“It is,” Jake said, like the Rendezvous’s coolness was flat-out fact. “You should go this weekend. I’m going.”

  “Maybe I will,” I said, not really wanting to go to a rodeo, a reenactment, or a parade. Not wanting to do anything.

  “I wish we had camp at night, because then I could take pictures of the stars.”

  “Camp at night,” I said. “Huh.”

  “Everything is better at night.”

  Except that’s when the nightmares happen.

  I’d had the same dream, Colette jumping off the boulder and then tumbling into nothing, three times now.

  We’d reached the part of Pine where the street fair started. Temporary red-and-white fences had been placed at the ends of the three-block stretch to keep traffic out, and there were vendors selling all sorts of things from art to jewelry to food to toys. Seemingly the whole town of Pinedale was packed into the three blocks.

  “Wow,” I said. “You’re right. That is a lot of people!”

  “They come from Boulder, Cora, Daniel, Big Piney, and even Jackson. Rendezvous is cool.”

  “So you said.” I smiled, but he wasn’t making eye contact to see it.

  “Let’s take pictures from the bench,” Jake said, starting off toward the sidewalk on the right. Even though we didn’t have to have partners—and technically I could go where I wanted—I felt the pull of an invisible string and followed him anyway.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to go down the center of the street?” I asked, thinking we’d get better pictures.

  “No.” Jake was clearly stubborn. He also clearly didn’t want to touch anyone else.

  I decided to make the best of it. On the sidewalk, Jake climbed up on the bench, and I did, too. Since we were basically at the corner of the giant rectangle of people that was the fair, we had a decent aerial view. Jake and I both took a few pictures before I hopped down, randomly shooting into the crowd from a different angle, like Karly had told us to.

  “Make sure your subject is in focus,” Karly said, appearing behind me, startling me. “And, Jake?” she said. “Are you doing okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Jake said flatly before gesturing in my direction. “This girl is my partner.”

  I wasn’t offended that Jake hadn’t remembered my name. My sister sometimes didn’t remember people’s names either, people she’d been in class with all year or seen regularly.

  Karly smiled at me. “It’s nice that you two are working together.”

  “Thanks,” I said. She left to check on other campers.

  “Can I take a picture of you?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Jake said, jumping down from the bench with a thunk and standing in front of me so the empty part of the street was behind him.

  “Will you move over here, actually?” I asked, half expecting him to say no, but he moved so the crowd was behind him.

  I looked through the viewfinder and pictured the invisible gridlines, then positioned Jake’s right eye where I imagined the upper right intersection would be. I twisted the lens back and forth until Jake’s face seemed to be in focus. The crowd behind him was a blur of shapes and colors, just what Karly might consider “visual interest.”

  I took a few shots of Jake standing there, not looking at me, probably thinking of mountain men and Native Americans or taking pictures of stars at night, seeming comfortable being just as he was.

  With the camera in front of my face, adjusting dials I knew nothing about, snapping pictures I was sure would be blurry and unusable, I smiled even though Jake didn’t.

  I wished I were a little more like him.

  A little more comfortable as I was.

  * * *

  Back at camp, after lunch under the trees outside the library, we returned to the meeting room with the labyrinth floor. Karly explained that we’d go in three groups of eight to the library computers and look through our pictures, then choose one we liked the best to edit and have printed for our portfolios. The people who weren’t on the computers were supposed to start thinking about their “special projects.”

  “I want you to come up with an art piece that you can keep working on for the rest of camp, whenever you have time,” Karly said. “It can be in whatever style you want—and about anything you want. Just pick something meaningful to you. We’ll do an art show at the end of the summer and display your special projects in addition to some of the other works.

  “Today, when it’s not your turn on the computers, I want you to fill out a worksheet,” Karly said, prompting a few groans around the room. “It’s just for you, not to turn in, but I hope it’ll help each of you come up with a great idea for your special project. I can’t wait to see what you create!”

  Karly looked over at the students on the side of the room near the door. “Everyone in the first two rows, follow me to the computers.” To the rest of us, she said, “Everyone else, grab a worksheet off my desk and start brainstorming!”

  Jackie and two of her friends, and five other kids I didn’t know, left with Karly.

  “Can my special project be taking a nap?” Axl asked Jasmine, resting his head on his arm on top of his art table.

  Jake turned around in his seat in the front row. “No, it has to be an art project,” he said seriously.

  “Duh, Jake,” said a really tall kid in the back row, with red hair that stuck out under a trucker hat with a fish on it. He laughed in a mocking way and added, “He’s not an idiot.”

  “Axl looks pretty serious about napping,” Izzy cut in.

  “I am,” Axl muttered, his eyes closed. “Everyone hush.”

  “I think Jake was right to explain it to him,” Izzy said.

  The redhead rolled his eyes, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re always sticking up for him, Kosta. What, is he your boyfriend?”

  Two other boys laughed.

  Boy Sam cleared his throat and shifted in his seat uncomfortably. I remembered that he was getting to know all of these kids, just like I was. He and I shared a nervous glance.

  “We’re not boyfriends,” Jake said flatly, eyes on the worksheet he’d already started. “We’re neighbors, and Izzy is heterosexual. I know this because he likes—”

  “Okay now!” Izzy said loudly, interrupting Jake and standing up, his cheeks reddening. He went to Karly’s desk and got the pile of papers, then began handing them out to everyone but Jake. “Let’s just do the stupid worksheets.”

  * * *

  When it was my group’s turn on the computer, I clicked through the pictures I’d taken at the fair. The ones from the bench were okay, but the best were the ones of Jake. I deleted all the pictures where he had his eyes closed or his mouth open and was left with three. Karly told us to enlarge the image to check focus, so I did. One was blurrier than the other two, and in another, I could see myself reflected in Jake’s glasses. I’d narrowed down the options and chosen the best.

  “That’s the one you’re using for your portfolio?” Boy Sam asked, nodding toward my monitor. He had a close-up of ice cream on his.

  “What do you think?”

  “It’s a cool picture,” Boy Sam said. “It looks like an ad for glasses or . . .”

  “White T-shirts?” I asked. We both smiled. “Thanks, I like yours, too,” I said, meaning it. I wouldn’t have thought to take a close-up picture of something as regular as ice cream. “The texture is interesting.”

  Uh, what? Mean Me butted in. Stop trying to sound like you know what you’re talking about.

  “Thanks, Tess,” Boy Sam said happily. We both refocused on our work.

  I started applying filters to make the colors in the street-fair scene behind Jake super bright, because I thought Karly would like that. Compared to the plain colors Jake had on—tan shorts and a white T-shirt—I thought it could be a good contrast. Feeling like maybe I was getting the hang of it, I enlarged the picture again to take a closer look at what I’d done. Left to right, the street party was a sea of color.

  A woman wore a purple dress.

  There were one . . . two . . . three plaid shirts under out-of-focus faces.

  A girl’s white-blond hair blew back in the breeze.

  The boy she was talking to wore a stark black T-shirt.

  And . . .

  There he was.

  Between two small clusters of people, but not with either of them, stood the man in the now sunshine-yellow scarf, thanks to the filters I’d applied. Even though the scene was blurred, I could easily see that he wasn’t chatting with a friend, buying something, or eating food. I could easily see that he was alone, facing forward, staring straight ahead.

  Staring right into the camera.

  Or at the girl behind it.

  chapter 11

  “Hey, Mom,” I said quietly.

  I was on the boulder at the side of the cabin, which I now thought of as Colette’s. I sat in my spot, leaving room for her, smelling of bug spray and sleep breath.

  “Hey, my girl,” my mom said, quietly, too. My heart felt like it’d been filled with warm water, hearing her voice. I could see she was at the four-person kitchen table in the cottage by the inn, white cabinets behind her, café curtains blowing in the ocean breeze. “I’m glad you called. I’ve been missing my Tess.”

  I’d talked to my mom on video chat only once since I’d been here; Charles had been on, too. It’d been cut short because a guest had fallen down in the lobby. Mom had checked in over text every day, not that our short strings were like a real conversation.

  Not that I was real with her.

  “So, how are you?” Mom asked, looking concerned. Her dark, straight hair that matched mine except for the gray in hers was up in a messy knot, and she had on her fluffy gray bathrobe. “Aunt Maureen is worried about you.”

  “I’m fine,” I said automatically. My mom tilted her head to the side like she didn’t believe me and waited for me to say more. “Camp is cool.” Except for the jealous Barbie. “I’m learning to take pictures.” Including one with a stalker in it. “It’s fun being back in Pinedale.” Except when I go under the overpass or have nightmares every night.

  “Well, all that sounds great,” Mom said, looking relieved. She hesitated, then asked, “How are your fingers?”

  I shrugged. “Okay. I mean I get nervous about meeting new people.” And the internet says I have anxiety, which you somehow refuse to see.

  “I know you do,” she said. “But have you met some nice new friends?”

  “A few, yeah.” None who could ever come close to replacing Colette. “How are you guys?”

  “Oh, things are pretty normal around here,” Mom said before taking a sip of the coffee in front of her. “We’re booked solid this weekend because there’s a beach wedding, so of course your sister chose yesterday to become hyperirritable and start . . .”

  I stopped listening.

  A door slammed nearby; I looked around at the neighboring houses: a well-maintained trailer house on the left; a long, single-story house with a horse barn behind; and a pristine, two-story house on the right that was made of the same type of interlocking logs as ours but could never be considered a cabin.

  There was no one outside but three hunting dogs, an obsidian cat, and a chestnut horse. Oh, and the horseflies.

  I smacked at one on my leg, but it got away. I must have missed that spot with the repellent.

  “Speak of the devil,” my mom said, seconds before Frankie appeared behind her, putting bunny ears on our mom. Mom turned around and said, “Would you like to say hi to your sister?”

  “Are eggs ready?” Frankie asked.

  Mom sighed and stood up, then bent down so her face was close to the camera. “I love you, Tess. Try to relax, okay?”

  Has anyone ever relaxed when they were told to relax?

  “Sure, okay,” I said. “I love you, too.”

  Frankie rarely told my mom, or anyone, that she loved them. Maybe that was why I felt like I always needed to say it back, even when I didn’t really feel like saying it myself.

  Mom blew a kiss at the phone and went over to the fridge to get eggs. Frankie picked up the phone and walked back to the bedroom we used to share as kids, before we each took a room inside the inn when we got too old to share.

  It’d been my idea.

  I’d needed some space.

  “There was a tornado near Hot Springs, Wyoming, yesterday,” Frankie said before flopping down on her childhood bed.

  “I don’t know where that is,” I said, biting my pinkie fingernail.

  “Hold on.” The video paused and the screen got blurry; then she came back. “It’s three hours and forty minutes from you driving, not that tornadoes stay on roads.” Frankie paused and added, “It was just a small one, and no one was hurt.”

  “Ah.” I didn’t know what to say about that. “How’s Kai?”

  Frankie and Kai had been friends since elementary school. He was a sweet guy who liked to skateboard and who’d crushed on Frankie practically since they met. I think she only realized it a few months ago, right around when Colette went missing.

  My sister shrugged, holding the phone straight out in front of her and pushing her face back into the pillow to make herself have a double chin, then touching the rolls with her fingers. “Kai’s Kai.”

  “Is he your boyfriend now?” I asked carefully.

  Frankie looked at the camera instead of herself for a second and made her chin normal again. “Kai’s my friend,” she said, a sparkle in her eye that told me he was probably more than a friend, but she wasn’t going to talk about it. “Do you like that guy? The one who has a name like a girl?”

  I hadn’t told Frankie about Izzy; mostly we’d just texted about internet quizzes and this new game she was obsessed with and trying to get me to play.

  “How do you know about him?” I asked.

  Frankie smiled slyly. “Kennedy.”

  “You talked to Kennedy?” I asked, surprised.

  “Sure.” Frankie wasn’t one for detail.

  “Like, do you text? Or video chat? And how often?”

  Frankie made a face. “You sound like Mom.” She rolled over in bed and said, “We’ve texted since last year. She said you told everyone at dinner about people you’d met at camp and it was so obvious you liked the boy with the girl’s name.”

  “His name is Izzy, which can be a boy’s name, too, and I like him as a friend.”

  My cheeks turned pink, and Frankie put the phone really close to her face, so I could only see one eye and part of her nose.

  “You’re lying,” she said flatly. “Send me a picture.”

  “I’m not going to take a picture of him!” I said, squishing down into my shoulders, embarrassed. “And there’s this other girl who likes him. They go to school together. She—”

  “Are you still afraid of the old man?” Frankie interrupted, yawning.

  Stop interrupting me! I shouted at her in my head, but not out loud. It sucked when she switched gears like that, but I didn’t have the energy to say anything.

  “Actually, yeah,” I said. “We had to take pictures at camp, and he was in the background of one of mine, staring at me.” I paused and lowered my voice. “I think he’s stalking me.”

  “Find him and ask him why,” Frankie said, like it was nothing to just track down a scary person and demand to know something.

  “I’d never do that,” I said.

  “I would.”

  “I know.”

  I’d thought about telling Aunt Maureen or Uncle Bran, but they’d have told my mom. I didn’t want her to freak out and make me go home. And I didn’t want her to not freak out and brush it off and make me feel like an idiot either.

  Frankie got up and grabbed a notebook from the desk, plus a pen with a fuzzy ball stuck to the end. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, with the phone propped up on the pillow, she started writing something.

  “Do you want to get off the phone?” I asked.

  “I want a picture of Izzy,” Frankie said, her eyes on her notebook. “And I want you to have fun. I want Colette to be alive. And I want another tornado to hit our town, not to do damage, but just so I can see it. But I want Colette back the most because it’s not fair we were fighting when she died.”

  Her wandering commentary threw me off—mostly the part about Colette. Where other people tiptoed around the subject, using soft tones and words, Frankie just stomped through it, matter-of-fact, talking about Colette and her death like she’d talk about going to the arcade. It was unsettling. But it might have also been okay. It was better than “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “I’m sorry you were fighting when she died,” I said sincerely. “That must feel awful.”

  “Box,” Frankie said.

  “Okay,” I said. “What?”

  “I put my feelings in a box.”

  “I don’t know what you’re . . .” I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion.

  “You asked if I’m sad—or why I’m not sadder—about Colette,” she explained. I had asked her that . . . two weeks ago. That’s Frankie: she’ll answer a question someone asked a long time ago without any context, like she doesn’t live according to the same concept of time as everyone else. She went on. “I am sad. I miss her all the time. But I put my feelings in a box.”

  I thought she was being oddly deep and talking about a box in her brain or something, but then she said, “I stole the shoebox in your closet.”

  Of course she meant a literal box. My literal shoebox.

  “Did you dump out my hair ties?”

  She ignored me. “I write down whatever I’m feeling about Colette and put it in the box. Then I just . . . keep doing life.”

  I couldn’t help it: it choked me up. Tears stung my eyes. I sniffed hard to stop them from falling.

 

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