Page 52 of Until Next Summer

“Hang on,” I call out, but he doesn’t stop. “I’m sorry, okay? I was distracted this morning—I should have been more careful—”

He makes a sharp right turn. Where the hell is he going?

I try to keep up, but he’s faster than I am, somehow unbothered by sticks or rocks in the path, even though his feet are bare and he’s wearing nothing but sopping-wet swim shorts. Meanwhile, I keep stepping on sharp things and yelping in pain. I could go back to the lake and get my shoes, but I’m too curious to turn around now.

Luke reaches Cabin Five, takes the stairs two at a time, and throws open the door without knocking. I scramble up to the porch and hear his thunderous yell echoing in the cabin:

“—motherfuckers better wake up!”

I freeze. Better to stay put.

“What the hell, man?” someone murmurs sleepily.

“This stops now, understand?” Luke shouts, punctuatinghis words with a fist on the doorframe. “I saw you all down by the kayaks last night.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about, but by the guilty silence in the cabin, I think the campers do.

“It’s their fault I got a dick tick!” a voice says—Darren.

“And they toilet papered our cabin!”

“The girls were talking about going kayaking this morning—”

“We only wanted to slow them down—”

“We just hid the drain plugs so they wouldn’t be able to—”

Luke slams his fist on the doorframe again, silencing everyone. “Are you fucking kidding me? Somebody could have died.”

A memory fills my mind, something I haven’t thought of for years.

The first summer that Luke was a counselor, the thirteen-year-old boys from his cabin played a prank on the eight-year-old girls. It would have been fine for someone their own age (red Kool-Aid in the showerheads), but they did it the morning after telling the little girls about Bloody Barbara, a ghost that supposedly haunted the camp. The girls were terrified and crying, and I overheard Luke giving his boys a strict dressing-down about never pranking anyone younger or more vulnerable. It only added to my blossoming hero worship of him, of course.

“Dude, come on. Zac and Zoey inspect the watercraft every morning,” someone says defiantly.

“Jessie took a kayak out at dawn,” Luke replies in an icy voice. “She almost drowned.”

There’s a brief, guilty silence. Then someone pipes up: “We didn’t mean—”

“Shut up,” Luke snaps. “No more pranks. I expect you to replace the missing drain plugs immediately. Let Zac and Zoey know so they can double-check everything. You’ll have to cover the cost of the lost kayak, as well as Jessie’s phone and earbuds. And last but not least, you will all apologize to Jessie later today.”

With that, he turns and walks out—and nearly crashes into me on the porch.

He stumbles back in surprise, then shoots me an icy glare before walking down the stairs and heading away, down the path.

“Wait!” I shout, running after him.

But he keeps going, his long strides eating up the ground. I struggle along behind, penguin-shuffling, his towel wrapped around me.

“Luke, wait—let me say something.”

He spins to face me, his eyes flashing blue fire. “What?”

“Thank you.”

In response, he rolls his eyes and stalks off again.

My temper flares as I run after him.

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