Friday morning Miranda, Josh, and I assemble for Kamikaze Makeover!’s second taping. With only one day between shows, we’re all pretty frazzled, caught between trying to keep up with work at the office and preshow prep work.
But we three had a little powwow last night, while we were packing supplies for today’s show—no Frolicking Fuchsia faux pas this time—and we’re ready for whatever the producers throw at us.
First of all, in preparation for another trek into the ghetto, we’ve all worn our grungiest clothes. TV cameras or not, this time we’re not going to enter gangland dressed like moving targets. In our stained jeans, faded eighties concert T-shirts, and unwashed hair—except Josh, who’s bald—we look like we’ve been living in the Kamikaze Makeover! van rather than just traveling in it.
But as soon as we’ve been on the road for about ten minutes, our sunny, take-no-prisoners mood grows overcast. We’re not heading for Englewood. We’re not heading for south Chicago at all. We’re driving north on Lakeshore Drive, toward the North Shore and the heart of Chicago high society.
When we finally pull to a stop in front of a cottage that looks like it’s straight from the pages of Chicago Home & Garden, I think we’re all feeling even more anxious to turn around than we did in Englewood. The camera teams and production managers clamber out, and finally Miranda bestirs herself and says, “Well, at least we know we won’t be using sex toys to decorate here.”
“Yeah, but what will we be using? Do either of you know who lives here?” I ask.
The cottage is huge and looks to be a product of the early 1900s. From the attention to the setting and the landscaping, I’m betting it was designed by Jens Jensen, famous architect and conservationist.
Miranda shakes her head, but Josh nods slowly. “It’s one of the Chippenhall residences. I did some work on it before I joined Interiors by M.”
I close my eyes. “Not Lucinda Chippenhall.”
Josh nods.
“Oh, man. I can’t do this. Lucinda Chippenhall is on every charitable board and committee my mother’s on. They’re rivals. You know, who can get the most donations or the best bigwig to chair an event, even whose kids get into the best schools or marry the richest.”
“Guess you lost that one,” Miranda sneers. There are times when I really wish Miranda weren’t my boss. Then I’d tell her where to stick her snide comments.
“The point is, Miranda, this woman searches for ways to make my family look bad. With me on the team, we can’t win this one.”
“Wrong,” Miranda says, pointing a long red nail at me. “The homeowner doesn’t vote. The team of professional judges does.”
“I thought it was a call-in thing,” Josh says. “Like American Idol.”
“No,” she answers. “There are three world-renowned designers, and they judge.”
There’s a loud knock on the window, and we all jump. Yamamoto is outside, looking anxious and ticked-off. “Let’s go,” he mouths.
I take a deep breath and climb out. After I’m miced, we’re shown into the gorgeous house by a woman in a maid uniform. We walk on Persian rugs worth thousands of dollars and catch glimpses of art worth even more, and then when we reach the living room, we stand in various locations for lighting tests and good camera angles.
“Josh,” I whisper while one of the grips shines a portable light in my face. “What the hell are we doing here?”
He looks around the exquisite room with its simple, elegant decor: crystal Mikasa vases, antique lamps, lots of space and pale colors. Light spills into the room from the French doors at the back, and it glints off the crystal and makes the polished baby grand piano gleam.
“Penance,” he answers finally. “I think this is hell.”
I hear a tap-tap ping and look up to see a woman in a pink Chanel suit and tiny pink heels bearing down on us.
“No, that’s hell,” I say, then paste on a beauty queen smile.
“Oh, my,” Lucinda Chippenhall of the pink Chanel says, looking around the crowded living room of her home. There are wires and cables piled high and thick as pythons snaking everywhere. About a dozen grips, production assistants, and technicians are standing around, some working, most chatting on cell phones, and then, in the center, are Josh, Miranda, and me: the three hobos.
“Allison Holloway?” Mrs. Chippenhall says, narrowing her eyes at me. “Is that you?”
The noise and talking around us quiet, and the cameras swing around to capture the moment.
“Hi, Mrs. Chippenhall. Isn’t this crazy?” I give an innocent shrug.
“Hmm. You look…different. I thought you were prettier last time I saw you. How is your mother? She really should stop with the Botox.”
I bite my tongue. As if Lucinda Chippenhall hasn’t had her own share of work. God, if this section makes the show, my mother will kill me.
“Are you sure you’re capable of this kind of work?” Lucinda Chippenhall asks.
Translation: I don’t want some amateur like you touching my million-dollar house.
“Oh, absolutely,” I answer. “You’re in good hands. This is Miranda, the M in Interiors by M.”
“I see. Still, I’ll feel better if I’m here to supervise.” She plants her feet and crosses her skinny arms over her tiny chest.
“Is that allowed?” I whisper to Josh, pulling at my faded, torn Smiths T-shirt from 1988.
“Are you going to tell her to leave?”
Hell, no. And the Japanese aren’t going to tell her to leave, either. She might do something interesting they can capture with the cameras. Watanabe comes over and hands us a box. It’s surprisingly light today.
Yamamoto then begins to explain our task. “The lady only give us permission to work in the living room. You have eight hours to transform it, and you must use all of these.”
He tips the box and about thirty empty Campbell’s soup cans pour out.
“Soup cans?” Josh says, keeping his voice low so that Mrs. Chippenhall—peering over a camera at us—doesn’t hear. “We’re not decorating with soup cans in Lucinda Chippenhall’s home.”
Yamamoto shrugs. “Then you lose.”
“But why soup cans?” Miranda asks.
“American art. Andy Warhol used them. You will, too.” He touches his watch, indicating that the clock is ticking.
Looking around the Chippenhall living room, it’s hard to imagine thirty soup cans in here.
“This is never going to work,” Josh mumbles, smiling for the cameras. “If there was some clutter, that’d be one thing, but this room—”
I know what he means. Everything already has a place, and the feng shui is perfect. Why would we mess with perfection? Of course, the Jackson house didn’t need a pile of vibrators scattered throughout, either. A little paint, some curtains, and it would have been cozy as could be. I don’t get this show. Most makeover shows take someone or something that needs fixing and make a transformation. This show takes places that are just fine and tries to mess them up. How did I get to be a part of this?
“Okay!” Miranda says, clapping her hands and securing the attention of the cameras. “Here’s what we’ll do. Josh, you and I will work on a new layout for the furniture. I want to open that space up”—she points to a corner that could be better utilized—“and distribute the furniture better. I’m also thinking brighter colors. Josh, mix me up a few different shades of blue.” The room is pale yellow now, but blue would liven it up a bit.
I watch Mrs. Chippenhall’s reaction to this, and though her lips thin, she seems amenable.
“Later we’ll change out some of the fabrics,” Miranda continues. “Allison, you can work on that, but first I want you to do something with those.” She points to the soup cans. “Make them look”—she twists her mouth—“elegant.”
She and Josh tramp back out to the van, one of the cameras following, while I stare at the pile of soup cans and Mrs. Chippenhall stares at me.
“You’re not seriously thinking of putting those”—Mrs. Chippenhall points accusingly at the soup cans—“in my sitting room.”
“Um…” I look at Watanabe, but he’s smiling and nodding, lapping this up. “I’m going to make them into a work of art,” I say.
Mrs. Chippenhall’s thin lips narrow to razor-sharp. “Are you an artist? I thought you were a decorator.” The way she says decorator makes me feel like one of her domestics.
Because I am the kind of person who takes the high road—and because were I to open my mouth I would probably get myself fired—I don’t say anything. Miranda said to make these soup cans elegant. Elegant? Even Monet wouldn’t make these soup cans elegant.
But that gives me an idea. I grab my sketchbook and make a quick design.
“What are you doing?” Mrs. Chippenhall asks, peering over my shoulder. Feeling like I’m back in sixth grade taking a spelling exam, I cover my sketch with my arm. Lifting my wrist a bit, I scribble some notes for Miranda and Josh to look at later. Then I put the sketchbook facedown and get to work stripping the labels off the cans. I intercept Miranda and Josh on their way back in with the light blue they’ve chosen for the room. I explain my idea, and it’s a hit.
But that means I’m going to need to cut about twenty-five of the soup cans in half. No one said we had to use the whole soup can. So I grab the carpenter, and he gets out the power saw and starts slicing. We’ve got about four cans cut in half when the clouds that have loomed all morning open up and big fat drops of rain pelt us. Obviously we can’t use a power saw out in the rain, so we decide to wait it out. It’s no major hardship—gotta love hanging out with a man who can handle powerful machinery—but after an hour of pouring rain, I can’t afford to wait any longer.
“We’re going to have to bring the saw inside and cut the cans there,” I tell the carpenter.
He shrugs. “It’s your ass, not mine.”
We don’t even have the saw halfway in the door when Mrs. Chippenhall swoops down on us. “What are you people doing?”
I motion the carpenter to continue. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Chippenhall, but it’s raining outside and we can’t work with electric saws in the rain.”
“Well, you can’t bring that machine in here!” She motions to her objets d’art and her expensive rugs.
“We’ll be careful,” I say, dropping a dirty tarp over her rug, but she’s not convinced. She hovers over us, wringing her hands and ordering her maid to stand by with a broom and dustpan.
Finally the carpenter finishes cutting my cans. It’s taken way longer than I’d planned, but I gotta give the hottie a break. Every time he turned on the saw Mrs. Chippenhall covered her eyes and looked ready to swoon.
By the time all my cans are painted, Miranda and Josh have the room cleared and taped, and I give them a hand with the painting. We all take turns stumbling over Mrs. Chippenhall, who is constantly in the way, and when she starts pointing out spots we missed, I have the urge to spatter that pink suit with blue polka dots.
Fortunately, Miranda—seeing murder in my eyes—releases me from painting to go back to my cans for the detail work. Martha Stewart, look out.
After about six hours, with only two to go, the industrialsize fans we brought in from the van have done their work, and the walls are dry enough for me to start mine. Normally I wouldn’t touch the walls for at least twenty-four hours, but I don’t have much choice today. So while Miranda and Josh move furniture and sew throw pillows, I get out the yellow carpenter’s glue. I apply it to the edges of a can and hold it up to the wall, ready to position it.
Just as I’m about to press the glue to the wall, Mrs. Chippenhall yells, “No!”
She startles me, and I drop the can, gluing it to the floor instead. Josh runs over with turpentine and cleans up the mess while I glare at Mrs. Chippenhall. But when Josh hands me the can again, I don’t even have a chance to apply glue before Mrs. Chippenhall tries to snatch it from me.
“Stop it!” I tell her. “We’re running out of time.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want soup cans on my walls!”
I look at Miranda, then Watanabe. Watanabe is smiling. The little prick is loving this. Miranda gives me a long look, then turns her back.
What was that city in Vietnam where the soldiers killed all those innocent civilians and the military head honchos tried to bury the story? My Lai? Miranda’s turning a blind eye now, but when the footage comes out, we’re going to get an interior-designing court-martial.
Josh and I exchange looks, and then I nod at Mrs. Chippenhall, and Josh sweeps her up and off her feet. I think he would have carried her à la Rhett carrying Scarlett O’Hara, but she starts squirming and he ends up throwing her over his shoulder.
“I got her!” he calls. “Get to work, Allison!”
I do. In a frenzy of activity, I attach my half soup cans to the walls in random places. The soup cans are blue to match the wall and then painted with little pink, yellow, and red flowers for accent. With the angry cries of the imprisoned Mrs. Chippenhall echoing from the next room, I paint more flowers and stems, seemingly rising out of the cans on the wall above each soup can.
I take the last five cans and fill them with dirt and flowers from Mrs. Chippenhall’s garden. I try my soup can vases in half a doze places, Miranda offering lots of suggestions, and just before Yamamoto’s watch beeps, indicating that time has run out, I place the last one.
Josh frees Mrs. Chippenhall and she tap-taps back into the room behind him just as time runs out. She doesn’t even look at the room, but she points at me. “I’m going to get you for this, Allison Holloway. And your mother, too!”
While the camera crew films the room for the after footage, I look around. I wouldn’t say we’ve improved the room. Soup cans don’t look elegant, no matter what I do, but we’ve taken the room from elegant metropolitan to French country. Again, I’m not so sure that’s an improvement.
I want to feel a sense of accomplishment after all this work, but like the first show, it just isn’t there. We came in, we subdued the natives, we made the room over using the required materials, but I don’t feel like we made the room better.
I think Miranda and Josh have some of the same feelings because they’re silent on the drive back to the office. Fed up with work, I skip the office and go straight home and plop on the couch. I don’t feel like getting ready to go out, even if it is a Ciara St. Loren fashion show with Nicolo.
Instead, I flip on the TV and While You Were Out is on. For the first time in recent memory, I switch the channel. Fear Factor is on the next station, and I turn that, too. E! has the True Hollywood Story of reality TV stars, but I can’t stomach that, either.
I mean, what are these people looking for? Fame? Money? Why are they messing with lives that are perfectly good already? Why am I?
When Nicolo calls a while later, I tell him I’ll meet him at the fashion show. He doesn’t like it, but I’m trying to keep our relationship casual and friendly. I learned a long time ago not to get involved with guys I work with. There was a professor at Columbia College in Chicago who taught History of Architecture I. Now I don’t know about you, but I think history, architecture, and ew! But when I walked into Professor Montford’s room—Stéphane’s room—I remember thinking, ooh.
Stéphane Montford was an Olivier Martinez clone, but sexier. Longish brown hair, dark, brooding eyes, straight nose, soft sensuous lips. God, the man knew what to do with those lips.
He and I had a little fling the first semester of my junior year. It was really hot, then really cold. Unfortunately, Stéphane also taught History of Architecture II. For a whole semester, we glared at each other three days a week. And the bastard gave me a D!
Well, architecture isn’t my forte, so maybe I deserved the D, but it taught me a lesson. Nicolo and I still have to work together for a few weeks, so if things don’t pan out, I could be in for a shitload of misery.
Since this is a fashion show, I dress to kill. I put on a short, short, short black skirt by MaxMara, high, high, high heels by Jimmy Choo, and a white and silver top by Armani.
It’s no fun being around a bunch of models all night, but I put in the extra effort anyway. The show’s at an upscale club downtown. I’ve been there before, but I arrive a few minutes late, toss the car-struck valet the keys to the Z4, and walk in.
The club is dark, and a runway has been set up in the center of the dance floor. Funky techno music plays, and people are starting to find seats on both sides of the runway and standing at the second-floor railings. I don’t see Nicolo, so I go to the bar and order a mojito with a stalk of sugarcane for garnish. I take a sip and scan the club. Still no Nicolo. But there are lots of Chicago bigwigs, and I wave at a couple from my parents’ country club.
Someone comes up behind me, and I smile, anticipating Nicolo’s low murmur in my ear. Snap! The strap of my bra slaps against my back.
“Ouch!” I spin around and there’s Grayson, grinning like he used to when I first started wearing bras and he, four years older at sixteen, snapped them at every opportunity.
“I hate to tell you this, but someone stole the bottom of your skirt.”
I roll my eyes. Big brothers. “Ha-ha. Snap my bra again, and the next time you’re not paying attention, I’ll snap your underwear.”
“I don’t wear underwear.”
“Yeck. TMI.”
“Aw, you know you love me.” He hugs me, then says, “Since we’re giving out info, what are you doing here?”
“I’m the guest of a VIP,” I say and toss my hair like I used to at thirteen. It still irritates him. “What are you doing here?”
He leans one elbow against the bar. “I’m in the fashion show.”
“Oh.” I probably should have figured that out, since Gray is a model. Gray is the most gorgeous man on the planet. Yes, I know he’s my brother, and my opinion is slanted, but I’m being totally objective here. Gray is the best-looking man I know. He’s also my favorite brother. He’s my only brother, but that doesn’t make him any less great. Especially considering he’s the only person that keeps me sane around my parents.
Looking at him now, it’s hard to believe he’s the same scrawny kid who sported two rows of braces, had stringy brown hair, and wore the same jeans and T-shirt until my mother pried them away from his dirty body to wash. Now the braces are gone, and he’s got straight whiter-than-white teeth. Of course, you’d never know it because he never smiles. I guess smiling isn’t cool in modeldom. His stringy brown hair is still kind of long and stringy, but it’s the look now, and these days it’s blond.
He’s wearing tight jeans and a loose shirt, open to reveal his six-pack abs. He’s very proud of those. We work out together sometimes, and I’ve learned that Gray and I have different ideas about how long a workout should last. The first time we went to the gym together, I left after an hour to get a smoothie. He told me he was going to finish with his abs and then he’d be done. I bought the smoothie, drank the smoothie, and then went looking for him, and he was still crunching.
Grayson is fab, but there is one annoying thing about him—wherever we go, girls fall all over him. It has to be the abs. I’d like to be magnanimous and say that all the fawning twentysomethings don’t faze him, but Gray is pretty much a player. He needs a girl like Natalie to settle him down.
Now he’s giving me that intense model look, which always seems sort of out of place on his baby face. He’s thirty-six, but he looks twenty-four. Disgusting, isn’t it? You’d think by thirty-six his modeling career and womanizing days would be over. Nope. Gotta love those Holloway genes.
“You look good,” he says after a minute. “I like your hair that way, but you should push it forward more.” He reaches out, presumably to perfect my hairstyle, and tousles it violently instead. Brothers never change.
I grab his hand and reach for his head, but he says, “Whoa! Not the hair, baby.”
“Jerk,” I say, pushing my once carefully coiffed hair out of my eyes, and he laughs and gives me a hug. He’s like six-three, so even in my FM Jimmy Choos, I feel like a little kid again.
“I see you have found another companion,” an accented voice behind me says. Gray releases me, and I turn to Nicolo. His face is hard and his mouth a thin line.
“Nicolo, I was looking for you.”
“In his chest?”
I raise a brow and glance at Gray to see if he thinks this is as funny as I do. He’s not smiling. I turn back to Nicolo. “Are you jealous?”
He snorts. “Not at all. If you want to go home with this pretty boy, go ahead.”
See how young Gray looks? “Well, considering the pretty boy is my brother, I don’t think that’s going to happen. Grayson, Nicolo. Nicolo, Grayson Holloway.”
“Hey,” Grayson says, inclining his head coolly. I frown. You’d think the guy could at least shake Nicolo’s hand.
Nicolo doesn’t attempt to shake Grayson’s hand, either. “I am sorry. I misunderstood.”
The lights flicker up and down, and Grayson releases me. I didn’t even notice that he still had his arm around my shoulder.
“I gotta go change. See ya tomorrow, Allie.” He kisses my cheek and looks at Nicolo like he might say something but turns and walks away instead.
I shake my head. “Sorry, he was raised by wolves. He hasn’t quite got the hang of human interaction yet.”
Nicolo waves a hand and offers his arm. “I am the same way with my younger sisters. He is older, yes?”
I nod, distracted as Nicolo leads me to two reserved seats on the side of the catwalk. I’ve never been a front-row girl at a fashion show before, and when the lights go down and the music starts up, I can hardly contain my excitement.
The first model struts out in a gorgeous flowy chocolate dress, and I lean forward to memorize every stitch. Nicolo says in my ear, “Your brother was really adopted?”
“No.” I glance at him. “Just a joke.” I turn away, watching the next model, dressed in gray wool slacks and a checked wool peacoat, unbuttoned enough that we can see she’s not wearing a top underneath.
“He does not look like you.”
I glance at Nicolo, reluctant to take my eyes from the runway. “It’s dark in here. If you saw us in the light, you’d be able to tell.”
“Hmm.” Nicolo seems satisfied for the moment, so I focus back on the stage in time to see a model in a black chiffon dress turn off the runway. Damn.
A few minutes later, the first male model comes out, and I sit forward to watch for Gray. I’ve seen him model a hundred times. He’s really good—a natural—but watching someone you know so well put on a show can be pretty hilarious. He looks so mean, his eyes ferocious and his mouth pouty. It cracks me up every time.
A minute later he strides out in a charcoal suit—jacket, slacks, and tie—no shirt. I stifle a giggle. He has to show off those abs.
“Why do you laugh?”
I shake my head. “He cracks me up when he models. His face—” I start laughing again.
The next time Gray comes out—this time wearing a shirt, but also wearing fifties-style glasses—I start laughing again.
“You will upset him,” Nicolo says.
“No, with the lights, they can’t see anything up there,” I say.
“Really?” I feel his hand on my thigh, and look down to see his white fingers caress the expansive area of leg between my knee and the skirt’s hem.
I glance at him, and he’s watching the models intently, as though the last thing on his mind is the way his fingers are now sliding up my inner thigh.
“Nicolo. I said the models can’t see, not the rest of the audience.”
“They are watching the models.” His hand slides higher, and I gasp. His mouth curves into a smile as the tips of his fingers graze the lace of my panties. He gives me a sideways look, then one finger slides the scrap of lace aside and touches flesh.
Oh, my God. If he moves another fraction of an inch, I’m going to come off my chair. Somehow I manage a strangled, “Stop.”
“You know you want this.”
What? His hand moves again, but I don’t feel any pleasure. “No, I don’t. Not here.”
He looks at me, his expression curious. “Stop your teasing. You are no virgin.” He smirks. “Far from it, from what I hear.”
My mouth drops open, and I wiggle away from his hand, which he pulls back very reluctantly. “Are you calling me a slut?”
His eyes skim my shirt, skirt, then shoes, his answer clear on his face.
“Excuse me.” Ice-cold rage coursing through me, I stand and stalk away. It feels like all eyes are on me as I walk past the other front-row girls and through the club. Behind me, the show goes on, and I give the club’s door a vicious push. I hate to leave good fashion. I hand the valet my ticket as the door swings open behind me.
“I grow tired of chasing you. I do not like standing on street corners and arguing. It is common.”
“I guess I’m just a common girl.”
He spreads his arms. “What did I do now? Do not tell me you didn’t like me touching you. You were wet.”
I dart a glance at the two remaining valets. They are trying very hard to pretend they didn’t hear that last part.
“Well, that comment’s going to be in the paper tomorrow.”
He dismisses the valets with a wave, then gives me a narrow look. “I embarrassed you inside?”
I shake my head. “It’ll take more than you feeling me up to embarrass me.”
“Then what is the problem?”
“You treated me like a whore!”
The valets aren’t even pretending not to listen now, but as they’re both frowning at Nicolo, I figure they’re on my side.
“I gave you pleasure.”
“Bullshit. You wanted to see how far you could go. I’m not some royalty groupie, following you around and waiting for a handout. You think because you’ve got a title, you can do whatever you want. Guess what? I’m not impressed.”
He doesn’t respond, and I don’t know if his silence is out of agreement or anger.
The valet pulls up with my car and holds the door for me.
“You know what, little Prince Nicolo? Why don’t you go home and enjoy your droit du seigneur there, because this American isn’t interested in stroking your ego.” I climb in, punch the button, and the BMW’s top goes down. “Or any other part of you.”
The next day, Gray doesn’t say anything about Nicolo on the drive to the basketball camp, and I’m glad.
“This is a pretty area,” I say when we’re out of the city.
“Yeah. At least the last moments of my life will be spent in—Jesus, watch out for that truck!”
I wave his whining away. “Loosen up. You’re supposed to be a cool camp counselor today.” Grayson just winces as I pass an eighteen-wheeler, narrowly avoiding colliding with another car as I skirt in front of the truck a second before the oncoming car passes us.
The camp is on Fox Lake in Ingleside, an area west of Chicago. As I drive into the Illinois interior, the traffic thins, the lanes narrow, and the trees thicken. We pass pine, maple, oak, linden, and butternut trees. The buildings and houses disappear, and we drive by cornfields and farmhouses.
The area reminds me of Lake Geneva, Wisconsin—about ninety minutes from Chicago—where my parents have a cottage. Gray and I call it a cottage because everyone else does, but I doubt most people would consider a mammoth structure with two stories, a formal dining room, five bedrooms, three and a half baths, a pool, a garden, and a boathouse a cottage. Of course, compared to the medieval-style castles and English manor houses down the street and across the lake, our house is a mere cottage.
The first year we stayed in Lake Geneva for the summer, I was six and Gray was ten. There aren’t a lot of happy memories with my family. My mom can be really cold and my dad was sort of absent, busy with business. In later years, Gray was in trouble all the time or zoned on drugs, but that first summer in Lake Geneva was like a fairy tale.
It was the July Fourth holiday, and we had two things on our minds: fireworks and swimming. We spent hours in the water. I must have asked Gray to throw me off the end of the dock a hundred times, and he did it every time. At night we built a campfire, although my mother argued that we had a perfectly good fireplace inside, and sat on logs roasting marshmallows for s’mores. I burned or lost all mine in the flames, but Gray gave me his, and I ate s’mores until I was sick.
“Yeah, you stole all Mom and Dad’s attention, and you stole my marshmallows, too,” Grayson says when I mention that summer. My tires crunch as we turn off the main road onto a smaller gravel one that will take us back to the camp. Almost immediately, the sky above us is obliterated by the thick foliage of criss-crossed tree branches above us. I was reluctant at first, but now I’m glad I agreed to come. The day is gorgeous—sunny and mild—and maybe I’ll be able to sneak away from the kids and lay out by the lake for an hour. I know, I know, UV exposure, but it’s too pretty out to stay inside today.
“Please, you weren’t innocent, Grayson. You only gave me the marshmallows so I wouldn’t tell Mom and Dad you were kissing that chick from the house next door. What was her name?”
“Hell if I know. See up ahead? That’s the parking—slow down. Jesus Christ!”
I slide into a parking space. “How are you getting to the lake tomorrow? Want me to pick you up in the morning?”
Gray sighs. “I don’t know, Allie. I know we always get together for Memorial Day weekend, but I don’t feel like having it out with Dad again this year. Maybe it would be better if I stayed home.”
I stare at him. “And leave me all alone with them?”
He shrugs.
“Oh, come on. Who’s going to dunk me in the pool? Who’s going to sneak into my room in the middle of the night and scream, ‘I’m a vampire!’ and scare the crap out of me?”
“Mom?” His lips thin, which is the model version of a smile.
“Right.”
We climb out of the car and head toward a cabin with a sign reading “REGISTRATION.”
“I think the last time she went in your room unannounced, she was more surprised than you.”
“Shut up.”
“What was that guy’s name? Tony? Travis?”
I give him a playful shove. “Go away.”
And he does. He leaves me to my own volunteering. I glance around, taking in the stereotypical rustic-looking cabins, mess hall, volleyball and basketball courts. In one area, canoes are stacked in bunches. Beyond that is a trail I assume leads to the lake, which isn’t visible from here.
The atmosphere of the camp reminds me of Covenant Harbor, the camp across from Maytag Point in Lake Geneva. I begged to be allowed to attend the summer when I was eight, and I lasted about two hours. The counselors wouldn’t let me shower and blow-dry my hair right after swimming, and that was that. Hopefully, this experience will be better.
Four hours later, it’s almost two, and I’m still stuck in Registration. I’ve learned that this is a Bible camp for the churches in this area during the week—Camp Risen Son—and used by the city of Chicago on the weekend for a program to benefit inner-city kids.
I’ve also learned how to extract a splinter from a dirty big toe, how to check for lice, and how much Bactine to apply to a cut.
Now I’m showing kids how to make hand puppets from brown paper lunch bags. It beats going through medical forms and waivers for three hours, like I had been, but it’s a far cry from Gray’s job, which is playing basketball outside with the kids we’re supposed to be inspiring. So far all I’ve inspired is a headache. And I’ve been cooped up inside without AC all day.
Cindy, the perky twenty-three-year old camp counselor supervising activities, bounces in the door—literally, because her blonde hair is in pigtails—and says, “Hey kids! Time for a snack! Popsicles and snow cones in the cantina!”
I’ve noticed that every sentence she utters is exclamatory.
The kids drop their projects and stampede for the door, and Cindy! and I are left standing in the detritus of paper bags, crayons, yarn, and glue sticks.
“Oops!” she says. “I guess I should have asked them to clean up first! I’ll round them up and we’ll clean this in a jiffy!”
She bounces back outside, and I kneel down to start cleaning up the mess. I’m wearing frayed jean shorts and a tank top, my hair pulled into a long, straight ponytail. Even so, I’m hot and sweaty, and there’s a SpongeBob SquarePants sticker on my knee. “Fudge this,” I say to no one in particular, peel the sticker off, and head outside.
The camp feels deserted, but when I look a few yards away I see kids and volunteers spilling from the cantina. Poor Grayson, he’s got kids dangling from his arms and one clinging to each leg.
I head the opposite way. I’m just a few yards into the woods behind the registration cabin when I start to see patches of Fox Lake through the foliage.
All I can think is: Very hot. Lake cool.
I break out of the woods and into a huge smile. The lake is gorgeous—blue, calm, and at present forgotten. There’s a dock down the shore a bit, so I stride over there, shake off my flip-flops, and stick a toe in the water. Heaven.
I pull my toe out and look over one shoulder, then the other. I look across the lake, squinting in the sunlight. No one.
Fudge it. I’m going in. I shed my tank top and shimmy out of my shorts, then hop into the water in my white cotton bra and panties.
The water at the side of the dock only comes to my belly, so I wrap my hair into a bun on top of my head, and squat down until my shoulders are submerged. I linger for a moment, enjoying the feel of the sun, the cool water, the soft sand between my toes, and then I hear someone laughing.
Fudge! I scoot under the dock and peer through the slats, but I can only see the edge of the woodline in front of the dock, and the laughter came from the right.
“No, you’re sweaty from playing basketball all day!” a familiar voice exclaims. Cindy!
Thank God. If it was one of the kids, I’d get arrested for indecency with a child or something. I’m about to pop out from under the dock when I hear the low rumble of a man’s voice. Cindy! and one of the male counselors? So I’m not the only one who’s abandoned her duties.
I can still come out, but I decide to wait and see if they keep walking. I’d rather not jump out of the water wearing only my underwear if at all possible.
Cindy! giggles again, and I glance through the slats. She’s at the end of the dock, her back to the lake and her boyfriend facing me. I can’t see who he is, but his voice sounds familiar. Gray? No.
Then the guy puts his arm around Cindy!’s waist, spreading his hand over the small of her back. My own skin warms in response as he pulls her decisively, confidently against him and lowers his head to kiss her. My heart starts pounding—partly because I’m afraid they’re going to have sex right here at the end of the dock and I’m going to be stuck in the lake while they go at it, and partly because Cindy!’s guy is hot. I don’t know what he looks like, but simply watching the way he kissed her turns me on.
I peek through the slats again, but they’re still kissing. His hand hasn’t strayed under her shirt or moved to cup her ass yet, so maybe they’ll stop soon. Cindy! laughs, and I edge out from under the dock to get a better view. (Oh, come on, like you wouldn’t?) She reaches up to hug the guy, and he leans forward to return the embrace.
Dave.