At the base of her neck, Tracy felt a cold sensation that she recognized as fear.
In the dim light from the fire, she could see Lowell’s broad shoulders, his forearms crossed one over the other on top of his tucked-up legs. He took one arm down and then the other, and then, with purpose, he got up onto his knees and leaned toward Barbara. He put his hands on either side of her face, and then he put his face toward hers and kissed her, and Tracy understood immediately that he had kissed many girls before; and that this was not a perfunctory, command-following kiss. This was instead a kiss with feeling, with desire. She wanted to turn away; she didn’t. This was her punishment, Tracy thought, for letting down her guard. She deserved it. She took it.
• • •
Walter made a little Oooh sound when the kiss ended, but that was all.
Then Barbara said she was tired, and Lowell agreed, and the four of them split up abruptly: the boys to tend the fire one last time; the girls in the direction of their tent.
Inside, Tracy was cold again. She shook. She turned onto her side, tucked her knees up into her sweatshirt, lay there curled up like a baby.
After a beat, she felt Barbara move closer to her, and then Barbara put her arms around Tracy’s side, hugging her from behind.
“Don’t,” said Tracy.
“I’m sorry,” said Barbara. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry, Tracy.”
She didn’t want to cry, but suddenly she was crying. It was out of shame more than anger: shame for ever thinking someone like Lowell Cargill might possibly be interested in her.
“Don’t cry, Tracy,” said Barbara. “Please. I’m sorry.”
Tracy closed her eyes. She was warmer now, at least; Barbara was correct that putting their bodies together was useful for retaining heat.
“Do you like him?” Tracy whispered.
“No.”
“Why did you do it?”
Barbara paused.
“I do bad things sometimes,” she said. “I have that problem. I think—what would be the worst thing I could do in this moment? And then I do it. Almost like I can’t stop myself.”
Against her will, Tracy understood what Barbara meant. She, too, had had those thoughts—the difference was that she was too afraid to act on them. She imagined that most people were.
“You should get that examined,” said Tracy, and Barbara laughed a little. Tracy smiled. Despite everything, she liked to make Barbara laugh.
“Oh, I have,” said Barbara. “My father has made me see a shrink since I was five.”
“The same one?”
“All different. Every year there’s a new one. This year’s is Dr. Roth. I call her Dr. Sloth, because that’s what she looks like. She talks like one, too. Like this,” said Barbara—and she did an impression of someone sluggish and dull.
“At least she’s a woman,” said Barbara, after a beat. “I like women better.”
“Me too,” said Tracy—though she wasn’t actually sure that this was true.
“What does Dr. Roth think is wrong with you?”
“Impulse control,” said Barbara. “I don’t have enough of it, according to her. My father agrees.”
“You don’t get along with him.”
“Hah,” said Barbara. “The understatement of the year.”
“Is that why you came to camp this summer?” said Tracy. “To get away from him?”
“Partly.”
“What’s the other part?”
Barbara was quiet.
“To get away from all of them,” she said. “They’re having that party this summer, and I just didn’t want to be there for that. All their terrible friends. I don’t like any of them.”
Tracy had another theory.
“Is it easier to see your boyfriend from camp?”
Barbara nodded. Tracy could feel her chin moving up and down against the back of Tracy’s head.
“Easier to sneak out,” said Barbara. “Up at the house, someone’s always awake.”
“What about your mother?” This was the most they had ever talked about Barbara’s family. Normally, she changed the subject. “What’s she like?” Tracy said, pressing on.
A pause.
“She’s useless,” Barbara said. “She barely functions.”
