19. Becca
Fuck. The cold lake water surrounds me as my panic rises.
This is not what’s supposed to happen. I was supposed to keep the boat upright, obviously.
The top of the mast dips under the water, and my heart seizes. No. If the boat goes completely upside down, it’s even harder to right. We call it turtling, because all you can see is the hull, looking like the shell of a turtle on the surface of the water.
“Oh my God, we’re going to die!” Abby shrieks, her arms flailing.
“You’re wearing a lifejacket,” Tyler points out.
I ignore them as I do my best to swim toward the mast and keep it from pulling the boat all the way under. The mast doesn’t seem that tall when the boat is upright, but it seems an insanely long distance away right now, and my usual quick strokes are hampered by the massive orange life vest around my neck.
The mast is a foot underwater as I finally reach it. I grab for the metal pole, but it slips through my fingers, the water-logged sail pulling it toward the bottom of the lake.
“Becca? Are you okay?” Jacob calls out.
I don’t answer as I reach again for the mast.
My fingers brush the smooth metal, but I can’t get a hold, and with the life jacket, I can’t swim further down to bring it up. Even if I could, I know better than to grab onto a heavy, sinking object in the middle of a lake.
I move toward the boat, hoping I can grab the part of the mast that’s closer to the surface, but it’s too late. The weight of the mast pulls downward, the boat flipping from its side to upside down in slow motion.
Shit.
“Something is touching my foot!” Amelia shrieks, and Abby matches her pitch.
I swim toward them. Now that the boat has completely flipped over, there’s no urgency. Now all we can do is wait for help to arrive.
I reach out and grab the thing that’s touching her foot, tossing it behind me. “It’s just seaweed, you guys. You’re fine. Just relax, and Drew will be out here with the rescue boat in a minute.”
“Hey, we get to ride in the motorboat? Cool!” Jacob sees the bright side. He twists onto his back and kicks his feet, splashing the other campers.
Amelia and Abby let out identical shrieks at the water splashing them in the face.
“Hold it together, guys.” Hell, I should take my own advice. Who turtles a sailboat, let alone this early in the summer? The whole thought of this summer camp thing being a good idea was obviously an illusion. The one thing I thought I was good at—being a camp counselor—and it’s pretty obvious that I suck at this, too.
Med school is just one thing in a long list of stuff I can’t do well. And the list just keeps on growing.
My eyes begin to burn with unshed tears, but I force myself to take a breath. “Let’s play the alphabet game,” I suggest. The little kids love this, so I cross my fingers that it works with the older ones.
“Cool beans,” Abby says, the splashing and drowning and seaweed all but forgotten, and I love her for it. “I’m going on a picnic and I’m bringing apples.”
Tyler seems to shrug, but I can’t be sure with the life jacket covering his shoulders. “Okay. I’m going on a picnic and I’m bringing apples and… bananas.”
I keep stealing glances at the upside-down sailboat while we play the memory game, each of them reciting the items mentioned in alphabetical order and adding their own. Jacob contributes “dingleberries” as what he’s bringing, which makes the entire game devolve into who can think of the raunchiest words, but for once I don’t mind.
The rescue boat roars up just in time to drown out Tyler’s suggestion of “turds” for T.
I send up a silent prayer of thanks. We guide the campers onto the boat one at a time, each of them marveling at sitting in the boat that’s otherwise off-limits to campers.
Jackson hops into the water after the last camper is on board. “I’ll help you get the boat back,” he says.
We wave as Drew heads back toward shore with the campers, then Jackson turns back to me.
“How’d you manage to turtle it?”
I know I need the help, but I’m feeling shitty about myself, and I don’t really want to talk about it. “I don’t know. Strong gust of wind, I think. The kids wanted to go faster.”
“You didn’t cleat the mainsail, did you?” Jackson asks, looking over his shoulder as he swims toward the boat.
Yeah, he thinks I’m an idiot, even though the kid is like four years younger than me, and I was on staff when he was a counselor-in-training. Don’t cleat the mainsail is sailing 101. It’s one of the first things they teach you, because if you do, it’s easy to tip the boat.
“No,” I answer. I leave out the rest of my thoughts.
The keel has slipped back from where it normally sticks out of the bottom of the boat and into its hold. The boat is designed that way so we can pull the keel up, out of the way, so it doesn’t drag on the sand when we bring the boats into shore.
But out in the water, you need it to make sure the boat doesn’t tip over, and when the boat is like this, the keel is the only way to get leverage to flip it back right-side up.
Jackson climbs on top of the overturned sailboat and does his best to work the keel out the slit in the hull where it’s tucked itself.
“Do you need help?” I ask as I tread water, unsure of what else to do.
He shakes his head. “No, I think I-I’ve got it,” he manages, as the keel comes out slightly.
It slips through his fingers and back into the hole with a thud as I wince.
If we can’t get the keel out, it’s going to be practically impossible to flip the boat back right-side up.
It takes another three tries before Jackson gets the keel to stay up enough to pull on. I push up on one side of the boat while he presses against the keel, using his body weight to bring it back into the water where it belongs and slowly—soooo slowly—the boat starts to flip.
The mast floats tentatively upward through the murky water toward me. Once it’s within reach, I grasp the metal pole and pull as it rises to the top of the water. I breathe a sigh of relief when it breaks the surface. I push upward, helping it along as Jackson flips the boat all the way over to right side up. He falls into the water, but the boat is where it belongs.
We climb in one at a time as the mainsail drips lake water into the boat. Jackson sails us back to shore in silence. I help him pull the boat onto the sand and take down the sails, my face burning in embarrassment.
“It’s no big deal,” Drew says, joining us moments later. “I’ve tipped my fair share of sailboats.”
“Same here,” Jackson adds.
It should make me feel better, but it doesn’t, not really. This is supposed to be the one thing I’m good at. Not just sailing but working at camp in general.
It’s the entire reason I came here this summer. I needed to be in a place where I could prove to myself that I’m not a complete fuckup. That I can do more than just disappoint my parents.
I always knew this summer would come to an end and I’ve have to go back to reality and the challenges I ran from. I was ready to face that, or at least acknowledge that it would be coming. What I’m not at all prepared to face is the reality that I suck at being a camp counselor, too.
I’ve never tipped a sailboat over, let alone turtled one, especially with campers on board.
I force myself to go through the motions of cleaning up the department: turning canoes upside down on their racks, hanging up oars and lifejackets that campers left on the sand, swimming the sail-less sailboats out to their buoys and tying them there for the night.
I double-check my bowline knot, then check it again. The last thing I need to be responsible for is the boat coming untied and drifting away in the middle of the night.
“Becca, you good?” Drew calls as he slides a lock onto the boathouse door.
I manage a smile. “Yeah. I’m okay. Just feeling silly about the whole thing.”
He closes the lock with a click. “I get it. Seriously, it’s not a big deal. The campers are fine, and honestly, they probably loved getting a ride in the rescue boat. They were all smiles when I drove them in. And they’ll love telling this story for years to come.”
“I suppose. Glad they’re okay.” If I’d managed to be responsible, even indirectly, for hurting two campers in one week, I’m pretty sure Brett would fire me on the spot.
I can’t bring myself to walk quickly back to the cabin, even knowing the campers are all congregating there. My feet feel like they’re made of lead. Maybe they’re just weighed down with the force of disappointing everyone.
“Becca!”
I stiffen at the sound of my name as I near M-Hall. I know that voice, and the absolute last thing I want to do right now is see Miller. He’s already seen me fuck up once this week, even if that time we shared the blame.
I can just imagine the rumors if I let him get close.
Oh, Becca and Miller. That makes sense. The two screw-ups, the adults who can’t hack it in real life who thought they could somehow make it work as counselors.
No. I need to distance myself from him. No one needs to associate us.
Especially me.
“Becca!” Miller’s voice gets closer, too close to politely ignore and pretend I didn’t hear him.
I turn around. “What, Miller?” I snap.
He’s got his usual grin in place as he leans up against a tree. The smile is just slightly crooked and fits perfectly with his personality of joking around and playing pranks, but it’s also strangely attractive, highlighting a row of perfect white teeth and offsetting his blue eyes.
“Just thought you might need a hug.” He shrugs, like this is a totally normal thing to offer your nemesis.
Actually, maybe he doesn’t consider me his nemesis. The hatred does seem to be mostly one-sided, which makes it even more freaking annoying.
Either way, no, I do not want a hug from Miller. I don’t want to be anywhere near Miller. I want to curl into a ball in a closet and not come out for a very long time.
He tilts his head, his cocky grin fading into an expression that looks almost caring. “Hey. You okay?”
“Mmm-hmm.” If I open my mouth, he’s going to hear the tears in my voice. I need to get away.
“Becca?” Miller stops me with a hand on my arm and turns to face me. “I heard about the sailboat. Really, are you okay?”
I look at the ground, at M-Hall. Anywhere but at him.
He places two fingers under my chin and tips my face up until I have no choice but to look in his eyes. His face softens as he searches mine. “I’m proud of you, Becca.”
A tear escapes and traces a path down my cheek. Dammit.
“You kept the campers safe even when unexpected shit happened. You’re a good counselor, Becs.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“Hug?” He lets my chin go and opens his arms. Without thinking, I fall into them, and he holds me tight. Maybe it’s a moment of weakness, but somehow, this is exactly what I need.
I lean into his strength, taking a deep breath. More tears leak out, dampening the front of Miller’s shirt. This is brand-new to me. I fucked up, and he’s not just pointing it out to make me feel bad. He’s just… offering support.
“I’m proud of you,” he says again, his voice rumbling through his chest.