I noticed him during orientation. Or, actually, Megan did.
We’d signed in at the front lobby and been given “Christian Society—Faith in the World” name tags to smack on our shirts. Then we were directed to the auditorium for an assembly. I couldn’t stop looking around. Benedict’s was the nicest school I’d ever seen. The floors were tiled in different shades of tan and brown, and the walls were cream with dark wood molding along the ceiling. It smelled like wood polish and everything gleamed—even the classroom doors.
The school had been here for sixty years, but it didn’t feel old in a run-down way. It felt old in a rich way. The campus itself was off a main street in the downtown area, but it was tucked back behind a screen of old trees. The front courtyard had a fountain, ceramic statues on pedestals, and cobblestone walkways leading to the main doors. I actually wiped my sandals on the mat before I walked in. It just felt different.
Like everything else at Benedict’s, the auditorium was amazing. There were movie theater chairs with blue seat cushions, a stage with full-length curtains, and hanging lights. At Canyon View, the cafeteria doubled as a stage, and you got metal folding chairs to sit on. Even the air at Benedict’s smelled better. I could get used to this.
A woman stood behind a podium on the stage, but we ignored her and checked out the other campers. Most of the kids were dressed like me, only with better logos over their chests and their butts. I saw one girl toss down a blinged-out backpack that must have cost more than my clothing allowance for the year. Someday, I’d have enough money to trash nice things, too.
Megan rolled up her sleeves as she looked around. “Not bad,” she whispered. “Definite potential.”
There were about eighty kids, I guessed, more girls than guys. Not that Megan was wasting time on the girls. She had an internal radar system for a certain type of guy. Unfortunately, not the tall, dark, handsome type that might have come in handy. She went for the intense, brooding, angry guy who wore black everything, snapped rubber bands against his wrist, and looked slightly twisted. If he had a book of poetry or something depressing from the AP list—even better.
“Check him,” Megan breathed, nudging my shoulder. “Two rows up, far right.”
I looked. Then looked again. Holy crap. The guy was definitely intense, as in intensely hot. He was sitting at an angle, talking to the guy next to him. He had short, black hair with that perfectly messy look. Squarish face, tanned skin, nice lips, and the arm that hung over the back of his seat had actual muscle attached. If he had nice teeth, he’d be a perfect ten.
Megan leaned closer. “Isn’t he—”
“Hot!”
Megan’s surprised eyes shifted to my face. “Please! He’s probably as fake as my mom’s boobs.”
“Then why are you scoping him out?”
“Because that’s Devon Yeats.”
I sucked in a breath. “You mean—”
“Doris Yeats is his grandmother.”
I leaned forward, my heart quickening. Doris Yeats was the private donor who funded the Benedict’s Scholarship. There would be a panel of judges to determine who won my oratory event, but Mrs. Yeats would determine who won an all-expenses-paid trip to Benedict’s in the fall. “How do you know that’s Devon?” I asked.
“I met him at a charity event last Christmas.”
Megan’s mom was the queen of charity events. Not because she liked helping people, according to Megan, but because she loved to dress up and schmooze.
“You didn’t tell me that!”
“It was for all of two seconds. My mom insisted.” Megan rolled her eyes. “I didn’t pay much attention. He lives with his mom in Chicago or somewhere. He was just visiting for winter break.”
“So what’s he doing here now?”
“I don’t know. My mom said something about Devon’s dad dying a few years back and how Mrs. Yeats wanted Devon and his mom to move to Phoenix. Maybe she talked them into it. Or maybe he’s just here for summer camp. Supposedly, he’s big into speech team. He’s in oratory, by the way.”
“My event? Is he any good?” I slanted another look at him. He was too pretty to be smart.
“According to Granny Yeats, who bragged about him the entire time, he was practically unbeatable. Junior high stud. Four first-place finishes, blah, blah, blah …”
“Blah, blah, blah?” I repeated. “This is my competition and that’s all you can remember?”
“I didn’t know he’d show up here.”
I lifted the hair off my neck and fanned cool air against my skin for a second. “What about Doris Yeats? Is she here?” I’d Googled as much info about her as I could. She had bazillions from a business her husband had sold before he died. As far as I could tell, her official job now was Charity Do-Gooder—and her favorite cause was Benedict’s. She was on the school board, plus benefactor of the speech program. Google had turned up a picture of her at some charity dinner, but I wasn’t sure I’d recognize her in person.
I waited while Megan looked around. “I don’t see her. She’s got silver hair and walks like there’s a stick up her butt.”
I glanced around the edge of the auditorium where the adults had gathered. “I want to introduce myself as soon as I can.”
“First impressions,” Megan muttered.
“Exactly.” Doris Yeats had a rep for being tough. Supposedly, she spared everyone five minutes of her time, and then made up her mind. Your first impression could be your last.
“So what did you think of Devon?” I asked.
Megan looked in his direction again. “He seemed nice enough for a guy born with a perfect face. Wait until you see his eyes. They’re amazing.”
I shrugged, unconvinced. The last time Megan said that, the guy in question turned out to have a lazy eye. She dated him for two months. Devon could have three eyes and Megan would call that amazing, too.
“Welcome to CSSPA.” The pinched voice flooded the auditorium. Megan and I turned to the stage. The lady paused until everyone quieted down. “I am Mrs. Clancy, camp director.” Mrs. Clancy looked like she’d gotten up on the wrong side of the bed and fallen into a vat of lemons. Her mouth puckered into a circle of wrinkles as she talked.
“You should all have your schedules with group and room assignments. Other than assembly each morning, where we’ll share announcements and prayer, you will be spending your days with your group. Lunch will be held in the cafeteria from 12:00 to 12:45.”
I glanced at Megan, my mouth puckered into a tiny o, but she’d puckered, too. We both sputtered a little, trying not to laugh.
“When we break,” Mrs. Clancy continued, “you’ll please move quickly to your rooms. Your instructors are anxious to begin. Now, if you’ll bow your heads, in Jesus’s name we pray.”
Here it was, as advertised—daily prayer. It was actually part of the syllabus. Zeydeh had loved that. But I also showed him the place on the website that said applicants of all religions were welcome. And no one said I had to pray.
I kept my head up and looked around. Mrs. Clancy started saying something Jesus-y. I figured there would be other kids looking around, but all I saw were necks … lots of bent necks. I shifted in my seat, wishing she’d finish already. It felt weird. Christians thought Jesus was the son of God, but Jews thought he was a man. So listening to prayers in the name of Jesus made me feel traitorous to God.
And Zeydeh. I sighed. If he could see me now, it would kill him.
Again.
The first time Zeydeh died, I was five years old.
Zeydeh didn’t actually die in Aisle 12 of Fry’s grocery store—but Mom thought he had. It was the summer before I started kindergarten. Bubbe had died a few months before, and Zeydeh had gone into a depression. He’d always loved to cook, but now he wouldn’t even eat. Mom would take him with us to the grocery store, thinking he’d get interested in food again.
That day, Benny and I were with Mom in the frozen foods aisle. Benny was strapped in Mom’s cart, and I was wheeling my toy cart around her legs. Zeydeh had gone to look at the pasta. Next thing we knew, a woman started to shriek from across the store. I’m not even sure how Mom knew. But she did.
When we careened around the corner of Aisle 12, there he was. Sprawled flat on the linoleum, a trail of red bleeding from his forehead to the floor. I remember thinking that only Zeydeh would die in a grocery store. He wouldn’t even die like a regular grandpa.
Then the screaming started.
It took me a minute to realize it was coming from my own mother. I’d only ever seen her fight with Zeydeh, but now she dropped to her knees beside me. Her whole face sort of caved in on itself. She screamed and sobbed as if she could raise the dead. And she did.
Because suddenly Zeydeh woke up. Turned out the “pool of blood” was Prego marinara. He’d fainted with a jar of spaghetti sauce in his hand, and it had splattered everywhere. He had a gash on one arm from the broken glass, but other than that, the paramedic said he was fine.
Mom said otherwise. She took Zeydeh to the doctor and found out he had hypotension, which means low blood pressure. He had to take better care of himself and drink plenty of liquids, or he’d be susceptible to dizziness and could end up fainting again. The doctor said mornings were especially dangerous because blood pressure could decrease overnight. So Mom said Zeydeh couldn’t be alone so much. She said every morning one of us would go to his house and make sure he drank a big glass of juice. Usually, that someone was me.
Nine years later, I could still picture him dead on the floor of Fry’s. It made me feel sick. Sitting in the Benedict’s auditorium, I squeezed my eyes shut, and sent up my own prayer. Dear God, please watch out for Zeydeh. And could you help me make a good first impression on Mrs. Yeats? I paused. And, uh, Jesus, if you’re up there—nothing personal or anything.