“A m-m-match? S-sorry. We d-d-didn’t know.”
“It’s fine, fellas. Just use an upper court.”
“Could we… maybe… could we watch?” Andy asked.
Jody left it to us. “I don’t mind,” Marcy said.
“Me neither.” Why not, I thought. They’re nice boys, nice enough to have left my initiation. And my father always said I played well to an audience.
The boys applauded my good shots—louder, it seemed, than they did Marcy’s. Each “Great shot, Amy!” made me hit the ball harder. I forgot about Rory and the plan and what-ifs. I forgot about my mother. All that mattered was the strike of the ball.
I won four straight games to close out the match. “You’re a good player,” Andy told me. “You too, Marcy. So do you girls want to stay and hit with Jed and me for a while?”
“I think they’ve had enough,” Jody answered for us. “It’s time for a swim.”
“No. Please, Jody,” Marcy begged. “Please let us stay.”
“But it’s hot as blazes. Don’t you want to swim?”
My fear of Rory at the lake came back like a punch to my gut. “No, please. I’d rather play tennis.”
“All right,” Jody agreed. “But not too much longer.”
“Okay then,” Andy said. He smiled and took my arm, claiming his partner. “Let’s play.”
My face flushed with victory. See, Mom. It doesn’t matter what I wear. Andy likes me just the way I am.
I couldn’t wait to tell Erin: how when Andy smiled, my heart pounded double time; how when we won the few games Jody let us play against Jed and Marcy, Andy’s touch on my shoulder made my whole arm tingle. But by the time I got to the lake and swam to the floats, the whistle blew for campers to head in.
Rory trailed Erin and me to our towels—so close I couldn’t speak. Had Marcy already told her friends about tennis? And had they told Rory, even before swimming ended? She lingered on the path, seeking signs of my time with Andy. I was certain of it. Another thing to tease me about.
“Have fun at tennis?” Rory asked as she watched me in the cabin.
“It was okay,” I said, hiding my enthusiasm, hoping to disabuse Rory of her notion that something had happened. Yet as I spoke, I still felt Andy’s hand on my shoulder and pictured the way he had chosen me as his partner. No, Rory wouldn’t snuff the joy out of this day. I wouldn’t let her suffocate me now. Looking toward Bunk 10, I wanted air and a chance to talk with Erin.
But all evening, and the next morning too, every time I got close to Erin, Rory squeezed in closer. “I have to talk to you,” I finally whispered to Erin after breakfast.
“Me too,” she answered quietly. “I heard about Andy. Meet me at the boathouse. Rest hour.”
I wanted to take Donnie’s job clearing the lunch table. But Rory would know something was up. Yet I longed to see Andy. He’d be waiting at the pass-through, I imagined. His hand would brush mine when I’d set down the sandwich platter. He’d smile, and I would forget Rory, forget our plan for the Saginaw social, forget my mother even.
Erin beat me to the boathouse, but she wasn’t waiting inside. “Shhhh,” she warned, an index finger to her lips. She cupped an ear with her other hand and leaned in close to the door.
I tiptoed next to her. Giggles from inside. Then a moaning breath. Hushed voices. Who was in there?
We heard the floor creak. Erin grabbed me and we ran toward our cabins. “Who do you think it was?” Erin asked as we approached senior camp.
My thoughts were all tangled up. Was someone having sex in the boathouse? Part of me wanted to know, and part of me couldn’t stand to think about it. “Who cares?” I said, sounding meaner than intended.
“Fine. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But tell me about Andy. That’s what you wanted to talk about, right?”
“Forget it. It’s not important.”
Erin socked my arm. “Oh, come on. Tell me.”
“Really, there’s nothing to tell.” I decided to keep Andy to myself—at least for a while. I wouldn’t talk about him, and I wouldn’t think about whatever had been going on in the boathouse. No outer world in; no inner world out. It worked for my mother. I would make it work for me too.
Chapter 10
The Laughingstock of Senior Camp
The day of the social, I still didn’t have an outfit. “Not to worry,” Erin said as we left the dining hall after breakfast. “We’ll figure it out at rest hour.”
During archery I could barely pull an arrow from the quiver. Could my mother be right about what to wear? Absolutely not, I decided. Yet I heard her voice as I drew the bowstring to my chin. Wear the dress, Amy, or you’ll be sorry. Sorry about what? That I wouldn’t be asked to dance? That I wouldn’t have a boyfriend?
The other girls knew what they would wear to please the Saginaw boys. They’d spent days choosing from assorted clothing. Donnie had tried on multiple outfits, asking my opinion as she mixed and matched Bermudas and blouses.
“Oh, like it really matters what Amy thinks,” Rory said. “You still don’t get it, Donnie-girl, do you? No boy’s gonna waste his time on you, and Amy’s opinion isn’t gonna help that. And anyhow, no one gives a damn what either of you wears. Come on. Andy and Jed weren’t even interested in seeing Amy with no clothes on at all.” Rory stroked her chin. “Though now that I think about it, it might be fun to see Amy’s outfit. So time for a little fashion show. How ’bout it, Amy Becker?”
“Why don’t you ease up on her already?” Donnie jumped in before I could figure out what to say. “You just said nobody cares what Amy and I wear. So forget it, Rory. You’re right. It doesn’t matter.”
“Good. I’m glad we got that cleared up, that part about my being right. But you know, Donnie-girl, I must admit, I am just a teensy bit curious. So let’s see, Amy. What outfit have you planned for turning the boys on?”
How could I tell her I didn’t know, that I’d have to borrow something from Erin? When cornered about the package my parents had sent, I’d told Rory it was sheets and towels— anything to get her off my back.
“She hasn’t decided what she’s wearing yet,” Donnie said.
“What’s the matter, Amy?” Rory teased. “Cat got your tongue again? You need ol’ Donnie-girl to talk for you now?”
“Leave her alone,” Donnie answered for me.
“Well, I’ll be,” Rory said. “Look who’s back-talking me now.” She pushed her nose in Donnie’s face, then stepped away. Rory tilted her head to the side as she studied Donnie’s blouse. “Here’s the deal. I do like that shirt, and it’d look real nice with the pink pants I’m wearing to the dance. So off with it, Donnie-girl. Hand it over.”
“No!” The word ripped loose from a place deep inside me. How dare Rory order Donnie to take off her shirt. Donnie, who looked out for my safety. A hot wave of hatred moved through me. “Don’t give it to her.”
“Ah, so Amy can talk after all. Well, la-de-da. Listen to that. Amy’s giving orders now.” Rory turned to me, her face flushed. “And just who do you think you are, telling Donnie not to listen to me?”
“I’m sorry, Rory,” Donnie said. Why was she apologizing? Was Donnie afraid for herself, or for me? “And Amy’s sorry too. So you want my shirt? No problem. I’ll lend it to you. Just leave us alone.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Rory said as she paced the length of the cabin. Back and forth, then back again while Donnie and I retreated to our beds. Fear returned, yanking my heart to my throat. How stupid to have challenged Rory. What would she do to us now?