Camp Gorebury

Chapter Three

Landon

We end up stopping at a newspaper stand a few blocks away. Justin drifts over to a display of comic books, unimpressed by the range of options.

"All they ever sell is Marvel," he complains, our fight about Stephanie already forgotten.

(He has a short attention span and gets distracted easily. I rely on this a lot.)

"How am I supposed to keep up with Batman? Or the X-Men? They only have the Avengers."  

"We can go somewhere else if it bothers you so much. I'll call a cab."  

"No, It is fine— look, here's some D.C." Justin picks up a comic and shows it to me, superman's chiseled face glares at me from the cover.

"Now, this is some quality stuff. Superman— he is the original hero. He is the best."  

"Superman's lame," I reply, shuffling through the pages of an Archie volume.

"You can defeat him with a green rock."  

Justin sets the comic down and flashes me a scandalized look.

"Not just any rock. Kryptonite."  

"What is the difference? It is still a rock."

He snorts in disbelief.

"You make it sound like he is the only superhero with a weakness. Have you ever read Green Lantern? Wonder Woman? Wolverine?"  

"Okay, okay, I get it. Every superhero has a weakness."  

"Everyone has a weakness,"

Justin corrects me.

He stares at me knowingly. Or at least tries too; he makes it a full three seconds before breaking out in a grin. 

I shove the Archie comic back onto the display and glare at him.

"It is annoying when you try to act deep, you know."

"I am just saying."

"Well, you can stop saying."  

Justin walks over and punches me lightly in the shoulder.

"I know what your Kryptonite is, Landon. It is your mother."

I punch him back. But not as lightly.

"Shut up. You know It is not."

"If it isn't, then why did you crash David's car?"

I glare at him even harder, but Justin doesn't relent.

"What did he even say about Stephanie, anyways? Nothing could have been bad enough that you would risk going to jail to protect her."

"For your information, it was bad enough. And It is not like just Stephanie would get in trouble for it. My dad would go down too, and so would his friends, and maybe even my Aunt Kelly, since she knew about A—"

I stop myself and shake my head.

"It was just bad, okay? And Stephanie is not my Kryptonite."

Justin just shrugs.

"If she isn't your Kryptonite, then what is?"  

"Maybe I do not have a Kryptonite. Maybe I am invincible."  

"Right now, you are about as invincible as Gwen Stacy in the Spider-Man comics."

"Considering that Stephanie looked like she wanted to snap my neck today, you are not that far from the truth."

Justin goes and picks up the Superman comic again, then carries it over to the stand. He waves frantically to catch the attention of the cashier, who's busy bobbing his head to a tune on his Walkman.

"Justin, you do not have to do that," I protest. Justin doesn't come from a poor family, but he certainly isn't rich, either.

"If this is because I paid for your ice-cream—"  

"Just think of it as a parting gift." Justin asks the cashier for a pen and scribbles something down on the last page of the comic— a phone number.

His phone number.

"This is so you can call me from whatever cell they lock you up in."

He presents the comic to me like he is handing over a laurel wreath.

"And you better call. Or I really will judo flip you."  

Grudgingly, I accept the comic.

"I already have your phone number memorized."

"Think of it more as a reminder to call, then. I know you tend to get lost in that head of yours."

Even though I hate it when Justin throws cash around, I feel oddly touched.

"Thanks, Justin. Really."  

"No need for that. Like I said, It is my gift."  

"Of course. I'll treasure it forever."  

"Quit ruining the moment. I bought that comic out of the goodness of my heart— do not be a wise-ass about it."  

"What else am I supposed to be?"

"You could try being yourself, for a change. You know that 'Landon' and 'wise-ass' do not always have to mean the same thing."

"News to me. I grew up thinking wise-ass was my legal first name. Stephanie calls me that enough that It is easy to get confused—"

"Oh, you talk too much."

Justin swings his arm around my shoulder and turns his face up to the starry sky, a half-exasperated, half-amused expression spreading across his face.

"Look. I know a lot of things, but I certainly do not know that you are required to be a Lockwood all the time. Sometimes It is okay to just be Landon."  

"Geez, what is with the pep talk, Rocky?"

His arm drops off my shoulder, and he turns away, expression fully exasperated now.

"Whatever, man. I tried."

I start humming Eye of the Tiger.

He rolls his eyes at me.  

"You are not as much of an enigma as you think you are," Justin tells me.

"I do know you, Landon."  

But It is clear that after all this time he still doesn't know the one thing that really matters. And why would he? New Year's Eve was almost six months ago— practically a millennium away for a pair of high-schoolers. And even if time hadn't erased those memories, all that peach-flavored vodka would've done it for him.  It is probably for the best that he doesn't know what happened that night.

I am fine with keeping it a secret. I was born into a family of liars; dishonesty is in my genes. Besides, It is not really lying if you are just doing it to protect them from the truth.  

An hour or two later, we walk to Justin's house, a skinny brownstone wedged between a dozen other buildings, all identical except for color.

 (Justin's family isn't as wealthy as mine. Which is perfectly fine with me. Not so much with Stephanie, though. Stephanie says that Justin is a commoner. She practically had a stroke when I became friends with him.)  

When we say goodbye, it sounds way too final, like this is the last late night we'll ever go to Dairy Queen or browse comic books or even just walk around the city together. I just can't believe that this could be true, even though all of the odds stacked against us.  

"I'll see you tomorrow," I say to him as he climbs the stairs to the front door.

"We can catch a Mets game—"  

"F*ck off, you know I am a Yankee's fan, we've been through this a million times—"

"I know you are a Yankee's fan; I just do not approve of your choice in teams, and I like making your life hard. But if That is what you want to do, then we'll go to a Yankee's game. I do not care. We could even go see that new Rambo movie. I have heard It is bloody as hell."

 Justin shakes his head.

"Landon," he says, almost gently, "We both know That is not going to happen."  

"Says who?"  

"Says the Cadillac you wrapped around a telephone pole."

"Last time I checked; cars do not talk."

Justin gives me a quick smile. A knowing smile. Like he can already see what is going to happen to me; and that whatever that is, it won't be a scenario where we're buying tickets for a baseball game tomorrow.

"Goodnight, Landon." His goodnight sounds a lot more like goodbye.

"Do not forget the comic book."

I wait, out of habit, as he slips silently up the steps, one hand dragging behind on the rusted railing. But as he reaches for the front door he pauses.

"Landon," Justin says, without looking back, "Wherever they send you— give them hell from me, okay?"  

I let a slim smile creep across my face, knowing that he won't be able to see it. Justin always teases me about my smiles.

He thinks that I have dimples.

 (I do not.)

"They won't even know what hit them," I reply back. 

Then the front door clicks shut, and he is gone.  I wait for a few more moments on the sidewalk, just thinking about things, before I start to head back. It is a brief walk from Justin's house to my apartment, and I am home again in less than twenty minutes. As I spin through the revolving doors, I am so caught up in thinking about my possible last night with my friend that I almost do not realize the lobby isn't empty anymore. 

Stephanie is sitting on one of the leather futons, her left leg folded crisply over the other.

"So, the prodigal son returns," she says. 

Frank lets out a loud snore. My heart falls straight to my feet.  Stephanie rises to her feet, the heel of her stiletto clicking smartly against the marble floor. The sight of her standing in the lobby at two in the morning is jarring enough that I feel my jaw swing open and hear the word

"Mom" slip out of my mouth. I

 haven't called Stephanie anything except for Stephanie in years, so the sound of it startles me nearly as much as her appearance itself.

"What are you doing here?"  

"I could ask you the same thing," she says.

 "Where were you?"

All of my excuses dry up in my throat, like rain in the desert.

"I was out," I rasp.

"With Justin."  

"Why?"  

"I do not know. We just wanted to talk."

"You do not know," Stephanie repeats, her words thick with incredulity.

"You do not know why you left the apartment in the middle of the night, deliberately disobeying my orders, deliberately disobeying the police, deliberately putting your own future at risk? I am sorry, Landon, but that just doesn't make sense to me. You must have known why, otherwise you wouldn't have left."

"I told you. We wanted to talk."  

"There are telephones in the apartment. You could have called him."

"You said I could not—" I stop speaking, too frustrated to continue.

I wonder if Stephanie even remembers removing the phone from my room and forbidding me from using any of the others just hours ago.

"Never mind. It doesn't matter."

"I do not understand," Stephanie says. "Help me understand."  

"There is nothing to understand. All I wanted to do was talk to my friend. I tried not to wake you up—"

"You've been sneaking out for years, Landon. I was going to find out eventually." Her dark eyes narrow slightly, the only outward sign of her displeasure.

People regularly confuse Stephanie's eyes as brown, like mine, but her eyes are really this crazy dark shade of navy blue That is sort of stunning from far away. They look like the color of the ocean at night.

"You really aren't half as clever as you think you are. What is that in your pocket?"

I glance down. The comic book is sticking out of my jeans.

"Nothing," I say hastily, in case she is thinking of taking it away.

"Just something that my friend gave me."  

"Why was Justin Williams buying you comic books at midnight?" demands Stephanie, her upper lip curling slightly on the words comic book.

She hates graphic novels almost as much as she hates other teenage obsessions, like rock music and premarital s*x.

"Do his parents know that you were with him?"  

"Why do not you ask him yourself?" I retort.

I generally try to avoid sassing Stephanie (to her, back-talk is right up there with the Seven Deadly Sins) but I am getting really fed up with her insistent questions. I almost wish she would just ground me for a month so we can get this whole fight over with.  

"Landon," Stephanie says admonishingly.

"Do not be so churlish."

 (If you hadn't noticed already, Stephanie likes to speak like she ate an SAT test for breakfast. Sometimes I wonder if she reads the dictionary in her spare time just to discover new words to insult people with.)

"Let's try and have a civil conversation."

 "Okay. Can you please tell me why you are grilling me in the hotel lobby like some kind of FBI agent?"

"Landon—"

"Sorry, was that not civil enough for you? I included a 'please' and everything."  

"Landon."  

Sparks fly from Stephanie's black eyes, and I see that she is done messing around.

Wisely, I shut up.  

"I am still here, speaking with you, because there is something I need to tell you," Stephanie says sternly.

"While you were gone, I came to the decision that I am no longer going to tolerate your blatant irresponsibility. If you won't fix your poor behavior, then I have to send you somewhere that will."  

A flurry of options flashes before me. Boarding school in the United Kingdom. Boot camp at West Point.

Death row.

"What?"

To my credit, my voice only sounds marginally strangled.

"Where the hell are you sending me?"  

"Summer camp," she says. 

I freeze for a moment in disbelief. This is new. Stephanie never mentioned summer camp when she was screaming at me about how I'd ruined everything she worked so hard to achieve.

"Summer camp? But I am sixteen."  

"It is a sleepaway camp," she elaborates.

"I have a pamphlet. You can look at it later."  

Shit. If Stephanie already has a pamphlet for this place, that means she has been considering sending me to it for more than just a couple of hours. Maybe the Cadillac was only the straw that broke the camel's back.  I dare to ask,

"How long is the camp?"

"Three months. It is all summer— That is why It is called a summer camp."

"No," I say, instantly realizing what a sleep-away summer camp would entail— not being in New York for the summer, not being able to hang out with my friends, not being able to see Justin... and if I am not spending my summer with Justin, then my life might as well be pointless.

"That is bullshit!"  

Stephanie smiles thinly as if agreeing that yes, this is bullshit, but on my part, not hers.

"I wish I didn't have to do this, Landon. But you have given me no choice."  

"How long do I have in New York?"  

"Two days."  

My mouth falls open.

"And when, exactly, were you planning on telling me this?"  

"Tomorrow. But since we were both already awake, I decided I might as well break the news to you now."  

My eye gives a slight twitch. It is sort of like an allergic reaction to my mother.

"Does this summer camp have a name?" I ask when I am feeling calm enough to speak.

"Or is that a secret, too?"  

"The name is Gorebury. Feel free to look it up. It is gotten good reviews."  

"From whom— the parents, or the kids?"

"I suppose you'll find out. I have already made arrangements with the director. They're expecting you."  

"Great. I can't f*cking wait."  

"Landon, please. Crude language doesn't become you."

 "s**t, I am sorry."  

Stephanie closes her eyes and sigh. I brace myself, waiting for the spiel— the one that I have already heard so many times today; how I am a disappointment to the family name, how I'll never be the heir to her company... but it doesn't come. Instead, all Stephanie does is let her eyes flutter open again. She stares at me in silence.

"This isn't fair," I tell her, to fill the unbearable void.

"It isn't."  

"It is very fair. What you did today was inexcusable. You should feel lucky that you are only going to summer camp."  

"Everything I did today was for you. Is that not a good enough excuse?"  

"We've already discussed this," Stephanie says tightly.

"You stole David's car unprovoked. You crashed it, also unprovoked. Whatever sacrifice you thought you were making for me—"

"Thought?"  

"— was for nothing," Stephanie finishes. 

Her words hit me in the chest, but I am hollow inside, so they just fly straight through my ribs and out the other side. For nothing. What a stupid thing to say. Nothing is ever for nothing. There is always a reason, always a motivator.  

I stare at my mother as if I have never seen her before. She is not wearing pajamas (if the imported silk she usually wears to bed can be counted as pajamas), but white blouse and dark slacks, the type of outfit she would wear to work at her company. Her hair is as straight as the edge of a knife and her makeup is equally sharp. She didn't sleep tonight. She probably just waited in bed until I left, performed a few blood sacrifices, and then walked down to the lobby to meet me.

"Do not make me say her name. Please."  

Her face stiffens.

"That is enough, Landon. No more story-telling."

My mother may be a master of deception, but I am even better at sniffing out lies. It is almost insulting that she is acting like I won't catch her lying now.

"I know what you are doing," I tell her. "You are sending me away so I can't tell people the truth. I know how you really got the money, and now you are making sure that I can't expose you like David almost did. That is the real reason you are sending me to this summer camp."  

"That is not true. I do not know where you are coming up with these wild ideas, but they're just that— ideas. Part of the Gorebury manifesto is "acceptance is healing". You need to accept your lies, so you can finally heal, and accept reality for what it is. I already told you once— whatever information you thought David had on me is meaningless. Deep down, Landon, I think you already know that you didn't steal that car for me. You did it for yourself."  

Her words pile on top of me like boulders in an avalanche, and suddenly, I can't take it anymore. The idea of summer camp, the constant deception, the f*cking SAT insults— I just can't take it. I have never blown up at Stephanie before, but now I go off like an H-bomb.  

"Alice!" I yell, my vision going red.

"He said, Alice! Jesus Christ, Stephanie. Do you think I am missing a pair of ears? I know what I heard. 'You need to accept your lies'. That is bullshit. You need to accept your lies. You are the one that needs healing, not me!"  

Stephanie's lips press into a thin, straight line. Her eyes are so dark they look like twin black holes.

"This is your last night in my apartment for the rest of the summer. Now go to your room before I change my mind and make it for the rest of your life."

Her words are a threat, but I am too furious to budge.

"How can you lie like this? I heard every word David said. And I remember enough of what happened to understand that it was all true."  

"You were nine," she says scathingly.

"How could you remember anything from back then?"

"I remember," I respond, "because It is kind of hard to forget how your own mother robbed a dead woman of everything she owned."  

Stephanie's face darkens, and That is when I realize I have crossed a line. A line that was drawn seven years ago, and that I have been tiptoeing around ever since. And that some lines are not meant to be crossed.  The resounding c***k that follows Stephanie's slap is loud enough that Frank jerks himself away and jumps to his feet, blinking at us in open bewilderment from behind his desk. He doesn't say anything, just watches, gaping, as I slowly raise a hand to touch my face.  

"I am sorry,"

I hear myself say, although I am not really sure what I am apologizing for.  

"Be quiet," Stephanie hisses.

Her voice is so commanding that my own words stagger to a halt on their own accord.

"This is a private conversation, and I would like to keep it that way."  

I glance over at Frank.

He stares at me in confusion, as if finally realizing that he is stumbled into the middle of an active battlefield. I do not know if he saw the slap, or if he woke up just after, but I know he won't say anything about it. Lobbyists are used to ignoring s**t like this.

 (Correction: they get paid for ignoring s**t like this.)  

"Sir—" begins Frank, upset.

Then Stephanie redirects her gaze towards the lobbyists and switches from power level stun to obliterate, and Frank gives me one last pitying looking before hurrying towards the elevator as fast as his old legs can carry him.  As soon as he is gone, I turn back to Stephanie. Her face is as expressionless as a wax figure, her eyes like round pebbles in her forehead. She has never slapped me before. I wonder if she regrets doing so, or if she could really care less. Knowing her, It is probably the latter.  

"Tomorrow, you will pack your bags for summer camp," Stephanie says, her words steady and monotone.

"You will leave immediately and never speak of what happened today again. Understand?"

I return her gaze with the same color eyes, black on black. All the colors combined into one.

"And what happens if I do not do what you say?" I ask, almost in a whisper.

Any louder and I wouldn't be brave enough to force it out.  

"You already know what will happen. To both you and your friend."

I stare at Stephanie.

There is something in her face that makes me pause. Something... aware. But she could not know— could she? Then again, this is Stephanie, and information has a funny way of falling right into her perfectly manicured hands. She gets what she wants, always. Hell, the universe itself would bend over backward for her if she asked nicely enough.  Dread seeps into my chest, as cold as dry ice.

"Leave Justin out of this," I say.

I want to sound strong and convincing, but I can already tell that I do not. Not against her. I never can.

"He is just my friend."  

"Is he?" Stephanie responds questioningly.

 She doesn't believe me, and I wouldn't expect otherwise.

"Fine," I say, through gritted teeth. I have been beaten.

Not that there was any hope of winning in the first place— in an argument against Stephanie, I always lose.

"I won't tell anyone about Alice. I'll go to your stupid summer camp. Are you happy now? Will you leave Justin alone?"

 "Of course," Stephanie says, her tone suddenly businesslike.

This is what she is familiar with— making deals, sealing compromises.

"As long as you keep your end of the bargain."

I turn away from her and walk towards the elevator, stuffing my hands into my pockets so she won't see them shaking.  

"Just remember, Landon," she calls after to me, her voice ringing through the empty lobby like a bell,

"I know you. I know everything."

I slam my thumb into the up button and pretend that It is her face.  A few seconds later, the gleaming metal doors to the elevator slide open, and I step inside. Stephanie doesn't follow.

Before the doors close, I stick my head out to see if she is still in the lobby— she is not. She is probably going out for a smoke. She'd never admit it, but nicotine is one of her only weaknesses— a habit picked up from a past life that she never truly got rid of.  The shiny brass elevator doors close, and I begin my ascent. My reflection stares back at me from inside the polished metal of the doors. My black eyes look blank as bullets.

I lift a hand to touch my cheek. There is going to be a mark there tomorrow. 

My reflection blinks at me, once, twice. I stare back at it and hope for one thing: that I'll be able to give Justin a proper explanation before I leave.