Page 49 of Until Next Summer

Paul blanches. “Uh…”

“The tick, not the dick,” Dot says.

An involuntary giggle rises in my throat, and I stifle it. Behind me, Hillary and Sam look like they’re struggling not to laugh, too. Maybe we’re all still thirteen on the inside.

“I think so,” I say.

“He’ll need to go to urgent care for antibiotics, then. Can’t have him getting penile Lyme disease.”

Paul and his friends exchange horrified glances.

“You’ll head over to his cabin and check it out?” I ask Dot.

“On my way.”

As I replace the walkie-talkie on my hip, something occurs to me: “If Darren has to go to urgent care, we won’t have a lead.”

It’s a ninety-minute drive each way, and the show starts in three hours. Darren’s been practicing all week to play the lead role: the wide-eyed farm boy transported via tornado to a fantastical summer camp.

“Exactly!” Paul says. “And no one else knows his lines.”

Hillary speaks up, her voice tentative: “Well,someoneelse does.”

—

Hillary and I hurry down the path toward Luke’s cabin. I knock on his door, glad Hillary’s with me. There’s a sense of solidarity in solving this problem together, as a team, like we used to.

The door flings open.

“What?” Luke snaps. His hair is rumpled, like he’s been running his hands through it nonstop.

Flustered, I blurt out, “Darren has to go to urgent care for his dick.”

Luke’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Histick,” I correct, then mentally kick myself. “I mean,atick.”

Luke squints at me.

“There’s a tick on his—”

“We need a new lead,” Hillary cuts in, bless her. At this point, my foot is embedded in my mouth. “Since you wrote the script and know the lines…”

“Not interested,” Luke says, and goes to shut the door. I stick my boot over the threshold, stopping it from closing.

“Come on, Luke!” I say, exasperated. “We need you—there’s no time for anyone else to learn the part.”

His mouth curves in a sneer. “You think I give a shit about this musical?”

Hillary sucks in a shocked breath. But I’m used to Luke’s attitude, though he’s being extra salty today. I smile patiently and say, “We could use your help. Please?”

“I’m busy.” He uses his foot to nudge my boot out of the doorway. “Now if you’ll excuse me…”

And he shuts the door in my face for the third time this summer.

Hillary’s jaw drops open. “That was so rude! Just like our second year as CITs—”

“Exactly!” I say, grateful for our shared history.

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