“I didn’t say that.” He seems startled, confused, out of his element.
“It’s fine,” I say and sign, jabbing my thumb to my chest. “Forget I said—” I can’t call to mind the word for “anything.” I take a few steps backward.
He waves for my attention, signing something with the word “slow,” but my brain is already spiraling. “Wait,” he signs, with a panicked, apologetic look on his face.
I need to get out of here. What was I thinking? I spin around, effectively ending the conversation, and speed away.
He’s right. We don’t know each other yet, really. But before this, we were bonding, which is impressive since we can barely communicate as it is. What did I expect would happen by confessing my feelings? The more I think about it, what if he’s just trying to let me down gently? Seriously, there’s no way he likes me back.
I ignore what looks like a party in the staff cabin and go straight to bed. I carefully shine my flashlight to avoid waking the campers as I climb into my top bunk, collapsing face-first onto my pillow, wishing I could fall asleep. But I keep replaying the whole conversation with Isaac in my mind. Over and over. I go over the memory, overanalyzing and changing his response every time, ranging from “we don’t really know each other” to “I don’t like you.”
And, of course, we have another on-duty shift together tomorrow night.
How am I going to face him after this?
* * *
“Nope,” I say, seeking out Simone at breakfast in the crowded dining hall the next morning. I ran straight to her after making accidental eye contact with Isaac. He gave me such a sympathetic smile. It was painful.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, loading her plate with pancakes.
Bobby walks by, and I nudge him. “You were wrong.”
“Someone’s cranky this morning,” Bobby says. They both can tell I’m upset and wait for me to elaborate.
“Isaac doesn’t . . .” I say, letting them infer what I’m talking about. “And it was embarrassing and terrible, and I’m not gonna talk about it.”
“Let’s get you some extra pancakes,” Simone says, wrapping an arm around me.
Bobby quietly asks, “But what happened?”
“He said we don’t know each other well enough.” I add the one word that I’ve been clinging to hopefully. “Yet.”
Bobby wipes a hand down his face. “That sweet, sweet boy. Doesn’t he know that’s the whole point? To get to know each other?”
“I guess not,” I say, loading my plate full of syrup to drown my sorrows.
Back at my table, Blake takes advantage of my apathy this morning by topping her pancakes sky-high with chocolate chips. Honey waves at her to save some for the rest of them, but Blake ignores her.
Someone taps my shoulder, and I have to brace myself in case it’s Isaac.
But it’s Oliver.
“Hey, friend, any chance you want to hang out later? I’ve got some things to catch you up on.” He looks like he’s been dying to talk about something.
“Oh, really?” I’m intrigued and happy for any distractions.
He smiles wide but notices my bad mood. “And about whatever’s clearly bothering you right now, too.”
“Yes, please. Oh, wait . . . no. I, unfortunately, am on duty tonight.”
“That’s rough,” Oliver says.
“Very rough. But actually, apparently our entire staff gets tomorrow off for a Saturday night break, since our director and nurse will watch the campers. They said some restaurant—Freddy’s, I think? You should join us, and we can catch up.”
“Perfect, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Oliver smiles. “Well, and at the lake in, like, an hour. And probably at the pool . . . and any water-based activity.”
Chapter Fourteen
After breakfast, we spend a couple hours at the lake. While campers swim and hang out at the beach, we observe from a distance as potential donors arrive for Gary’s luncheon and gather at the picnic tables under the big pavilion. The campers are just as watchful of these strangers as they are of us. Gary is busy running around and setting up tin trays of food while one of the guests stands at the grills. There are probably about fifteen people visiting. Where did Gary find them all? How much money do we need each of them to give? It seems like many of them are here with family members. It doesn’t feel great to need their charity, but at the same time, it’s necessary to make sure Gray Wolf is affordable and accessible to as many campers as possible.
When it’s time, we gather our things and march the short distance over to where the visitors have congregated. Mackenzie pulls her crumpled gray staff polo from her backpack, and I do the same with my camper T-shirt, which still has the tape lettering Isaac did across the back. But I try to put Isaac, and however he feels about me, out of my mind in order to get through this lunch.
At the pavilion, our cabin chooses a table at the back, and we all stick together. Gary tries to discreetly gesture that we should leave space at each table for our guests, but all the other groups clump together as well, not wanting to sit interspersed with the donors. I don’t blame us. Our visitors all seem to be hearing, and none have shown any proficiency in sign language, though I do recognize a light skin-tone hearing aid on one of the older men.
Mackenzie tries to coax some of us to come chat with the potential donors, but none of the girls follow, so she goes on her own and appears to be having a grand time. Other than Mackenzie and Gary, the rest of us aren’t particularly in a social mood, but Assistant Director Ethan is doing his best to be professional.
When the food is ready, Ethan calls for our attention, drawing all eyes to himself. “We’re so grateful to have our special guests here today,” he says and signs. “And even more grateful that they helped us prepare lunch. I know we’re all starving, so we’ll let the kids go ahead and line up for food while Gary lets you know a little more about Camp Gray Wolf.”
Gary takes a spot next to Ethan and gives a brief introductory speech while we file to get food. But on the walk back, Gary is positioning all the campers and staff on only one side of the picnic tables so our guests can sit across from us.
Sure enough, I’m only a few bites into my burger when a couple walks up to me.
“Is this spot taken?” a cheery old man with a gray receding hairline asks. A woman who I suspect is his wife hovers closely beside him. They seem like nice grandparents, the kind who spend most of their retirement volunteering.
“Please join us,” Mackenzie calls from the other end of the table when our campers, being too shy, don’t answer or hear the man in the first place.
“Don’t mind if we do.” The man leans forward to put his plate down, carefully lowering himself onto the bench. “I’m ——，” he says. “And this pretty young lady with me is my wife, ——。”
“Nice to meet you, Bill and Susan,” Mackenzie says and signs. It’s helpful that she’s one of those people who repeats names after meeting someone.
Everyone else takes their seats. Most of the potential donors seem unsure who they could easily converse with, and campers who are normally very vocal are keeping to themselves. I want to do the same, but I also know what’s at stake with this luncheon and force myself to do my best to engage in the conversation, mostly nodding along while Mackenzie talks.