Say a Little Prayer(54)
I peer over Delaney’s shoulder and squint toward the bonfire on the other side of the field. Sure enough, Patrick is perched on the edge of a folding chair with a midnight-blue guitar braced on one knee. His hair is still spray-painted red from this afternoon, and there’s a group of girls sitting at his feet, watching him with barely concealed adoration.
“Oh no,” I say. “Should we help them?”
Delaney shakes her head. “Listening to some guy play guitar at the campfire is a canon event, Riley. We can’t interfere. Just ask Torres how obsessed she was with Ethan Brady last year.”
“I was not!” Torres protests, but the flush staining her cheeks says otherwise.
Ethan had been our drama department’s resident tenor for the past four years. After last spring’s production of Les Mis, he’d treated the entire cast to Steak ‘n Shake on his dad’s credit card, tearfully told us that playing Jean Valjean had been “the honor of his life,” and said he’d think about us every day at college. He’d quit the University of Michigan theater department within a week and now spends his time uploading embarrassingly earnest guitar covers to TikTok and tagging John Mayer in the comments.
“Ethan Brady?” I bite back a grin. “Come on, Torres. You can do better than that.”
She groans. “That’s not…We were friends.”
“Please.” Delaney scoffs. “He played ‘Wonderwall,’ like, six times a night, and you willingly sat through them all.”
I laugh, partially because Torres is turning a concerning shade of pink and partially because I know exactly what Ethan Brady’s version of “Wonderwall” sounds like.
The three of us come to a stop at the edge of the bonfire, just outside the ring of flickering light. Usually, we’d all be in separate cabins by now, finishing up any lingering assignments and getting ready for bed. Tonight, however, is a party. The counselors have hauled in giant bags of marshmallows and graham crackers—treats that were conveniently absent from our midnight kitchen run—and set up a semicircle of collapsible camping chairs around the firepit. Most of them are already occupied and the campers who hadn’t managed to grab a seat are lounging across various picnic blankets. Maybe it’s leftover camaraderie from this morning’s game or maybe it’s the fact that our afternoon lessons had been cut short to accommodate tonight’s festivities, but the mood is noticeably lighter than it has been all week.
Torres shuffles through the pile of abandoned skewers until she finds one clean enough for her liking. She jams a handful of marshmallows on top and slides up to the firepit, right next to where Greer is meticulously turning her own skewer every few seconds. She looks up when we approach and asks, with absolutely no preamble, “Do you think we should tell them he has a girlfriend?”
At first, it’s unclear if she’s talking to us at all. Greer’s gaze is laser focused on the golden-brown crust slowly forming around the outside of her marshmallow. Even Amanda, who’s hovering on her other side, is looking anywhere but at me, like she’s afraid I’m going to jab her with my skewer and announce to the entire camp that she’d dared to experience a single human emotion. I raise a brow. “Who has a girlfriend?”
Greer jerks her chin over the open flame to where Patrick is still strumming his guitar. In the few minutes it had taken us to cross the field, the cluster of girls at his feet has nearly doubled. Some of them are singing along. I think Alexis Waddy is trying to harmonize.
“Does he?” I ask.
Greer nods. “He literally asked Aisha McKenzie to prom last week.”
Delaney heaves a sigh. “It won’t matter. They all think they can fix him.”
“Well, does he take requests, at least? If I hear ‘Closing Time’ again, I’m going to scream.”
Torres folds her arms defensively. “Some people like ‘Closing Time.’?”
“No one likes ‘Closing Time,’ Torres,” Greer says. Then she raises her voice and calls, “Hey, Patrick!” loud enough to get his attention through the chaos.
Patrick looks up, music unfaltering as he jerks his chin in her direction. “What’s up?”
“Do you take requests?”
“Not usually, but I’ll take one for you, baby.”
I grimace and shove the end of my skewer into the open flame. There’s no way that line has ever worked on anyone, let alone someone who’d been ready to make a camp-wide announcement about his relationship status, but when I look back at Greer, her mouth is hanging half open. She blinks, eyes glazed, and I’m just coming to the startling realization that one of the smartest, most competent people I know can still be overcome by some guy with a guitar and semidecent biceps when Amanda pushes her way between us.
“Do you know ‘Flexin’ on That Gram’?” she asks.
Patrick’s grin falters. “Uh…don’t think so?”
“What about ‘Wonderwall’?”
Torres grimaces, physically cringing away from the suggestion, but Patrick’s face lights up. There’s a split second of silence as he adjusts his fingers, then the familiar chords start drifting across the circle. Delaney and I let out a collective groan as Greer gives her head a little shake.
“Why would you say that?” she asks, rounding on Amanda. “That’s just as bad as ‘Closing Time.’?”