Page 65 of I Hope This Doesn't Find
“Don’t be so dramatic,” I say, laughing, but I can’t help feeling like she has a point.
•••
We’re given half an hour to settle into the cabins.
It’s very nearly perfect. The interior is designed like something from a fairy tale, with vintage couches and stacked bookshelves and a blazing fireplace. The local staff have laid out tables of homemade scones with fresh whipped cream and strawberry jam to welcome us; within minutes, they’re all gone, not even a crumb left on the porcelain plates. The teachers are given raw salmon appetizers and mocktails that smell suspiciously like cocktails, and I’ve never seen Ms. Hedge look so happy. The bunk beds are comfortably wide too, the sheets fragrant with the scent of flowers from outside.
The only problem is—
“Naked clowns,” Abigail says, her voice a mixture of horror and pure disgust.
All the other girls gather around her, staring up at the paintings on the wall. As in, paintings, plural. Because for whatever cursed reason, there aremultiplepaintings of naked clowns hung up in every room, right on open display for everyone to see. Above the beds, next to the mirrors, over the doors. Perhaps it would be better if they were done in some sort of abstract art style, but they’re unforgivably realistic, the tiny brushstrokes capturing every detail.
“This shouldn’t be allowed,” Georgina Wilkins says, shaking her head. “That’s just—what’s the word? Diametrical? Diagonal?”
“Diabolical,” I correct her automatically, then wince. I know from experience that this is one of my less popular traits.
But Georgina just throws me a grateful look and says, “Right. Exactly.” Which proves how bad the paintings must be.
Abigail drags a hand over her face. “My eyes feel like they’re being physically attacked. To be more specific, like they’re being kicked by a kangaroo and then dragged through cut glass and then set on fire.”
“God, I’m sorry,” I tell everyone. “I swear this wasn’t included in any of the photos on the website when we were picking out locations . . .”
And maybe it’s true what they say, about unlikely alliances forming from common enemies—even if the enemy is a two-dimensional clown who should be arrested for public indecency—because Rosie comes to stand next to me. “What are you apologizing for?” she asks, flicking her hair over her shoulders. “It’s not as if you put the paintings up there yourself.”
I open my mouth. Then close it again. I’m so used to taking responsibility for everything, to apologizing to her and everyone else, that it feels wrongnotto say sorry.
“You’re so strange sometimes, Sadie,” Rosie continues, though she doesn’t sound like she’s being unkind. “You know most people rush to push blame away instead of taking all of it themselves, right?”
I blink. Try to find my bearings again. “I— Right. Well . . . it might not be my fault, but I do know how we can fix this. Temporarily, at least.”
“Please,” Abigail says. “Anything.”
I rummage through my bag and pull out the spare jacket I packed, then drape it over the painting frame so it covers the clown completely. “There,” I say. The others quickly join in, grabbing loose dresses and oversized sweaters, and soon we’re running from room to room, giggling, lending one another our clothes to block every single painting from view. The hysteria fizzes on my tongue like alcohol, and when I turn around at one point, I catch Rosie’s eye. There’s no malice in her expression. We’re both doubled over, laughing at the absurdity of the whole situation, and for the first time in a while, I don’t feel like the year level’s number one villain. I don’t feel like the perfect student either; I’m just one of them.
We’re still laughing when we stumble outside onto the lakeshore, into the sunlight.
The first activity for the day is canoeing. Two canoes have already been set down over the pebbles, the green lake water shimmering behind them. A tanned, buff guy with beaded bracelets around his wrists and ankles introduces himself to us as David, But You Can Call Me Dave. Then he dives in right away, showing us how to hold the canoe paddle and adjust your body position while Ms. Hedge sips her cocktail-mocktail and watches from under the trees.
“We’ll split you off into two teams,” Dave says, rubbing his hands together. “And then, just to make things interesting, we’ll do a little race. The first person to the other side of the lake wins. Got it?”
Most of us nod. Abigail slaps a mosquito on her thigh and mutters into my ear, “I was hoping we wouldn’t have to do any physical exercise. When can we do a race to see who falls asleep the fastest? I bet I’d win that without even—”
“You,” Dave says, pointing at her.
Abigail jerks her head up. Smiles without any shame. “Yeah?”
“Since you’re feeling so chatty, you can lead the first team. And . . .” He looks around, sizing each of us up before his eyes land on Julius. “You look like leader material.”
“Well, he is school captain,” someone volunteers.
“Oh, is that right?” Dave asks.
Julius nods with barely concealed smugness, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Perfect. You can lead the other team, then,” Dave decides. “Both of you choose your members.”
“I would pick you,” Abigail whispers to me, nudging my ribs, “but I’m going to be generous and let you join his side.”
