“I know it already,” Tracy said.
For an hour, they rehearsed—Tracy teaching him, this time, how to hold his note while she held hers. She suddenly found herself missing her mother—a track rat, an exercise rider, tomboyish and forthright, tall, with red hair and freckles like Tracy. She ate her food messily, hunched over her plate, and laughed loudly, and walked with her knees and elbows out, loose-limbed, jangling as she went, her gait reminding Tracy somehow of a marionette’s. Her only moments of gracefulness were on horseback. In the year following her parents’ divorce, most of Tracy’s anger had been directed at her mother—whose vicinity made her an easier target. But now, in her mind, Tracy thanked her for this one thing: teaching her daughter to harmonize.
• • •
That night, Tracy floated back to her cabin like a ghost. Upon entering, she was met with the inquisitive gaze of Barbara, who must have heard where Tracy had been.
She sat down next to Barbara on the lower bunk and gazed at the floor.
“What happened?” she whispered.
Quietly, Tracy told her.
It was the first time in her life that she felt she had a really good story to tell. One in which she—Tracy Jewell—was the protagonist, the ingenue. Barbara, next to her, was nodding sagely as she spoke.
“Did he say he wanted to meet again?” asked Barbara.
“Yes,” said Tracy.
Barbara thought. “Well, he likes you,” she said. “That much is obvious.”
It was strange, but Tracy knew that she was correct. There was no doubt about it: Lowell Cargill liked her.
“What happens next?” Tracy asked her.
She shrugged. “Depends how experienced he is,” said Barbara. “Maybe he’ll ask you to the dance. Or maybe, next time you play together, he’ll try it with you.”
Try what, Tracy wondered—though a part of her knew.
“You’re not scared, are you?” Barbara asked.
“No,” Tracy said. “I’m not scared.”
She was petrified.
A long silence ensued.
“Do you ever listen to music?” Barbara asked.
She did—but not any music she’d confess to Barbara. She listened to her mother’s music, or to bands and boys who could be found on the cover of Tiger Beat.
Barbara continued without waiting. “Kissing someone—someone you want to kiss, I mean—is like living inside the best song you ever heard. It’s the same feeling.”
• • •
Later, atop her bunk, Tracy took out her journal and enumerated everything she knew about sex.
What parts of the anatomy it involved: this was at the top of the list.
What actually happened between those parts: she knew the technicalities, but couldn’t quite grasp the mechanics.
She turned her face to the window: the moon was nearly full.
That’s the last thing she remembered seeing before they were woken, in the morning, by the sound of an air horn.
“Survival Trip,” whispered one of the Melissas. All around Tracy, the campers of Balsam sprang into motion.
Barbara, on the bottom bunk, was the first one dressed and out the door.
Tracy
1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975
Tracy has known for one hour that Barbara is missing. So far, she has not had to lie.
She’s been asked the following two questions, several times: Do you know where she is? Did you hear her leave? To both of them, Tracy can safely answer, No.
Now, with the counselors pulled away to search, the CITs have been tasked with keeping everyone to their routine. On the walk to the commissary, Tracy forms a plan. She lets herself lag at the back of the group, then ducks behind a building. Waits, breathing, until her cabinmates are out of sight.
She needs to go someplace. She thinks it will be a quick trip, just a lark—to see if she can rule out the place she believes Barbara might have gone. She makes a promise to herself: if she doesn’t find Barbara there, she’ll confess to the authorities everything she knows.
It’s not a decision she makes lightly. Because Barbara swore Tracy to secrecy. And the fact that she entrusted Tracy—Tracy!—with such an important secret makes her loath to break Barbara’s confidence so readily.
• • •
She knows where it is that Barbara goes each night.
Although Barbara will tell Tracy nothing about her boyfriend, she did tell her once about their meeting place: an observer’s cabin at the peak of Hunt Mountain, something formerly occupied by a string of men whose job it was to keep watch for wildfires in the surrounding area. Next to it is a fire tower that affords an even better view. Both structures have gone unoccupied lately due to staffing shortages. But both are convenient as shelters from bad weather. Or as places to meet in secret.
