Chapter Three Margot
Chapter Three
Margot
This confession isn’t going well at all.
At least Dean noticed the lipstick, I guess?
But he seems to think I wore it for someone else.
“Uh, Dean—”
“All right, Camp Firefly, gather around. It’s time for me to announce the mystery challenge. Stay with your cabins, please.”
“Can I talk to you for a second?” I stage-whisper to Dean over the sudden pandemonium, four age groups’ worth of cabins shouldering their way into a circle around Dean—and me, by default. I’m still here, wondering where things went wrong.
2018, probably.
The tension around Dean’s mouth is more pronounced than usual, and he’s avoiding eye contact with me, using height to his advantage and refusing to see me way down below. I hate when he does this. “Now’s not a really good time, Margot.”
“I know. I . . . know, but . . .” Oh just get it off your chest. You promised yourself you wouldn’t waste a single day of these precious three weeks playing games. You’re twenty-one now. Act like it. “Actually, I wore the lipstick for you, so . . .”
Cue the gasps.
Followed by a camp-wide whoooo that might have embarrassed me if (a) I had the ability to be embarrassed and (b) If I wasn’t more interested in Dean’s reaction to my confession.
I’ve been dreaming of telling him he’s my crush for eight years, and I hoped he’d drop his clipboard and get down on one knee and produce a ring, because I am nothing if not an unrealistic dreamer.
Instead, he looks kind of shocked. Maybe even a little . . . hurt?
“I was wondering how you’d prank me to kick off the summer.” A line snaps in his cheek. “Funny, Margot. The lipstick was a nice touch.”
Dread fries the lining of my stomach. “Wait, no. I’m being serious.”
“Do you guys maybe want to talk about this later?” drawls Aiken. “Like where there aren’t a hundred and fifty kids listening?”
“Thank you,” groan the boys.
“Shhhh,” hiss the girls.
Hands that I would know anywhere close around my shoulders, and Isabel drags me backward to the edge of the circle. “Girl, you’re doing too much. Let’s regroup.”
“Regroup.” I swallow hard. “Right.”
“We need a new tactic.”
“The point was not to have a tactic at all,” I say, sounding more than a little dazed. “Just to be honest with him.”
“It was a noble effort, but it’s time for plan B.”
“There was no plan B!”
“There’s always a plan B.” Isabel chews her lip for a second. “You have to flirt with him. Make him believe you. My mom is always saying that men need to be told something ten separate times before they absorb it.”
“Dean isn’t like that. He’s thoughtful and a great listener. He’s got an old soul.”
“Even an old soul responds to flirting from a pretty girl—and I’m not talking giggles and wimpy shoulder punches. I mean, adult-content flirting. We’re old enough to drink legally in bars now, Margs.”
“Yeah, that still doesn’t seem real.”
“I know. But it is. And maybe someday we’ll actually do it.”
“Okay.” I firm my shoulders. “Flirting. The hardcore kind. I can do that. Probably.”
“You can do anything. But first, we must win this battle. If we lose and the boys get to plant their flag on Firefly Mountain—which is really more of a hill—we’ll have to listen to them brag for the next three weeks.”
“Right. That can’t happen.”
“Let’s go.”
Isabel and I turn around to find our entire cabin of girls looking at us with rapt expressions. “This is so romantic,” one of them whispers.
“Did anyone listen to the rundown of the challenge?” I ask, wincing.
“Nope,” they say in unison.
“We’re toast,” Isabel says glumly. “Again.”
And we prove her right.
There’s always next year.
Hardcore, adult-content flirting.
I got this.
Or at least, I’m going to act like I got this.
I’m a summer camp kid and a theater nerd.
Committing to the bit is not a problem for me.
Although, this is the furthest thing from a bit, isn’t it?
If I fail to convince Dean that my intentions are pure, I’ll have to suffer through a whole year before I’m given another opportunity to try.
I hate going a whole year without seeing him—and I know hate is a strong word, but it’s accurate.
He’s been my home away from home for eight years.
Sure, he’d probably refer to our acquaintance as a roller coaster, but we’ve bonded too.
During the summer between eighth and ninth grade, Dean and I got stuck in a thunderstorm and had to huddle together under the outcropping of a cliff for an hour.
I was so irrationally worried my braces would attract a bolt of lightning; he wrapped my head in his arms and kept me huddled into his body the whole time.
I can still feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against my ear.
There was also that recent summer after his mother passed away, where I sat next to him in the dining hall every day for three weeks, giving him the marshmallows from my box of Lucky Charms. Lining them up on the wooden table and ranking them from worst to best, just to take his mind off the loss that was visibly wearing him thin.
Maybe he thought that was annoying or he just wanted to be left alone, but I was helping the only way I know how, by being silly, and he didn’t ask me to leave.
Up ahead, I see Dean’s silhouette moving in the camp laundry facility, one of the only no-campers-allowed spots on the grounds.
Many a counselor crying jag has taken place within those walls, not to mention passionate counselor hookups—not that I’ve had the honor of being part of one yet.
Some laundry gets done in there, too, on occasion, which appears to be what Dean is doing now. This is my chance.
I tighten the straps of the sexiest shirt in my possession—a black halter top—and tuck a rogue strand of hair into my braid, then loosen my shoulders with a jumpy wiggle before striding up the slope toward the laundry hut.
I gulp a deep breath for courage before opening the door and slipping inside, closing it behind me.
It’s an overcast day outside, so the inside of the laundry hut is dim and hazy, but Dean’s gaze cuts right through it, landing on me where I’ve pressed my back against the door.
Neither one of us moves for five long seconds.
Say something.
Quickly, I register the sheets he’s transferring from the washer to the dryer. “Bed wetter?”
“No.”
I wince. “Puker?”
He shakes his head.
“Someone went to bed with a s’more stuck to their clothes and woke up in bunch of smeared chocolate and goo?”
His lips twitch at one end. “Yup.”
“Camp is officially in session.”
Dean finished his task of stuffing wet sheets into the dryer and hitting the on button, causing the ancient machine to lurch into action, filling the hut with white noise. “How is your cabin this year? Saw you had one homesick girl.”
Of course he noticed that. “She’s all good now. I handled it.”
“How?”
“I snuck a half gallon of chocolate ice cream and fifteen spoons from the dining hall, and I let her take credit for it. She’s a cabin legend now and basking in the glory.”
After a moment, he laughs under his breath. “That’s some kind of sneaky genius.”
“I’ll replace the ice cream.” He gives me a look that says give me a break, and my stomach flutters so intensely, I have no choice but to push off the door, trying not to fidget as I draw closer to Dean.
“You might have bested us in the battle for Firefly Hill, Ingram, but we’re going to dominate at the end-of-camp talent show.
I’ve got two gymnasts and a beatboxer.” I’m standing toe-to-toe with him now, making it necessary to tip my head back to keep eye contact.
“You should just hand over the trophy now.”
He makes a low sound in his throat. “Not without a fight.”
Let me tell you, it’s hard to give a flirtatious smile when my pulse is pounding in a staccato rhythm, thanks to the evening beard growth on his jaw.
Salt water and pine trees surround me in a cloud, leaving me tongue tied.
“Maybe the counselors should have a little side bet. Riding on the outcome of the talent show.”
“Betting on a children’s talent show? College has corrupted you, Berry.”
“No, but . . .” I eliminate any hint of space between us, slowly flattening my breasts against his chest. “Maybe you could. Corrupt me.”
I’m so grateful that I’m staring into his eyes; otherwise I’d have missed the quick pulse of his pupils, the sudden weight of his lids.
The sound of his swallow. “You never did know when to let a failed prank go.” His gaze drops to my mouth, his chest rising and deflating against me. “I’m not falling for it.”
“There’s nothing to fall for.”
“Right. Nothing besides you.” I grab that muttered statement like a lifeline, hurrying to dissect it from all angles, but he keeps talking and I’m forced to set those four words aside until later.
“I’m just supposed to believe you suddenly like me.
Lipstick like me? You’ve never shown any interest in me before. ”
“Yes, I did,” I whisper, mentally begging for him to believe me. “You just weren’t paying attention.”
“Yes, I was.”
That’s fair for him to believe that. Dean doesn’t miss anything.
He’s observant and intuitive. But my brain and heart are still learning how to function as a team.
I’ve done some things in the past that might have presented as pranks, but if he’d just examine those pranks a little closer, I’m sure he would realize I always had ulterior motives.
“When someone grows up in a household with four siblings, they must be loud and creative so they don’t get lost in the shuffle.
Pranks were my way of getting your attention. ”
I can see he’s still highly skeptical, studying my face for signs of deception.
Man, I’ve really messed this dude up.
“You’re a hell of an actress, Berry. I’ve witnessed you bring a whole dining hall to tears with that monologue from Gone Girl.”