On the beach, Ethan divides us all into teams, and the games begin.
* * *
The rope scratches against my palms. Couldn’t we wear gloves or something during tug-of-war? The relay races we started with were more my speed.
Ethan tried to form six evenly matched teams, but of course Blake decided she had to be on my team, so one of the older boys took her place. I don’t want to say we’re the weakest team, but most of us are tiny humans. And the other team, which Isaac is on, is easily going to drag us across the finish line.
“Is anyone else even pulling?” Bobby shouts from a few feet behind me. He’s standing in the loop at the end of the rope, trying to step backward, but he’s sliding in the sand.
“Ah!” I shriek when Bobby accidentally pulls on my hair.
“I don’t want to lose!” Blake shouts, stomping her feet.
“Then pull,” I shout back.
The beach is chilly. Most of the campers put on jackets, but I thought my long-sleeved shirt would suffice. Paired with shorts, it’s not the warmest style, but it’s my favorite summer camp look. At least it’s protecting my arms from rope burns.
My team inches forward. With each pull, my hands end up painfully sliding back. There’s maybe only a foot left until our tape marker crosses the middle line, deciding our losing fate. Ethan is standing by, waiting to declare the winner.
But the rope slacks, and I stumble backward. Somehow my team gains a few steps.
“Whoa, who hulked out?” Bobby shouts. “We’re back in this thing!”
Isaac has released his grip on the rope and is now running to our side. He squeezes between me and Bobby and starts pulling for my team.
“What are you doing?” I shout, turning my head back to look at Isaac.
He just smiles and nods for me to face ahead.
“Let’s go, team!” Bobby barks out, shaking the rope for emphasis.
We’re holding on and making gains, but my hands are on fire. I can’t take it anymore. I have to let go, throwing my arms up in the cool air.
Our opponents go in for a big pull right at that moment. My team flies forward across the line, and Isaac’s face makes direct contact with my elbow. We collide and fall to the ground.
There’s sand all over me. Clumps of damp sand everywhere. It’s in my shorts, up my hair, and on my face. I spit out a few grains at the crease of my lips.
The other team is celebrating its victory, and everyone moves aside to make room for the next match. Isaac gingerly inspects his forehead, which is bright red. He stands, extending one hand to help me up while the other holds the side of his face.
“I’m so sorry,” I say and sign before reaching up to accept his hand, but I recoil as the scratched skin on my palms stings on contact.
Oliver climbs down from his chair. “Oi, do you need some ice?”
“I-c-e?” I sign to Isaac, wincing as I form the letters with my burning hands.
Isaac nods and follows Oliver inside the lifeguard station. I want to go with him, but Blake grabs my arm and Natasha beats me to it.
“Come over here with me,” Blake begs, pulling me to the fence where the rest of our team has already found a seat.
“Um, in a minute. Let me go check on Isaac.” If the pain in my elbow is any indication, Isaac’s head must really hurt.
They return quickly enough, with Isaac holding a ziplock bag full of ice to his forehead while Natasha walks circles around him, attaching the bag to Isaac with several feet of plastic wrap.
Oliver walks straight up to me, carrying something in one of his hands. “Here, hold this,” he says, reaching out and placing a few small ice cubes in my palms.
“Ahh, that’s so cold.” A shiver goes down my back.
Oliver taps my shoulder and says something I don’t catch.
“Sorry, what was that?” I ask. “Pardon?” I add, with a cheeky smile.
“That was quite the collision,” he repeats, grinning. “I take it you’re okay?”
“Yes, thank you.” I hold up my cupped hands in gratitude.
“All right, back to it.” He returns to climb up to his lifeguard post. Ben’s already taken his place, so the two sit closely side by side in the large chair.
I walk Blake over to the other campers. “Wait here, I promise I’ll be right back.”
She digs her feet into the sand and sighs. Part of me empathizes with Blake. But I like to think I was always much more open to the Camp Gray Wolf experience than Blake has been so far—hopefully after a few days of settling in she’ll tone it down.
I toss the cold ice cubes back and forth between my hands and walk back across the beach to Isaac. He is leaning up against the fence, shoving away Natasha, who is still giddy with her plastic wrap. He reaches up and rips the end of the strand from the container.
“You look like—” She sticks both arms out and walks like Frankenstein’s monster. Isaac rolls his eyes.
Natasha supposedly has a thing for Jaden, but it pains me to admit that she and Isaac would make a cute couple. They probably just have a comfortable sibling dynamic, but what if Natasha’s really in a love triangle with Isaac and Jaden? Just because she’s interested in Jaden doesn’t mean that Isaac couldn’t also have a crush on her. I mean, isn’t that who Isaac would want to be with? Someone who doesn’t have any communication barriers?
I’m intruding, but I need to apologize. Isaac was just trying to help my team, and now he’s got ice attached to his face. Natasha ignores the fact that I’m standing next to her and secures the loose end of the wrap.
Isaac peers out at me, shoving the bag up so it’s not falling in front of his eyes, and smirks. “Coming back for more?” He mimics throwing back his elbow.
I bite my lip and shrug, dropping the ice and drying my hands on my shorts before signing, “I’m sorry.”
I should have thought through my apology to come up with more signs to put together. I could sign the word “okay” and raise my eyebrows in question, but that doesn’t feel sincere enough. I don’t want to only speak and make him carry the burden of lipreading—that’s kind of the worst.
Don’t get me wrong, lipreading is helpful. In fact, I generally need to see someone’s mouth to “hear” them. But it’s far from reliable. Not the magical process you see on TV.
When I speech-read, I use the mouth shapes I see to supplement the slivers of words that I hear. Combining them, I get something resembling the sentence that was spoken, but there are often gaps, leaving me to do guesswork and make assumptions to fill in the missing pieces. Sometimes clarification on a single word is enough for me to solve the entire puzzle. But I’m basically playing the part of Sherlock Holmes . . . all day, every day. It’s exhausting. And not how I want to communicate with Isaac.
“Are you okay?” I sign.
Isaac immediately sticks a thumb to his chest. “It’s fine. I’m good.” But in his current wrapped state, he looks the opposite of fine. “Really,” he adds, then gestures to Natasha. “She’s just ——。”
I recognize the sign but can’t place it. “Again, please.”
He signs the letters slowly. “J-o-k-i-n-g. Joking.”