“Yeah, well . . . I like Fun Dips.” I shrug, because how else should Kyle’s potential summer fling for this year respond to Kyle’s summer fling from last year in a way that doesn’t guarantee an enemy?

“Hope you won,” Avery says, finally. She’s wasted no time altering her Camp Wawa T-shirt, cutting off the sleeves and collar and cinching the waist with a knot, a style that makes the bulky red cotton thing not quite as unflattering and her waist look that much tinier in comparison to her chest. I noticed a few other counselors at breakfast had done it, too. I guess they didn’t get Christa’s speech about “the rules.”

“I did win.” I pull out a twenty from my jean shorts pocket, which should just cover it, and set it next to the candy. “And you’ll want to order more razz apple.” There were only nine, so I grabbed a cherry flavor, as well.

“We went through, like, fifty cases of Fun Dips because of those two fools last year.” She jabs the buttons on the archaic cash register, the printer churning its tally.

Does she still like him? Is this air of indifference a cloak for her feelings? Why did they break up?

Did they sleep together? How many times?

I realize that I’m staring at her now, so I avert my eyes, letting them wander over the canteen’s interior again. It’s a modified mobile trailer with the wheels replaced by concrete blocks. From the outside, it looks like it belongs in the Louisiana bayou of a Disney cartoon, the typical white vinyl covered by cedar shingles painted a forest green and plastered with at least fifty kitschy metal signs. A loose string of patio lanterns dangles unevenly from the roof’s edge. The inside has been gutted of all the traditional mobile home amenities to make room for a perimeter of thin metal shelves that house everything from licorice, candy bars, and chips, to cans of Coke and Dr. Pepper, to bug spray and sunscreen, to tampons and maxi pads. In the corner sits a chest freezer with a laminated sign listing available ice cream flavors. Tubs of dime candy line the front of the cash register, tongs and small brown paper bags at the ready to fill up.

“Does all this stuff actually sell?”

Avery snorts. “You kidding? Those candy shelves will be empty and the kids will be broke by Wednesday.”

It can’t be that hard for a kid to go broke, I note, scanning the prices. Definitely no candy discounts around here.

“Of course, Christa won’t let your kids do that. She’ll have a whole speech about saving money prepared for the first day.” Avery laughs, a musical sound. “Who tries to teach money management to a bunch of eight-year-olds at camp? Just let them have fun!”

“That’s right. You guys shared a cabin last year.”

“Yeah . . .” The cash register drawer pops open with a ding, and she slides my money into the slot. “That was fun.” Her voices drips with sarcasm.

I match it. “Well, I’m the lucky winner this year. Any tips on how to deal with her?”

“Pretend she’s not there.” She rolls her eyes, parroting Christa with, “ ‘You need to do’ this, ‘you need to do’ that.”

I laugh. Avery seems friendly enough toward me, even if it’s at Christa’s expense.

“Seriously. It’s brutal. Just wait ’til you try to get out after the kids are asleep. She threatened to go to Darian because I didn’t come back until, like, four one night.” Avery shakes her head. “So I lost it on her. She stayed out of my way after that.”

I frown. “So, we are allowed to leave our cabins at night?” Darian had alluded to counselors “unwinding” after a day of refereeing, but I forgot to ask Ashley.

Avery’s eyebrows arch in surprise. “Wow. You really haven’t been to camp before.”

“Not really. I . . . no.” There’s no point trying to describe White Pine.

“Some of the counselors go out after the kids are asleep, to hang out for a bit. It’s no big deal. There’s always someone around if a kid wakes up. That’s the one good thing about bunking with Christa—she always stays back. Which is great because nobody likes her anyway.” Avery stuffs my purchase into a brown paper bag just as the air-conditioning unit mounted in the far window kicks in. A fresh wave of cool air blows into the shop, ruffling the dusty and tattered floral window valance.

It feels heavenly. “So, how do you get a job in here, anyway?” I don’t remember canteen being on the activities sheet.

“Seniority. It can get boring, but when it’s ninety-five degrees out and you’re not in the lake, you want to be in here.” Avery reaches behind her to grab a can of root beer. She takes a long draw from her straw as she eyes me, as if sizing me up. “Talk to Darian. There’s four of us taking turns in here, but she has a backup list. She might be willing to put you on it.” She hesitates. “Or, I could mention it to her when I see her next.”

“That’d be . . . great. Thanks.” I frown as I wonder why she’s being so nice to me, but quickly decide that it’s better than the alternative, whatever her motives may be. I grab my paper bag. “Enjoy the cool air. I’ll just be out there, dying in my own sweat.” I head for the door, my stomach beginning to flutter with anxious nerves at the thought of tracking down Kyle.

I’ve only seen him briefly since last night. The counselor meet ’n’ greet shut down promptly at nine forty-five. Counselors had just enough time to get back to their cabins and settle in, Darian’s curfew warning heeded. I crawled into my top bunk and expected to spend the night memorizing the knots in the pine boards above my head while obsessing over every little gesture, glance, and word exchanged between me and Kyle, but somehow drifted off to the rhythm of Christa’s soft snores.

Kyle didn’t make his grand appearance until the end of breakfast, sauntering in just long enough to throw a casual smile my way. Then he scooped up a bagel and orange juice, and strolled off with Eric at his side.

I haven’t seen him since and, even with that quick but obvious flirtation, I can’t help but wonder if he’s now avoiding me, if maybe he’s already lost interest.

The very thought threatens to sink my spirits.

“Hey!”

I glance back over my shoulder to find Avery grinning mischievously, showing off her perfectly straight, white teeth. “I’ll bet Christa told you that you’re not allowed to cut your T-shirt?”