The Lost Summer by Kathryn Williams Read Free Book Online

fun and a little strange to take a seat at the head of the table instead of on one of the low benches where the campers sat shoulder to shoulder.
    At our first counselor meeting I’d volunteered to handle table assignments and had used my newfound power to put Katie Bell at my table the first week. Good thing, because I was almost literally dying to fill her in on the night before. As soon as the cowbell that signalled chow time was rung, I grabbed her across the table and whispered that she was never going to believe what went on out at the riflery range at night.
    Katie Bell was mystified. She needed details, and I was more than happy to pore over the really important ones—for example, what brand of dip he used (the importance of this detail escaped me, as I thought dipping was generally gross, but Katie Bell figured he was a Skoal man), and more critically, how close, in millimeters, Ransome’s knee had been to mine at the closest point of the night.
    â€œHel,” Katie Bell gasped. “That’s like, huge!” Katie Bell had a problem with whispering. She couldn’t.
    â€œWhat’s huge?” a camper asked.
    â€œNothing,” we both answered quickly, and luckily the camper returned, untroubled, to her stack of syrup-drenched pancakes.
    â€œYou think?” I wondered, turning back to Katie Bell. I was less confident in the morning light that the electricity I’d felt between Ransome and me wasn’t imagined.
    â€œYes.” Katie Bell gave me a look that said her opinion on the matter was to be trusted. Of course it was the answer I wanted, so I took it.
    Running my life past Katie Bell over bacon—even if I was seated at the head of the table now—felt normal. But it was after breakfast that the usual camp routine skidded to a halt and took a left.
    When First Call blew, the campers tramped down to the Bowl for Morning Gathering. For the first time ever, I didn’t go with them. Instead I blared music in the empty cabin and leisurely made my bed. I folded the sweatshirt and shorts I’d worn to breakfast, placing them back in my trunk in the “slightly worn” pile, and wriggled into a bathing suit.
    Mornings at Southpoint meant scheduled activities with your “fish group”—age groups named after fish, smallest (Minnows) to largest (Sharks). As the lowest on the counselor totem pole, JCs got stuck teaching the activities that involved dehydrating on the athletic fields, moldering in Ye Olde Crafts Shoppe, or leading some ill-defined activity that required a lot of creativity and usually elicited little enthusiasm. Thus, my friend and fellow JC Lauren had been stuck with field hockey, Lila with crafts, Abby with leadership (i.e., trust walks), and Megan with art, which usually devolved into nail-painting and magazine reading.
    I, on the other hand, had lucked out. After reading in one of her parenting books that offspring of divorced parents sometimes lack the work ethic of their co-parented counterparts, my mom had cut off my allowance for the past two summers, leaving me no choice for spending money but to babysit for the Stanley twins next door. Mrs. Stanley had insisted I get lifeguard certification before I could take her little darlings to the pool. I’d griped then, but the certification had paid off. With most of the other certified counselors on the boating dock, I’d gotten a coveted place on the swim dock with Winn and Sarah.
    As I strolled out to the dock that day—instead of to Morning Gathering with Katie Bell—it felt slightly wrong, like ditching class.
    Winn and Sarah were already there. They’d lugged a busted old stereo from the craft shop to the lifeguard stand, and the music carried over the lake.
    At the edge of the dock I kicked off my flip-flops and stood hesitantly, wrapped in an oversize beach towel, next to Sarah and Winn. They were already stretched out on their towels, lithe bodies glistening