The Lost Summer (12 page)

Winn had already emerged, dripping, from the lake, and Sarah was climbing the ladder.

“Beth,” Winn shouted, unloading on the poor girl the terror she had just felt as she searched for Beth's body in the cold, deep water, “where were you?”

Beth's lip trembled. “I, I had to the go the bathroom,” she stammered. “I told Helena.”

Winn turned her narrow-eyed glare on me; I was standing behind her on the dock, shivering with fear.

“Did she tell you she was going to the bathroom?” Winn asked. Her voice was as icy as the muck at the bottom of the lake.

“No,” I said, shaking my head, looking between Beth and Winn. “Really, if she did, I didn't hear her.” I was telling the truth.

Winn's blue eyes locked on to mine. “This isn't a joke, Helena. Someone could die out here.”

Behind Winn, Beth's lip began to tremble. “I, I'm sorry,” she said behind watery eyes. “I thought I told her. . . .”

“Beth,” said Sarah, stern but gentle, “you know what you have to do.”

“Yeah.” Beth's voice wavered. Slowly, she dropped her towel and backed off the dock, where she sat cross-legged and dejected on the bare, prickly grass. It was our standard punishment for not taking swim check seriously.

Winn looked at me as if she was going to say something. I wondered if she wanted me on the prickly grass as well. Instead she turned and climbed, without a word, to the top of the lifeguard stand.

“Okay,” she shouted to the rest of the campers, who were watching Beth's punishment with mixed sympathy and cruel pleasure. “Show's over. If anyone else wants to go to the bathroom, ask me or Sarah.”

Winn raised the plastic whistle to her lips and blasted a long high note, and the Guppies, except for Beth, dove back into the cool water.

W
e didn't exactly
need
a counselor by the lemonade table at the dance—how hard is it to pour yourself a paper cup of lemonade?—but I volunteered for the post anyway. The truth was, I wasn't sure where else to stand.

Katie Bell was dancing with her friends from Cabin Nine on the far side of the tennis courts. They'd even opened the circle to allow in a few brave Brownies. She hadn't spoken to me since our spat on her cabin steps. Maybe I'd overreacted, but somehow it still rankled, the way she'd told me about Winn and Ransome. Had I caught that glimmer of satisfaction in her eyes as she'd said it? Or was I just revising history? Either way, it didn't change that we weren't talking.

Neither were Winn and I—at all now. In what I assumed was a show of solidarity, even Sarah and Lizbeth were keeping their distance from me. If it hadn't been for Pookie's company at our Mess table—and Ransome—I don't know what I would have done. Every day I counted the hours until I could see him.

Despite the knots of dread in my stomach, I'd been out to the riflery range the past two nights. Both times Ransome had been the only one to say anything more than “hi” to me. In the corner, we'd talked quietly. Conversation poured out of us easily now. In a way, I had known Ransome forever (at least since I was nine), but not the
real
Ransome.
Him
I was just getting to know. And I wanted to know everything.

Both nights, Ransome and I had waited until everyone else wandered back to the cabins and we were the only ones left. I knew the other counselors were talking about us, but I didn't care.

We'd stretched out on the musty mattresses with the stuffing coming out and buttons poking into our backs, and talked and made out until streaks of orange and pink showed in the sky.

Thinking about it even now, at the dance, made me flushed. Embarrassed, as if any bystander could read my thoughts, I over-helped an awkward Brownstone camper with glasses and too-short shorts who was fumbling with the lemonade spout.

“Thanks,” he said suspiciously, taking the cup from my hand and trundling back to his friends.

I surveyed the tennis court. Winn was on the bleachers, surrounded by the usual counselors and some Brownies, but Ransome was still nowhere to be found. I hadn't seen him at the cookout, where I'd eaten my hamburger seated cross-legged on the ground with Ruby and Melanie. Ruby had cracked me up when she asked if Melanie wanted a “pressure burger” and, when Melanie said yes, picked up her burger and squished it between her two small hands until it was as flat as a pancake. “Enjoy your pressure burger.” She'd grinned triumphantly as she deposited the squashed sandwich back on Melanie's plate.

Suddenly, two large hands covered my eyes from behind. Before he said anything, I knew it was Ransome. I would recognize his smell anywhere. I caught whiffs of him during the day after the nights we spent together, and it made me dizzy.

I laughed and turned, prying his hands free of my face.

“Hey,” he said, grinning in the irresistible way that made even my worst mood dissolve like sugar in water.

“Hey yourself.”

“Manning the lemonade stand?”

“Looks like it.”

“Well,” Ransome grunted, squinting and posing like John Wayne (sometimes he
was
a forty-year-old man), “it's a tough job, but someone's got to do it.” It was dorky and cheesy and adorable. And I laughed.

“Where have you been?” I asked.

“A kid in my cabin's homesick. I had to help Dad . . . Abe, talk him down from the ledge.”

I frowned. “Is he okay now?”

“Yeah.” Ransome looked unconcerned. I guessed the way they dealt with homesickness at Brownstone was a little different from how we handled it at Southpoint, with lots of hugs and positive reinforcement. Although, not that many campers at Southpoint got homesick, especially after the first few days. More often, we got campsick when we went home.

“Hey,” Ransome said quietly, looking out over the tennis court but speaking to me, “I was thinking . . . if things seem to be under control here,” he joked, gesturing toward the cooler, “maybe you could sneak away and meet me at the barn.” His eyes met mine. I was expecting them to be confident and cool, but they weren't, which comforted me because I wasn't either. We'd hooked up almost every night that week, but I still got butterflies like I wasn't sure it was going to happen again.

“Unless you think things will get crazy at the lemonade stand in your absence,” he said.

“Shut up.” I smiled, and my heart beat like a trapped bird in my chest. “Okay.”

I'd never snuck away from a dance before. I knew some people did, once it got dark, but only behind the Mess or even just outside the circles of the tennis court lights. Never to the barn—it was almost on the other side of camp.

“Okay,” said Ransome. “I'll meet you there in . . . fifteen minutes?”

I smiled, the flush rising again from my toes and spreading through my body to my cheeks. “Yeah,” I said. “I'll see you there.”

Not to raise suspicion, I had walked first to the Bath, where I quickly brushed my teeth and washed my hands. Then I'd continued purposefully toward the cabins, so that if anyone asked, I could say I was going to get a sweater from my trunk, before cutting in a wide arc past the softball diamond and up toward the barn. I knew I was being ridiculous taking the long way, but if someone caught me, maybe another counselor who had snuck away for a cigarette, I had no idea how I'd explain myself.

Thanks to my detours, I had to hurry, so I was sweating slightly by the time I reached the paddock in front of the barn. A thin layer of perspiration beaded on my upper lip, and I wiped at it with the back of my wrist before I unlatched the gate that kept the horses from escaping. The hinge creaked as I closed it behind me.

I was looking for Ransome but didn't see him. I thought about calling his name but didn't, irrationally afraid someone from the dance might hear me. Carefully, I picked a clear path through the manure minefields that dotted the paddock.

“Hey.”

I jumped when I heard him. “You scared me!”

Ransome came out from the barn. He laughed, resting his hand on my back. It was a casual gesture on his part, but I was still keenly aware of these things.

“Sorry.” He smiled. “Didn't mean to . . . Come here; I want you to meet someone.”

I followed him into the barn and down the center aisle of the stables. From their stalls, the horses watched us with gleaming, dark eyes. Some pawed at the floor with a hoof, or rocked from one front leg to the other, as if they were either bored or ready to bolt. The smell of the barn reminded me unmistakably of Southpoint. Unlike Katie Bell, I rode only at camp, but I loved it. I'd sometimes come out here with her at free periods to walk and trot on the old nags while she practiced her jumping.

Stopping in front of a stall almost at the end of the aisle, Ransome swung open the half door and stepped inside. I followed him in. At the back of the stall was a horse I'd never seen before. She was a beautiful chestnut color with a white diamond on her nose.

“This,” said Ransome, rubbing the ridge of her nose from the tuft of mane between her ears down to her flared nostrils, “is Penny. We just got her.”

As I brushed my fingers over the white diamond, Penny closed her eyes. Her eyelashes were incredibly long and flirtatious.

“Hey, Penny,” I said softly. I ran my hand down her strong neck to her flank. She exhaled loudly and stomped one of her hooves. “She's a sweetie.”

“She is.”

Ransome was standing behind me now. He reached his hand over my shoulder to pat Penny on her side. He was so close, my breath caught in my throat. Holding it, I turned. Closemouthed, he smiled back at me. There was a single fleck of green in his right eye that I hadn't noticed before.

I wanted him to kiss me so bad it hurt. It was scrambling my brain. Instead, he walked once more around Penny, then out of the stall. He waited for me to follow, then closed the door behind us.

“So, Helena,” he said, interlacing his fingers behind the small of my back.

“So, Ransome . . .” I teased. I locked my arms around his waist and leaned back to look up at him, so that our lower bodies pressed into each other. I smiled like I had a secret.

He laughed.

“What are you laughing at?” I protested.

“You,” he said, and finally lowered his face to mine.

Pushed against the barn wall, we kissed like this for a few minutes before I got nervous.

Reluctantly pulling away, I bit my lip. “What if someone notices we're gone and comes looking for us?”

Being caught by Fred would be worse than being caught by your parents. The sun was sinking lower in the sky, and I didn't want to be away from the dance past dark.

“They won't,” Ransome assured me, his mouth brushing the side of my face and neck.

It tickled and I reflexively pushed my ear to my shoulder and laughed. “But what if they do?”

“In the barn?” he asked, looking at me earnestly.

I didn't reply.

“Come on.” He stepped back and gently pulled me by the hand. “I know where we can go.”

In the corner of the building, where a few pitchforks and shovels were stacked against the wall, a ladder ascended through a small square hole in the ceiling. Ransome released my hand and started to climb up.

“Where are we going?” I asked, gazing up after him.

“The hayloft,” his voice answered from above.

Cautiously, I scaled each rung, realizing it wasn't the best time to be wearing flip-flops. When I emerged on the other side of the opening, it was dark and about ten degrees warmer. Hay bales were stacked along the walls. A few had tipped over and were resting at haphazard angles.

Throwing his weight against it, Ransome pushed open the sliding panel that covered a small window to let in some air and light. My eyes adjusted, and I saw mouse droppings and bird poop nearly covering the floor. A sooty lantern dangled from the center of the ceiling. It looked as if it hadn't been used in quite awhile.

“Are there mice up here?” I asked, trying to sound like I didn't care one way or the other.

“Yeah, but they won't bother us.”

I looked around for someplace to sit, but nowhere looked inviting. I wasn't so sure about this.

Catching the hesitant look on my face, Ransome said, “Hang on a sec,” and descended the ladder. When he came back he was carrying a clean, blue, wool horse blanket. He laid it across a few of the hay bales.

“This okay?” he asked. “If not, we can—”

“Sure,” I said quickly, and sat down next to him on the blanket.

In a second we were kissing again, and before long had lain down across the makeshift bed. Ransome's hand wandered over my jeans and between my legs. But the hay was poking into my back, and suddenly all I could think about was Winn.

I had decided not to say anything to either Winn or Ransome about what Katie Bell had told me, but in the dim shelter of the hayloft, my plan went out the small square window. As Ransome kissed my ear, I put my hand against his chest and pushed gently.

“Ransome,” I whispered.

“Huh?” he mumbled, nuzzling against my neck.

“Ransome,” I said again, pushing harder.

He pulled away, realizing I was actually saying something. “Yeah?” An unreadable shadow crossed his face.

“Can I ask you something?” I squirmed awkwardly under him.

“Of course.” He propped himself on one elbow. “What's up?” I could almost see all the things he was worried I was going to say cross his mind in rapid succession.

“Nothing,” I lied, melting again at the concern on his face and wishing I hadn't brought it up. “It's not a big deal . . . I just . . . I heard something the other day and . . . I just need to know.”

“Okay . . .”

“I heard . . .” I bit my bottom lip. “Did you and Winn used to hook up?”

Ransome rolled his eyes and hung his head close to my chest.

“I mean, it's not a big deal if you did,” I said quickly. “That was a while ago, before us—I mean, not that there's an us, but . . .” I faded off, wondering if I'd said too much.

Ransome smiled reassuringly, like he suddenly understood, like he could read my thoughts. “There is an ‘us,' at least according to me . . . and I've never hooked up with Winn.”

The grapefruit-size knot in my stomach relaxed. “Are you sure?”

He laughed. “Of course I'm sure. I like to think I'm a stud, but it's not like I've hooked up with so many girls I can't remember!”

I smiled and rolled my eyes. “I just want to make sure I haven't given Winn a reason to hate me, like hooking up with her ex or something.”

“No,” said Ransome, sitting up and straightening his shirt. “Two years ago, when Winn was still a camper, she had some crazy crush on me.”
Note to self: Never
tell Ransome about your crazy camper crush.
“She was friends with some older counselors, and they brought her out to the riflery range a couple times. She thought she was gonna hook up with me, but we never did. I would never hook up with a camper . . . or Winn, for that matter.”

I nodded. “Okay. I just needed to know, because Winn's been acting strange.”

“Well, I don't know who told you that, but Winn is definitely not my ‘ex,' and she has no reason to be pissed at you.”

I was relieved. I nodded again and suddenly wanted the conversation to be over. Sitting up, I kissed him and wrapped my arms around his neck. Both of us grinning, I pulled Ransome's body on top of mine.

It happened faster than I'd always thought it would. I'm still not sure of the whole sequence of events, only that one minute Ransome and I were making out like we had half a dozen times before, and the next . . .