Proof of Forever (12 page)

“How come you left us?”

Joy can't answer right away. When she does, there's a hoarseness to her voice. “I don't know. Things were changing. I had to let them.”

She expects Zoe to respond, but at the soft sound of snoring, she realizes her old friend has fallen asleep, her form tucked into Joy's side, while the night—mysterious and heavy—folds down around them both.

Three days down. Two days left.
Zoe wakes cramped from sharing Joy's tiny bunk bed and nearly falls out of it when her foot gets tangled in the sheets. She frees herself with a certain sadness. She remembers when she woke up more often in one of the other girls' bunks than her own, when they were her best solace against even the darkest, most claustrophobic nightmares.

Three days down.
She can't get it out of her head. They've now spent three full nights at camp, in the past, and time is running out. Tonight is the talent show. Tomorrow it will be carnival night, reunion night, end of summer, and their plan to re-create the photo will either work or . . .

She shakes her head, willing away the doubts. She needs to focus. Today Zoe is determined to figure out what makes Ellis tick—and where her weaknesses are. With only one more day
left before the tournament, Zoe's options are dwindling: either learn Ellis's strategy by heart, or convince her—even beg her—to back down. Since just thinking about begging makes Zoe cringe, her plan is to focus on the former. Ellis's technique
must
have a weakness. Zoe beat her once before.

She just has to remember how.

Which is why during lunch she heads over to the main offices and walks straight into the Cruz's private study, knowing that Bernadette Cruz is always roaming the campgrounds checking in on counselors, and can rarely actually be found at headquarters. Sure enough, the study is empty and Zoe relishes the welcome blast of air-conditioning as she quickly locates the campers' files, flips to Ellis Green, and jots down her address.

As a day student, Ellis participates in only the morning activity sessions, then heads home. Day students don't stay at camp for afternoon session or dinner, though they do often return in the evenings for special event nights—like the cruise, for instance, or the talent show. Definitely for reunion night.

This morning, Zoe learned from Indigo and Samantha that Ellis is receiving additional
private
lessons at her house on Monday and Thursday afternoons, about four miles from the campgrounds.
Bingo
.

What Zoe needs to do is study Ellis when she doesn't know she's being watched. Find out what her private trainer is teaching her, then somehow use it against her.

By around two o'clock, Zoe is making her way past the entrance to the campgrounds, trying her best to thumb a ride.
It's another incredibly hot day; the sun is blazing and the dust hovers above the gravel road, trapping in the heat. Zoe has never hitchhiked before, but she has always wanted to. Still, when an old Subaru finally pulls over to the shoulder and a middle-aged mom-type rolls down her window, the glamor of it vanishes and Zoe blushes.

“You all right, sweetheart?” the woman says, squinting at Zoe like she might sprout another head.

“I just need a ride to my friend's house,” Zoe tells her.

Luckily, the woman shrugs and lets Zoe hop into the car. Within minutes, they arrive at the address Zoe scrawled down. This neighborhood is even fancier than Luciana's. The giant white house stands at the end of a tremendously long dirt driveway lined with skinny birches. Wide-winged yellow monarchs flutter lazily between the trees like something out of a fairy tale, making it almost seem like the leaves have come alive. She has the distinct impression that she's entering dreamland through an invisible, gauzy veil.

Zoe gets out of the car and ducks into the trees as she follows the long driveway toward the mansion—it
is
a mansion, there's no other word for it—wishing she'd thought out the rest of her plan in advance. It's possible they have their own fencing piste somewhere in the back—so she decides to sneak around the side of the property and try to locate Ellis without being spotted.

This plan goes well for about three minutes, before her cover is blown by loud barking coming from the screened-in front porch. Two Pomeranians are leaping up and down on their little
legs, head-butting the screen and yapping at Zoe. She dodges toward the garage, hoping to find a place to hide, and comes to an abrupt halt as she rounds the corner.

There is Blake, Tali's crush, hauling a racket and can of tennis balls from a covered shed at the side of the garage.

Zoe gasps and takes a step backward. “What are
you
doing here?”

Blake tousles his dirty-blond pretty-boy hair with his free hand. “I
live
here,” he says, staring at her with steely blue eyes—the same blue as Ellis's, Zoe realizes. And that's when she puts it together: Ellis must be Blake's little sister. It makes so much sense—they are both day campers with a reputation for being spoiled, privileged, and highly competitive.
Ugh
.

“The real question is, what are
you
doing here?” he says, squinting, with one side of his mouth turned up. She can't help but notice his pronounced dimples—Ellis has them, too. Zoe can sort of see why Tali thinks he's so cute. “Spying on me?”

Before she's able to quip back, a female voice pipes up from behind her. “I invited Zoe over.” Zoe turns to see Ellis, decked out in her fencing gear, her helmet in hand. “We're practicing together today. Greg thinks I should work with a partner,” she adds.

Blake raises an eyebrow. “All right, then. You girls have fun. Try not to let all that sword play wear you out.” With a smirk, he saunters off to the tennis courts around the side of the garage.

“Come on,” Ellis says, waving her forward. Zoe is too mortified to resist.

“Why'd you cover for me just then?” she asks, her mind racing.

Ellis turns around, walking backward. She grins—much fuller and even more mischievously than her brother. “You. Are. Slow,” she drawls.

Zoe's not sure if it's an answer or a taunt, so she just shakes her head and takes the spare helmet and épée Ellis hands her, sliding it easily from its sheath, ready to engage. Her hopes of spying might have flown out the window the second the two yapping furballs on the porch outed her, but she's not going to miss another opportunity to practice with Ellis.

Entering an open-air deck with the borders of the piste drawn out on the wood, the girls begin to spar, as Ellis's coach, some glasses-wearing guy named Greg, shouts out instruction after instruction. They are pretty evenly matched, but Zoe is restless, despite a slight aching in her legs from yesterday's aborted climbing session. She wants to prove to Ellis that she's not intimidated. She wants Ellis to back off. And so she lunges at her, perhaps more aggressively than usual. Once again, Ellis neatly dodges and returns with a glide, throwing Zoe off balance.

Zoe could not be more flummoxed. How did this girl evade notice the first time around? How in the world did Zoe best her in the past? After another twenty minutes, Zoe is burned out, breathless, and totally fuming. Her cheeks blaze from the exertion, which is good because it serves to hide how mortified she feels. Every time she tries to surprise Ellis, Ellis reacts casually, like she knew the play was coming all along. And every time she
tries her usual intimidation strategy, Ellis finds a way to turn it against her.

“Greg, I think we need a break,” Ellis announces, and in one crisp movement, she has removed her helmet and gestured for Greg to head inside. “My mom left your check on the counter,” she calls after him.

“See you next week, Miss Green,” he says with a curt wave before ducking into the house, leaving the two girls alone on the sprawling lawn.

“I just don't get it,” Zoe confesses, catching her breath at last. “It's not usually this hard for me.”

Ellis cocks her head at Zoe and slowly approaches. “Want to know my secret?” she asks, her big eyes trained on Zoe with an unreadable expression.

Zoe feels a flicker of distrust, and another of intrigue. “Sure, what is it?”

“Drop your sword first,” Ellis commands.

Automatically, Zoe sets down her épée and puts her hands on her hips, waiting for further instruction. Now that they're on a break, the sound of Blake's tennis practice seems louder in the background, echoing across the vast lawn:
pong, thwack, pong, thwack, pong, thwack.

“Okay, now put out your hands like this,” Ellis says, putting her hands up vertically, palms facing Zoe as though to indicate a stop.

Zoe mimics her, then steps back, startled, when Ellis lines her own hands up against Zoe's. “No, come back, this is the
exercise,” she says, looking a little annoyed.

“Sorry,” Zoe mumbles, once again stepping closer to Ellis and lining up their hands.

“You think it's all about psyching out the other person, but it's not. It's actually about trust,” Ellis explains.

It sounds a lot like New Age bullshit, but Zoe waits for more. “So now what?”

Ellis smirks. “You can't just rely on your strength. You can't win if you're holding back. You have to
lean in
toward your opponent. Put your actual weight into it. Most girls give up their footing too easily, but you're the opposite. You're a withholder. You're so focused on maintaining your stance that you don't truly engage. The two swords have to share the weight. The connection has to be
real
, you know? Here, let me show you. Lean toward me,” she orders.

Zoe does as she has asked, and Ellis purposefully backs up. Zoe stumbles forward.

“See? If I don't engage, it's not really a fight at all, is it?” she points out. “There's not enough resistance, no clear next move. Now do it again.”

This time when Zoe leans toward her, putting her weight into her hands, Ellis leans in as well, sharing the weight. They balance like that, their noses almost touching. Slowly, Ellis pushes a little harder, then a little less, and the two girls sway back and forth, almost like a dance—but one that would be thrown off instantly if either of them were to pull her hands away, leaving the other to fall onto her face.

“See?” Ellis says quietly, her words a whisper across Zoe's face. “Just be with it. In the moment. When you get it, it
feels
right.”

Zoe feels a flash of excitement. She
is
getting it.

They pick up their épées again and begin to spar once more. This time, Zoe tests her weight, leaning in more, like Ellis taught her. At first, a wave of nervousness passes through her and she's certain she's going to lose her balance. But then she successfully pulls off a smooth glide, never losing contact with Ellis's weapon. And it starts to click into place . . . it starts to feel right, like Ellis said.

A jolt of adrenaline races through Zoe's veins—she rears, swings, and effectively knocks Ellis's sword from her hands. “Yes!” she hollers, relief flooding her entire body. She did it.

Ellis dusts her hands off on the sides of her shorts. “Not bad,” she admits, and Zoe feels her entire face glowing both with triumph and the heat of the effort. “Keep it up and you're bound to win tomorrow.”

Zoe nods, realizing that for the last few minutes, she completely forgot this was even about winning at all, about getting the medal, about escaping back to the present. For a second or two, she was just living in the moment.

Ellis leads Zoe toward the shed where all of her family's extensive athletic gear is stored, neatly arranged by sport and season. Zoe feels another flash of wistfulness—if only Calvin were here to joke about this with her.

“So, see you tonight?” Ellis asks as Zoe prepares to make her way back to camp.

Zoe turns and looks at Ellis curiously, once again—for what must be the millionth time this week—thrown off by her.

“You didn't hear?” Ellis explains. “My brother's throwing a rager after the talent show. Special guests only. Mostly private-school friends and tennis assholes. But you should come.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Zoe hedges. Another party. And yet another element of the summer that in no way matches what really happened the first time around. Has she already pushed the boundaries of history too far by coming here and confronting Ellis? “Thanks. For, um, everything.”

She trudges back toward the long driveway.

“Don't forget your bikini,” Ellis calls out after her. Zoe turns once more as Ellis gestures toward the gleaming pool beyond the tennis courts in the distance, where Blake's perfect form moves neatly through the air as he hits the ball with a satisfying
thwack
. Behind him, the pool seems to wink in the sun, turquoise and undulant in the slight breeze, almost taunting, and beyond that, a giant lawn mower has started up, slowly drowning out everything else with its hum.

Zoe just raises a hand, and Ellis smiles.

Why
not
party tonight?
Even though it'll take her a full hour to get back to camp on foot, she's in a great mood now. With the progress she's made, Zoe knows she's got tomorrow's competition in the bag at last.

Besides, it's like Ellis said: She may as well start engaging, start living in the moment. You can't win if you're holding back.

“I think I have something that will work,” Brianna Bradley says, eyeing Tali up and down, then surveying her chest with extra attention. “A
padded
something,” she adds.

Brianna turns around and roots through one of her cubbies, pulling out various lacy thongs, demi-cup bras, and a few other items that even Tali has never worn, like a garter full of pink and white ribbons. “Why do you have
that
?” she blurts out.

Brianna turns to her, swishing her shoulders and pinning Tali with a stern gaze. “Tali. You of all people should realize that
anything
can happen at camp.” She shrugs and turns back to her rifling. “I like to be prepared.”

Finally she extricates a matching lime-green thong and bra, all lace, the tags on. “
Here
we go. I knew I still had this set. Bra was too small, plus I found out Mike doesn't like green, so . . . never been worn. Now,” she says, putting her free hand on her hip. “What are
you
going to give
me
? And don't say hair
product—I already got a Feddy full of them last week.”

It's all Tali can do to keep from rolling her eyes. She knows from Facebook that in two years Brianna will have gotten addicted to self-tanners and takeout, and redubbed Oompa Loompa by her peers. Even as Brianna lords over her, wielding her power as one of the only nonvirgins in their bunk, Tali feels a pang of pity.
No one
deserves what Bri's got coming to her.

Tali offers up her watch—the one her dad bought for her last time he was in Paris—in exchange for the matching lingerie. It's worth it—she certainly doesn't have anything like it in
her
cubby.

After finding out about Blake's party from Zoe this afternoon, the idea formed rapidly in her mind: She'd skip dinner and head over to Blake's place early, offering to help him set up for his big bash tonight. It might be enough time that she can race back for the talent show, and then return for the actual party. This way, Tali will find some alone time with Blake before the party even starts, and hopefully make up for her humiliating overboard moment. She still can't remember the fall without cringing. No
wonder
Blake has barely looked at her except to wink and call out, “Staying dry, Bender?”

Of course, she also can't help but cringe remembering how he'd called her Tanya. Did he really not know her name? Or had she just been disoriented out there, thrashing in the water, and misheard?

Plus then there were his hands on her body, overeager, overhasty . . . the memory makes her feel a tad sick to her stomach. But, it's still Blake Green, the hottest boy at camp. And whether
she wants to admit it or not, this isn't just about a crush anymore. She
needs
him.

Or at least, she needs his underpants.

Hastily, hidden away in a shower stall, she changes into the pretty bra and underwear, slipping an almost-see-through white dress on over them, then stashes the tags in the Dumpsters by the main hall.

She is forced to scare one of the younger campers into lending her his bike. She's certainly not going to a hitch a ride down the road like Zoe claims she did earlier today—not in
this
outfit. That's how pretty girls disappear. Even Tali, who hates reading the news, knows that.

Now, on the too-short bike, Tali pedals along the gravel road, letting the late-afternoon wind ruffle the hem of her dress. It's got to be after four p.m., maybe even closer to five, but the sun is still blazing on, relentless. Tali pictures Blake's smile, and recalls once again the feel of his hands around her waist as he touched her on the boat two nights ago. . . .
Obviously
he wanted her. She can do this.

When she arrives at the address, she ditches the bike in the bushes by the edge of the woods and takes in the grandeur of his house. She isn't used to families richer than hers is—
was
 . . . whichever. For a second she freezes, the call she had with her mom in Luce's kitchen ringing loudly in her ears.
Fraud
.
Investigation
. Though she hardly understood what her mother was trying to tell her, the details didn't matter—she got the basic point. Their assets are frozen. Her dad is in trouble. For years,
he's been lying to them, corrupt. He's not the man they thought he was. . . . She's been so horrified by his deceit that she hasn't spent much time considering exactly how their lives are going to change. But it occurs to her now that
everything
is going to change. Her future is a big fat unknown, threatening to unravel her.

All she can do, she realizes, is cling to the unknown of
now
. Blake.

She reaches up compulsively to smooth out her hair, praying it looks okay, and swallows back the lump of fear that has formed in her throat. Then, setting her shoulders back and standing tall, she walks down the driveway, feeling the white dress swish around her legs.

She is about to knock on the front door to a chorus of yapping dogs when, beneath the high-pitched barking, she hears the siren call of the tennis ball—
pong, thwack, pong, thwack
. Blake.

Stepping back from the door, she makes her way around the side of the house instead, noticing the heady scent of freshly mown grass—so strong her nose starts to twitch. Finally, she catches a glimpse of Blake, his shoulder muscles moving fluidly as the ball machine shoots tennis ball after tennis ball at him and he easily sends them to the other side of the court. She approaches slowly, not wanting to interrupt his practice but still floating toward him helplessly, as though carried in his direction by an invisible tide.

By now the yapping dogs have quieted down, and she hears another sound—a low buzz, rumbling not too far away, almost
like an overloud generator or some kind of motor. She's about to raise her voice and call out to Blake, when the source of the distant hum makes itself known—a big, heavy-duty lawn mower appears in her sightline, rounding the tennis courts at the far end, about to make a turn back toward the house.

And sitting on top of the lawn mower is Tow Boy.

With a flood of horror, she realizes that as soon as the mower rounds the corner of the courts, he'll see her, standing there in her sexy dress. Instinctively, she leaps to the side, toward the garage, which has a storage unit attached to it, containing rows and rows of fancy-looking athletic gear. As quickly as possible, she closes the door almost all the way shut. It's hot and dark inside the shed, but at least she's concealed.

How the
hell
did Tow Boy get a job mowing Blake's lawn? How many jobs does this frigging guy
have
? She knows the lifeguards switch off days, but
still
, her luck has never been worse. It's like he's following her or something. Briefly she thinks about the feel of his arms around her when he hauled her to the surface of the lake . . . how he lectured her about the rules of camp . . .

How he took off his shirt, revealing maddeningly ripped abs.

Nudity. No one can resist it.

The engine of the lawn mower shuts off. Good. Tow Boy must be done. She'll just wait a minute or so, and the coast will be clear.

Quickly, she strips off her dress, excitement coursing through her body. This is
definitely
something the old Tali
never
would have done, way too self-conscious about her body. When Blake
comes to the shed to return his racket, he'll find Tali ready and waiting. There's no way anything can stop them from hooking up now. It has become a point of pride—she's
got
to make this happen. She's not sure she'll be able to withstand failing again.

She's so distracted that it takes her a second to realize something has changed—she no longer hears the
pong, thwack
of the tennis ball. This is it. He's done with practice.

Suddenly, she's awash with nervousness and wishes she had something to wipe her sweaty palms on. She grabs onto something—possibly a ski pole—and does her best to strike a casually seductive pose, resting her cheek against her arm like she's just relaxing in here, ready for whatever. She hears an exchange of low voices and footsteps just outside the door of the shed, and through the crack of light where it's still open an inch she sees a shadow fall across the bright green grass.

The handle of the shed door creaks, and then it swings open, and standing there before her, in all his tall, glorious, muscular height, tennis racket hanging from his hand, the sun blazing around him like a full-body halo, is . . .

Tow Boy.

Tali screams.

Without thinking, she pushes past him. Her blood races to her head so quickly she worries she's about to pass out, but she doesn't care; she dashes toward the bushes at the corner of the front lawn where she left the kid's stolen bike, hearing Tow Boy call out after her. She can't even tell what he's saying, whether he's laughing at her. He
must
be laughing at her.

Why why WHY?
Where did Blake
go
? Tali doesn't know whether to feel embarrassed or furious. She pushes hard on the pedals of the bike, riding as fast as she can, wishing she could ride through the woods but knowing the terrain is way too thick with trees, praying no one drives past and sees her like this . . . riding a child's bike. In a bright green
thong
. She'll probably get arrested.

She keeps replaying what just happened: Tow Boy came to the door. Tow Boy saw her. Tow Boy saw her basically
naked
.

A car drives by, honking. Someone shouts at her.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Tali bangs the palm of her hand against the handlebars, which causes the bike to wobble dangerously in the gravel.
Shit.
The last thing she needs right now is to bite it on the side of the road and return to camp both half-naked
and
injured.

She tries to recall Tow Boy's face in her mind as she pushed past him but can't. Was he grinning? Shocked? Disgusted, horrified, amused? She must have seemed like an insane, half-naked alien, shoving into him, darting past him, in her practically neon undies.

She sees the Camp Okahatchee entrance up ahead and makes a sharp left turn into it, her legs starting to ache from pedaling so fast . . . just as the loud wail of the dinner horn breaks into the evening air.

Wooo-ooooh!
it cries like a foghorn.

And then, as though physically attached to the sound itself, dozens, if not hundreds, of campers, stream out of cabins, some in lines, some in chaotic clumps, making their way to the dining hall.

Tali tries to hit the brakes violently, causing her bike to almost fall again.
Oh great
. Already, a group of boys has turned to look at her, pointing and laughing.

In what seems like half a second, tons of other campers are screaming, shouting, whistling, laughing, and calling to her. It's so surreal, Tali can't think. She just keeps pedaling—determined to keep riding to safety, somewhere at the edge of the woods where no one can see her.

Like some sort of coordinated, choreographed flash mob, the crowd separates all at once, enough to let her through.

And then, something weird happens.

It starts with Crazy Casey. She races out of the arts and crafts center cheering, then whips off her own top and runs after Tali in only her bra and shorts. Tali is astonished to see a few more girls join in. They're not just laughing, they're cheering, too, hollering but not in a mean way . . . in an excited away. Like Tali is their hero.

A couple of counselors notice the commotion and start shouting, “Enough!” One is waving her arms and another blows his whistle at her. The wild desire to laugh bubbles up inside her. Then it bursts open, and she
is
laughing. She's laughing and crying and screaming. “Wahoo!” she shouts, raising a fist into the air, not even caring anymore
what
these people think. It's way too late for that. It's too late for sex appeal, too late for dignity, too late for
worrying
.

She has ridden straight down to the sand. And so she leaps off the bike, ditching it in the sand, and races the rest of the way to
the edge of the lake. Then she throws herself into it, knowing full well that basically all of Camp OK just got a full view of her perky ass.

She flies into the water, then comes up for air, realizing she's still laughing. Water streams off her body. The lake is refreshingly cool against her skin, which is hot from the bike ride and the intense waves of embarrassment. She turns around. About twenty or twenty-five girls are splashing around in the lake, too.

And the counselors are
not
happy about it.

She stands to her full height in the water, powerful now, like the Pied Piper of Streaking. She did this. She caused this. She just led a
movement
, a protest of some kind. A bunch of counselors have gathered at the shore, furiously blowing into their whistles and shouting, and yet all around her girls are diving, stripping, laughing, splashing, and screaming. Boys have gathered, too, cheering them on. It's inexplicable. It's intoxicating.

Through the kaleidoscope of naked arms and legs, of rainbow-colored bras and underwear, she sees the Cruz, standing on the shore with her hands on her hips. She freezes. The Cruz catches her eye and glares.

Tali stands there for a second, wondering what to do. She looks around and sees Zoe and Joy in the water with her, also in just their bras, smiling and laughing.

Zoe splashes Joy, who screams, wading over to Tali and grabbing her shoulders from behind.

“Hide me!” Joy shouts, laughing still.

Zoe tumbles over to them, landing a giant splash in Tali's face.

“Back off, Albright!” Tali announces, whirling a big splash of water back on Zoe, whose hair is plastered all over her face like some sort of sea monster.