Page 107 of Until Next Summer

And then I find her. In the second row of the 1984 photo—my mom, Rebecca Katz. She must be around thirteen or fourteen. Her hair is parted down the middle. It’s not as curly as mine, but it’s just as dark, and she’s wearing a Camp Chickawah T-shirt knotted on the side. Her smile is wide and unguarded, a hint of mischief in her eyes. Her arms are linked with two girls on either side of her, and a lump forms in my throat as I remember gathering for that same group photo every summer, surrounded by my own camp friends.

What would my mom tell me if she was here? Would she be proud of me, like Dot said, for coming back and trying to set things right? Or would she be disappointed that I’ve spent most of my life chasing a future I didn’t really want? Checking off boxes I thought would lead to happiness, when it turns out the joy I craved was here all along?

In the place where I belong.

—

I manage to find more photos of my mom, my aunt, and a much younger Dot. Part of me wants to stay here forever, searching these memories in the hopes of finding answers about who I am and where I ought to go from here. But staying alone in the dark isn’t going to give me what I’m looking for. I need to find Jessie.

After striking out on the girls’ and boys’ sides of camp and at the Lodge, I head down to the lake. Jessie isn’t by the boats or near the swimming dock—but then I remember a place we used to go when we were kids. We called it our secret cove; it’s just north of the Lodge, past a bend in the lake. No one could see us from land, but it was close enough that we could hear the counselors calling.

Sure enough, Jessie’s there, sitting on a patch of sand, her arms wrapped around her knees, staring out at the water. She looks so peaceful and serene that I regret hunting her down. The woman is about to lose everything she cares about; she deserves some solitude.

I’m about to turn and go when she looks up.

“Hey,” she says. The emotion in her voice, soft and sad, catches me off guard. But I’m grateful she isn’t putting on the smiley veneer she’s been wearing the last few days for the campers. This simple act of letting me in means so much more than a silly friendship bracelet.

“I don’t want to bother you,” I tell her.

“You’re no bother,” she says, patting the sand beside her.

I accept her invitation, mimicking her position and tucking my knees up to my chest. The sound of the water is soothing, and again my mind drifts to my mom. My brave and beautiful mom. I wonder if she had a best friend here, someone who was to her what Jessie is to me.

I glance over at Jessie, grateful that our friendship has survived so much.

“Thank you,” I tell her.

“For what?”

“Being my friend. Despite everything.”

Jessie rolls her eyes and knocks her shoulder against mine. “You’re stuck with me, Hilly Bean—as long as you stop apologizing. You’ve hit your quota.”

“But I am sorry,” I say. “So sorry.”

“Zip it,” Jessie says. “I will accept no more apologies.”

“How about gifts?” I ask. “Will you accept gifts?”

“Always,” Jessie says, her eyes sparkling.

I pull the bracelet out of my pocket and hand it to her.

“It’s beautiful,” she says, turning it around in her hands. “I could never get that V pattern right.”

“I can show you,” I offer. “It’s not that hard.”

“Maybe,” Jessie says. “I’ll have plenty of free time.” Her shoulders slump, her body deflating at the intrusive reality of just how close we are to the end of summer.

“That rat bastard,” I say, borrowing Dot’s nickname. Jack Valentine spent all day yesterday with the buyer, traipsing around the property, talking loudly about the plans for the new development. His custom lake house is going to sit right smack where the Lodge is now—and the thought of him sitting on his porch gazing at the lake while the land behind him is parceled out and sold makes me want to punch someone.

Jessie sighs. “It’s going to take all of my acting chops not to be rude when they come up on Saturday for the dance.”

“They’re still coming?” I say, shocked.

“Yup,” Jessie says. “It’s tradition—the family comes every year, and this is the last.”

“Thanks to them,” I mutter, digging my toes in the sand.

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