15. Becca
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
That was too close. Not just physically, although God only knows what I was thinking with that, too. I knew how big he was—I’ve seen him with his shirt off, after all, and he “rescued” me while we were doing lifeguard training, so I’ve been pressed up against his body before.
But this was different. My heart wasn’t beating this fast any other time, and I wasn’t so… aware of him. Though, that’s not even the part I’m kicking myself about.
I almost opened my mouth and blurted out everything: how I’m a fuck-up at life, the whole mess with med school and how I can’t tell my parents and how I’m hiding away here.
He was so sweet and sincere, and it almost had me spilling everything.
And that story is not something that anyone can know. Even Vivien doesn’t know the entire thing, and she knows more than I planned to share with anyone in the first place. If I share this with Miller, I’m scared that it’ll just be a matter of time before his big mouth blurts it out to everyone.
I shake my head as I slip between the trees, my feet making their way along the dark path by memory. I need to get a grip here. Play my cards close to the vest.
And stay the hell away from Miller.
* * *
“Eww!” Lena groans. The tiny blonde has established herself as the ringleader of our group of campers, and most of the time, I’m all for it.
But she’s currently leading them all in rebelling against the simplest thing: cleaning the communal bathrooms.
It’s not a big deal. It’s not. Cleaning bathrooms is a part of life, and it’s a part of camp. Every cabin group gets assigned a day to clean, and today is our day. Otherwise, we’d have paper towels everywhere, mirrors covered in a film of God knows what, and overflowing toilets.
Well, we have the overflowing toilets pretty regularly. Little girls tend to use way too much toilet paper. But we do our best.
I plant my hands on my hips while I wait for them to get their protests out. When the volume dies down, I hold one hand in the air.
“This is happening, ladies. We all do our part. Here’s how it’s going to go. Each of you is going to come over here and pick a job out of this cup. No redos, no tradesies. If you all do the jobs you pick without complaining, I’ll take the toilets.” I shake the cup.
This gets an immediate reaction, like it always does. Faced with the prospect of having to clean the toilets and the chance to avoid it, the girls snap into action, practically falling over themselves to try to get a job like sweeping or cleaning the mirrors.
They each take a folded slip of paper and set off to do the job listed, while I pull the cleaning supplies out from underneath the cabinets and pick up a toilet brush.
“I love that,” Vivien remarks as she pulls on rubber gloves alongside me. “I’ve never thought of doing it that way. They’re so excited to avoid toilets they’ll do the rest of it. Genius.”
We each take a stall and start to scrub as the campers wipe down sinks. The campers may hate doing the toilets, but if you ask me, this job is about a million times better than cleaning toothpaste spit off the mirror.
“So how was last night? You went to bed pretty fast after you got back.” Vivien flushes the toilet she’s working on and moves on to the next stall.
I scrub a bit more firmly at the ring of hard water in the toilet bowl. Or maybe it’s built-up poo. Best not to think about it. “Yeah. It was okay. I just walked along the beach for a while. I was going to go sit on the swing, but… someone was there.”
“Yeah? Anyone special?” Her voice carries across two stalls.
I turn around to see Mollie and Savannah grinning at me, their ears perked up at the hope of gossip. “Not really. Get back to cleaning, girls.”
Relationships between staff members aren’t discouraged, exactly, but Brett makes it clear that the campers shouldn’t know anything about it. Plus, the last thing I need is a bunch of ten-year-olds sing-singing Becca and Miller, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!
For the record, we weren’t. And we’re not going to.
“Hey, did you see the thing at the flagpole this morning?” Vivien changes the subject.
I flush down the suds of the cleaning solution and move to the next stall.
“I just saw some people gathered around there this morning. What was up?” I can guess, but I’m not going to admit any knowledge here.
Vivien appears behind me, grinning. “Someone put a pair of boxers up the flagpole instead of the flag. A real Salute Your Shorts moment, right? Classic.”
The campers giggle.
“I heard it was the camp director’s underwear,” Lena offers, turning from the mirror she’s wiping down. “It was boxers with little hearts all over them. Do you think Brett really wears those?”
“Why would they put his underwear on the flagpole?” Maya looks genuinely confused as the other girls snicker.
I peel off my gloves and tuck the toilet brush back into its holder. “Someone thought it would be funny, or maybe they thought it would be embarrassing. But is it really funny to embarrass other people?”
The laughter dies down as heads shake around the room.
“I bet whoever’s underwear it was felt sad,” Mollie says, and Lena and Maya nod.
“We should do something nice for Brett. Or for whoever’s underwear it was,” Savannah adds.
This is taking a turn I’m not exactly prepared for. “Well, I think we—”
“Good idea, girls!” Vivien winks at me. “How do we know whose underwear it was?”
“A bunch of the Fireflies boys were standing around the flagpole this morning. Maybe we can ask them.”
The other campers nod at Lena’s suggestion, while I rack my brain for a way to say no. Because I know exactly who has the real scoop here, and I do not want to get mixed up with Miller and his campers.
“Let’s just finish cleaning, okay?” I need to regain control here.
Bathrooms, not boxers.
Vivien hoots triumphantly behind me. I turn to see her sliding her contraband phone back into her shorts pocket. “Fireflies 2 is playing kickball in the field after this. And Dave says they know something. So clean hard, girls. We have a mission.”
* * *
“Strike one!” I hear Miller’s voice before I see him.
Other voices carry through the trees, getting louder as we get closer to the Sports field.
I’ve never seen campers clean a bathroom so quickly. I did my best to waste time so we’d have to abandon this mission, but it was spotless in record time as they all worked together, their focus on their upcoming scheme.
As the branches part in front of us, I take in the scene. The eight boys from Miller and Dave’s cabin are lined up, taking turns kicking the rubber ball as Miller pitches, rolling it toward them at varying speeds.
“Hey! A worthy opponent,” Miller says when he sees us, raising a hand in greeting.
We’re not here to play. Get in and get out. “We just came to ask—”
Lena plants her hands on her hips, taking charge. “Whose underwears were those on the flagpole?” she demands.
I try to hide my smile at her use of the word underwears in reference to a pair of boxers.
The other campers follow suit, little hands fisted on their hips. It’s about as intimidating as a group of ten-year-olds can look. Which is to say, not very.
Miller grins as he rolls the ball toward another camper. “Brett’s.”
My campers aren’t amused.
“He probably feels bad. We’re going to make him feel better,” Mollie announces, after Miller’s camper sends the ball soaring across the field with a strong kick.
Miller pauses. “Oh. Well, that’s a very nice thought, but he doesn’t mind. I asked him if I could do it. So, if you don’t need to comfort him, we’d love to invite you to join us in our kickball game.”
Huh. I could have sworn he said he stole the boxers, but maybe I’m remembering it that way because of my mindset when we were talking. It certainly makes the prank more harmless if Brett was in on it.
“Sounds great!” Vivien says, following the girls as they stream onto the field. “You guys kick first. Becca, do you want to pitch?”
I do not, in fact, want to pitch. I don’t even want to be here, anywhere close to the man who was this close to getting me to spill way too much. Plus, I don’t need him to blurt out that he’s the one I was talking with last night.
I just… I need to get us into another situation. Preferably all the way across camp.
Maybe across the lake. Sailboats?
“Becca?”
I jump, realizing that the three other counselors are all staring at me. Shit. “Sorry. Lost in thought for a second. I’ll take the outfield with the girls. Vivien, you pitch.”
Vivien is a ruthless pitcher, or at least her skills outmatch the bunch of eight and nine-year-olds in Miller’s cabin. One gets on base, one strikes out, then another on base. Vivien walks a little guy who looks vaguely afraid of the ball altogether, loading the bases.
While kickball is the same in theory as baseball—just with a ball you kick, not throw—there’s very little action for the fielding team at this level of play.
Most of the girls just stand there, grabbing the ball when in bounces slowly toward them well after the other team is already on base. When the ball goes any measurable distance, it falls to the counselors to chase after it.
We don’t keep score, at least not officially, but Vivien lets a couple of the boys cross home plate before she strikes out another camper and we switch sides, giving the girls a chance to kick.
“We’re going to dominate!” Lena announces, making me smile as the other girls cheer.
I love her confidence and general optimism. I hope for her sake that the rest of these girls have more sports skills than I do, because I certainly can’t carry the team. Not like Miller, who seems like a natural athlete with the way he jogs out to the pitching mound and juggles the ball in his hands, then with his feet.
Furrowing my brows, I try not to gawk. Where do people learn to do things like that?
I arrange my campers into some sort of batting—kicking—order. There’s no sense of strategy here, more just trying to keep them in a line.
“He looks good up there, eh?” Vivien mutters under her breath as Miller pulls his arm back to send the ball rolling toward our first kicker.
I ignore her, even when she elbows my side. I have no opinion on how Miller looks out there, his white t-shirt just a little too tight across his chest and showing off his pecs. His corded legs extend from board shorts, muscles rippling as he pitches.
So, he has muscles. Who cares? Not me.
Miller pitches to two of our campers, each of them getting one base, before he motions for Dave to come over.
He hands off the ball as Dave takes his place on the pitching mound, shifting the ball from one hand to the other.
“You want to head to the outfield?” Dave asks.
Miller shakes his head. “Keep playing; I’ll be right back. I just have to ask Becca something,” he says, jogging toward me.
No. No, he does not.
I do my best to ignore him, instead focusing on cheering for my team. Dave rolls a slow ball toward Maya, who kicks with all her might and runs toward first base, making it safely. My heart warms at the smile that spreads across her face.
“Hey. I wanted to talk to you about—” Miller starts.
“Go, Lena!” I cheer as our next camper heads up to kick. I cross my fingers that we can get Maya in for a home run.
“Becca,” Miller prompts.
Lena connects with the ball, sending it soaring toward first base, and I turn to face Miller. “What? Sorry, I’m trying to focus on the campers for now.”
He winces. “Sure. I just wanted to see if you were okay.”
“I’m fine.” As far as he needs to know.
He doesn’t look convinced. “Anyway, if you need someone to talk to—”
He breaks off as someone yells from across the field.
We both look up just in time to see the disaster a second before it strikes.