Proof of Forever (18 page)

Hours later, Tali feels drunk from kissing, and touching, and just being
happy
. In between all the making out, they've talked, and laughed, and recounted the horrible things they said to each other over the last few days. And even though her body is burning with the desire to go further, she's grateful that Shane hasn't tried. Not once has he made the move to shove her bikini straps aside or push things past PG-13, like Blake did immediately on the boat. She shudders, remembering that.

But Shane's patient—almost like he knows this won't be his last chance.

She hopes it won't be.

She cuddles into him now, pressing her whole body against his, her hand in his hair—something she's read about but never actually done before—and kisses him again, slowly and softly, lingering, breathing in his coconut-and-grass smell.

When she pulls back, a slight glimmer of nervousness returns. “Are you really . . . really so . . .”

“What?” he asks.

“You know,
good
.”

He laughs. “Well, I don't know if I'm all
that
good.”

But she doesn't laugh with him. The moment feels weighty suddenly, important. Crucial. “I just . . . ,” she says, searching for the words. “I want to know if I can trust you.”

Shane looks at her. “It's a funny thing, trust.”

“Why?”

“You can't make it happen, you have to
let
it happen. Over time.”

She feels slightly deflated. He's right, but it's not the answer she's looking for.

He sits up, slightly. “Listen, I—”

But she raises her hand to quiet him. “It's okay. It's just that I've been . . . disappointed. By a lot of people lately.”

He touches her shoulder gently, like she's a rare feather and he doesn't want her to blow away. “Anyone in particular?”

She wants to tell him—about her dad. His lies. Even though she doesn't understand it all herself yet. But it's too soon. He's right—they don't know each other that well. It takes time. So instead, she simply sighs and nods. Tears gather at the back of her throat, threatening to come out again.

He lets his hand slowly coast down her arm, then tilts her chin so she's looking into his eyes. “Tali.”

“Yeah?” Her voice sounds small.

“I won't hurt you,” he whispers.

She looks into his eyes, and then they're kissing again, and the tears that almost overtook her seem to flood backward through
her body, washing away her fears. She feels like he
is
saving her life, in a totally different way than when he rescued her in the lake. No—not saving her—giving her a reason to save herself.

She's so caught up in the moment, she barely notices the whoosh of air against her skin as the cabin's door is flung open.

“What the hell!” Tali bursts, pushing herself away from Shane hard, almost falling backward off the bed, as simultaneously Shane shouts, “Someone's
in
here!”

Tali gasps. It's Cruz—not in her camp uniform, for some reason, but it's undeniably her, looking like she just sucked a lemon wedge.

“What is this about?” The Cruz's face is mottled red. She looks
furious
. “Is this a joke to you, Miss Webber?”

Tali sees now that the camp director is clutching a crumpled note in her hand—almost as though someone
told
her to come find Tali and Shane here, which is impossible, since the cabin's been abandoned all summer, and Tali's fairly certain no one saw them kissing on the beach, either.

“It's my fault,” Tali blurts out. “I mean, Shane told me this wasn't allowed, but I . . . I couldn't help myself. He wouldn't have gone along with it if I hadn't—”

“I'll have you know, young lady,” the Cruz replies, waving the crumpled paper at her, “that this form of attention grabbing has just cost your friend his job, starting immediately. Your little prank may have succeeded in getting him fired”—at this, Shane's face blanches—“but
you're
not getting out of this unscathed. This stunt shows extremely poor character, and your parents will have to be notified.”

“Prank?” Tali stutters. She has no idea what the Cruz is talking about.

The Cruz uncrumples the note in her hand and begins reading it aloud: “‘Meet me in Cabin 43 at 2:00
.
—T.W.' So I suppose this is what you wanted, isn't it? A classic cry for help from a girl who has already done enough this summer to show she is not ready for the privileges that go along with independence.”

All Tali can do is gape, confused.

Shane whips around to face her. “You set me
up
?” he rasps. Hurt and shock are written all over his face.

She shakes her head, unable to explain, unable to understand what's happening. “No,” Tali gasps. “No, you don't understand.”

“No,
you
don't understand,” Shane says. Then, in a low voice: “You wanted me to leave you alone, huh?” He throws his head back, like he should have seen it, like he's been a fool. A fool to trust her. Because, like he said himself, they really
don't
know each other all that well. Not yet. “Well, congratulations,” he says, practically spitting. “You just got your wish.” He turns to the Cruz. “I'll have my bags packed by dinner,” he says, his face cut from stone.

Without another look back at Tali, he's gone.

Tali's head spins and her chest feels like it's caught in a vise. She can't breathe.
Prank
? If anything, she's just been the butt of someone
else's
idea of a joke. How did this happen? And how could Shane believe she would do something so awful?

Exactly because this is what
everyone
assumes about her.

That she's spoiled. Shallow. Self-serving.

“I'll see you in my office once your family has been notified of the situation,” the Cruz says coldly, evenly. Tali wraps her arms around her stomach, feeling like she might throw up. “They'll be the ones to decide whether you stay for the last day of camp or return home early.” She turns to go.

“Wait!” Tali cries. “It's not what it looks like,” she says frantically. “I swear. I didn't write that note. I have no idea who did. Please. Please don't fire Shane. He loves it here. He told me.”

The Cruz turns to face her, arms crossed. “How I handle Shane is not any of your business, Tali.” Her expression softens then. For a second, Tali can recognize Luce's features in her mother's face—the pretty, wide cheekbones, the delicate eyebrows—though of course Bernadette's face also bears the stamp of age. Fine wrinkles line her brow and form crinkles at the corners of her eyes, making her seem fiercer when she's angry, but kinder when she's disappointed, which is how she looks now. “The camp rule books are clear. I'm very sorry. My hands are tied.”

The Cruz turns and stalks back to her office, and Tali melts into the ground outside the cabin; the damp grass and gravelly dirt tickle the backs of her bare thighs. She reaches up to her chest to touch the Taurus pendant that made her feel loved, made her sure she'd always come out on top of things. But the necklace must have fallen off—the pendant is gone. Just like all of her father's promises.

Just like Shane now, too.

Before she can fully take in what's just happened, she hears a rustling, and then Luce emerges from behind Cabin 43.

“Tali?”

“Luce?” Tali swipes at her face with an elbow, realizing only when she feels dampness that she's started to cry. “What are you doing here?”

Luce's tan face flushes. “I was, um . . .” She trails off, looking guilty.

Tali's heart nearly stops beating as realization settles into her brain. “Are you
spying
on me?” she demands. This is just the icing on the whole disgusting cake.

“What? No way!” Luce exclaims. “I was
waiting
for someone, actually. I had no idea
you
were going to show up and ruin everything.”

“
Excuse
me?” Tali says, her voice bordering on a screech now. “
I
ruined everything?” Now her sadness and confusion is transforming into anger. Luce. Luce and her mom. It's their fault. All her earlier thoughts of reconciliation fly from her head. “What are you even
talking
about? Did you tattle on me or something? Run and tell your mommy I was being a bad girl? Is that your idea of a good time? Haven't you ever seen anyone screw up before? Oh wait, of course not—you're Little Miss Perfect.”

Luce backs up like she's been slapped. “Maybe if you ever paid attention to anyone else,” she says quietly, “you would see that you're actually not the only one with problems.” Her voice wavers, and Tali realizes that Luce is on the verge of tears, too. “But I guess that's too much to ask,” Luce finishes, practically spitting.

She turns and heads off into the woods, leaving Tali alone–with no friends, no boxers, and no way out.

There are things people don't tell you about having sex for the first time, about what it's
really
like. How, for an entire day, your inner thighs feel weird, but not like after rock climbing—a different kind of weird. How your entire body feels feverish, a little traumatized even. How there is a tiny bit of blood on your leg that you don't notice until later. And now that you've experienced
it
, it's almost like your body doesn't think any other activity is particularly interesting. All you can do is lie around, replaying the event in your head, reliving the touches, the kisses, all the awkward moments, all the breathtaking moments.
I had sex,
you keep thinking, like you just discovered the internet or that space is infinite yet contracting at the same time. . . .

Which is why Joy lies in her top-bunk bed, skipping every single one of her morning sessions.

Truthfully, it's not the only reason. There was also the punch she drank at Blake's party. And the dancing for hours.

And then there was the fight.

It turns out that Joy isn't the only one with secrets. Tali lied about her hookups with Blake. Some tiny part of Joy feels hurt and surprised that she didn't know. But what she still hasn't yet figured out is why
Zoe
went after Blake. Of all people, Joy knows Zoe is the least likely to pursue a guy who's already spoken for. When Joy and Zoe both had a crush on Michael Lawrence for two weeks the summer before sixth grade, Zoe graciously backed off so Joy could go with him on the midnight nature walk.

It doesn't make sense.

But then again, pretty much nothing that's happened in the last few days makes any sense at all.

And even below these other things—sex, a friendship splitting at the seams just when she thought they might have a chance of reconnecting, buried secrets coming to the surface—below all of that, is the final thing keeping Joy locked to her bunk bed, unable to move, unable to process, unable to figure out what's next:

Today is the last day.

Technically parents come to pick up campers tomorrow morning at 8 a.m. But today is the day of the carnival. Tonight is reunion night.

Tonight the photo booth will be back in place.

Tonight they're supposed to return to the future.
If
their plan even works.

And
that
thought is haunting Joy, raging through her veins, causing her to burn and toss in her sheets—because it's the very
last thing she wants.

She's praying Zoe's whole idea is bonkers. She's praying that she still has those two years to relive. To do it all differently, better.

Sometime during lunch, Joy finally crawls out of bed and gets dressed. Life goes on, and you have to go on
with
it. And that means rolling out of your sweaty sheets, switching off your daydreams, stepping into your unwashed jeans—unshowered—grabbing your backpack, and facing the music.

She's terrified of seeing him again.

She
has
to see him again.

As Joy is approaching the dining hall, though, Zoe slams into her.

“Sorry, Joy, I'm just distracted,” she babbles, shuffling her weight from side to side.

“Where are you off to?” Joy asks, overcome with an insatiable need for Zoe
not
to run off. “Have you eaten yet? Wanna go in and have lunch with me?” There's so much she wants to catch up about—what happened last night between her and Ryder . . . what may or may not have happened last night between Zoe and Blake . . . the fight with Tali. She just wants to sit with her friend and hash it all out like they would have done, once upon a time.

Zoe bites her lip. “I ate already. Hey . . . you wouldn't happen to know where Blake is, would you?” She pauses, and clearly reads the surprise in Joy's eyes. “I mean, it's . . . not what you think. He's perpetuating the rumor about us and I need to set him straight.” Her face is deadly serious. “
Nothing
happened.”

“I believe you,” Joy says, realizing in that moment that she
absolutely does. Whatever her reasons, Zoe isn't telling the whole truth. But she's telling the truth about Blake. And maybe it's best that Zoe handle the problem on her own, as much as Joy would like to help, would like to be let in on her secrets.

After all, Joy has secrets of her own—ones she doesn't ever plan to tell Zoe. Her whole body aches thinking about it.

“Have you tried the boys' bunks?” she offers. “I know he lives off campus, but I think Ryder mentioned that he sometimes hangs out there anyway.”

Relief washes across Zoe's face. “Great idea. Thanks.” She starts to leave but pauses, turns, and puts her hands on Joy's shoulders. Then she leans in and hugs her. “Thanks for believing me.”

For one wild second, Joy thinks she's going to cry. Instead, she just lets her friend wrap her in her arms, breathing in her familiar smell of chamomile and sunscreen.

And then she lets her go.

Disoriented, Joy turns back toward the dining hall. She really should get a bite to eat. Now that she's up and out of her bunk, she feels faint.

But then Doug Ryder materializes before her, his hair like a lit flame in the gray air, his smile goofy and lopsided. Joy takes his hand and pulls him behind the dining hall, and they're kissing before she even realizes what's happening.

Taking a breath, she steps back. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he says, his face almost the color of his hair.

“So . . . ,” she begins, at a loss for what you're supposed to say to the person you recently gave your virginity to.

Clearly he's on the same wordless page. “So,” he concludes. He smiles again. “I've been looking for you. Do you want to help me with the scavenger hunt? I'm supposed to be in charge, but honestly I've been a little bit . . . preoccupied the last couple of days.”

Joy swallows. “Are we supposed to, I don't know, talk about last night first or something?”

Immediately, Ryder's face gets serious, his freckles crunching together in the middle of his forehead like he's been delivered a pop quiz in math. “Oh, yeah, definitely. We can talk about it.” His eyes dart across her face, probably looking for some sign that everything's okay between them. “So . . . what do you want to say?”

Joy can feel the blush spreading from her toes to her cheeks, warming her from the inside, even as a faint rain begins to fall. “I don't know. But . . . I'm happy. Are you?”

Ryder ducks so he can meet her eyes. “Are you kidding? Yes. I'm happy. I'm really happy. The stuff I said last night? I'm not sure anything made sense, but I meant it.” He rakes his fingers through his hair. “I meant all of it. That is, if
you
wanted me to mean it. I mean, if you . . . I mean . . . I like you a lot.”

Joy smiles. Maybe she's gotten used to the absurdity of everything that's happened in recent days, because she believes him. She really does. “I like you, too,” she says, though she can barely pronounce the words through her grin.

They kiss some more in the lightly falling rain until Joy pulls away, a little breathless. Another thing they don't tell you about
the first time you have sex? When you start kissing again, it's really,
really
hard not to just do the whole sex thing all over again, right then and there, regardless of the circumstances. Like, even if pre–fourth graders are walking past you in the distance, carrying vaguely offensive, brightly colored, handmade tomahawks, slightly wilted from the rainfall, on their way to Arts and Crafts.

“So, Big Dipper.” She tugs on this T-shirt. “Tell me about this scavenger hunt.” Life goes on, and so do ancient, notoriously forbidden (but secretly probably counselor-sanctioned) traditions such as the end-of-summer scavenger hunt.

Ryder starts laying out the details and making a list of what everyone will need to find and the elaborate puns and clues that the participants have to solve first in order to figure out what the objects even are. He instructs Joy on how to leave the clues scattered throughout the woods. They agree to split up so he can spread the word for everyone to meet at five o'clock by the flagpole.

After one more long, deliberate kiss, she clutches her list and marches off in the opposite direction.

Joy carries her objects into the woods—Coach Miller's baseball mitt (“the best catch at camp”), Farber's whistle (“the most evil foul-caller”), and the Cruz's clipboard (“the one thing Cruz can't live without”). Under the canopy of trees, the drizzle is loud against the leaves but doesn't reach her face. She feels protected and takes a deep breath, inhaling the familiar, piney musk of the woods. Maybe everything that's happened was meant to be.

Despite the rain, it's hot out. And that's not just her day-after-sex fever talking. It's
really
hot. Pre-storm muggy, the humidity causing her jeans and tank top to cling to her skin uncomfortably. She wishes she'd thought to bring a Gatorade. Or eat breakfast and lunch, for that matter.

The afternoon is pouring by her—already, it must be after three. She wishes she could stop time, freeze it in place.
It's a wonder we're not all dizzy from it,
she thinks,
riding on this planet that's tumbling rapidly through space in its slightly uneven orbit, on and on.

She
does
feel a little dizzy, actually.

Maybe she should go back. A drink of water would be a good idea. Besides, the skies are probably about to open and drop a serious downpour on her. Even now, the low growl of thunder moves through the trees. Her stomach rumbles as if in response. She's running on empty. She got too carried away with Doug and didn't think about the fact that she'd skipped two meals, that she was feeling a bit weak and groggy, that she should probably rehydrate after last night's party.

She pushes through a clearing, into a new patch of trees. She's pretty sure the lake is to her left—she could swear she can hear it lapping quietly, reassuringly, a constant presence defining everything else around it. She decides to veer that way, so after she's done placing the final two clues she can cut straight up toward the dining hall.

Recognizing one of the many dirt paths that wind through the forest, rutted at the center where years and years of bicycle wheels have passed through, Joy makes her way onto it, following
its gradual curve to the left. It's not the path that leads up to Red Cliffs; it's another one. She's pretty sure it's the one that winds all the way back toward the volleyball area. She keeps following it, feeling dizzier as she goes. The air is thick, so thick it's not easy to suck it into her lungs. The secret that has been lurking inside her chest starts to weigh on her, making her breathing labored.

The old Joy's small, pathetic voice comes back to her now, sounding scared. Scared of
everything
. Always worried. But this is
new
Joy, and she refuses to be paranoid or insecure or anything that's going to hold her back. Here she is at the heart of Camp Okahatchee's best tradition, at the heart of the summer and everything she loves.

She stops walking to hide a baseball mitt in a pile of twigs, then looks up at the dark gray sky between the leaves and branches overhead. She can see the long shadow cast by the mountains in the distance. Only the shadows aren't where they usually fall. She can't tell if it's an illusion or if she's actually turned around, heading
farther
from the lake instead of closer to it.

She stops, listening. That gentle lapping sound . . . she can't hear it.

Okay, time to turn around. She must be going the wrong way. The best idea is to follow the path back the way she came. It must funnel out onto the campgrounds; they all do.

She still has to bury the clipboard and stow Farber's whistle somewhere, but her head feels hot and her ears are pounding. She
really
needs a damn Gatorade. She picks up her pace and starts to jog, tossing the whistle up into the branches of a nearby
tree. Roots and leaves crunch beneath her sneakers as she traces her way back down the path, through the woods, feeling sweat prickle against her neck, but there's not enough wind to cool her down. She squints through the mist as she runs. This better be the right way.

The path seems never-ending, and she leaps over a pile of horse dung, realizing she had it all wrong. This is one of the paths used for the riding school two miles down the road.
Crap
. She
knew
she was lost.

There's nothing to do but head off-trail again, back through the bushes. Branches scrape at her arms. Her backpack bangs heavily against her back. One of its straps snags on a tree branch. She stops to disentangle it but is too annoyed. She lets it drop. There's nothing really important in there. She needs, more than anything, to get back to Ryder, back to her friends, back to the safety of the campgrounds.

She runs faster now, thrashing, feeling that old friend—panic—taking over. Her body's on empty. Empty. Empty. She slows down slightly and finally stops to lean against a tree, feeling the individual ridges of the bark against her hand like braille, telling an age-old story she doesn't know the ending of. She looks up. She's
not
going to pass out. Not here.

But the sky spins. Her head feels light, like a balloon. She blinks once. Twice. There are stars. Maybe one of the dippers, but distorted, floating across her vision. And then she's sliding, and falling, and sinking into the black.