Spells & Sleeping Bags #3 (14 page)

I poke my sister's foot with my big toe, sending ripples through the lake. “Nice, huh?”

“Yeah,” she says, almost wistfully. “Tonight was fun.”

“Don't worry, Mir. Camp will get better. You'll see.”

11
BEE MY SWEETIE

Whenever I get a moment alone, I practice my megels. I consider finding a secluded place in the woods, but I decide I'm still too afraid of running into a bear. Or a deer. Or a raccoon. Or any type of animal that isn't housebroken.

So I choose Plan B. Unfortunately, Plan B is using one of the bathroom stalls in our cabin. What can I say? Sure, it's slightly smelly, but it's conveniently close by, and it's the only place in camp where you can ever be truly alone. I practice my exercises on the extra roll of toilet paper sitting in the corner of the stall. Luckily, the stall doors go to the floor, so no one thinks I'm peeing like a boy.

It's rest hour, and I've been practicing in here for about ten minutes. I'm getting a bit better at it. Higher. Stop. Higher. Stop. . . .

Bam, bam, bam.
“You've been in there
forever.
It's not your personal bathroom.”

Whoops. I flush, even though I haven't done anything that requires flushing, and crack open the door. “Sorry, I—” I stop in midsentence. It's Liana. Why am I always apologizing to this girl?

“You can't hog the bathroom,” she snaps.

Someone has some major hostility issues. “I said I was sorry.”

She flips her hair and then slams past me into a stall—but not the stall I vacated. And that's when I realize something weird: the other two stalls were free. Huh. Why would Liana kick me out of my stall when two were empty? Does that make any sense?

Since there is still fifteen minutes of rest hour left, I walk through the cubby room to our bunk, pull down my pillow, and make myself comfy on Alison's bed, my feet flat against the ladder.

Poodles and Carly are playing gin rummy. “Wanna play, winner?” Carly asks me. “Kick our butts?”

It seems I have a knack for gin rummy. Who knew? “Sure, if there's time.”

“I've got mail!” says Deb, arms full of e-mail printouts, letters, and packages. She reads the names as she hands out the e-mails first. “Alison, Poodles, Rachel, Carly, Poodles, Alison, Morgan, Morgan, Rachel.”

Fun! I get an e-mail from Tammy (who's still dating Bosh and loving her summer babysitting job in the city) as well as an e-mail from my dad.

My dad's e-mails are adorable. And a wee bit illiterate, since they're sent from his BlackBerry. Take today's:

I've written him that we have no computer access (Deb prints out all the bunk's e-mails once a day), but the concept is obviously too foreign for him to grasp.

She tosses a thick pink package onto Poodles' bed. “For you, princess.”

“I hope it's the new issue of
EW,
” Poodles says, tearing the envelope open. “Oh good.
People,
too.”

“Package for you, too, Rachel,” Deb says, handing me a small padded envelope.

For me? A package? I am beyond excited.

“Who's it from?” Alison asks.

I flip the envelope over to read the return address. Jennifer Weinstein. “My stepmom,” I say. That is so sweet of her! I wonder what she got me. A book? A CD?

I rip open the package and find . . . a bottle of Nair.
Hair removal for the upper lip.

Huh? A folded handwritten note says,
Enjoy! Love, Jennifer.

She did not just send me this.

“You have a mustache?” Morgan asks.

“No!” I say quickly, hiding the box behind me. I can't believe she would send me this. Is she trying to tell me

something? “I don't think I do. Do I?” I wiggle my upper lip.

Alison examines my face. “I don't see one.”

“Be honest.”

“I swear! What a weird gift.”

No kidding.

“Rachel, here's another letter for you,” Deb says.

“Thanks.”

I open it up and see that it's from my mom. It's your basic “I'm doing well, how are you, I miss you” letter. At least I have one normal parent.

Besides the whole witchcraft part.

“Don't you think Harris looks like a movie star?” Poodles asks while studying her new magazine.

“He's not that good-looking,” says Morgan, tweezing her eyebrows in a handheld mirror. “Will, on the other hand . . . now there's a piece of eye candy.”

“What's going on with Harris?” I ask Poodles.

Poodles keeps her eyes on her magazine. “Stuff.”

“What?” we all scream.

Poodles smiles and shushes us with her finger to her lips. “I don't want”—she motions to fifteen—“them to hear.”

Morgan tosses her hand mirror and tweezers onto her bed. “You'd better spill this second!”

Poodles twirls a lock of her blond hair around her long index finger. “Yesterday during sailing . . .”

We lean in eagerly.

“. . . we tipped the boat, and when we were in the water, he kissed me.”

“Oh! My! God!” we shriek.

“Alison and I were sailing and we didn't even notice!” I say in disbelief.

“That's why Harris sent you out with Anderson and Brandon,” Poodles says.

“Ah,” Alison says. “I didn't totally buy the ‘they're training to be sailing instructors’ part, since they tipped us twice.”

“I think the tipping part was on purpose,” I say. They thought it was hysterical every time we got dumped into the freezing water. Carly was so jealous when we told her.

“Can we get back to Harris, please?” Morgan whines.

“If any of you breathe a word of this to anyone,” Poodles continues, “I will personally strangle you.”

“You'd better be careful,” Alison warns. “You could get into serious trouble.”

“He could get fired,” Carly adds.

Poodles looks meaningfully around the room. “That's why you all had better keep your mouths shut. Let's change the subject.”

“What about you, Rachel?” Morgan asks, already back to her tweezing. “Any tongue action with Raf?”

“No,” I say. “And now I feel even worse that it's taking so long.”

“It's not the same,” Alison says. “Harris lives in Boston. It's not like they're going to turn into a serious item.” She looks at Poodles. “You're not serious about him, are you?”

“Me, serious? Get serious. My longest relationship was like a week.”

“All they have is the summer,” Alison continues, “so they have to get a move on. On the other hand, you and Raf—this is not just a summer fling. This has consequences! You guys go to school together. If it doesn't work out, you'll have to avoid each other not only for the next four weeks but for the next three years. Raf just wants to make sure.”

Makes sense. I guess.

“And you know, you did date his brother,” Carly adds.

“Lucky girl,” grumbles Morgan.

There's always that. I sigh. “I suppose so.”

But if Raf does make a move, what if my screwed-up magic messes it up again and makes me pop on the lights?

“Maybe the problem is that we're always around,” Poodles says. “You need to go somewhere private. He's not going to make a move when the entire world is sitting on our porch.”

“Now we're talking,” I say. Maybe it'll work. After all, I've been doing my megels.

When we finish evening activity, I ask Raf if he wants to go for a walk.

His eyes widen in surprise (because of my brazen hussiness?) and then he quickly says, “Sure.”

That was easy enough.

“Which way should we go?” he asks.

“Upper Field?” It has fewer bunks and therefore more privacy. We talk as we walk through the darkness. The night air is warm and dry.

“Let's go sit on the bleachers,” he says, and we cross second base.

He steps up to the first level and takes my hand to help me along. Zing! Hello, electricity. We climb to the top and stretch our legs onto the row below.

“You can see the Big Dipper,” Raf says, tilting his head back.

I forgot how cute his earlobe is. I have to stop myself from tugging on it. Instead I follow his lead and look at the sky. I'd make a wish, but there are too many stars to know which one I saw first. And it's not like I need stars to make wishes. “I wish we could stay at camp forever,” I say anyway. “It's so pretty here.”

“I know what you mean. A sky like this makes you wonder why you'd ever live in the city.”

“Um, because our parents force us to?”

He laughs. “Right, there's that. But I'd like to go somewhere cool for college.”

“Like where?”

The moonlight glows on his skin. “I don't know. Somewhere like this, in the middle of nowhere. University of . . . Iowa.”

“Why Iowa?”

He tilts his head down and studies his hands. “They have a great writing program.”

“Is that what you want to be? A writer?”

“I think so. What about you? What are your plans?”

My only real plan at the moment is to get him to kiss me. “I think I want to major in math.”

“Cool. Do you think you'll stay in New York?”

“Lately I've been dreaming about California. Maybe I'll go to school out there.” He hums the Mamas and the Papas' “California Dreamin'” and I join in.

We both laugh.

“Wouldn't you miss New York?” I ask.

“If I can make it there,”
he sings.

My turn:
“I'll make it—boom, boom—anywhere!”

Together now:
“It's up to you, New York, New York!”

“I love that song,” he says.

Me too! Omigod, Raf and I have a song! “Admit it, Raf, you'll never leave Manhattan.”

“I would miss it too much. And I'd miss my family. Wouldn't you?”

“Nah.”

We laugh again.

“Kidding. I get along with my family. Most of the time. Well, some of the time. But I like being on my own. I'd miss my sister, though.” I tilt my head and look up at the stars.

“Yeah, I could see that. If I went to Iowa, I'd miss my brothers.”

“You're so lucky you have brothers. I wish I had a brother.”

He grimaces, and I realize my glaring faux pas. I should
not
have mentioned the word
brother.
What was I thinking, bringing up Will?

“Rachel, I have a question for you,” he says.

Heart. Beating. Quickly. “Yes?”

“You're not . . . Do you still have feelings for Will?”

“What? No!” No, no, no. Here's my chance. To get it all out in the open. “Actually . . . I wanted to tell you, Raf—that I shouldn't have dated Will. After what happened with us. It must have been really weird for you.”

He adjusts himself on the bleachers, leaning back on his elbows. “Yeah, you could say that. But it's not your fault. I should have told him it bugged me.”

It bugged him? Yay!

“I should have explained to you about my dad's wedding,” I say in a rush. “Why I had to miss Spring Fling. I should have—”

He shakes his head, waving my words away. “I should have been more understanding. I'm sure you were going through a rough time with your dad remarrying.”

I was! He's so smart.

We're both quiet for a minute, and then he smiles and says, “I wish I had a sister.”

“Really?” Better topic. It was getting a bit heavy there for a second.

“Sure. It'd be cute. Your sister's a cutie.”

“Thanks.”

“She always seems so serious. Like she's contemplating the fate of the world.”

Poor Miri. “She kind of is.”

“Does she like camp?”

“She's getting used to it.”

He gives me a lazy smile. “Do you like it?”

I think about the lake, the stars, the fresh air. The coziness of my cabin. The fun of wearing my pajamas to flagpole and staying up late laughing with my bunkmates. “I love it.”

“Do you think you'll come back next year?”

My left knee is only about a foot away from his right knee. “As a CIT, you mean? Definitely. You?”

“For sure. I'm coming back until I get to be head staff.”

“Like Mitch?”

“Better than Mitch. I don't know how they put him in charge of anything.”