Camp Gorebury

Chapter Six

Xavier

"Xavier, there is a package for you!" 

I am stuffing clothes into a bulging duffel bag when mom calls me downstairs. I go to meet her reluctantly— she has been cold to me every day since our meeting with the principal as if being sent to a summer camp in Alaska isn't punishment enough.  School is over and summer is officially here, but mom's three-month break from her job at the local community college has not lessened her temper in the slightest.

She didn't even react when I got my grades back on my exams— all B's and one C in Spanish, which is impressive, for me— and when I begged her to let me call my friends on the Cross Country team to explain why I was missing summer training, she only let me talk to them for ten minutes— and seriously, how could anybody fit something as big as this into a ten-minute phone call?

I wish she'd go easier on me. I am not asking her to forgive everything I did, but a little empathy wouldn't hurt. It's not like I tried to assassinate the president— all I wanted to do was save an endangered species of frogs. I had good intentions, and I am still being treated like a piece of s**t. It really isn't fair.

I clomp down the stairs and go to meet my mom in the kitchen. I've already decided that I am not going to say anything to her unless I absolutely have to (let's see how she appreciates the silent treatment), but when I see her, any thoughts of keeping quiet race out of my head and I hear myself blurt,

"Mom! What the hell are you wearing?" 

"It's a tracksuit, Xavier," she says, a bit too proudly for her disturbingly colorful pair of pants and matching jacket.

"They're totally in fashion right now." 

"Yeah, maybe if now was actually five years ago." 

Mom wags a finger at me. I don't understand how she can act offended in her get-up— she looks like a circus wLisabe.

"That's enough, mister. I called you down here for a reason and it wasn't so you can be the fashion police. A package came for you in the mail. Your sister sent it."

I am still so thrown by her tracksuit that I almost don't process these last few words.

"Henley," I say, trying out her name like it's the first time I've ever heard it.

"Henley sent me something?"

 "Yes. A package. It's on the dining room table."

Mom returns to the stove, where she's cooking a pot of mac and cheese for the Twins to eat while we're driving to the airport, and they're stuck at home with the babysitter.

(Stuck is probably the wrong word— they practically jumped with joy when mom said they didn't have to drive Indianapolis International with us; it means they'll be able to watch movies all night.)

 "It has your name on it. Very hard to miss." 

I slide into the dining room, where mom always dumps the mail.

"Do you know what it is?"

My words come out much more hopeful than I wanted. 

"Birthday gift, maybe," mom says.

She doesn't sound very enthused about it. Mom hasn't been happy with Henley ever since she left to go to college in England, which is understandable. She had her heart set on Henley attending her alma mater, Indiana State, but there was no way my sister was going to stay in-state, especially not after the divorce. So, Henley filled out her application to Oxford in secret and didn't tell anybody that she'd gotten in, at least not until she'd been accepted on a full scholarship. By the time Henley had packed her bags for England, there was nothing we could do to stop her. 

I shuffle through the heap of junk mail and report cards piled on the dining table until I find a cardboard box, dented, and plastered with stamps, with my name on it. The package doesn't look like a birthday gift— it's too plain for that, too economic. Also, my birthday was in March, and Henley never forgets my birthday.

(Until this year, at least. I didn't get anything in the mail from her, not even a card.) 

It just doesn't make sense for Henley to suddenly remember my birthday three months later. It's too random. And it's not like she didn't have earlier opportunities to send me a present— she didn't give me anything for Christmas, either.

I stare at the box in my hands, puzzled. The timing of the package's arrival can't be a coincidence. Henley doesn't do things on a whim, which means that she must have sent the package for a reason— she must want something from me. But what could my sister possibly need from me, when she's already gotten everything she ever wanted? 

"Did you find it?" mom calls. 

"Yup, I got it."

I grab the package and dash back up the stairs, dying to open it and see what Henley sent me.  Before I make it back to the safety of my room, I am ambushed in the hallway by the Twins.

"Hey!" Maddie shouts, throwing herself in front of me to block my path.

Martha moves in behind me, effectively cutting off my only route of escape.

"We heard you got a package from Henley, so why don't you show us what's in the box?"

I try to maneuver my way past the Twins, but it's like trying to walk through a brick wall.

"Go away. This isn't your business," I snap, pressing the box protectively against my chest.

The Twins exchange looks.

"Actually, this is our business," they chime in unison.

"Hand it over!"  I glare at them.

I hate it when they talk like that, and they know it. It reminds me too much of the pair of twins from the Shining movie.

(Just another example of why the Twins are the devil reincarnated in the bodies of two fourth-graders.)

I stick the front of the box in their faces.

"See this? That's my name. This package is addressed to me, not you two. Which makes it my business, not yours." 

Maddie pouts at me.

"Henley is our sister too, you know."

"Yeah, but I've known her longer than you have. So, get out of my way and let me have the privacy I deserve." 

The Twins give each other another lengthy look. I frown at them, suddenly uneasy. That look never means anything good— they only do it when they're scheming up some evil plan.

"Do it," Martha says.

Maddie whips a small glass bottle out of her pocket, uncorks it, and splashes the contents on my shirt.

"BAM! Truth serum!"

I look down at the quickly spreading stain on my shirt. It looks like a mixture of mouth wash and glitter glue and smells strangely fruity.

(Juice, maybe?)

I feel my teeth start to grind together. This isn't the first of my shirts the Twins have ruined, but it certainly is the last straw for me. 

"There is no such thing as truth serum, you idiots. And even if there was, it's not something that you can just mix up in the bathroom sink and pour into one of mom's old perfume bottles."

I can hear my voice getting louder, but I am too far gone to try and calm myself down. The last few days of my life have been pure s**t. I am tired of being pushed around and treated like crap, just because of one stupid mistake. If the Twins want to mess with me, they really picked the wrong day to do it.

"Magic isn't real," I continue, almost shouting now.

"Neither is the Tooth Fairy. Neither is Santa Claus. And Henley is my older sister, not yours. So, get the hell out of my way before I use this box to smack you all the way to England, where you can ask Henley for a personalized gift yourself!" 

Martha rushes forward and kicks me in the shins.

"You are so mean, Xavier!"

"She's right," Maddie says furiously.

"You've been a real jerk recently. And you need to watch it, ‘because even though you're going to some special camp in alpaca—" 

"Alaska," I correct. 

Martha kicks me in the shin again, and even though she's only ten and has the bone density of twig, it hurts in a way that makes me think I'll have a bruise later.

"Shut up. What Maddie is trying to say is that even though you're going to Alaska for the summer, it doesn't make you better than us. And you might have known Henley for longer, but that doesn't make you her only brother. Got it?"

"I am her only brother," I say, exasperated.

"Or did you two blockheads forget that you're girls?"

 Maddie hisses in anger. She sounds like a feral cat.

"You're not the fancy-pants you think you are," she tells me as if this is some wise advice and she's the oracle of Delphi.

"You're just some basic loser." 

"Oh my God," I say.

"You two really have no idea what's going on. I am not some fancy-pants who's going to a special summer camp. I am getting shipped off to Alaska because I broke the law. Because I am a criminal. Now please, let me get into my room before I do something that'll send me to jail for good!"

The Twins gape at me, stunned speechless by my profession. I use their shock to my advantage and shoulder past them, throwing myself into my room and slamming the door behind me. I keep my hand on the knob for a few extra seconds, but the Twins don't try to bust their way in. I hear them mutter to each other for another minute in the hallway, and then they retreat downstairs, probably to bug mom for the mac and cheese. 

Thank God.

If the Twins had tried to pull another fast one on me, I think I would have gone into berserker mode and killed them on the spot.  As soon as I hear their tiny footsteps fade away, I throw myself down on the bed and place the package on my pillow. I lay there for a while, just staring down the box and battling with my inner conflict.

On one hand, I really want to know what Henley sent me, but on the other hand, she abandoned our entire family. I should be chucking her gift in the trash, not making starry eyes at it.

 I mutter a curse.

Leave it to Henley to twist my insides into a knot.

I can't help but feel like I am partially in this situation because of her; I know that if she'd stayed in Indiana, she would have understood what I needed to do— she wouldn't have let the frogs die. She would have helped me steal the files and put a stop to the renovation. And with Henley on my side, there is no way I could have failed and gotten sent packing to some camp in Alaska. 

"But you weren't here," I say to the package.

Obviously, the cardboard doesn't respond.  Anger sharper than a thousand knives suddenly slices through my chest, and I hurl the box across the room, where it bounces off the wall and lands near my desk.

"Damn you, Henley!" I say, furious at everything and nothing at all.

"This is all your fault." 

I lay on my bed for nearly half an hour, just seething to myself, but in the end, my curiosity rules over my bitterness. I don't care what Henley did to our family. I need to see what's inside that box. 

I tumble off my bed and cross the room. In a swift, violent motion, I tear away the packing tape and rip open the cardboard, batting away the flurry of tissue paper and bubble wrap that explodes in my face. Then I turn the box over and dump out a card and a misshapen object wrapped in red and blue and white fabric. 

The Union Jack.

Of course. 

I scowl at the flag and flip open the card instead. Henley's handwriting, a sloping, half-print, half-cursive scrawl, greets me on sight. 

Dear Xavier, she writes.

I know that you won't get my package for a while. It was supposed to be a birthday present, but I kind of forgot. I know. I am a horrible sister. You don't have to remind me.  I might as well admit this now— it was really asshole-y of me to leave you and go to England. I shouldn't have left you alone in Indiana. No good big sister would have done that. But you have to understand, Oxford has always been my dream school. And when mom and dad broke up, I couldn't be around anymore. I just couldn't.  I was a real jerk for not answering any of your calls; I just got so caught up in college and the newness of Oxford and London that it was too easy to pretend that my real family didn't exist and that all the s**t that went down at home never actually happened. But it was selfish of me because you do exist; all of you do. And I can't just ignore you to make myself feel better.  So, I am writing this letter with the hope that you'll forgive me. I know that I've been a horrible sister and a horrible person in general and that you have a right to be angry— but I want things to be okay between us. You're one of my best friends, Xavier. More importantly, you're my family. And if you still want to talk to me, I wrote my phone number at the bottom of this letter.  There is one more thing, but you have to promise not to tell mom and dad. I'll talk to them when I am ready, and I am not ready yet. I might not be for a while. But, through everything, I know I can trust you, Xavier. Which is why I am telling you this:  I met a guy, and we're getting married in August!  Lots of love, Henley  

For a moment, I can only stare at the letter and pray to God that it's not real. Then I reread it twice to make sure that it's Henley's handwriting, and not some stupid prank conjured up by the Twins to torture me. I read the letter another three times before I determine that it's real, damningly so. Henley wrote the letter. Henley, my sister, wrote the letter. Henley, my sister, who's getting married in less than three months to a guy she met in Oxford, wrote the letter.

Holy f**k.

Henley wrote the letter. 

I wish that I could blink and wake up, but I know that I can't. The real world has always been scarier than my nightmares, and now I am trapped in a reality that I can't escape.  My eyes are still glued to the paper.

(I think that it would take an act of God to tear them away.)

 "What. The. f**k," I whisper.

"What the fuck." 

I have to tell mom. Or dad. Or at least someone. How am I supposed to carry a secret this big for the rest of the summer and not go insane? I keep staring at the paper, mind reeling. Henley asked me not to tell. I can't betray Henley. But what if she actually does get married, and mom and dad never find out? What if her fiancé is actually an ax-murderer? What if she elopes with him and moves to some random city in Europe and I never see her again?  It's all-out warfare in my brain right now.

One half of me wants to tell my parents immediately, to protect both them and Henley, but the other half of me is stupidly loyal to my sister and refuses to break the promise she unwillingly dragged me into. What a shitty, shitty way to start the summer. First Gorebury, and now this. It's just too much for me to cope with. 

"Damn you, Henley!"

I pick up the package and hurl it across the room. It lands somewhere in a heap of clothes. Then I throw myself down on my bed and bury my head in the pillows, closing my eyes tight enough that I start to see stars.  Of course, the Twins choose this exact moment to burst into my room and start shouting.

"Xavier! Xavier! What did Henley give you?"

They sound like a swarm of bees buzzing in my ears.

"Xavier? Xavier? Are you crying? Should we get mom?" 

"I am not crying! And don't you dare get mom!"

I curl my legs up against my chest and turn towards the wall to protect myself from the Twins' attack.

"Henley didn't get me anything. Why would she— obviously she doesn't give a s**t about this family anymore!" 

"That's a bad word," one of the Twins says.

"I know that's a bad word because Tommy H. in my spelling class used it and the teacher yelled at him."

"Do you know who also uses bad words?" exclaims the other Twin.

"Criminals!"  The Twins explode.

"Xavier, Xavier, are you really a criminal? Xavier! Did you break the law? Did dad arrest you? Xavier, Xavier, are you going to jail? Is that why dad had to bring you home at midnight? Xavier! Are you a—" 

"GET OUT OF MY ROOM!" I thunder.

"Just— get out!" 

Something in my voice must convince the Twins that now isn't a good time to mess with me because after some resentful grumbling and feline-like hissing, the Twins slink out of the room but— being the little shits they are— don't even close the door behind them. I consider chasing after them and hurling Henley's gift at their cheeky little faces, but I haven't got the energy. It feels like I am trying to bench-press the weight of the world— and failing miserably. 

"f**k," I whisper into my pillow.

My eyes burn with fresh tears.

"Fuck." 

My sister is getting married. My selfish, shitty sister is getting married, and she expects me to keep it a secret.

"f**k!"

I roll clumsily off the bed, snatch up Henley's letter, and rip it into shreds.

"Damn you, Henley. And damn your letter, too." 

I stuff the paper remnants into the trash, then collapse back onto my bed. Then I clench my eyes shut as hard as I can and will myself to think about anything other than Henley. 

"Xavier Black! If we miss this flight, you are walking to Alaska!"

I wake myself up by rolling out of bed and landing in a bewildering tumble of arms and legs on the floor. The impact sends panic shooting through me. Why did I fall asleep? How long did I fall asleep? I glance at the clock and let out a breathy curse. I was asleep for over two hours. Mom and I are supposed to be leaving for the airport in ten minutes.  And I am not even done packing.

I scramble to my feet and sprint towards my duffel bag.

Clothes, toiletries, and shoes go flying as mom's furious shouts ring dully in my ears. I cram shirts, jeans, shoes, and all of the other random s**t scattered across my floor into my suitcase without a second thought, just desperate to finish packing before mom comes upstairs and kicks my ass for real.

Oh god, oh god, what have I done...

My hairbrush, sunscreen, bug spray, flip-flops, razor, shaving cream, and a flurry of comic books I never got to finish all go flying into my bag heedlessly, carelessly, after them. At the pace I am going at, I know I am doomed to forget something, but I really don't have the time to worry about that. My main concern is this: how the f**k did I fall asleep for two hours?

"Xavier Black!" Mom hollers.

"How many times do I have to repeat myself? Get down here, now!" 

"I am coming!" I shout back.

Frantically, I fling the last few items into my duffel, zip it up, and sling the bag over my shoulder. The weight of the bag nearly makes me collapse, but somehow, I manage to stumble forward, kick open the door with my foot, and trundle down the stairs without face-planting along the way.

 Mom waits at the bottom of the steps for me, her hands squashed against her hips, expression angrier than ever.

"Ready?" she demands.

 Her commanding presence is somewhat diminished by the colorful tracksuit she still hasn't changed out of. (It's hard to look threatening in neon pink and blue.)

"I am not waiting another minute." 

"Yeah. I am ready."

This, of course, is a complete lie. 

"Good," she says, swinging open the door and ushering me towards the car.

"Then let's go!" 

I dash down the driveway after her, dumping my duffel in the back seat. It lands with a vaguely worrying thud that doesn't bode well for my breakable possessions— goodbye, glass bottle of Cologne I bought at Macy's.

I sigh and walk around the side of the car to the passenger seat door. 

And then, just as I am climbing into the car, I see Lisa Basanoo. 

My neighbor.

My best friend.

She's standing on the sidewalk outside her house, one of her hands suspended awkwardly in the air like she started to wave goodbye but then thought better of it. She's within shouting distance, practically close enough to start a conversation with. I haven't spoken to her in days, but now, it would be almost too easy... too easy just to yell at her all the things I've been meaning to say...  Something in my brain freezes up.

Suddenly, my mouth goes dry, and I lose the capability to speak English. I don't shout at her. I can't. My body can't form the words.  So, I don't say anything at all. I just get into the car, silently, and close the door behind me.  Across the street, I see Lisa's mouth open. I think she's calling my name.

"Xavier?" asks mom.

Her voice could almost pass as tentative if she wasn't still mad at me. I didn't realize she had started the car; I was too focused on Lisa...

Mom must have caught me looking at her across the street. This is like last night all over again. Except now it's mom asking me about Lisa, not dad. There is concern in her honey-brown eyes, but the sight of it only makes me feel shittier inside. I just want this nightmare of a summer to be over with already.

"Are you—" 

"Perfectly fine," I reply, and now it's obvious I am lying, but neither of us says anything about it. Instead, mom turns on the radio, and I let my eyes fall close and the world goes black around me, and the car carries me away, away, away.