Page 30 of Until Next Summer

My earbuds are in, playing the original Broadway cast recording ofWaitress. The music is pure comfort, Jessie Mueller’s voice as sweet and rich as the sugar and butter she sings about. I’ve been obsessed with Broadway musicals since my first camp play, though I’ve never had the time (or funds) to take a break from my job here and travel to New York. I guess when camp closes, I’ll have all the time in the world.

A flash of movement catches my eye, and I glance to the right.

Someone’s in the water.

Panic lances through me—a drowning accident is one of my worst nightmares, and we’re easily three hundred yards from shore. But this person isn’t struggling. I’m not an expert swimmer, but I can recognize the even strokes andperfect form as the morning sunlight glints off the swimmer’s wet shoulders and back.

I sigh, frustrated. I made it very clear that no one should swim alone.

Then the swimmer gets closer, and I realize who it is.

William Lucas Duncan.

Irritation prickles through me and I remove my earbuds. I felt guilty after snubbing him at dinner the other day, so I stopped by his cabin earlier this week and invited him to participate in some of the camp activities. It was quite friendly of me, in my opinion. He responded by shutting the door in my face. Again.

“Hey!” I shout when he’s about twenty feet from my canoe.

He lifts his head, splashing water droplets through the air. “What?”

“You’re not supposed to swim alone. That’s rule number one.”

“Since when?” Even at this distance, his fiery blue eyes throw sparks my way.

“Since forever!”

“That’s a stupid rule,” he snaps.

“It’s an important rule!” I shout. “There’s no lifeguard this early. What if you start to drown? I’m sure as hell not going to save you.”

He scoffs. “I’m not going to drown.”

“Drowning happens when you least expect it!”

“So where’s your life jacket?” Luke yells back.

Alarmed, I glance around my canoe and realize I forgot to grab one; Zac and Zoey moved them to a different storage spot.

“Shit,” I whisper.

He smirks. “Better head back, then.”

“I’ll head back when I’m good and ready,” I mutter. I don’t know why I’m so irritated—maybe because he’s showing such blatant disregard for everything I’ve done to make camp a safe and enjoyable experience.

But he’s treading water so easily. It’s clear he’s at no risk of drowning, and I feel a twinge of envy. I always struggled to pass the swim test—my body seems biologically designed to sink.

“Relax,” he says, brushing dark, wet hair from his forehead. “I’ll sign a waiver or something.”

And with that, he takes off again with those perfect, even strokes.

Huffing, I paddle back toward shore. Against my will, my mind drifts to my friendship with Luke all those years ago, when he was a counselor. When he was The Man.

He would’ve been around nineteen at the time and new to Camp Chickawah. I was sixteen, a counselor-in-training, and so awkward and uncomfortable in my body. Being a nearly six-foot-tall, skinny-as-a-rail, flat-chested teenage girl will do that to you. Adolescent boys can bemean. Luckily, I had plenty of girlfriends and reasonably strong self-esteem. I tried not to let it bother me.

A couple weeks into the summer, we had a break from our CIT duties. Hillary wanted to do a craft project, so I went to the Lodge to get a book from the camp library.

“Have you read this one?” a voice said behind me.

I whirled around to see the most popular counselor of the summer pointing toThe Hunger Games. My heart skidded to a stop; he was ridiculously cute, with bright blue eyes and an easy smile.

---