“Yeah,” says Louise. “If you find out who it was that bailed me out. Will you let me know?”
“I will,” says Denny Hayes.
Tracy
1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975
The evening of the final dance, the girls of Balsam got ready together in an elaborate ritual that served as the culmination of all the grooming skills they’d taught one another over the course of the months they’d been combined. Buckets of water were brought out to the porch; legs were shaved. Outfits were selected from among the several each camper had brought for occasions like this one. Finally, makeup was applied, with precision, by the undisputed master: Barbara Van Laar herself.
Louise and Annabel, who’d been getting ready in their small separate room, emerged and gasped loudly when they saw their charges. How grown-up they all looked; how different from the start of the summer.
Tracy understood. They were different, it was true: they’d grown a year in two months. They’d formed an alliance.
• • •
In the Great Hall, Tracy danced with everyone in Balsam, and everyone who’d been on her Survival Trip, and most of all with Barbara. Mitchell, the swim instructor, had brought in three friends from Schenectady, and together they served as a mediocre band. Lowell Cargill was someplace in the room, she knew, but it wasn’t until Mitchell and his friends played “I Honestly Love You” that the frenzy in the community room slowed and then stopped, and Tracy became aware, suddenly, that the people around her were pairing off. Even Barbara, who had so far been her constant companion, had been asked to dance by someone else: a boy named Crandall who was widely considered to be, aside from Lowell, the most sought-after male camper at Camp Emerson.
Suddenly alone in the middle of the dance floor, Tracy panicked. And then, quickly, she ran to the periphery and stood by the food table.
She didn’t actually see Lowell anyplace. Perhaps he had gone outside for fresh air.
“I hate slow songs,” someone next to her said.
She turned her head.
There next to her was someone she recognized as a kitchen worker, a good-looking twentysomething man she’d seen walking, from time to time, with her counselor Louise. Lee, his name was.
“Me too,” said Tracy.
“They’re so embarrassing,” said Lee. “One minute you’re out there having fun with your friends, and then the band decides to make things difficult for everyone by slowing it down. It’s sadistic, actually.”
Tracy wasn’t certain she knew what sadistic meant, but she nodded anyway.
“I gotta get back to the kitchen,” said Lee. “You look great, by the way. Cool dress.”
“Thank you,” said Tracy. And then he was gone.
It was only after he left that she saw Lowell, across the room, wearing the type of absurd broad-collared polyester suit that the boys brought for dances and that still, despite everything, made her heart speed up.
He stood still as a statue against the opposite wall. He was looking at a couple in the center of the room: Barbara Van Laar and her partner. And on his face was an expression of pain.
• • •
Outside. That’s where she wanted to go. Out to the fresh pine and the soil and the smell of the lake. Out to the light of the moon on water.
When no one was looking, she seized her moment, and left.
She walked into the dark. There were surprisingly few lights across the grounds of Camp Emerson at night.
Suddenly, in the dim night, there was movement. Someone walking across her path—someone she recognized. Annabel, their CIT, dressed in her clothes for the dance, was heading north.
There was nothing up there, thought Tracy, except the main house. Barbara’s house. Annabel’s parents were staying there this week, Tracy knew; maybe that’s why she was heading in that direction.
Tracy for a moment considered calling out—Annabel was supposed to escort them back to Balsam at the end of the dance—but the determination in her stride gave Tracy pause. Better not to say anything.
• • •
And then her own name was called, interrupting her thoughts.
She turned. Walked in the direction of the voice that was repeating her name.
On the beach, in the moonlight, she saw Lowell’s best friend. Walter. He was sitting on the sand, looking dejected.
She sat down next to him, lowering herself toward the earth. Until that summer, she had never felt at home in the house of her body. Never felt graceful, like Barbara, like the Melissas, like Lowell Cargill.
“You too?” said little Walter. His arms were around his knees; his chin was on his arms.
“Me too what?” said Tracy.
“Sad?” says Walter.
“Oh,” said Tracy. “No, not really. I’m fine.”
Walter was silent.
“Are you?” said Tracy.
He nodded. She could barely make it out. But she knew, without asking, why he was.
