all primping in preparation for the end-of-summer dance. Sometime in the last year or two, all the girls I know have become obsessed with two things: bodies and boys.
Me? Not so much. I have more important things to do with my time than worry about the size of my behind. And boys? Well, the ones on TV are pretty fine, but the ones I know in real life? They’re just…meh.
With one notable exception that I will take to my grave.
Caleb Whitman.
He’s gorgeous. Hotter than any guy at my private high school. Hotter than any guy I’ve ever seen in person. He smiles, and girls faint. I’ve seen it happen.
And honestly, that’s kind of crappy. Because last year, those fangirls were calling him Chubs behind his back. And, objectively, we can all agree that the last year has been kind to Caleb Whitman. He grew a couple inches and obviously got a set of free weights for Christmas or something. So, yeah, he slimmed down and shot up. But in my opinion, he was just as cute last year.
But like I said, I’m never revealing that secret to anyone. I won’t even write it in my diary for fear that I could die in a horrible accident and then someone could stumble upon written evidence of my secret crush.
Though, honestly, I’m not sure anyone would believe me. Caleb and I aren’t friends, not really. Sure, we hang with a lot of the same people, and we see each other almost every day here at camp. But when we’re in a room together, we’re usually arguing. We don’t go together. We’re orange juice and toothpaste. Toasters and bathtubs.
I said he was hot. I never said he had the sense God gave a goose.
And not only does he do stupid stuff like steal veggies from the fridge just to shoot them off like rockets and watch them explode in mid-air, but he also does his very best to get on my last nerve.
He shortens my name to Luce, even though I’ve repeatedly asked him not to. And it’s only two syllables! Who needs to shorten a name that’s already short?
And he sticks his nose where it doesn’t belong. There are more campers here this summer than ever before. I guess the wealthy upper crust of the greater Maryland area all got sick of their offspring and decided sending them away to summer camp was the perfect solution. Anyway, getting into the dining hall and through the line in a timely manner is nearly impossible. And that messed with the afternoon schedule. And if there’s anything I hate, it’s a messed-up schedule.
So, I made a color-coded schematic. It was genius, if I do say so. I just organized meal-time waves by cabin that would have had things running smoothly. I gave it to Greta, our counselor, and she thought it was brilliant.
But before Greta could tell the camp directors, Caleb had the problem taken care of. His solution? He set up a freaking grill on the deck of his cabin and started having cookouts three times a week.
Who does that?
My crush. My crush does that.
I console myself with the reality that tonight is my last night at camp. By this time tomorrow, I’ll be back in the condo I share with dad, gearing up to start my freshman year of high school.
But for now, I’m putting on high heels, letting Alyssa do my makeup, and thinking about how cute Caleb will look all dressed up.
* * *
Whit,age 14
Lucy Alvarez is beautiful.
That was true last year, and it’s still true. It’ll probably always be true. Someday, when we’re like, ninety-four or something, we’ll probably end up in the same nursing home. I have no doubt she’ll be the prettiest lady there, too.
And she’ll probably still hate my guts.
I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s not a lot I can do about that. I just piss her off. Without even trying. But I have that effect on a lot of people. My teachers, for example…
