Lauren stood up to face me. “Like you’ve even spoken to her.”
Ignoring her, I turned in search of my new friend. Lauren reacted immediately by squirting apple juice all over my camp shirt. One second my head faced the ground, and by the next I had flung my tray right into Lauren’s face, hitting her square in the nose. Mash toppled onto her T-shirt. Maybe a little blood spurted from her nose.
“Oops.”
“I am going to murder you,” she snarled, wiping mash from her top. “I am, literally, going to kill you.”
“Literally literally, or literally?”
“What?”
“Like, literally, it won’t happen at all, or will you literally take my life?” I said.
“Who do you think you are? I could ruin you. Absolutely ruin you. Just like I did to Gwen fucking Black.”
To say that I was disappointed in the response from the Beaver group would be an understatement. Most of them were nice nerds who didn’t like confrontation, if the horrified expressions on their faces were anything to go by. Mike, well, Mike had always been a follower, just like when he was twelve, leaving me stranded in that tree during a rainstorm, maybe because Lauren had told him to or maybe they’d come to that decision together. Either way, it was my bet that Lauren had taken charge in deciding to leave me there. And Abby was always the quiet girl from what I could recall, so not much had changed there. Shockingly, Jessie, despite the many thoughts she displayed in her letters, didn’t have one word to say in response to the scene. What the hell happened to her after I left York?
I tried my best at cleaning my shirt in the canteen bathroom, but the scent of apples wouldn’t go away, and the stickiness on the fabric refused to loosen its grip. I ended up tying the shirt in a knot so the lower part of my stomach was on display. For a second I hesitated, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized people wouldn’t give a crap about my stomach as much as I did.
Lauren’s casual remarks about Gwen infuriated me. That wasn’t the worst of it; it was the fact Jessie and the rest of the Beavers didn’t make a move to oppose what Lauren said about Gwen or the rest of the Black family. Either they shut down and couldn’t stand up to Lauren or they condoned her ongoing behavior to isolate Gwen.
Jessie crossed my path as I joined the crowd heading out to the next assembly. “These people are my friends. You can’t create drama because your mom left you here for the summer. It’s not their fault that they don’t like Gwen. Some people don’t get along. That’s life, Emma.”
“It seems like the only reason they don’t like her is because of who her family is. That’s not right.” I pulled my elbow out of her hold.
“Look, Lauren’s always wanted to be a counselor. She’s been talking about it for years and there will be only one spot next summer. Of course she’s fuming. She has no chance against Gwen.”
“It’s still bullying, Jessie,” I scoffed. “You’re sharing a room with Gwen, right? Maybe Lauren and Gwen can switch rooms. Bunch you guys together.”
“Lauren wants to share a room with Abby.”
“All right, you and I can swap.”
“I want to share with Kendra . . .”
“Do I look like I give a crap?”
“No,” she said, turning away so she faced where the counselors stood. “You don’t.”
“It’s like you have an entirely different personality. Your letters made you sound at least decent.”
“Look at you. Still the same depressed, lonely Emma Lane. You haven’t changed a bit.”
“At least I’ll never follow someone like Lauren. She’s a bully. And the fact you stood up for her and not Gwen says everything about you.”
My skin itched, and I regretted sending Jessie those letters and exposing my deepest and darkest thoughts to someone I thought was a trustworthy pen pal. Moving as far away from them as I could, I waited for Mr. Black to assign the Beavers a counselor. Abby gave me an empathetic squeeze of the arm as I settled in beside her, safely away from Jessie and Lauren. The air was toxic.
“I hope we get Walter,” Abby said, motioning to a bulky guy with curly hair. “He’s competitive. His set of campers always wins in the head-to-head competitions between the groups. And even if his campers don’t win, they don’t get beaten all that badly. Plus, he’s nice.”
“No, don’t think I want him. Is there anyone laid back? I want to chill on the sidelines, maybe cheer you guys on if I’m not napping.”
“Maybe Connor? But if Walter’s and Connor’s groups are against each other, they’re scarily competitive. Same with Walter’s sister, Vivian. It gets . . . messy.”
Lined up against the wall, the Beavers and the Jellyfish were the two last groups to be assigned a counselor. One of the counselors was late, meaning Mr. Black would assign a group to the late counselor before they arrived. I didn’t know the logistics behind pairing a counselor with a group, but I trusted that he knew what he was doing.
“First of all, Jellyfish,” Mr. Black said, clapping his hands together. “You’re assigned to my son, Walter, and Beavers, you’re assigned to my daughter, Vivian. Because you won’t have time to organize another activity, you guys can play dodgeball in here, after which you’ll all receive schedules of your day-to-day activities at camp. If you have questions or concerns, seek out your counselor or drop by my office.”
“Why is this clicking now?” I asked, glancing to my right at Gwen, who indulged my surprise. “You have, like, an unlimited number of siblings running this joint.”
“Only Walter and Vivian.” Gwen dismissed them, waving a hand carelessly toward the other campers. “My dad’s brother, Manny, is over there—the guy with a permanent sulk on his face. He does this every year. He takes inventory of the faces he’ll probably treat.”
“Treat?”
“He’s a nurse. Dad roped anyone he could into spending the summer here. So Manny’s here part time.”
“I can relate.”
“Camp wasn’t your plan either?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “I wanted to spend the summer with my dad.”
She placed her hand on my shoulder, offering a sympathetic squeeze. “He sent you here?”
“Nope. Mom has court-ordered visitation, but then she went on a cruise. Or a honeymoon. She dropped me off on the way and went off with her new husband. Her excuse was she wanted me to socialize more.”
“Drama,” she whispered to herself.
“Stupid, useless drama.”