The Winter Lodge (11 page)

At camp, he met several Bellamys. Mr. and Mrs. Charles Bellamy, the owners and directors, seemed kind enough. “Your father’s wilderness-conservation bill means the world to us. Thanks to that bit of legislation, we don’t have to worry about industry closing in on us,” Mrs. Bellamy had said on opening day. “You must be quite proud of him.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Rourke didn’t know what else to say.
Yes, he’s a good public servant but a
complete bastard in private
—that would go over like a fart in church.

“We’re very glad you’re here,” Mrs. Bellamy went on. “I remember your mother. Julia—Delaney, wasn’t that her maiden name?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“She was a favorite. So full of fun. She used to play practical jokes all the time, and on talent night, she did a stand-up-comic routine that had us all in stitches.”

Rourke didn’t believe her, but then, one rainy day when outdoor activities were canceled and Joey was gone on a solo expedition, she showed him some of the camp’s treasured photo albums housed in the library. The collection was in the main pavilion, a gigantic timber building from the 1930s. It was the heart of Camp Kioga, housing the dining hall, library, infirmary, the kitchen and camp offices.

And sure enough, there were several snapshots of his mom in the 1970s, hamming it up. She wore a smile Rourke had never seen before. She looked so completely happy that he almost didn’t recognize her.

He thanked Mrs. Bellamy for showing him some of the camp’s history. He lingered in the library until the rain let up, perusing the books, from Hardy Boys mysteries to birding manuals, classics by Thoreau and Washington Irving, and the inevitable collections of ghost stories. Long after the rain stopped, he sat looking through books, trying to imagine a different life for himself. When they were little, he and Joey always talked about joining the army together and traveling the world, but as they grew older, the fantasy dimmed. By the seventh grade, Rourke was already feeling the crushing weight of his father’s expectations, and Joey was now aware of the realities of working-class life.

Rourke wondered what Joey was doing, out on his solo expedition. It was something each boy was expected to do at least once over the summer. You had to gear up and spend an entire night alone on Spruce Island, a small island in the middle of Willow Lake. The head counselor, Greg Bellamy—the younger son of the directors—said, “It’s supposed to build character. And if it scares the shit out of you, at least it’ll keep your bowels open.” You were supposed to make a fire and contemplate deep things, although Rourke suspected Joey was just whacking off, which was pretty much the favorite thing of any guy their age.

The beeping sound of a truck backing up distracted him. He went to the window and saw a boxy white panel van. The sides of the truck were painted with a rushing river and “Sky River Bakery—

Established 1952” in fancy lettering.

Rourke was already a fan of the camp’s kitchen, and the baked goods in particular. The bread and rolls, Danishes, donuts and desserts were incredible.

He was about to turn back to the book collection when he noticed three guys sneaking up on the truck. They were guys from his cabin—Jacobs, Trent and Robson—and he didn’t know them very well, but he knew they were jerks. They tended to pick on weaker kids, which meant they didn’t bother Rourke. In fact, they seemed to think he was one of them, even though he never joined in when they decided to pick on somebody.

At the moment, they weren’t bullying anybody but they were stealing. They had sneaked into the back of the truck and were helping themselves to all the cookies they could stuff in their mouths and pockets from the tall, rolling racks.

Jerks. This was somebody’s livelihood. Although Rourke had no experience at earning a living, he knew what it was like because of Joey and his father. Rourke knew that somebody driving a bakery delivery truck probably couldn’t afford to give away cookies by the dozen to rich kids at camp.

This put him in an uncomfortable position. If he told the guys to cut it out, he’d be labeled a snitch by his bunkmates for the rest of the summer. If he ignored what was going on, he’d hate himself for a coward.

When Trent picked up what appeared to be a whole blueberry pie, Rourke made up his mind. He was about to head outside when someone got out of the truck—a dark-haired girl who had apparently been sitting in the passenger seat. She was about Rourke’s age, maybe a little younger. Her hair was in two braids and she wore cutoffs, a red T-shirt and unlaced sneakers. She was just some girl.

Except, when he looked at her, Rourke felt funny, although he couldn’t put his finger on the reason why. She had a kind of old-fashioned, big-eyed prettiness and a quizzical expression on her face.

And right now, she was being robbed.

Maybe. He couldn’t hear what she was saying but the three guys sure as heck weren’t listening.

They kept helping themselves to pastries and rolls. They were probably stuffed by now, but kept grabbing things anyway.

The girl was still talking. Maybe she was in on the prank with the guys. Maybe it was fine for her to stand by and watch them steal.

Or maybe Rourke was reading the situation all wrong.

He bolted for the exit and ran down the stairs and around the kitchen from the outside. Through a window he could see the truck driver—an older guy—sitting down and having a chat with Mrs. Romano, who ran the kitchen. They seemed oblivious to the goings-on outside. The tinny sound of a radio drifted to his ears.

He came around the side of the building in time to see…well, now. He wasn’t sure what he was seeing. Trent had the girl pressed against the side of the truck and they were…gross, were they making out? He was about to turn away in disgust when he noticed one small, telling detail. Trent wasn’t holding her hand, but her wrist, pinned against the side of the truck. Her hand was raised in fear like the hand of a drowning person about to go under for the last time.

Something happened to Rourke. He could have sworn he heard a popping sound go off in his ears. And he went all hot as though suddenly surrounded by a forest fire. “Get the hell away from her,”

he said, a low-voiced command that caused all three of them to turn toward him.

Trent grinned. “Hey, McKnight. Have a donut and wait your turn.”

Rourke was close enough now to see a sheen of sweat on the girl’s upper lip and the stark look of fear on her face. He grabbed Trent and yanked him away from the girl in a swift, violent motion. Trent was a big, solid guy, already a member of the eighth-grade wrestling squad at his school, but he felt like nothing as Rourke slammed him to the ground.

The other two recovered from their surprise and leaped on Rourke. He barely even slowed down.

Jerking his head up, he smashed Jacobs in the face with the back of his skull. He slammed an elbow into Robson, who staggered, the wind knocked out of him. Trent threw a few punches but Rourke barely felt them. He didn’t punch in return but pounded with both fists, methodically and mindlessly, ignoring Trent’s bleating pleas for mercy.

Finally, something broke through the rage. Rourke wasn’t sure how he was even able to sense the light, fluttery touch at his shoulder.

“Stop,” said a quiet, trembling voice. “That’s enough.”

Rourke’s inner fire glimmered and went out. Trent scrambled to his feet, his bloody, swollen face a mask of fear. “Jesus Christ,” he said, catching a drop of blood with the back of his hand. “You could have killed me. You’re crazy, man. You’re fucking insane.”

His friends led him off, probably to the infirmary. Rourke watched them go. His insides felt absolutely empty, scoured by rage.

“Hey,” said the girl.

His attention snapped to her and she jumped back, hands raised in self-protection. All of a sudden he felt sheepish, as though she’d seen him naked or something. “Hey,” he said, and forced himself to relax, to show her he meant no harm.

“There’s a first-aid kit in the truck. Come on.” She went around the side of the panel truck and took out a well-stocked first-aid kit. “Hold out your hands,” she said.

He was amazed to see that the skin of his knuckles was red and broken in several places. She dabbed at the raw spots with an antiseptic wipe, then used some sort of liquid from a bottle to brush a stinging film over the broken skin and then cover the cuts with Band-Aids.

Though surprised by the violence of his response to Trent, Rourke had to admit to himself that this was not the first time he’d gone all defensive on behalf of somebody else. There was something that happened to him. He hated, absolutely freaking hated, seeing a person—anyone, even a dog—being bullied by someone else. It made him—how had Trent put it?—fucking insane. Last year, when he’d seen some guys from Joey’s school teasing Joey about his long hair and baby face, Rourke had run the guys off with little more than a threat delivered with low-voiced menace. If it had come to blows, he might have done something permanent to them.

“Now I need to do your cheek,” the girl said.

“My cheek?” Rourke angled the truck’s side mirror and was amazed to see a livid cut high on his cheekbone. “I didn’t even feel that happen,” he said.

She used a fresh antiseptic wipe to clean the cut. “It’s not bleeding very much but you might need stitches.”

“No way. Then they’d have to report it to my parents and I’d get sent home.” He didn’t think he could stand it if he had to leave camp now. And if they called his parents, his mother would probably have him airlifted to Mount Sinai for plastic surgery, to save his face.

Up close, the girl was even prettier than she seemed from far away. He could see the gold and brown facets of her eyes. He could see a constellation of freckles scattered across her nose. And he could smell her scent, something like Kool-Aid. Some completely alien part of him suddenly understood why Trent had been so determined to steal a kiss.

Cut it out, Rourke told himself. Don’t even think about it. Yet he was surprised to see that she was staring at him, too, at his mouth and at his chest where his torn shirt gaped open.

Then she blushed and got busy. She peeled open two Band-Aids and covered the cut on his cheekbone. “It’s gonna scar.”

“I don’t care.”

She snapped the first-aid kit shut. “So you don’t think you’ll get in trouble?” she repeated.

He narrowed his eyes. “That’s kind of up to you.”

She narrowed her eyes right back at him, as if calling his bluff. “What do you mean, up to me?”

“Depends on how bad you want those guys to pay for stealing and for—” He didn’t even want to say it. “For messing with you.”

“Why does it depend on me? Suppose that boy with the bleeding mouth squeals on you.”

“Trent? No way. If he says I hit him, he knows I’ll say why—that they were stealing, and that he

—” Rourke paused again, studied her. “Did he hurt you?”

She absently rubbed her wrist. “I’m okay.”

He wasn’t sure whether or not to believe her. She seemed a little embarrassed, so he didn’t push for an answer. “Anyway,” he continued, “they don’t want to get in trouble any more than I do, so they’ll keep their mouths shut.”

“I see.”

“I could make them pay for the stuff they stole—”

“No,” she said quickly. “I think you already made them pay. It wasn’t that much stuff, anyway.”

He looked at the blueberry pie, now spreading a purple stain in the mud. “You’re not going to get in trouble either?” he asked.

For the first time, she smiled. And when she did, something crazy happened to Rourke. It was completely random, but suddenly the world seemed different just because she was smiling. He half expected some kind of theme song to start playing.

“The driver’s my grandfather,” she said. “I never get in trouble with him.”

“That’s good.” He found an old newspaper and cleaned up the worst of the pie. “I’m Rourke,” he added, realizing they didn’t know each other’s names. “Rourke McKnight.”

“I’m Jenny Majesky,” she said. “My grandparents have the Sky River Bakery in town. I’m working for them this summer. Saving up to get my own computer.”

“Your own computer,” he echoed like an idiot. Being around this girl pretty much sucked all the brains out of his head.

“Yes. A notebook computer that runs on batteries so you can take it anywhere with you.”

“Oh. So you must really like computer games.”

The smile flashed again. “I want it for writing. I like to write.”

God. That was like doing homework without even being told. “What do you write?”

“Stories, poems, things that happen to me.” She reached under the passenger seat of the truck and pulled out a thick spiral-bound notebook. Flipping through it, she showed him page after page covered with writing in bright turquoise ink.

“You wrote all that?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“How long did it take you?”

She shrugged. “I don’t keep track.”

“Are you going to write about—about today?” he couldn’t help asking.

“Are you kidding? Of course I am.”

He found himself wondering what she would write about him. To his surprise, he realized that it mattered. He liked this girl as much has he’d ever liked any girl.

They heard a clatter from the kitchen, the sound of a rack being rolled toward the door.

“My grandfather,” Jenny said. “I’ll be leaving soon.”

Don’t go,
he thought. “Listen, you shouldn’t be afraid to come back here. I’ll make sure those guys don’t mess with you again.”

“I’m not scared of them.” She paused, took a step back, folding her arms protectively across her chest. “The scariest thing about today was you.”

What the heck…? He sure hadn’t expected that.

“Rourke,” someone called.
Joey.
Back from his solo expedition. “There you are. I’ve been looking all over camp for you.” He arrived from the lakefront, still wearing his backpack and clanking with gear.

Sure, they were best friends, but just this once, Rourke wasn’t all that glad to see Joey. Rourke was having a real actual conversation with a real actual girl, and he wanted her all to himself. There wasn’