Wish you werent here, p.22
Wish You Weren't Here, page 22
She pulls back for a second, and I miss her weight the moment it’s gone. Instinctively, one of my hands hooks into the belt loops of her overalls and pulls her down closer. Instead of kissing me, though, she rests a hand on my cheek, gives me the sweetest smile, and says, “Sorry, you were saying?”
A zing of want hums through me. Without permission from my brain, my body arches, but her mouth still hovers just out of my reach. I groan, “You’re the worst.”
Priya’s laugh has never sounded so beautiful or melodic. “That’s just one of the many, many, many—”
I incline my head so that my forehead presses into her lips. Grinning, I play along. “Many.”
“Many reasons you like me,” she finishes, finally relaxing into my arms.
I get to kiss Priya again. And again. I kiss her deeply and desperately and don’t stop kissing her until well after the rain subsides.
37
The Fosbury Flop
“Remember when I told you that my mom dragged me to all your Little Star Search competitions because she was obsessed?” Priya asks, twining her fingers in with mine.
“Uh-huh,” I say. We lie on our backs, looking up at the roof of the tent.
“It may have been the other way around.”
I face her, tracing her profile in the dim light of dawn.
She continues, “I may have been the one dragging her to them.”
“Oh my God,” I say with a soft gasp. “That is so…”
“Cute?” she supplies.
“Embarrassing for you,” I finish.
She untwines our hands suddenly, shoving at me. “Be nice!”
With a laugh, I push up from her sleeping bag and stretch. I say through a yawn, “We should get a move on. Pat will be calling for us any minute.”
Priya doesn’t respond, just stares at the skin that my stretch exposed. I tug my shirt (really, her shirt) back down and cross my arms. That gets her attention.
She looks up, blinking like a newborn baby. “Hmm?”
I shake my head and nudge her off the sleeping bag with my knee, then I roll it up into my lap. “Oh, stop.”
I’m glad to have something to occupy my hands and mind, because Priya says, “We gonna talk about last night?”
Biting back my knee-jerk reaction to make a joke, I say, “Sure.”
She looks at me expectantly, but when I don’t say anything, she speaks instead. “I, for one, had a delightful time.”
“Oh, yeah. Me too.” The sleeping bag is finally secured inside its elastic cords, and my hands are once again empty. I squirm, desperate to not sit in this discomfort.
Priya laughs. “I’m going to ask you this once and you need to be honest. Did you not enjoy last night, or are you just acting weird because you’re you?”
I can’t help but snort. I love that she knew to ask me that. It makes my stomach hurt. “I enjoyed it. I’m just being me.”
She rolls her eyes, though her smile is understanding. “Classic. We’ll work on that.”
I follow her out of the tent. My ankle is tender but not excruciating. Without the added pressure of last night, the pain is much more manageable.
Priya gathers the mud-laden piles that are our clothes and stuffs them first into a plastic bag and then into her pack. The job of disassembling the tent has fallen to me.
I break the contented silence by abruptly blurting, “Why did you say I hate women?”
Her mouth drops open. “What?”
“You said I hate women,” I repeat.
“I said that?”
“Yes,” I answer, staring at the tent.
“Last night?”
“No. Earlier.”
With confusion in her voice, Priya says, “I don’t know why I’d say that. I love women.”
I pause, furrowing my brow. Then I realize what she means. “No, you said I”—I jab a finger into my own chest—“hate women.”
Priya suddenly bursts into laughter, and I’m so startled that my hand slips. A spring-loaded tent pole snaps closed, pinching the flesh between my thumb and forefinger. I yelp and drop the metal pole with a clatter.
“Oh! Are you okay?” Priya is at my side instantly, helping to pick up all the things I dropped. “Yeah, yes, yeah. No, I did say that. Not my finest moment.”
Our hands brush as she helps me gather the poles. “Do you really think I hate women?”
Priya looks sheepish. “Um. No, I don’t. I was actually trying to get you to tell me if you were queer…?”
“What?” I nearly drop everything again, but Priya steadies the collection with both hands.
“Yeah, like I was hoping you would say, ‘No, Priya, I don’t hate women! I love women! I want to kiss a woman!’ Something like that.”
Staggered, I gape at her. “In what world would I have said that? In what world would any human being respond like that?” I gently push her shoulder. “I had a whole identity crisis because of you!”
Together, we roll the rods up in the canvas of the tent.
“What identity crisis?” Priya asks, securing one of the Velcro straps.
“I thought I hated women!”
Priya stops what she’s doing, sits back on her heels, and gapes at me. “Huh?”
I shrug sharply, palms up.
“Juliette. You live in your brain. You know whether you hate women or not.” She smirks and slips the tent into its designated spot on her pack. “And based on what I’ve seen…I mean…Not to sound too presumptuous, but—”
“Oh my God,” I exclaim exaggeratedly, failing to keep the smile off my face.
Priya throws her hands up, carefree. She swings her pack over one shoulder and then mine over the other. I make a move like I’m going to protest, but she rolls her eyes and takes off down the mountain.
“Juliette and Priya, sitting in a tree,” she sings gleefully. “K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”
* * *
—
There are many things that don’t live up to expectations. The morning after Senior Twilight isn’t one of those things. Pat radios for everyone to start heading back into camp, with instructions to call out our numbers on the walkie as we approach the tree line. Priya and I arrive early and set up a picnic just out of sight of the crowd. I think to some degree she knew my ankle would need a break before parading myself in front of camp.
We sit on my tarp and eat the peanut butter tortillas that Pat tucked away into our packs. Soon, stippled predawn light filters between the trees. Priya is weaving a daisy crown when Lucy crashes through the brush.
She stumbles to a halt, bracing a hand against a nearby tree. “Morning, pals. What are we doing?”
“Waiting for the sun to come up,” Priya replies, placing her completed daisy crown on her head. “Wanna wait with us?”
Lucy smiles, looking back and forth between us. “Absolutely not. I got my eyes on the prize: bacon.” She gives us a salute and radios Pat that she’s about to step out.
“Hold on a minute, seventeen. I have a situation,” comes his reply.
Turning back to us and rolling her eyes, she says, “Well, I’m glad you two finally hooked up.”
Priya’s mouth drops open. “Wait, how—”
At the same time, I blurt, “When did—”
Amusement fills Lucy’s face. “I have a Spidey-sense for these things.” She points at Priya. “You, I’ve known about your thing for Baby J since day one. Well, maybe day three.” She raises her eyebrows at me. “I was on the fence about Juliette, though. Gia and I couldn’t figure out your whole…deal. Ya know, sexuality and whatnot.”
I breathe a laugh. Them and me both, I guess.
“Okay, seventeen. Ready?”
“Hell yeah,” she says into the walkie.
“Lucy! Language,” Pat snaps, despite his own rule of exclusively using our numbers for this part.
Lucy gives us a salute again, then frowns. “Man, that was so much cooler the first time. Damn you, Pat.” She shakes her fist at the sky.
“Lucy Swentek!’ Pat’s voice booms over the makeshift sound system. “Fogridge camper for six years and awarded this year’s Adventurer of the Summer.”
In a single, explosive exhale, Lucy says, “Ohbytheway, I’m totally telling Gia about you two the second I see him.” I expect her to walk away at that, but she stares at us expectantly, clearly waiting for our okay.
“Whatever,” I sigh.
Priya gives her a thumbs-up. “Do your thing.”
Lucy throws up a satisfied shaka and swaggers out past the tree line, arms raised like a champion gladiator. Priya and I cheer at the top of our lungs.
“Do we all get an award?” Priya asks, beaming at Lucy’s back. “Everybody has so far.”
“Yeah, but they’re not real; the staff makes them up for the campers who complete Senior Twilight. It’s part of the whole”—I circle my wrist—“thing.” I pause, nervous to ask my next question. But I want to try. I want Priya to know I’m trying. “Are you okay with…them knowing?”
She gives me a genuine smile. “Juliette Barrera-Wright, do you think I’m embarrassed of you?”
I laugh and pop my last bite of peanut butter tortilla in my mouth. “Well, you are the Priya Pendley.”
Her expression flattens a little. “Yeah.”
A bird chirps above us, catching her attention momentarily. She tilts her chin to look up, and I’m struck by how stunning she is. In profile, straight on. At dawn, lit up by a phone flashlight. Covered in paint and sawdust. Framed by rain-drenched strands of hair. I will never get tired of looking at that face.
“You still think of me like that?” she asks, playing with the laces of her muddy hiking boots.
“Huh?”
“Like…” She squints out at the grassy field. “Someone who…”
She doesn’t finish, but she doesn’t have to. Someone who would be embarrassed of me. She’s asking if I still think of her as the person I’ve always said she was. Spoiled. Shallow. Social media Priya. Priyatopia Priya.
A lump forms in my throat. “No, I—” My voice cuts off, and I have the same petrified feeling I had the night she asked about my siblings, a fossilization of every muscle in my body.
I’m intense. Pugnacious. I always say what I mean. So why can’t I speak now, at the moment it feels like I need to most? As the seconds stretch by in never-ending eternities, I drown in humiliation. Unable to meet Priya’s eyes, I zone out into the forest, and center on the sensation of tapping my canines together.
Priya’s hand lands on my cheek with painful softness. I finally look up to find her head tilted and her expression thoughtful. “It’s not me, is it? It’s you.”
“What?”
Her thumb strokes my cheekbone. “Yes or no: you think people will think you aren’t good enough for me.”
My stomach clenches. I make a noncommittal noise, but she continues to silently hold my gaze. Her hand drifts to the crook of my neck, and I instinctually press deeper into it.
Voice gentle, she says, “I can wait all day if you need me to. But I want you to answer. With words.”
A chill runs down my spine. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and whisper, “Yes.”
My back hits the ground with a thump, knocking all the air out of me. Priya, having just tackled me into the dirt, rolls off my chest and rises to her knees like she’s about to elbow-drop me again.
“You silly, beautiful, ridiculous, perfect buffoon.” She shakes her head, jaw clenched. “You knock this off right now. You’re amazing, you know that? Your singing voice could cause a hundred Grecian shipwrecks. You light up when you accomplish things. Do you remember that away meet you guys had last year at that high school where the track was on the roof?”
Of course I remember that. It wasn’t just a meet. That meet was the qualifier for regionals. I hit my PR in the prelims but missed each of my attempts in the final round. I can still feel my heel clipping the crossbar on my third jump. I knew I’d been eliminated before I even hit the crash pad.
I nod.
“I went to that meet.” She waves a hand. “For Barry. And I cannot describe to you how sexy the grin on your face was when you landed your last jump in that first round. Oh my God.” Her fingers tangle into her hair, bunching it up. “I can picture it. You were wearing your cute tank top team jersey and these tiny athletic shorts, and you did that little backward jumpy thing you guys do, you know?”
I nod, amused by her description of the Fosbury Flop.
“And you were upside down.” Her mouth quirks up on one side. “And I swear to God, you smiled right at me. Just this huge shit-eating grin, like, ‘Screw you, look what I can do.’ I remember watching you stretch on the track after and thinking that a girl like you could ruin my whole goddamn life.”
I can feel my face turning tomato red. “Did you swear this much before you started hanging out with Lucy?” I deflect.
“Obviously not. But don’t try to distract me, Barrera-Wright.” Her face wrinkles at my mouthful of a last name. “You are smart and funny and, despite how often you’re a pain in my ass, you are one of my favorite people. So, if anyone thinks I’m ‘too good’ ”—Priya puts air quotes around the words—“for you, screw them. And screw you if you believe them.”
“Promise?” I joke, but my heart feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest.
She narrows her eyes and ignores me. “You are more than enough. For anyone, not just me. And if you need me to prove that shit, I will. Over and over and over again until you believe it.”
I stare up at the trees, the shadows shifting across the leaves. “Oh my God,” I breathe. “Pendley, are you obsessed with me?”
“Oh, stop.” A hazy ray of sunlight falls across her face and Priya shields her eyes, chuckling. I love her laugh. How could I ever think I didn’t love her laugh?
With all the sincerity I can muster, I say, “Thank you.”
“Any time,” she says, rocking back on her heels. “If we don’t go soon, Pat’s gonna come looking for us.”
I watch her grab the empty sandwich baggies from breakfast, stuffing them into the outermost pocket of her bag. How can this be so easy for her? The fact that she can jump from that conversation to cleaning up is mystifying.
“You planning to help me or what?” she asks, nodding her head toward the tarp laid out on the ground.
Together, we roll up our makeshift picnic blanket and tuck it into the straps beneath my pack. Every time our hands brush, she shoots me a smirk.
Once we confirm we’ve LNT’d (left no trace), I turn to her. “Ready?”
“Ready.” She offers me an arm. I don’t know if it’s for moral support, to show affection, or to keep me from limping across the field. I appreciate it no matter what the reason.
I click the button on my walkie and say, “Five and twelve, Pat.”
“Copy.”
The crackle of Pat turning on the microphone sends silence rippling through the crowd.
“Priya Pendley, Fogridge camper for one year and awarded Rookie of the Year. Juliette Barrera-Wright, Fogridge camper for ten years, reigning North Star, and this year’s Best Future Staff Member.”
I can’t wipe the smile off my face as we step out of the woods.
38
Effigy
On the last night of camp, they burn the effigy.
Priya and I spend the whole morning packing (her stuff, obviously, because mine only takes two seconds to shove into my duffel bags). After we finally get everything loaded into our cars, we head back to Polaris to change into this year’s camper shirts.
“A lot of people like her,” Priya is saying as we climb Polaris’s steps. “But I don’t think she should have won. I went into that season’s finale sure she was just being dragged along like a lamb to the slaughter.”
I step into our cabin and am finally hit with that sun-warmed cedar scent I spent all summer missing. But now I miss the smell of lemongrass and roses. The room is empty, except for my backpack and one of Priya’s suitcases. I imagine next year’s North Star moving in, no evidence of Priya or me ever having lived here. Glancing up at my loft, I realize this is the last night I’ll ever sleep in this tree house, and the nostalgia punches me in the stomach.
“I’m just saying that there’s a difference between a good social game and being friendly.” The end of Priya’s tirade is muffled as she pulls this year’s sky-blue Fogridge shirt over her white tank top. She turns to me with a serious expression. “We’ve got to watch Survivor.”
I chuckle, pulling on my shirt as well. “I don’t know about that.”
“Juliette. This is a hard boundary for me. If you don’t watch Survivor, I will break up with you.” She shrugs as if she hadn’t just spoken such monumental words.
What?
I’m afraid to move and shatter the moment, which feels as fragile as my ankle. “Can you…Are we…in a…position for you to break up with me?”
Oof. Go ahead, make this sound more like a business transaction, Juliette.
Priya looks unfazed as she flits around the room in search of the permanent markers she put aside while we were packing. “Are we not?”
“Uh. G—Um, I—” The little people who live in my brain are preparing to slam the self-destruct button when Priya spins around, holding two black Sharpies up in the air like they’re winning lottery tickets.
Her smile softens when she sees my panic. She approaches slowly, the way you’d approach a stray cat hiding in your wheel well. One hand holds a marker out toward me. When I reach out to take it, she doesn’t let go.
“I don’t want anyone else.” Her voice is steady and assured.
A wave of dizzying warmth floods my body. “Me neither.”
