Don't Ever Change (17 page)

“Foster’s in the counselor break room,” Steven tells me.

“There’s a counselor break room?” I say, and normally Steven would laugh at something like that, but this time he doesn’t. He looks concerned.

“You can go talk to him for a bit and then meet us back at the amphitheater for End-of-Day.”

“Is everything okay?” I ask.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” Steven says without a smile. Then he looks past me, at my girls, his face filling with a new concern as he notices they aren’t outdoor cooking at all, but scribbling in journals.

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FOSTER STANDS WHEN
he sees me. At first I can’t tell what to do—give him a hug, or wait to see if
he
hugs
me
—but Foster’s so explicitly sad that I just go to him and wrap my arms around him. Instead of hugging back, Foster just shakes his head and rambles. It seems like he finally took my advice, though, because he starts somewhere in the middle.

“Not because of the earthquake,” Foster says. “Because of something else, some heart arrhythmia condition, have you heard of that?”

“No.”

“But they thought it was the earthquake, because something fell on him and hit him from up on this shelf above his bed.”

“Did he . . .
die
?” I say.

“He’s dead.”

I feel lost so I just start guessing: “Foster, was it your brother? Was it your dad? Was—”

“What?” Foster interrupts, confused.

“Who are you talking about?”

“Didn’t Steven tell you?”

I shake my head.

“Brandon Gettis.”

I don’t know who Brandon Gettis is.

“He’s a camper. He’s seven,” Foster says. “He’s in Eli’s group.”

I don’t know who Eli is.

“His brother’s
Trevor
Gettis. From my group.”

I remember Trevor. I love Trevor. I ask if Trevor’s okay.

“He’s not coming back to camp.”

“That’s so sad,” I say. “What’s Eli going to tell his group?”

“Steven’s going to tell them.”

“What are
you
going to do?”

“I’ll tell the guys tomorrow,” Foster says. He looks like he’s about to cry. “When I was a CIT, Trevor was in my group too. The Gettises, they’re a really nice family.”

“Trevor’s amazing,” I say.

“It was just some sudden heart attack.”

“Can kids get heart attacks?” I ask, even though I’m realizing I guess they can.

Foster nods and covers his eyes.

Even though it’s terrible, even though it’s
the worst thing ever
, I try to imagine if Lila’s brother died, the one who called Mr. Baggy Jeans “BJ.” I imagine if he died and I had to tell my girls. I probably wouldn’t be able to. I’d probably make Alyssa do it, because she never feels bad about anything. Then my eyes start to get wet, and I choke up. Foster’s so good, he’s such a
good counselor
, that I know how much this hurts him. I rack my brain for something completely incredible and soulful to say, because I want to make Foster feel better and I also want to be the Best Possible Eva.

“You know, these kids are sort of
precious
.” I touch his hand.

Foster looks at me and smiles. He nods.

“It’s the saddest story,” I say, and I don’t need to tell Foster he can have this one, because it’s the story Foster’s been writing since we were freshmen.

It’s the story he’s always written, and now that it’s become real, it feels like anything’s possible. Anything can happen.

Anything can end any way.

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THERE ARE CERTAIN
very adult, very serious movies about grief and mourning and loss that my parents don’t like me watching, probably for pretty sensible reasons. But I watch them anyway, and what I notice happens a lot is that the man and woman become so agonized by the suicide or the baby drowning that their pain, their crushing
heartache
, mysteriously transforms into what I can only call . . .
horniness
.

Standing so close to Foster, being so moved, my emotions feel like they’re mysteriously transforming too.

Foster’s lips part, and that’s my entrance: it’s where my tongue goes. We’re so literary, Foster and I; our stories have stories inside of them. Like how this is the story of a boy dying unexpectedly, but when you dig deeper, it’s also about two people finding one another after years of being right in front of each other’s faces. I’ve read novels where it’s like that, and I get what they’re saying:
He was always there, he’d been there the whole time, I just didn’t realize it!
And sometimes that feels phony, but sometimes it feels like it’s absolutely true. And this time, for me, it’s absolutely true. And if that’s a cliché,
so what
, I’m living it.

It’s strangely normal, Frenching Foster. He closes his eyes, and it gets even better: we’re licking each other’s lips, stroking the sides of each other’s face. When I was thirteen, I was obsessed with being an amazing kisser, but later on you realize that’s a waste of time, because boys want to kiss you whether you’re any good at it or not. Now I just try to match their speed, respond to their motions, and they mainly seem satisfied.

But Foster’s so
tender
. He’s so vulnerable, and he cares so much. He’s so sad about Brandon Gettis that the sadness is making his lips, his tongue, his hands, more serious, more intent. He’s like some Back from the War kisser, or some Train Station Farewell kisser, which is completely different from Elliot, or from anyone else I’ve kissed.

Elliot, ugh.

Now, unfortunately, I’m thinking about Elliot and can’t stop.

I’ve always felt ambiguous about the idea of the Bad Boy. Like, I know
morally
we shouldn’t find that attractive, but I guess
realistically
we can’t always help it. Now I’m realizing maybe it’s just the phrase itself that’s the problem. Bad Boy sounds kind of cute—there’s something dumbly adorable about it. But Bad Person sounds awful. Saying, “I’m in love with a Bad Boy” might make your friend giggle or blush, but saying, “I’m in love with a Bad Person” is just disturbing. I’m not labeling Elliot as some Officially Bad Person, but I
am
saying he’s a Bad Boy, and if the two could be recognized as being part of the same category, we’d all save ourselves a lot of time and trouble.

But right now I’m kissing a Good Guy
and
a Good Person, kissing him all over his face, and not so softly or slowly either. When Mr. Roush thinks a student has style or passion but not much skill, he’ll write on their paper:
Artfully messy!
That’s what Frenching Foster has turned into—more of a creative chaos than some smooth move.

Just as I’m thinking,
I hope nobody walks in,
immediately someone does.

It’s a counselor I’ve seen around before who has some old-timey name I can never remember. He doesn’t even say anything, he just cracks the door, sees us, and abruptly leaves, which is how I know he was weirded out.

“He didn’t see anything,” I say. “I mean, he saw us, but he didn’t see what we were doing really.

“He’s not going to go tell Steven,” I continue, talking too fast, already feeling short of breath. “What kind of person would do that?

“It’s not like we were having
sex
,” I say. I shake my head, gesture confusingly with my hands. “We weren’t naked or spooning on the couch or, like,
pressing up
against each other.

“Also, there’s nothing illegal about two counselors kissing when they’re away from their campers, alone in the
counselor
break room. Only a total jerk would complain to Steven, and there’s no way
that
guy would do that—he always seems really nice. I mean, that’s how he seems when we’re singing ‘If I Had a Hammer’ at Morning Ceremonies.

“We’re
not
going to get fired,” I blurt out, but Foster looks like he’s thinking about Brandon now, which makes me feel crazy and awful.

“
And also
,” I say, “a boy died today, so there are other things to be upset about.

“I can fix all this,” I say, finally moving toward the door to leave, “but first, real quick, what’s that guy’s name?”

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I SPRINT ACROSS
camp, past the abandoned swimming pool and the empty archery range, past the bungalow by Steven’s office and the outdoor amphitheater, until I get to the parking lot where the last of the big yellow buses is reversing out to leave down the long, curving exit road. I kneel over, panting from the run, wiping sweat from my forehead, and spy a few tiny campers’ faces peering out through the dirty rear window of the bus, their tiny hands flailing at what they think is my bye-bye wave.

Over on the edge of the parking lot by my car, there’re a few other cars still there, and some counselors standing around talking. Even though I can’t quite make out their faces, one of them looks like Booth, the old-timey-named nice guy I’m looking for.

“Booth!” I shout. “Booth!”

Booth turns around and looks at me like I’m insane.

“Booth! Can I talk to you for a sec?”

“Sure!” Booth shouts back, standing there, waiting.

“No, can I talk to you over
here
?” I shout again, pointing to the ground next to me. Booth hesitates but then reluctantly jogs over.

“What’s up, Eva?”

“What’s up with you?”

“Everything’s . . . cool.”

“It is?”

“Yeah,” Booth says with an amused smile, “it is.”

“Okay, cool, because I just wanted to make sure you knew that Foster is
really
responsible, and I’m less responsible but still, you know,
competent
.”

“You’re not the only ones who make out in the break room,” Booth says, his smile turning sort of sleazy, like he’s looking at me differently, like he’s seen me on TV or something.

“Okay.”

“You’re just the first one to get Foster into it.”

“Well, Foster’s not
that
into it,” I say. “I pretty much forced him.”

“Oh ho ho,” Booth says, and then there’s that look again, that cable TV look.

“Just don’t tell anyone.”

“Trust me,” Booth says—and I don’t, I
do not
—“I wouldn’t want a frenzy.”

“What do you mean, a frenzy?”

“With the other girls. They’re
all about
Foster.”

I glance over Booth’s shoulder. Everyone’s scowling at us. Male, female, all of them.

“Foster?” I say slowly, confused.

“Every summer,” Booth tells me. “It’s like a contest.”

“And is he
all about
any of the other girls?”