I slip my arm around Wes’s shoulder. “You can come visit me whenever you want,” I tell him. “I’ll only be a couple of hours away.”
“Which leads me to my next question,” Kimmie begins. “How did you even pick Sumner? I mean, don’t they have pottery programs in places like Miami or South Beach?”
“Yes, but you have to remember that I decided to look into this whole going-away idea a bit late in the game. I’m pretty sure that most of the other intensive programs were already filled by the time I started applying.”
I have no idea if that’s true, but I’m reluctant to tell them that though Sasha might not have been the original reason for my getaway, the fact that I’m sensing things about her now is the reason I ultimately chose the place.
Truth be told, I’ve almost caved at least a dozen times and told them about Sasha—about how the sound of what I assume is her voice has been keeping me up at night or about how stupid I was to call her mother. But I’ve felt as if Kimmie’s head was so far into the Big Apple that she wouldn’t be able to see my side. Not that that’s a bad thing. She’s really excited about her internship, and just as excited by the idea that her best friend may have a fantabulous opportunity lined up, too.
“I’m sure Sumner will still be amazing,” she says. “Almost as amazing as five years from now, when the three of us will be sharing a loft in Manhattan. You, with your art exhibits at some of the trendiest galleries in town”—she smiles at me—“Wes, as a photographer, and me designing dresses for rock stars and tragic rebels.”
I manage a nod, unable to break it to her that I haven’t so much as thought about my future as a potter in weeks. It’s like she sees us moving together in one distinct direction, whereas I feel like we’re growing apart.
AFTER BRAIN FREEZE, I text Adam to say that I’m on my way, and Wes drives me over.
“Is he making you dinner?” Kimmie asks.
“I hope not,” I say; I have just ingested what has to have been at least a quart of ice cream. “I think he might’ve mentioned something about a big game and making some team-themed munchies.”
“Talk about romantic,” Kimmie coos, clearly being snarky. She wishes me luck, and I climb out of Wes’s car.
Adam is already waiting in the lobby. His face lights up as I come through the door. “Hey, you,” he says, wrapping his arms around me. He holds me closer than he has in a long time. “I’ve missed you.”
Even though it’s only been a couple of days since we last saw each other, I hug him harder, knowing exactly what he means. “Yeah, I’ve missed you, too.”
We climb the stairs and enter his apartment, and already I can hear the sound of cheering coming from the big screen in his living room.
“Who’s playing?” I ask, trying to sound interested.
“The Angels versus the Red Sox.” Adam pulls on a Red Sox cap and gives me a matching one.
“Thanks,” I say, putting it on. It seems that I have underestimated the value of this game.
“So, I made us some snacks.” He takes my hand and leads me into the living room. The coffee table is set up with chips and guacamole, quesadilla wedges, buffalo wings, and bottles of lemon-lime soda. “Okay, so I didn’t go the themed route, but I did make most of it myself.”
“Wow,” I say, utterly impressed.
“Hungry?”
“Sure,” I lie.
We sit on the sofa and the TV blares. It’s almost too loud to talk, and considering how excited he is about the game, not to mention all the trouble he went to with the snacks spread, I decide that our talk can wait.
Between bites of quesadilla and sips of soda, Adam snuggles close to me. It’s been a while since I felt this secure with him, and I think he feels it, too. When a commercial comes on, he leans in closer and pulls off my hat to kiss me. “I’ve missed you,” he says again.
“I know I haven’t been the most ideal girlfriend lately,” I admit. “My drama has pretty much taken center stage on most of our dates.”
“Well, it isn’t taking center stage now.” He kisses me again, and I try my best to kiss him back and relish the moment, but I can’t help feeling disappointed that he doesn’t acknowledge how hurt I’ve been or tell me that he’ll be there for me no matter what.
Instead, he pushes me back against the couch; suddenly I feel a bit smothered. I pull away, putting an end to the kiss, and then sit back up.
“There’s something I need to talk to you about,” I tell him.
“Okay,” he says, glancing at the TV. The game has come back on.
I grab the remote and click it off. “I’m going away for a while.”
“Where?” He furrows his brow.
“I applied to a summer intensive program in Rhode Island…an art program…at Sumner College, about two hours away from here.”
“Wow,” he says, taking the news in. “I didn’t even know that you were looking into that sort of thing.”
“I wasn’t. It was sort of Spencer’s idea at first. But I think it’ll be good for me for a number of reasons.”
“The least of which concerns your art, I’m guessing.”
“Is it so bad that I want some time away?”
“It’s bad for me…for us. I miss you, Camelia,” he says yet again, making me finally realize how much my drama has affected him.
“It’ll only be for three weeks.”
“Three weeks on top of the two that we just had.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, though I already know. Things were so much better between us before I found out the truth.
“Look,” he says, softening slightly, “if you were going away for your art, I’d totally get it. I’d be right there to support you. But you’re running away because you learned something that you didn’t like.”
“There’s more to it.”
“Is there?” He gives me a pointed look. “I mean, life goes on, Camelia. People hear stuff all the time—stuff they don’t like or would rather not know—but they don’t just run away. They deal with it. They turn the page.”
“I wish I could.”
Adam takes my hands and pulls me closer. “What can I do to help you, to make it better?”
“That’s just it. You can’t.”
“Why not? I mean, we’ve talked about this. We’ve discussed how your parents’ secrecy affected you and how you feel like you’ve been betrayed.…”
“You have to understand,” I tell him. “My aunt is my mother now. Do you know what that could mean? How much that terrifies me?”
“I do.” He nods. “Because we’ve talked about that, too. We’ve been over this, Camelia. But you’re not her, remember?”
“I realize that,” I tell him. But what if my premonitions get the best of me? What if I try to help someone and end up failing miserably? What if one day I feel so alone that I can’t quite think straight?
Adam lets out a breath, clearly frustrated and probably tired of trying to fix me.
“I should go,” I say. My face feels hot. I’m holding back tears. I reach for my bag, hoping that Wes can pick me up.
“Don’t go,” Adam says, taking my hand. “Please…”
I rest my forehead against his chest.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, stroking my back. “I just want you to be happy. I just want everything to be great between us. You know I’d do anything for you.”
I smother my sobs against his shirt, wishing that I could be stronger for him, hating the fact that I can’t be stronger for myself.
AFTER ADAM DROPS ME OFF, I rush straight to my room. It’s almost eleven, but I don’t want to turn in just yet. And so I sit down in front of my computer and log in to my e-mail account. Ben’s message from a few weeks ago is still sitting in my in-box. I read it over, hit respond, and then tell him how much I miss him. And not just being together as a couple, I type, but having someone who really gets me—who knows what I’m going through, and understands how complex this is…and how complex I can be.
r /> I lean back in my seat, relieved to have gotten it all out. But then I highlight the chunk of text, hit DELETE, and start again:
Dear Ben,
I’m glad to hear you had fun in D.C. I’ve been thinking a lot about you too, wondering where you are, if you’re meeting new friends, and when you’ll be done traveling. If by any chance you’re still in D.C., be sure to check out the Botanic Garden—it puts the Tree Huggers’ sanctuary to shame.
Miss you and thinking about you,
Love,
Camelia
I read my response over, worried that it may sound too needy.
The truth is that I’m happy he’s enjoying so much of life, and I certainly wouldn’t want to pull him back before he’s ready. But I also miss the sense of connectedness we shared. We both understood each other in ways that no one else could. I can’t help but wonder if he misses that, too.
I highlight the text and read it over several more times, afraid that I may be pushing the envelope with phrases like Love, Camelia and Miss you. But then I reassure myself that the suggestion to see the Botanic Garden and the question about friends counter any hint of how torn I feel without him.
I push SEND and navigate over to Neal Moche’s blog to read another entry, still yearning for that sense of connection.
From the Journal of Neal Moche
I’ve started following that guy around a bit, which is taking up a lot of my time, keeping me here longer than I’d wanted. He lives in a house with broken shutters, peeling paint, and stairs that have gaping holes. The house borders a wooded conservation lot, giving me lots of places to hide. I watch him come home at night and have dinner with his girlfriend. After that, it’s lights-out, which is my cue to leave.
He spends most of his days working: painting houses (except his), doing construction, laying brick, and digging foundations.
I’m surprised he hasn’t noticed me yet as I sit on curbs, lurk near bushes, and pretend to look at street maps. I almost think I’m wasting my time, especially since I’ve yet to figure out the reason I got that gnawing feeling when he bumped into me. But then I also can’t stop this jittery sensation. I’ve been so jumpy inside, anticipating that something big is about to happen. I hate this part of my life—of having my power—but I know I’ll hate things a whole lot more if I simply ignore what I’m sensing.
I close out of the blog, grateful to have this window into Neal’s world—to know that I’m not the only one feeling haunted. Like Neal, who seems compelled to find out more about the guy from the park, I almost feel like I have no other choice but to go to Rhode Island and address this voice inside my head, so I can silence it once and for all.
IT’S A WEEK LATER, and I’m packed and ready to go to Sumner. Mom’s loading up the car with snacks and inspirational CDs for the drive, and Dad’s printing out the MapQuest directions because he’s yet to feel a need for GPS.
“Camelia?” Mom calls. “Don’t forget to pack an extra toothbrush.”
“Okay,” I shout, grabbing the folder marked SUMMER ARTS PROGRAM off my desk. I’ve been keeping hard-copy info about Sasha’s case inside it, including the address of her home and school. I stuff it into my backpack, knowing that Adam will be here any moment to wish me luck and say good-bye.
I zip up my suitcase and pinch my cheeks for color, noticing the dark gray circles beneath my eyes from lack of sleep—from Sasha’s incessant crying. It now haunts me day and night.
“Best to not keep a boy waiting,” Mom says, poking her head into my room to announce Adam’s arrival. Have we suddenly turned the clocks back a hundred years?
I grab my bags and proceed to the living room, where Adam scoops me into his arms. “I’ll miss you,” I tell him.
“Camelia, we should probably get going,” Dad says, checking his watch. “Orientation is only until three.”
While Dad brings my bags out to the car, Adam continues to hold me. “Call me as soon as you get there,” he says.
“Definitely.” I nod, thinking how good this feels without the drama.
Once outside, Adam lingers in front of the house, watching as we pull out of the driveway. I wave to him out the window, feeling in some way lonelier than I have in a long time, because I’m separating from everyone I care about, but also more invigorated than ever before, because hopefully I’m getting closer to what I need.
After a couple of hours’ driving (and a CD and a half of Dr. Wayne Dyer’s inspirational musings), Dad pulls in to the Sumner College campus.
It’s even more beautiful than the images online depicted it. High up on a cliff that overlooks the ocean, the campus has ivy-covered brownstone buildings scattered around a sprawling green lawn with flower beds that form the letters SC.
“So lovely,” Mom says, pointing out an abstract sculpture that resembles a giant booger.
Dad drives around to the side of the main building, where tents have been set up for summer-school orientation. Nearby, students are mingling. There’s a volleyball game being played. And grills are smoking with “ground-up cow flesh and intestine-encased pig parts” (as Mom so eloquently dubs hamburgers and hot dogs).
As soon as we park the car, a couple of girls sporting Orientation Rocks! T-shirts come bounding over to us.
“Hey, there,” the taller girl says, just as I step out of the car. Her superhigh ponytail and megawatt smile make me feel like I’m here to try out for the cheering squad. “I’m Carlie.”
“And I’m Courtney,” the other girl chirps.
“Put us together and we’re C-squared,” they sing in unison.
“Excuse me?” I ask, feeling as though I’ve just been bopped on the head with a couple of pom-poms.
“Carlie Sherman,” the taller girl says, backtracking. She shakes my hand and then gestures to her friend. “And this is Courtney Porter.”
“We like to call ourselves C-squared,” Courtney insists on explaining, “which basically means that we’re pretty inseparable.”
“So, welcome to Sumner at summer,” Carlie says. “Omigod, did I seriously just say that?”
“Only for the kagillionth time today.” Courtney lets out a hyena laugh, as if what Carlie had just said were the funniest thing ever.
Meanwhile, I’m still trying to figure out if they chose to be inseparable because their names have the same first initial, or if it’s simply because nobody else on campus can stand them.
“Anyway, welcome,” Carlie continues. “To summer. At Sumner.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I’m Camelia.”
“Omigosh,” Courtney squeals. “You should totally hang with us. We could totally be C-cubed.”
I look back at my parents. Dad’s got my bags in both hands, and Mom’s carrying a cooler loaded with snacks (some of her homemade fruit-and-nut bars).
“You can leave your bags over there,” Carlie says, pointing to an area just beyond a water fountain. It appears that the area’s been designated a drop-off depot for luggage.
“Could I bring them to Camelia’s room?” Dad asks.
“We’d really love to see it,” Mom adds. “And to help Camelia move in…”
“Well, that’s the tricky part.” Carlie grimaces. “Because we’re sort of experiencing some technical difficulties of the sewage seepage kind.” She twirls a strand of her short blond hair around her finger.
“But trust me when I say that we’re doing you a favor,” Courtney explains. “And the problem is being rectified as we speak. So, let’s just hang out here for a while, shall we? We’ve got boccie, badminton, volleyball, and a dunk tank.”
“Or maybe you want to get something to eat.” Carlie nods toward the smoking grills.
I look out at the festivities, which are devoid of parents, and then back at Mom and Dad, standing just a couple of feet behind me now. “Do you want to go somewhere and come back?” I ask them. “Once it’s okay to move in?”
“Nonsense,” Mom says. “You go and have some fun, but call us when you’re all settle
d in, okay?”
I lean in to give each of them a hug. While Mom’s is tidy and quick (despite all that touchy-feely CD-listening), Dad pulls me against him, as if he doesn’t want to let me go. When we end our embrace, his face is all red and blotchy.
Mom takes his hand. “You were like this on her first day of kindergarten, too,” she reminds him. “But your little girl is growing up.”
Dad nods and takes a step back, but it looks like someone just ripped out his heart.
After they leave, a jumble of emotion stirs inside my stomach: hopefulness, anguish, apprehension. I look at C-squared, who are playing a game of boccie now, and then toward the groupings of students meandering around munching on grilled food and getting to know one another.
And that’s when I spot him. Sitting alone at one of the picnic tables, he stares in my direction, and it’s all I can do not to cry out with glee.
Wes.
He gets up when he sees that I notice him and makes his way toward me. The smile on his face is every bit as beamy as mine is right now.
“What are you doing here?” I gush.
“Would you believe that I need to brush up on my painting skills?” he asks. “Pun intended.”
“Excuse me?”
“You didn’t think I’d let you go off by yourself in your time of need, did you?”
“You didn’t seriously come here just for me.”
“I didn’t?” He blushes. “Well, it’s actually for me, too. After you told me about the program, I may’ve been persuaded to check it out. And, I’ll have to admit, their photography courses sound pretty swanky.” He flashes me his temporary Sumner College ID card, which shows him sticking his tongue out and making the peace sign. “And let me assure you that it wasn’t easy. I had to pull a few strings, talk to a few people, and tell my dad that I was in love with you and needed to follow my heart.…”
“And he bought that?”