Ella watched her. There was nothing else she could do. She watched the way she walked, the way she stood in the sun from the window, the way she bent over to close her sleeping bag. She watched the way her body filled her nightshirt and the way she gathered her hair back and kept the barrette in her teeth. When there was no one else around Ella found herself staring, absorbing or memorizing her, marveling at how perfect she was. It was sick.
And it was dumb. It only discouraged her more.
She rolled over so she wouldn’t have to see her go into the bathroom, then tried not to imagine what she was doing from the sounds. Sarah closed the door but she could walk in and Sarah wouldn’t think anything, so she lay there waiting, searching the ugly jungle of the carpet and feeling stupid.
The shower pounded the stall. Now Sarah was pulling her nightshirt over her head, now she was stepping in, the shock of the water raising goose bumps. Now she was getting her hair wet.
Ella rolled over again to make herself stop. Her shorts from yesterday reminded her that she was supposed to pick up her dirty clothes, and she yawned and rolled halfway back so she was looking at the ceiling, the pillow holding her head, the rest of her pinned to the floor by gravity and other facts. She didn’t want to go to Panama Rocks or tubing or to stupid Webb’s for dinner, she just wanted to lie here until it was time for the fireworks and then go to sleep and get up tomorrow and leave.
At home no one would know. She’d think about her when she was alone, but once school started she’d be busy. She wouldn’t forget, she wouldn’t be that lucky, but the feeling wouldn’t be like this all the time—at least she hoped not. If it was, she didn’t know what she’d do. She had her e-mail address, she could call her, but the phone was even harder than talking face-to-face.
She thought of Sarah taking her hand during the fireworks—like at the party in her dream—and then the two of them kissing in the dark and no one noticing.
The water stopped. Sarah would stand there a second to drip-dry, then open the door and start toweling off, bending to do her legs, wrapping her hair in a turban.
Ella shook her head and pushed the flap off, irritated at the trapped heat of the bag. She would be with her all day today, but with everyone else around, and tomorrow she’d be gone. The thought brought up the same flush of panic she’d felt since Niagara Falls. It was like being sick, the alarming waves of nausea that warned you right before you threw up. She pressed it down, a reflex. Tomorrow would be a relief, though she couldn’t see how she would get through the weeks before school. All she could see was her room, her made bed, the day stretching out ahead of her and nowhere to go.
In the bathroom Sarah blew her nose—using toilet paper, Ella knew. She’d throw it in the toilet, not the wastebasket, they’d agreed that was nasty.
And then the door opened and there she was in her nightshirt, a wet spot clinging to one hip, and even lying down Ella was conscious of her own posture.
“It’s all yours,” Sarah said.
Ella obeyed, then with the door closed took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. In the mirror she was disappointed with her hair, as if it might have saved her face.
It didn’t matter anyway.
The water was still hot, and she hung her PJs from the knobs of the linen closet. As she stepped in, the fine spray touched her first and she gasped at it, and then the heavy warmth spread across her chest and ran down her stomach. The sulfur reeked. She bowed her head and felt the chill around her legs, turned up the heat and stood with the water matting her hair until everything was one solid temperature. She closed her eyes, surrendering to the feeling, and remembered a horror movie where the scalding water wouldn’t turn off and the stall door wouldn’t open so this girl drowned behind the glass, a fish in a tank. It was dumb but made her check that the drain at her feet was working. She bent down to reach the shampoo in the corner and her butt bumped the stall, knocking her forward so she had to catch her balance with a hand on the wall.
“Graceful,” she said, echoing her mother, and squeezed a handful of shampoo.
She was just rubbing it in when the door opened, a cold gust stirring the fog above her. Her instinct was to turn away, but she stopped herself, twisted to make sure by the shape of the person that it was Sarah, and it was, stopping in front of the mirror, probably to brush her hair. Ella stood straight, facing the shower. She knew from experience that if Sarah leaned her head to the right she could see the blurry outline of her, the abstract patches of color. Compared to Sarah, she had little to offer, and again she felt the urge to turn toward the wall and hide herself.
There was no reason. Sarah wouldn’t be looking.
Ella lathered her hair and ducked under the rush, closing her eyes like she normally did. She rinsed, feeling daring and paranoid, the air touching her everywhere. The water suddenly turned cooler, losing strength, and blindly she twisted the knob all the way. It helped for a second but that was it. It always happened at Chautauqua—she was the last one.
Sarah had the dryer out, and Ella thought she might finish her shower before Sarah was done brushing her hair. She would notice if Ella stalled until she was gone.
The water was cold, puckering her front. Sarah teased her hair and smoothed it with a hand, and Ella thought of stepping through the door wet, standing on the bath mat, dripping, without a towel. Sarah could turn away or make a joke, but at least she would have tried.
It sounded good when she put it that way, but that wasn’t how it would turn out, and anyway, that wasn’t what she wanted. That wasn’t who she was.
The dryer refused to stop. Even freezing, the water smelled. Ella turned sideways, but that was just as bad. She needed to grit her teeth and finish. She bent down for the conditioner and stood straight in the spray, face front, as if nothing was wrong.