Page 90 of Until Next Summer

“Can you see him?” I whisper.

“Yes. He’s at the table, typing on his laptop.”

“Guess what?” I whisper, revenge making me gossipy. “His wife divorced him because he’s obsessed with his writing, did you know that?”

Hillary leans in, intrigued. “Oh, yeah? How do you—”

“I’ll tell you later. Can you see if he’s wearing headphones or anything?”

“He sure is,” she says, grinning at me.

“Perfect.”

We creep forward, climbing the stairs carefully, hoping they don’t creak under our weight. Hillary catches her toe on a loose board and almost falls; I grab her arm, both of us shaking with silent laughter. Together, we set up the classic “bucket on the door” prank we must have played a dozen times as campers—though usually with water.

The ante has officially been upped.

Soon, it’s ready: one bucket full of syrup we stole from the kitchen, another full of feathers from an old pillow at the lodge, both strategically balanced to tip over when Luke opens the door.

We creep down the stairs, back to our hiding place in the trees.

“Can you see him now?” I whisper to Hillary.

“Still typing.”

I grin. “Ready with the pebbles?”

She nods, and we each toss a pebble at his door, then another. And another.

“He’s getting up!” Hillary hisses.

“Hide!”

We freeze, standing straight behind our trees, holding our breath. There’s a creaking noise as he turns the doorknob, a squeak of rusty hinges, then—

“WHAT THE FUCK?”

Luke’s roar echoes through the forest, followed by grunts of disgust as the buckets overturn on his head. I’m dying to know what he looks like, but I’m laughing too hard to see. I glance at Hillary; she’s doing the same, tears of laughter running down her face.

“WHO’S OUT THERE?” Luke yells, prompting a freshround of stifled giggles from us. “THIS ISN’T FUNNY. AT ALL.” More grunts, followed by stomping. “What is this,syrup?”

I catch Hillary’s eye. “Go,” I whisper, pointing ahead.

She nods, and we race off through the woods.

“I can hear you out there!” Luke shouts. “Ugh—this is disgusting!”

His angry grumbles follow us as we run down the path toward the lake. We collapse on the dock, finally letting ourselves laugh until our stomachs hurt.

“That wasamazing,” Hillary says.

“That’ll teach him.” I sit up, looking at her. “Was that immature of us?”

She tilts her head, thinking. “Nah.”

We both burst out laughing again.

“Jess? Hill?”

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