Page 97 of Until Next Summer

But if he’s not an asshole, that means there must be something about me, specifically, that he doesn’t like—which is fine, I’m not everyone’s cup of tea.

You’re a camp nine but a real-world six, a little voice from the past whispers.

Luke could definitely do better than a six.

Shaking off my dark thoughts, I smile and focus on theaudience. “Without further ado, let’s start the show! First up we have Cabin Three, performing a skit they’re calling ‘The Aquamen’!”

And with that, the talent show is on. Cabin Three starts us off with a classic “synchronized swimming” skit: a blue sheet held in front to represent water, and a choreographed routine performed behind it, complete with matching swim caps and nose plugs. We roll through a variety of talents—an interpretive dance to “My Heart Will Go On” performed on rolling chairs from my office; Kat and Blake’s lip-sync and dance to “Build Me Up Buttercup”; Cooper on guitar performing “Yellow Submarine.” He’s then joined by people playing fiddle, mandolin, and banjo for a rousing folk version of “She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain.”

For our part, Hillary and I do our favorite skit from childhood—she sits behind me, and I pull my arms inside the big T-shirt I’m wearing while she puts her arms through, so it looks like her arms are mine. Then we re-create “A Day in the Life of a Camp Director,” with Hillary attempting to braid my hair, put on my sunscreen, and feed me breakfast. I end up absolutely disgusting, but everyone is laughing, so it’s okay.

The grand finale is a sing-along of Nathaniel’s favorite song, “Take Me Home, Country Roads,” with the changes he made to the lyrics to reflect our camp instead of West Virginia. We sing the chorus over and over, repeating the familiar words about returning home, to the place you belong.

Right here, I think. Doing exactly this.

After the song ends, I wipe my eyes and take themicrophone again. I thank the performers and everyone in the audience, both in person and virtual.

“To wrap things up,” I say, “I want to give an update on our fundraising. Dot, do you have the total?”

She hands me a piece of paper. My heart pounds; this is the moment of truth.

Hands shaking, I take the paper. In the front row, Hillary’s hands are clasped together as she waits.

I clear my throat and address everyone. “As you probably remember, Dot divides all humanity into two big groups: camp people, and those who aren’t. And if you aren’t, you’re…”

“POND SCUM!” the audience yells, clapping and laughing.

“That’s right,” I say, smiling. “You probably also remember that camp people never say goodbye, we say…”

“See ya next summer!” the audience finishes, with more cheering.

I nod. “A month ago, I thought the end of this summer would mean goodbye, forever—and I was determined to make it the best goodbye imaginable. But thanks to the ideas of this brilliant woman”—I point to Hillary in the front row—“my incredible staff, and all you beautiful camp people who joined us tonight, in person or virtually, I finally have hope that Camp Chickawah will be here for many summers to come. And so, I am delighted to announce…”

I hesitate, my gaze drifting over the audience. And this time I see him, way in the back.

Luke. He’s leaning against the wall, arms folded, watching me.

Our eyes meet, and a jolt runs through my body. For an instant, I falter—he unnerves me, the way he seems to see through my skin, even at this distance. But then he gives a small nod, like I’m doing just fine, and maybe it’s pathetic, but that’s all I need to collect myself.

“Thanks to your generosity,” I say, a huge smile spreading across my face, “we’ve not only hit our goal, we’ve exceeded it by three thousand dollars!”

The room erupts into cheers. Hillary jumps up from her seat and runs to give me a hug. Dot joins us, then Zac and Zoey and Cooper, hugging and cheering.

By the time I look over at the door again, Luke is gone.

—

It’s Sunday evening, and Cooper outdid himself with family dinner. Everyone’s in a good mood as we discuss Zoey’s latest “would you rather”—a choice between having chocolate hair or chocolate fingernails.

“Fingernails,” Zac says immediately.

“You’re going to eat your fingernails?” Zoey says, giving him a disgusted look. “I’d pick chocolate hair. Always have a little snack on the go!”

Zac tugs at his short hair. “That wouldn’t work for me, babe. Can I share yours?”

“Ew, no,” she says, and for a moment he genuinely looks like he’s going to cry.

“Definitely better to have chocolate hair,” Dot says. “Chocolate fingernails wouldn’t provide any protection at all. Did you know that nail bed injuries can take six to twelve months to heal?”

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