for rich people who couldn’t be bothered to leave their office or home. She was exceptional at her job. She had a waiting list. Her body was immaculate. She owned her own condo. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. She couldn’t meet anyone.
She studied his form, and thought: What if this man is the one, why not him? What if he turns his head right now and looks at me and smiles. That might mean he could love me. Love me, love me, love me, she thought, even as Gary turned and walked back down the winding path toward the rest of his life. Briefly, she felt like a failure. But it wasn’t your fault, lady. You could never have known what was going on with Gary.
4
Avery was stretched out after breakfast on the bottom bunk, eyes glazed and dreamy, staring up at the names of the girls who had slept there before her, scrawled on the bottom of the bed above. Who knew there were so many names? Who was the first to sign it? Abby, Natasha, Tori, Latoya, and a few dozen more. Laying claim. Avery wanted to add her own name, but she wasn’t sure she existed yet like the rest of them.
Or, for example, like snakes did. It was Snake Week at camp. They existed, because they knew their purpose. They slithered, they hunted their prey. Avery was twelve; what did she do? She ate, she breathed, she did her homework. But what did that accomplish? What if snakes were her purpose?
She thought of those she loved, which Homo sapiens. Her mother, her father, her cousin Sadie, whom she never saw but texted with constantly, her grandmother, she supposed, her grandfather . . . The cabin door opened. It was a counselor, Gabrielle, the one who didn’t shave her bikini line. Avery had seen her at the lake. Everyone had. Hair sprouting out from under her bathing suit. Avery didn’t know if that was bad or good. It was just hair, she supposed. Why don’t I know? Why can’t I decide? Snakes are easy. Snakes, I know.
Gabrielle approached Avery, gently told her they needed to have a talk. All the other girls in the cabin said “Oooh” at once. They left the cabin and walked for a bit, the older girl resting her hand on Avery’s shoulder, and then she put her phone in Avery’s hand. Cell phones were forbidden at the camp, and Avery experienced a brief thrill holding one in her hand again. Cell phones were her friends, she felt. They were there for her when no one else was. There was always texting. There was always Instagram. There were always videos of snakes.
On the phone, Avery’s mother spoke to her about her grandfather. That he was sick in the hospital and that he might die. “I thought you’d want to know,” she said. “I know you two were buddies.”
Were they? On the walk back to the cabin that already sweltering August morning, Avery thought of all the time she’d spent with her grandfather in the past six months. He’d pick her up after school and drive her around in his new car, all over the city, while he gabbed about his life, his business ventures. For the first month she’d paid attention to him, but she understood little of what he was saying. The following few months she’d stared out the window and daydreamed of animals and trees and grass and the river and the coastline, where men made their living catching oysters and shrimp. But lately she’d tuned in again, and it was then she realized that the stories he told were all bad, that he did bad things. Even though he thought he was the hero.
Simultaneously bored and intrigued, she asked him if what he did was illegal.
“No one is innocent in this life. Everyone’s a criminal, trust me. Except for you, I guess. You’re pretty innocent, right?”
“I don’t know what I am,” she said, which was true.
“Don’t ever change, kid,” he said. But he didn’t sound convincing to Avery at all. It came out as a statement rather than a command. Then he lit a cigar, and the car filled with smoke. She waved it away from her face. When he dropped her off, he said, “Let’s not tell your mother I was smoking around you.” He handed her a hundred-dollar bill. “If she asks, you know, just tell her we ran into a buddy of mine who was