“No, I mean, I can’t. What am I supposed to do: wander around the wilderness, write in my diary, in hopes I make a song good enough?” I ask. “I’ll just shut myself in for a weekend and—”
“Mari, you need this,” she interrupts. “Do it for yourself, not the band. Whatever you decide, keep the money, will you? I’m planning on cleaning out Darla next Tuesday anyway.”
“Unless management shuts you down again,” I say, raising an eyebrow, but I can’t keep the amusement out of my voice. The feud between her and Darla is ongoing and, until now, has seemed mostly playful. The pair get confused by the staff constantly because of their red hair and similar names.
“Can’t keep a shark out of the water,” she says—and when did she put on sunglasses? I let out a laugh. Grams is something else, and I wouldn’t change her for the world.
No one in their right mind would go along with a plan like this. I’ll do the reasonable thing and sneak the money back into its rightful place when she’s not looking.
There’s no way anyone, not even Darleen Wiles, can convince me to do something so ridiculous.
Chapter 3
Marina
Darleen Wiles can, in fact, talk me into anything.
When people have bad days, they go home, make a cup of tea, or buy a little treat from the grocery store. They watch bad TV, scroll social media, even call an ex, but not me. Nope, nope, nope. Grams’ original suggestion of musicals and girl-dinner is long gone.
I’m in my car, heading hours away with my keyboard, a coffee can filled with cash, and a few outfits Grams helped me pack, all for the sake of a song.
One that will be dedicated to the unofficial sponsors of my trip: the poker club. At least they’ll be excited to hear about my destination.
Florida.
The Sunshine State comes up a lot in a senior community. Though the residents mostly seem to be waxing poetic about how nice it must be to live in The Villages—a destination for folks their age to find a summer hookup or so I’ve been told. But romance is the last thing on my mind as I make my way toward Camp Mangrove. Though my memories there hold something equally as important.
My first real friend—well, almost.
As I drive, I can’t help but wade into memories of a time when I was young and it was easy to believe in the impossible. Thoughts of running around the springs together, the two of us hidden in plain sight; they fill my heart with an ache every moment I’m onthe road. Back then, to anyone watching, I must have looked like a loner, but I never felt alone at camp—not for long, at least.
Gale always listened. He was always happy to see me. I can’t think of childhood summers without thinking of him.
My drive is measured in rest stops and too many cups of bad gas station coffee. By the time palm trees line the highway, my hands are shaking on the steering wheel. When I notice signs for “Boiled P-Nuts” and tourist traps, I’m practically vibrating. To balance out the jitters, I reach for my go-to snack. This state may be big, but the giant container of cheese balls in the passenger seat might be bigger.
They’re a road trip staple and have been since I was a kid. I’d beg my uncle to buy me a giant container every single summer, and he always did. It didn’t matter that it never fit in my suitcase and he had to lug it over his shoulder all the way to my cabin.
“Cheese balls for my little cheese ball,” he’d say with a grin, as if he hadn’t just been screaming at my cousin and I on the long car ride hours before. But that was what it was like with Uncle Orson: a snap of emotions that varied from moment to moment.
Grams said he never could deal with all the guilt about my parents, but the more I think about it as an adult, I wonder if his anger issues had more layers. One of his emotional outlets was music, just like me—we bonded over it and yet, I think my presence took away from the escapism. Still, I’d listen as he played the old songs he wrote with my dad, his older brother. That flicker in his eyes when he looked at me always made me so sad. My face was a constant reminder of who he lost.
I learned not to ask too many questions, to try to be good, stay out of trouble, and be the best extended house guest I could be. I never really relaxed, not until summer rolled around and I was safely away from it all.
Camp Mangrove.
The way I remember it, the blue water and tall trees always felt magical. It was easy for me to escape into music and friend-shaped delusions. Despite the draw of nostalgia, Gale is the one thing I can’t seek out this weekend. I want everything I experience in the next forty-eight hours to be real. Still, my mind wanders to the time I spent imagining the impossible as I pull into the large lot outside the state park.
Will it still feel the same without racing into the arms of something pretend? I gulp as I park my car, leaving the cheese balls in the passenger seat—for now.
Shadows dance at my feet from the heavy garlands of Spanish moss that sway in the trees. As I step toward the ranger station to pick up my keys, I’m greeted by the loud serenade of cicadas. It’s a comfort I didn’t realize I missed, though it’s grossly overshadowed by the feeling of stepping into a dishwasher.
The thick humidity sticks to me like a second skin, hot and overbearing even in the shade.
The person working at the ranger station hands me a map, my home for the weekend circled in shiny red pen. I squint at the illustrated rendering of the state park. I knew it would feel different, but this seems like a whole new layout.
“This was Camp Mangrove, wasn’t it?” I ask, and the ranger shakes his head, pointing to the big patch of land in the center of the springs.
“Thatwas Camp Mangrove,” he corrects me, drawing little cabins and a welcome sign on the plain patch of green. “The old campgrounds are defunct, lost to time and rot, but you can canoe or kayak past them using this path.” He draws another line with pen.
