I felt energized the next day. My feet moved a little faster as I walked to Deb’s office—proud of myself and excited to tell her what I’d done for the Patels. Maybe, I could make this a regular thing, have more responsibility, actually help people at Sweetwater, do more than fetch coffee and shuffle papers. I imagined myself sitting down with the reservation-makers, discussing how much time they had for an excursion, the interests of the members of their group, if they had any goals to accomplish, if they wanted to eat, to adventure, to sightsee, all kinds of questions. Since Deb was such a fan of binders, I could print out brochures for the destinations and have it ready to show. It was the perfect complement to what she already had been doing with the agendas. Unless she’s angry you defied her, my dad’s voice reminded me. I twisted my pearl necklace between my fingers, shook him off, and continued on my route.
When I got to the office, the door was unlocked but the lights were out. I flipped them on and found a post-it note on my table that said, “running errands in town” in Deb’s chicken scratch. The bad news was, I had no job unless she dictated it. The good news was, I could do whatever I wanted to fill my time until she returned.
I turned the computer on and scanned the software available. I opened one for cards and calendars, found a “flyer” template, and clicked. For the next three hours, while Deb was M.I.A., I went to work. I made a flyer to post in retreater guest rooms that showed all the offsite excursions they could sign up for. It was actually beautiful. Tatum, brilliant graphic designer that she was, would be proud of me. I added eye-catching fonts, selected enticing photos from each website, and included select quotes from online reviews.
I wondered if this was what it felt like to be a travel agent or an event planner. I made a note in my journal to investigate those career choices.
At the bottom of the flyer, I debated whether or not I should put my name, Deb’s name, or just Sweetwater Overlook Retreat Center Staff, as who to contact to make your plans. In the end, I went with my name. I did all the work, after all.
I printed out enough copies to have one placed in every guest room and several extras to tape up in strategic places around campus. Then I set two aside, found two envelopes, folded the flyers, and slipped them inside. One I addressed to Tatum, with a post-it that said, “You’re not the only designer now.” And the other, I addressed to my mom at her rehab center, with a note:
Dear Mom,
Here’s something I’ve been working on. I think the guests are going to be excited about it. Maybe when you leave, we can do some of these things together.
I love you,
Ashlyn
It wasn’t a direct ask to come back home for my senior year. But it was close. I sealed the two envelopes and stuck them in my back pocket to toss in the camp mailbox.
I checked the clock. Literal hours had passed and Deb still wasn’t back. I wanted to make the Patels’ reservations but felt a little sneaky doing it—plus offering this whole new service, without Deb at least knowing about it, might blow up in my face, or so said Dad’s voice in my head.
But Deb isn’t here, I rationalized, before grabbing my flyers and heading out of her office.
I ran into Amos before I left the building. He was locking the door to his classroom, probably on his way to the cafeteria for lunch.
“Hello, Amos,” I called from down the hall.
“Hi, Ashlyn, how’s everything with you today?” He tipped an imaginary hat my way.
“Really good, I think.”
“You think?”
I chewed on my bottom lip. “Well, I had what I thought was a good idea, but I haven’t been able to talk to Deb about it, so I just . . . did it.”
Amos chuckled, his laugh rough in his throat. “What is this idea of yours?”
I handed him a paper. “I want to help our clients do off-campus sightseeing. Mr. Patel asked me to put something together for him and I thought it would be good to offer it to everyone.” I paused while he read over the flyer. “What do you think?”
Amos nodded slowly as he evaluated my work. He was the senior-most staff member, nicknamed “Teach” because of the way he made all the retreaters use their brains in his classes.
“I think this is a wonderful idea,” he said to my delight. “Come to think of it, I have no idea why no one has put together something like this before. This is such a lovely area of the country, don’t you think?” I nodded in agreement, even though I still hadn’t seen much of it. “These folks should feel excited to be here. Good for you. Very enterprising, young lady.”
I looked down at the chipping polish on my toes, not quite ready to celebrate. “Do you think Deb will approve?”
Amos lowered his head closer to mine and spoke in a loud whisper. “She has to be here to approve, doesn’t she?” It seemed too easy, though. I pressed my mouth into a line and was ready to question him when he said, “Sometimes it’s better to ask for forgiveness, not permission. And truly, if you’re the one doing the hard work, it’s no skin off her back, now is it?”
“No, I guess it isn’t.”
With Amos’ blessing, I began posting my signs over the water fountains and outside the mess hall. I was only a few feet past the doorway when I heard a bloodcurdling scream from inside. Without thinking, I raced in and found a small crowd gathered around someone sprawled on the floor. I jumped up on a chair to get a better look, and what I saw chilled me to the bone. A woman, around thirty or so, lay on the floor, her eyes closed, her lips blue. Her face was swollen, like she was part-balloon, and her skin was all blotchy. Baxter Clark, facing my direction, was on his knees, hovering over her, his fist raised with an object I didn’t recognize in his grasp. He brought it down onto her thigh in a swift stabbing motion.
I startled, as if Baxter had stabbed me instead. “What happened?” I whispered loudly to the closest person to me, a middle-aged man in a Disney World T-shirt.
“We think it was an allergic reaction. Heather is severely allergic to peanuts. The cookies served for dessert may have had peanut butter in them.”
On the table to my left was a plate with two cookies—one with a bite taken out of it. I broke the whole one in half and sniffed, then took a small bite. There is absolutely peanut butter in here. I clenched my jaw. Clients were asked to list any dietary restrictions on their reservation form. I’d seen it a bunch of times this summer. And I also knew that Deb, as manager, was supposed to deliver that information directly to the kitchen staff so they could make arrangements for that guest’s food.
My cheeks warmed with shame. I knew Deb’s haphazard organizational skills. I could’ve taken that list to the kitchen if I’d realized Deb hadn’t done it. I should’ve assumed, given all the other evidence against her. Was this my fault? My breath caught in my throat. My fault.
“Thank goodness Heather carries an EpiPen with her at all times.” The Disney man shook his head. “I guess when you’re that allergic, you’re never really safe.”
A girl on my floor last year was allergic to shellfish. It wasn’t a big deal, at least not at school; it’s not like Blue Valley was serving us lobster and crab every night. She told us it was easy for her to just avoid eating it. But peanuts were everywhere. I felt horrible for this woman, Heather, who thought she was coming here to have a good time with her coworkers, learn a little about herself, and go back to the office feeling rejuvenated. Now, she was in serious trouble.
“Can someone call 911, please?” Baxter yelled.
“I will,” I called automatically. I told myself I was contributing, being helpful, as I raced back to Deb’s office and dialed.
“911, what’s your emergency?” I’d never called 911 before. At the dispatcher’s calm tone, as if she was asking me what time I wanted for my dinner reservation, was jarring.
I willed my voice to stay steady, though my free hand shook with all the nervous energy inside of me. “Hi, I’m at Sweetwater Overlook and we have a woman with a peanut allergy who just ate peanut butter.”
The woman on the phone asked me a few questions about Heather’s symptoms, which I answered as best I could. As I was giving her the address and directions to the cafeteria from the front gate, Baxter came in.
“Tell them she had one adult dose of epinephrine and she’s sitting up and talking now. When they get here, give them this.” He handed me the EpiPen, which had the time he gave it to Heather written on it in black marker.
“Okay,” I mouthed, and repeated his instructions to the dispatcher.
“We’ll have someone out there shortly,” she affirmed, and we hung up. I didn’t know how long shortly meant, but I closed my eyes and hoped it was short enough to help our guest.
Opening my eyes, I took a deep breath, exhaled loudly, and looked at Baxter. “That was terrifying.” My voice cracked. At least I’d been able to hold it together on the phone call.
He nodded his blond head. “Yeah.” He was so calm and unruffled, as if he hadn’t just saved someone’s life.
“How did you know what to do?”
He shrugged. “My mom is allergic to peanuts too. I’ve used an EpiPen on her more times than I can count.” As he talked, I realized I knew nothing about him. And I wanted to know more. He was so quiet, yet his actions said so much. “Plus, the state requires all employees here to be trained in how to deal with anaphylactic shock.” He looked at me, puzzled. “Didn’t you complete the training?”
My mouth dropped open. “No one told me.”
Baxter grimaced. “Figures. The same person who didn’t train you also didn’t tell the kitchen about the woman’s allergy.”
Baxter may have assumed this was all on our boss, but I still felt guilty. Maybe I could’ve prevented this.
“Hannah says there’s a lot of stuff Deb does that Joan never would’ve let happen.” I thought about the boat repairs I almost had to call in myself.
“Hannah is right. I don’t think Deb’s a bad person, but things aren’t the same.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet Joan. She sounds like a great leader.”
Baxter smiled a little half-smile. “Yeah.”
“Well. You were great in there. You saved her life.”
He blushed, and I couldn’t stop myself from thinking it was adorable. “Thanks.”
After the ambulance had come and gone, my guilt subsided a tiny bit. With Heather safely transported to the nearest hospital, I made my way back to what I’d been doing before the commotion—hanging flyers. When I approached the pool, Mallory spied me from her tall lifeguard chair. She waved at me and I reluctantly waved back. She looked so much more official than me, perched way up there in her blue racerback swimsuit. I continued on, taping a flyer on each of the locker room doors so clients would be sure to see it as they walked in.
As I lifted a flyer to the women’s room door, an arm caught my waist and spun me around. My flyer—and all the other ones pinned under my arm—fluttered to the ground.
“What—” I began to protest, and then I felt Marcus’ lips on mine. My shock and annoyance were overwhelmed by how good it felt to kiss him. Kissing Marcus was like a tiny little vacation. I didn’t think about my dad or my mom, I didn’t think about Deb or Sweetwater. I didn’t think about school or my uncertain future. It was just him, our hips touching, his lips on mine, and me, lost in the moment. I melted against him as his hands caressed my back, sending shivers up and down my spine. I ran my fingers through his hair and pulled him closer, eager for more of him. More of this.
When we broke apart, I was breathless. “What was that for?”
Marcus smirked mischievously. “You were there.” He planted a quick peck on my cheek. “Gotta get back to work before the boss sees me slacking. Mallory’s a firecracker.” Marcus ducked into the men’s locker room and disappeared.
I bristled. Was a firecracker a good thing or a bad thing? Does he like her too? But he’s kissing me, so why should I care?
I bent to pick up my fallen flyers and let out a little strangled cry. They were soaked, lying in a puddle of stray pool water tracked out of the locker room.
“One step forward, two steps back,” I muttered to myself, and scraped the soggy flyers off the ground.