S'more of You (Summer Lovin' collection)(10)
Margot
It’s hard to be down when I’m surrounded by giggling.
I know from experience that a camp counselor’s mood can infect an entire cabin. My failed love affair with Dean is not the first romance to go south at Camp Firefly, after all, and it won’t be the last. My third year at camp, the Unicorn Cabin counselor—Remy D’Angelo—was so depressed over her ex-boyfriend that she read passages from The Bell Jar out loud to the campers every night. That was the summer we all became poets. We wrote sad poetry about everything from half-empty ketchup bottles to dead leaves. Stole Remy’s mentholated cigarettes and smoked them in the woods while talking about the apartment we’d all share in New York one day.
Trust me, I ate that drama up.
But I’m not about to let my sadness trickle down to the girls.
Not when they only have three weeks to make memories.
So I lace up my boots and dab a little concealer under my eyes to hide the fact that I cried buckets last night, and we sing a repeat-after-me song on the way to breakfast. It’s a beautiful summer day at Camp Firefly. The air smells like bug spray and sunscreen; the sun breaks through the gently swaying branches of the trees overhead. Birds call to one another across the campground. We’re scheduled to go canoeing this morning, followed by Pop Paint, an arts-and-crafts activity I made up two seasons ago that involves listening to pop music and applying body paint. It’s going to be messy.
Which is good. I need messy today.
I want to be distracted from the tear in my chest.
Every time I stop moving, I hear Dean said you’re a catastrophe waiting to happen.
That’s what he really thinks of me, isn’t it? All year long, I construct these fantasies about Dean secretly pining for me. Stalking me on social media too. Counting down the days until he sees me again.
Maybe he is counting the days until he sees me again, but only so he can beef up the camp’s liability insurance.
When we reach the entrance to the dining hall, I swallow hard, not sure how I even feel about seeing Dean on the other side of the door. Normally, the sight of him makes me interminably happy. Of course it does. He’s Dean. Grumbly, reluctantly amused, quietly humble Dean, with his pocket map and travel mug.
My heart tries to lift and beat faster at the mental image of him that I hold on to all year, but it’s too heavy, so it just gives a flat thud as I lead my cabin into the dining hall, Isabel bringing up the rear. My stride hitches as soon as I clear the threshold because there is a buzz of excitement in the big, airy hall. More than usual.
Campers are huddled around tables, pointing and conferring.
About what?
An electric current tickles the side of my face, and I turn my head to seek out Dean, something my body is conditioned to do, only to find him watching me with an expression I’ve never seen on his face before. At least not while he’s looking at me.
It’s . . . determination.
My pulse snaps into a jog, but I distract myself from that involuntary response and organize the girls at their assigned table, though some of them have already left to track down their breakfast at the back of the dining hall, where assorted cereals and hot plates are waiting to be pillaged.
Okay, Dean probably just wants to say he’s sorry for calling me a catastrophe.
I’ll accept his apology and move on. I’m not going to punish him for an opinion that is admittedly true, in a lot of respects, right?
“The rainbow is better than the horseshoe,” says one of the boys at the neighboring table, though he’s quickly overruled.
“The heart is perfect. It’s definitely number one.”
“This one is last place. You can’t even tell it’s a pot of gold.”
My back straightens. Are they ranking their Lucky Charms marshmallows?
Curiously, I scan the dining hall.
Every single table is doing the same thing. They all have big piles of Lucky Charms in front of their group, marshmallows separated from the boring stuff.
Oh. They’re . . . playing my ridiculous game.
The one I used to play with Dean when he needed a boost after his mom passed.
“Remember, we’re judging based on a well-defined shape and good color,” Dean calls over the cacophony of high-pitched voices. “Braiden, don’t eat them yet,” he says in an aside to a camper. Then, “Once you have your ranked lineup of the ten best marshmallows, each table needs to bring their number one pick to Margot. She’s the final judge. Cabin with the best marshmallow gets first dibs on the diving board later.”
The fever pitch increases, along with the stakes.
Along with my heart rate.
He remembered my silly little game.
My gaze travels over the heads of the campers to find Dean again, and he’s watching me steadily, his head tilted to one side. I’m sorry, he mouths. I’m sorry.
I have lost feeling in my legs. That’s the only reason I don’t dance on the table. Or drape myself over the strewed condiments and silverware in a full swoon. As it is, I’m already beaming at him with my hands clasped tightly beneath my chin. Last night, I went to bed thinking the guy I’ve loved for eight years doesn’t know or understand me at all. But this ridiculous game and the fact that he’s made me the judge, proves the opposite.
Maybe Dean Ingram gets me, after all.
I don’t have a chance to think about it too hard because marshmallow shapes are being lined up in front of me. Clovers, hearts, balloons. My own cabin got in late on the game, but they’ve rallied and offer their own colorful shape for judging too. A dining hall full of campers watches me expectantly, and I make a big show of studying each marshmallow from all angles, framing them with my fingers and tapping my lips thoughtfully.