“Restful, isn’t it?” Nate said.
There were no chairs or tables. Everywhere you looked there were fancy beanbags made of some NASA-quality foam that made you feel like you were floating and supported you in any position. Thick ropes hung from the ceiling with knots tied in them, so you could climb or swing. There were yoga balls, and regular inflatable balls, and a partially deflated human hamster ball in the corner.
“Welcome to the house that boxes built, I guess,” Janelle said.
As reported, there was indeed a single trapeze suspended high up in the rafters.
“How do they trapeze in here?” Stevie said. “There’s not enough room to swing, at least, not very far. And what if they fall?”
“We’ve been wondering about that for the last few hours,” Janelle replied. “We think they use a hook to pull the trapeze over to the loft, then they must jump off really gently and kind of hang there. They probably use that to get down.”
She indicated a large rolled-up tarp against the wall.
“So they just hang from the ceiling and fall into a tarp?” Stevie asked.
“Yeah. It’s not really a trapeze as much as it’s a . . . dangler?”
“He calls them Think Jams,” Nate said, allowing himself to sink deeper into the beanbag. “Did he tell you that? Think Jams.”
“I mean, the thing is, I don’t hate it,” Janelle said. “And that fact makes me hate myself.”
Along the side of the main room there were hundreds of inch-square pieces of fabric, little flaps of them in a grid pattern, attached to the wall with tape. It wasn’t art, Stevie was pretty sure.
“We have no idea what those are for,” Janelle said. “Maybe he’s really into quilting.”
Stevie flopped into one of the massive beanbags, which
caught her in its space beads or foam or whatever was in it.
Funny how the world shifts when you’re in the same space with your friends. The air is energized, the light is warmer. The two weeks they had been separated evaporated, and they began to talk as if they had finished their last in-person conversation moments before.
“I’m so ready for this,” Nate said. “I love summer camp horror movies, so I rewatched a bunch of them last week to prepare. Do you want to hear about summer camp horror movies?”
“Nate . . . ,” Janelle began.
“You cannot deny me this,” Nate said. “This is a murder story at a camp. It’s how I want to go. My favorite is called Sleepaway Camp. It makes the least sense. First of all, the campers in this movie are, like, eighteen years old. Not the counselors. The campers. Everyone in this movie is terrible. They spend pretty much all their time trying to have the sex. Obviously, though, in terms of the killer, Jason is still the best. He lives in a lake and commits murders in space.”
“Are you done?” Janelle asked.
“Do you live in a lake?”
“Okay,” Janelle said, getting up and smoothing out her dress. “I have to call Vi. I won’t be long—we have to schedule because of the time difference.”
“How’s Vi?” Stevie asked.
“They’re good. They like Da Nang. It’s a lot of family stuff. They’re mostly working on their Vietnamese, plus
learning more Mandarin. It’s . . . you know. Really far, though. I’ll be right back in. Okay? Right back!”
“Do you have to make a romance call?” Nate said when Janelle was gone.
“No,” Stevie replied. “We don’t have a schedule.”