Her eyes snap up to meet mine, and I jump back. “Why are you doing this?”
I straighten, clearly caught, my smile uneasy. “Well, the thing is—”
“Breakfast, the claw machine, and now…” she interrupts, the pencil tapping faster and faster on the old notebook. “I don’t understand.”
What’s there to understand?
“Have you considered you’re fun to be around?” I ask, giving her a pointed look.
“You’d be the first—besides my Grams—to really think so,” she says quietly, closing the notebook and tucking it under her arm.
I throw her tote bag over my shoulder, following her in large strides to dry land. She doesn’t announce she’s leaving; she just walks away, seeming surprised when I follow. The marsh opens to what looks like a sprawling outdoor town—the campsite she spent all those years coming to.
The park tried to use these old cabins as a Christmas village a few years back, and some string lights remain on the wooden cabins. It’s so overgrown, it’s hard to imagine the humid wilderness as anything wintery and festive.
We walk past an outdoor mess hall. The memory of greasy napkins filled with tater tots— always a little squished from being in her pockets—comes so strong, I can practically smell fried food in the air.
“You know, they had a big friendship bracelet day here every year,” she says with a sad laugh. “Can you guess how many I got?”
“One,” I answer with a confident step toward her.
Tell her. Tell her!
But the words don’t move past my lips.
She blinks at me, and for a small moment before she nods, I think she might recognize me.
“One. But honestly? I’m not sure that it really counted,” she huffs, surveying the overgrown mess hall.
“And why is that?” I take a more than educated guess, feeling her getting closer and closer to the truth. “Did the person who made it for you not go to this summer camp?”
She must know—she must remember,
“Something like that.” Marina’s voice is a low hum. We’re walking past one of the cabins; it’s a little sad to see the way the old wood has sunken in on itself, but this camp was in operation for a long while before Marina and I discovered it. Still, it’s a shame the way it was so ill-maintained that they let it fall into disrepair.
She frowns at the graffiti on the side of the buildings. “You never told me what you were doing out here last night.”
“Isn’t it obvious? Working on my next masterpiece,” I say, knocking on the wall—right above a giant spraypainted penis.
“An inspired piece—truly,” she says, resting a hand on her chin with a firm nod. The two of us laugh. I don’t think we’ve ever walked around Camp Mangrove this freely.
We’d meet by the dock at night or on the shore at midday when no one was looking. I always wondered what it would belike to stand next to her so publicly. Children aren’t often given glamours, so there was no way for me to blend in and hike, snack, or swim out in the open. And while there ain’t exactly a slew of activities we can find to do here today, I’m sure I can capture at least an ounce of that energy.
“Race you to the flagpole!” I shout, breaking into a sprint.
“Hey! You got a head start!” Her footsteps spring through the tall grass behind me, followed by heavy breathing. She grabs at my waist in an attempt to pull me backward—which I allow, enjoying the brief moment of contact before she races past me.
“That’s cheatin’!”
“You cheated first,” she shouts, a smile on her face. I take the lead pivoting in front of her, jogging backward as my mouth spreads in a wide triumphant grin when—
“Gil!”
The flagpole hits me square in the back of the head, and my body crumples from pain and laughter.
“Are you okay?” Marina shouts, joining me in the grass. When I nod, unable to stop laughing, she joins me in the nonsensical fit of giggles.
My mouth is sore from smiling so much today and she’s—so damn beautiful.
