Page 50 of Until Next Summer

“What an asshole,” Hillary murmurs, and I nod, although I can’t help wondering what’s going on. I’ve spent enough time with Luke to know he’s not an asshole by nature, though he plays the part well.

We head down the stairs together.

“What’ll we do?” I say.

Hillary gives me a sneaky smile. “I mean,oneother person knows the script…”

It takes me a moment to understand. Then: “Who, me? I can’t—it’s supposed to be gender-flipped.”

She shrugs. “It’s gender-flexible.” She’s right; we have a female Scarecrow and a Tin Woman, but the Cowardly Lion is played by a man. “And it’s starting in less than three hours, Jess. Come on. We need you.”

—

It’s been years since I’ve performed in a camp musical, but when we tell the cast and crew, everyone is supportive. Mikayla, the costume designer, gets to work altering Darren’s costume (he’s smaller than me, which isn’t great for my self-esteem). Raul practices my makeup and hair, and Hillary runs lines with me. We break for dinner, after which the crew moves the tables and lines up the benches for our audience.

And then it’s time for the show. Nearly every camper this week was involved in preparing for the musical, but only about a third are performing or working the stage crew, so the dining hall is packed.

When the opening music starts, I take my place, butterflies in my stomach. Cooper and Dot are sitting in the front row; he smiles, and she flashes me a thumbs-up. I scan the audience, stupidly wondering if I might see Luke, but there’s no sign of him. It feels like a slap in the face after all the time we spent writing this damn play.

Then I glance at the wings, where Hillary is waiting to feed me lines if needed, and she mouths,You can do it!

Her words infuse me with confidence. I nod at Sam to turn on the spotlight, and the play begins.

There are mistakes, sure—I forget my lines, the set piece for the house falls over during the tornado, and the sound goes out during the Wicked Witch’s final monologue (“Oh, what a world, what a world…” as he melts into the floor). But the audience is supportive, laughing and clapping at all the right points. When I click my ruby-bedazzled Chuck Taylors and say, “There’s no place like camp,” everyone cheers.

After the performers take their bows, I bring out Sam and their stage crew, Mikayla and her costume designers, Raul and his makeup team, Hillary and her set creators. The audience stands, clapping and cheering.

Then I feel Hillary’s hand grabbing mine. “You did it!” she whispers.

“We did it,” I say, squeezing her hand.

I mean more than just this performance—and more than our efforts to increase profits. We’re building our friendship again.

—

I’m up early the next morning, still basking in the glow of the performance, but tired. The cast and crew were hungry after the show, so Cooper opened the kitchen and made pancakes. We all ended up hanging out long past midnight. I meant to sleep in, but my body is accustomed to waking at dawn, so here I am.

My usual canoe isn’t near the lakefront, which means Zac must be putting sealant on the old wood, as promised. The kayaks are lined up and ready to go, though, so I grab one and set off. I’m listening toThe Music Manrevival with Hugh Jackman for the first time. It’s good, but I’m still partial to the movie soundtrack. Who can beat Robert Preston, the original Buffalo Bills, and tiny Ron Howard with a lisp?

By the time I’ve paddled out to the middle of the lake, Marian the librarian is falling in love with Professor Harold Hill, oblivious to the fact that he’s a con man. I take a deep breath, relishing the morning breeze and golden sunshine.

But then I realize: my kayak is full of water.

My first thought is that I must have splashed water inside the cockpit; I’m not used to kayaks. But this is more than alittlewater—my legs are submerged, and I forgot to bring a life jacket (again).

A whisper of panic crawls up my spine. Kayaks are very safe, I remind myself. And there doesn’t seem to be any obvious structural damage. Maybe I hit a rock and cracked the hull, but didn’t notice?

I try to bail water out with my hands but it’s totally ineffective. Nathaniel’s voice sounds in my head (Safety first, safety second, and safety third), and through my panic, I tryto recall my kayaking lessons from when I was a camper. I could get out of the kayak, flip it over, and let it drain while I float beside it, but I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I’m out pretty far—several thousand yards. I need to make a decision, fast: paddle, or swim back to shore.

Since I don’t have a life jacket, the safest thing is to stay with the kayak. Before the water gets any higher, I remove my earbuds, place them in the dry bag with my phone, and stow it back in the hatch.

I set off, paddling as hard as I can. But the waterlogged kayak feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. Every stroke makes my arms and shoulders burn. Plus, there’s a breeze pushing against me. When I look down, the water level inside the kayak is even higher.

Fear and confusion rattle through me—I thought kayaks were unsinkable? But it’s been years since I’ve used one.

I’m fine, I tell myself. It’s all going to be fine.

But the kayak keeps getting heavier, and the water inside keeps rising.

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