The Summer I Wasn't Me (10 page)

I’d hoped that once I got all my feelings about Carolyn written down, they would stay safely tucked away inside the journal and out of my head. But when I was done writing, I sat back and looked at the pages.

And that’s when I knew: I’m in trouble.

I had been spending so much time trying not to pay attention to the things I’ve been feeling about her that I hadn’t realized just how
many
feelings for her I actually have. Writing it all down just made it all so much clearer. And now whenever I look at her, everything I wrote comes flooding back to me and I can’t think about anything else.

The worst part is, I’ve been here before.

After I fell for Zoë, thoughts of her dictated my life. I made a point of sitting next to her at our lunch table every day. I would look forward to parties if I knew she was going to be there. I chose my outfits every day based on what I thought she would like.

And in a way, it worked. We became really good friends. We took the same classes and went shopping together after school and texted each other during our favorite TV shows. When my dad got sick, she was there, always ready to talk or listen or keep me supplied with fresh tissues.

And the whole time, I was in love with her.

There was never any way for that situation to end well.

I can’t let history repeat itself. So I do the only thing I can think to do—I ignore Carolyn.

If I don’t talk to her, I won’t find myself asking her questions just to hear her answers.

There’s this little fluttery thrill that goes through me whenever she laughs or smiles at something I say,

I wrote in the journal.

It feels
amazing
. I want it to happen more, so I keep trying to think of things to say to her, but I have to remember not to go too far and ask her something too personal, like whether she’s ever kissed anybody before. Even though I
really
want to know.

If I don’t look at her, I won’t think about how pretty she is. I won’t stare at her hands and wonder what it would be like to touch them again, for longer this time.

She’s the only girl in this whole damn camp who can make this absurd outfit look good. Actually, I bet she’s the only girl in the world who can.

If I don’t pay attention to her at all, I won’t fixate on the slightly unfamiliar way she forms her words, wondering if everyone from the Northeast speaks the way she does or if it’s just her.

I love how patiently she listens to Matthew’s rants about New Horizons and reparative therapy and how he thinks we’re all crazy for actually wanting it to work. And I love how she’s always doing nice things for people, like offering to go get Daniel a new fork when he drops his on the floor or discreetly whispering to Melissa that she has a lint ball on the back of her sweater.

If I just ignore her, maybe all of this will just…fade away.

I spend all of breakfast looking anywhere but at Carolyn and giving the barest, most minimal responses when she talks to me. I’m sure she’s noticed the sudden shift in my behavior—I’m not being very subtle about it—but I don’t know what else to do. This crush
cannot
continue.

Complicating matters is that Matthew hasn’t forgotten what he saw yesterday. He hasn’t said anything about it directly, but it’s written all over his face. Every time I catch his eye, he’s ready with a knowing grin or a teasing eyebrow waggle in Carolyn’s direction. My inner torment is
fun
for him. I want to tell him to cut it out, but there’s never a moment where we’re alone, out of Carolyn and Daniel’s range of hearing—Mr. Martin’s rules have made sure of that. So I settle for throwing him the severest looks I can muster, but if he gets my meaning, he doesn’t show it.

Breakfast seems to last forever.

***

It’s the final day of the Father Wound exercise. Thank God.

But that means it’s Carolyn’s day to be subjected to the wrath of Mr. Martin. He calls her name, and I want to reach out and squeeze her hand and tell her it will be okay, like Matthew did for me. But touching her is definitely not part of Operation Crush the Crush.

She sits in the dreaded chair, and Mr. Martin begins rattling off the usual family and childhood questions. But she stops him.

“It was my cousin,” she whispers. I can feel the surprise in the room—up until now, no one has interrupted Mr. Martin’s interrogation process.

Mr. Martin blinks. “What was your cousin?”

If it’s possible for a person to look embarrassed but confident at the exact same time, that’s what Carolyn looks like right now. She knows exactly what she’s saying, but it’s hard for her to say it. “My Father Wound. He did it.”

Mr. Martin’s face takes on that condescending look that he’s so good at. “Carolyn, I appreciate your willingness to jump right into the exercise like this, but I really think we should discuss your immediate family firs—”

The blue of Carolyn’s eyes turns icy. “You said we were doing this exercise as one big group so we could maybe find parts of ourselves in other people’s stories, right? Well, I’ve been sitting here for the last three days doing that.”

I’ve never seen her like this, so strong and determined. I like it.

But then her expression becomes less sure. “But…even though I know
what
my Father Wound is, I just…don’t know
how
it factors in. To, you know, me being here. I need your help with that.”

Mr. Martin thinks for a moment and then nods. It seems being asked for help has appeased his initial displeasure at having the course of his session hijacked. “Very well. Please, tell us about your cousin.”

“His name is Kenny.” It’s like it hurts her to say the name. “He’s three years older than me. And…when I was younger, and our parents left us alone together, he would make comments about…well, about my body.”

“What kind of comments?”

Carolyn’s face turns crimson. “You know…sexual comments. About the way I was developing.”

“Did he ever touch you?”

“He tried to. He would snap the strap of my training bra, acting like he was just teasing, but he pulled on it so hard that I knew he was trying to get it off. Or he would accidentally-on-purpose bump into me and rub against my chest. A few times, I saw his erection through his pants.” A fresh blush spreads over her cheeks. “Whenever he got like that, I would run to find my mom in the other room or lock myself in the bathroom.”

“Did you tell your parents?”

Carolyn shakes her head. “He’s my mother’s sister’s kid. My mother and my aunt are really close. I would never do anything to come between them.”

“When did this all start?”

“When I was seven.”

“Is it still going on?”

“No. He went away to college in Scotland, so I haven’t seen him in over a year. And the last couple of times I saw him, he stayed away.” She gives a labored shrug. “Maybe he finally lost interest. Or maybe he realized that I’m strong enough to fight back now.”

I’m vaguely aware of Matthew watching me from the corner of his eye, but I can’t pay attention to him right now. I can’t focus on anything except Carolyn. All I want is to run up there and wrap my arms around her and comfort her and keep her safe and not let go, not ever.

“Well, Carolyn,” Mr. Martin says, “it’s clear your cousin’s treatment of you caused you to hate men.”

Carolyn looks surprised. “I don’t know about
that
…”

“It’s true. You don’t trust men. You aren’t comfortable around them.”

“But I
do
trust some men. My dad and my brother, my friends at school…”

“Your father and brother don’t count. And as for your friends at school, have you ever viewed any of them as having the potential to be
more
than just a friend?”

Carolyn frowns. “No.”

“That’s because your cousin taught you to negatively associate men and sexuality.” Once again, he speaks as if he were the absolute authority on everything, as if he were all-knowing—as if he were God.

“Oh,” Carolyn says, understanding dawning on her. “So the way Kenny treated me is the reason I don’t feel attracted to boys.”

“Yes,” Mr. Martin says.

She looks up at him with pleading eyes. “Do you think we can fix it?”

Mr. Martin smiles. “I know we can.”

The rest of Carolyn’s session consists of her beating the hell out of Matthew, also known as Kenny the Cousin, with the Nerf bat. But unlike the other sessions that involved the bat, Mr. Martin never replaces it with the punching bag. Instead, he makes Carolyn hit Matthew until Matthew runs out of the cabin and slams the door behind him. Mr. Martin claims this symbolically represents Carolyn evicting Kenny from her life. Now that the door has been closed on him, it can never be reopened.

She’s exhausted and out of breath, and her hair is a sweaty mess, but she actually seems happy, more at peace than any of the rest of us after our Father Wound sessions. She comes back to her seat, and I forget that I’m supposed to be ignoring her. She looks right at me with a huge, contented smile as if to say,
Can
you
believe
it? I’m finally going to have the life I’ve always wanted! This is the best day ever!

I hold her gaze, and my brain scrambles to meld everything I’ve just learned about her with everything I already knew.

Carolyn has been frightened and toyed with and abused; after all that’s happened to her, she should have no hope left at all. But she does. Look at her right now—clearly, she does. Somehow, she still sees the good in people.

But her unparalleled optimism is only one half of her. The other half is filled with strength. Instead of feeling sorry for herself and blaming Kenny for ruining her life, she went and did something about it. She became an athlete, tough enough to stand up for herself and fight back if it ever came to that.

God knows I’ve been staring at her pretty much nonstop since the moment I first saw her, but right now, it’s like I’m really
seeing
her for the first time.

I got my tattoo after falling in love with Zoë. Lightning never strikes the same place twice, and I knew that I would never feel that way about anyone else as long as I lived.

But I was wrong.

For the second time in my life, I’ve been hit by lightning.

Why do I keep doing this? I’ve fallen for someone I can’t have, in a place where we can never be together. This is
exactly
what happened with Zoë.

Not
exactly,
a tiny part of me says
. Carolyn likes girls too.

The thought gives me pause, but I quickly shake it off. We’re at a
de-gayifying camp
, for crying out loud. I’m still here for a reason. And so is she.

Luckily, the dinner conversation is dominated by Matthew, who is on some tirade about something called the Kinsey Scale, so I don’t have to talk much. I’m a little afraid of what I’ll say, given that all I can think about is this impossible situation I’ve gotten myself into. Matthew is already onto me, but the last thing I need right now is for Daniel or, God forbid, Carolyn to catch on to my recent revelation.

I’m still stuck in my own head when, after dinner, we all walk over to the rec cabin. It takes me a minute to realize everyone’s staring at me, waiting for my answer to some question I didn’t hear.

“I’m sorry. What?” I say, blinking out of my haze.

“Do-you-want-to-do-arts-and-crafts?” Matthew says, over- enunciating each word like I don’t understand English or something.

“Oh. Uh, sure. Whatever.” I start in the direction of the crafts corner.

“Actually, guys, I think I’m going to just go read a while. If that’s okay with you,” Carolyn says. She holds up my copy of
The
Great
Gatsby
. There’s a bookmark sticking up out of it, about halfway through the book. She’s been reading it? When? Maybe during our journal-writing time before bed? Or in the mornings before her run?

“Suit yourself,” Matthew says, shrugging.

Carolyn curls up on one of the rec room couches, and the rest of us plunk down in front of the plastic bins filled with art supplies.

“If you had to place yourself on the Kinsey Scale, Daniel, where would you be?” Matthew asks, drizzling Elmer’s glue across a sheet of red construction paper. “Pass the glitter, Lexi?”

“Um…I don’t know,” Daniel says. He’s staring intently down at his own paper, but whether he’s actually trying to figure out something to make or just trying to avoid answering Matthew’s question, I can’t tell.

“I’m definitely a six,” Matthew says.

“What does six mean?” I ask. The charcoal pencil in my hand is moving confidently across the white of my paper.

Matthew gives a sigh of exasperation. “Weren’t you paying attention to
anything
we were talking about at dinner?”

“Sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“Clearly.” Matthew’s eyes dart to Carolyn, and I make a point of studying my sketch. What started out as a halter top has morphed into an evening gown. I add some embellishments around the waist. “
Anyway
, the Scale is zero to six. Zero is one hundred percent straight; six is one hundred percent gay. But Kinsey’s research showed that most people are somewhere between one and five.”

I look up. “Really?”

“Sexuality isn’t black and white, Lexi. It’s a whole lot of gray. Despite what
they’d
have us believe.” Matthew nods his head over at Brianna and John, who are sitting at another table, sipping coffee out of oversized mugs.

“But not for you?” I say.

“Huh?”

“You said you’re a six. That’s a hundred percent gay, right? Not much gray area there.”

Matthew smiles. “Shut up, smarty pants.” He blows the excess glitter off of his paper and holds it up for Daniel and me to see. It’s a disco ball.

“Oh yeah,” I say. “Definitely a six.”

Matthew shakes his paper over my head and glitter rains down everywhere. I shriek and push him away, laughing. Then Matthew goes after Daniel with the still-wet disco ball and within seconds, the three of us are hysterical, glitter and glue everywhere, covering our clothing, the crafts table, even pirouetting slowly through the thick summer air. Daniel grabs a container of multicolored feathers and empties it all over Matthew, so that Matthew looks like a psychedelic seagull. Daniel’s face is lit up—it’s the first time I’ve actually seen him look happy.

Brianna appears out of nowhere. “What is going on over here?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly, brushing glitter off my sweater.

“Just having a little fun,” Matthew says, still giggling. “That’s not against the rules, is it?”

Brianna stares us down for a long moment. “No, I suppose not. But please clean up this mess.” She looks pointedly at me. “You have glitter in your hair, Alexis. Get rid of it before you go back to the dorms—we don’t need you tracking that stuff all over the camp.”

I remove my hair clips and work my fingers through my hair to dislodge the little flecks of shimmer. “Why do you call me Alexis?” I ask. It’s been bothering me since my first day here, and I figure now’s as good a time as any to ask. At least it will help me keep my mind off that other thing.

“Because it’s your name.”

“Technically, yeah. But no one calls me that.”

One corner of her mouth turns down slightly. “Alexis is your Christian name, the name you were given at birth. When people change their names, it’s just another way to go against what God intended you to be when you were born.”

“Like being gay,” I say, putting the pieces together.

“Like acting on same-sex attraction, yes.”

“But come on, even you have to admit that going by a nickname isn’t even close to the same thing as having SSA.” I give a little smile.

To my intense surprise, Brianna’s stony façade cracks and she actually smiles back. It’s small, but it’s there. “I guess you could say they’re on different levels, yeah.”

We share a strange moment of almost laughter, but then it’s gone as quickly as it arrived and I wonder if I imagined it. She crosses her arms, the mask back in place.

I sigh. “You’re still not going to call me Lexi, are you?”

“No, Alexis, I’m not.” And with another hand gesture reminding us to get the crafts area cleaned up, she leaves us.

***

On the way back to the main cabin, Carolyn sidles up next to me. “You have glitter on your face,” she says with a grin.

I swipe at my cheeks. “Is it gone?”

She shakes her head. “Want some help?”

My heart leaps into my throat, but I manage a small nod.

She looks around to make sure no one is looking, and then her thumb brushes across my cheekbone, leaving a trail of heat behind. She holds her hand out. “Make a wish.”

“Like an eyelash?”

“Yup.”

“Okay.” I stop walking, give my wish a moment to take shape, and blow the specks of glitter away from Carolyn’s fingers. I look up to find her watching me carefully.

“What did you wish for?” she whispers, her eyes burning into mine.

And then it’s just the two of us, sharing a moment more real than anything I’ve experienced, maybe ever. She stares at me almost pleadingly, like my answer is the key to some puzzle she’s desperately trying to solve.

I don’t know what it is that she’s not saying, but whatever it is fills me with something pretty damn close to joy.

And then the moment passes, and I pull my eyes away from hers and resume walking. “If I tell you, it won’t come true.” And I really, really want it to come true.

When we get back to the dorm, Brianna makes an announcement. “Everyone, please collect your journals and bring them up to the front of the room.”

Terror tackles me like a tidal wave. What does she mean? What does she want with our journals?

“Are you going to read them?” Melissa asks.

“Yes.”

“But I thought you said they were private!”

“I said you didn’t have to share them with your group, Melissa. I didn’t say anything about the counselors. We don’t get much one-on-one time with you, so we use the journals as a way to track your individual progress. We’ll be collecting them once a week.”

Shit
. She did say that. And I misinterpreted it the same way Melissa did. I don’t know why I’m surprised—Brianna probably worded it that way on purpose, trying to trick us.

The girls reluctantly retrieve their marble notebooks and line up to hand them off to Brianna. I grip on to mine so hard that my hands start to shake. Or maybe they’re shaking because of the sheer panic that is racing through me right now.

I can’t believe this is happening again. What was I
thinking
, writing about Carolyn in the journal after what happened with Mom and the Zoë sketchbook? Stupid, stupid, stupid. Now Brianna and Mr. Martin are going to know everything. Maybe they’ll even move me to another group, to keep me as far away from her as possible.

I turn away from Brianna and quickly tear the offending pages from the book. I cough to muffle the sound of the ripping paper, but there’s no way to hide the fact that pages have been removed—the sewn binding of the marble notebook doesn’t allow for that. They’ll know something was torn out. But it’s better than the alternative.

“Alexis? We’re just waiting on you,” Brianna says.

I spin around, the extracted pages crumpled tight in my fist, and hand the book over to Brianna, my heart beating violently.

“Thank you,” Brianna says and leaves the room armed with the eight journals. It’s Barbara’s night to be on dorm duty.

I’m last in line for the bathrooms, but even though the wait is long and my hand is cramping, I don’t dare open my fist. Like Mr. Martin said that first day, there are eyes everywhere. All it would take is for one person to ask what’s in my hand, and in seconds, the whole dorm would know everything.

When I finally get into the bathroom, I lock the door behind me and pry my hand open. My fingers have gone numb, and creases have been dug into them from the crumpled up ball of paper, but as quickly as my fumbling hands will go, I tear the pages into confetti-sized pieces and flush them down the toilet. Soon it’s like they never existed.

I splash cold water on my face and lean against the sink. That was close. Too close.

“What are you
doing
?” I whisper to my pale, dripping reflection.

But the only answer I have to give myself is:
I
have
absolutely
no
idea
.