Summer on the Short Bus Read online

  “Katie,” I answer cautiously. “Why?”

  “So what you were saying to her—that’s really what you think?”

  I think back to my brief and incredibly disappointing conversation with my best friend. Beach parties, retards, cars . . . Oh, he’s wondering about what I said about him. “Of course I think those things,” I say. “You are the smarte—”

  “God, Cricket!” He silences me with a tone I’ve never heard him use before. On instinct I backpedal a few feet. “I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about what you said about them—about the campers. Is that really what you think of them?”

  For the first time in my life, I’m absolutely speechless.

  “Let me remind you,” he says in that same biting tone. “Smashed-in, dog-faces who can actually use the toilet. Does that sound familiar?”

  “Oh my God,” I mutter. His eyes are overflowing with anger. It’s all I can do not to cry. “Stop looking at me like that! Let me explain.”

  “What is there to explain?” He raises his hands in question. “You either feel that way or you don’t. It’s not that hard. Just answer the question.”

  Wide-eyed, I stare at him, praying that I don’t burst into a ball of flames right here on the hilltop. Never in my life would I have imagined that one simple question could reduce me to feeling like the lowest form of life on the earth—but it just happened. And now Quinn is looking at me like he’d rather see me dead than hear my answer.

  “I . . . it’s just . . . I’ve never been around people like them before! I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just BSing with Katie—”

  “You don’t get it, do you?” He rakes a shaky hand across his forehead. “You’re so wrapped up in your own perfect world that you can’t see you’re doing to them exactly what you don’t want people to do to you. What Rainbow did to you. You hated that she judged you for something you have no control over, but you’re doing the same thing to them! They have as much control over the way they came into this world as you do.”

  The burning sensation in my throat nearly cripples me as I try again to step closer, only to be given a dismissive wave in return. “I don’t know what you want me to say! What can I say to make you understand?”

  “Understand? Are you kidding me? What could you possibly say that would help me understand what you just said?”

  Again, no words.

  “That’s right, Cricket, because you can’t. There’s no way to justify that.”

  “Wait!” I beg as I see him start to walk away. “Please, Quinn. What about the last few days . . . and last night? Didn’t that mean anything to you?”

  “Don’t even go there, Cricket,” he shouts back, turning to face me with heat in his eyes. “Every minute I’ve put in with you has been real. Especially last night. I didn’t make you believe I was somebody I wasn’t, or that I cared about you when I didn’t. You had me feeling sorry for you—had me believing that you actually cared what people thought of you. What I thought of you. But the truth is you don’t give a shit what anybody thinks and you certainly don’t care about anybody else.”

  His words hit me like a fist to the gut.

  “Please just wait,” I plead, reaching out to him as tears flow freely down my cheeks. He keeps his head down, refusing to look at me. “You’re wrong,” I say. “Everything I’ve ever said to you is real. I’ve shared more with you than anyone in my life. You have to believe me, Quinn.”

  He raises his head to look at me. His stare is cold and unfeeling.

  “I can’t believe I was so stupid. Here I thought that under all that makeup and privilege was this funny, beautiful person who the world made assumptions about without giving her a fair shake, but you’re not. The Cricket I thought I knew would never have said things like that.”

  “I’m sorry,” I sputter. “But it’s not like I said those things about you!” Oh God, stop babbling, you idiot! “I’m so sorry, Quinn. I don’t know why I said that. I just . . . I don’t want you to think I’m some bitch—”

  “Too late,” he says, devoid of all emotion. “And for the record, I drive a ’97 Chevy pickup. It’s got a big ass dent in the bumper and the upholstery’s torn to shreds. Make sure you tell Katie.”

  His contempt for me is tangible, and follows behind him like a wake as he disappears down the side of the hill. I collapse onto the ground and begin to weep. Never in my life has one person’s opinion of me mattered so much. Or hurt so bad.

  FOURTEEN

  “I heard you might be up here.”

  I silence the woe-is-me song I’ve been listening to for the last hour and turn toward the fading sun. Colin is standing in front of me, wearing a sympathetic grin that makes me want to start crying all over again.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah . . . I’m fine. Just needed a little alone time.”

  “Okay.” His ultrasmooth tone confirms he knows I’m full of crap. “Mind if I sit down for a minute?”

  “Go ahead”—I shrug—“it’s a free country.”

  He strides toward me, his long legs covering miles of distance in mere feet, and settles on the ground with his back against the rock I’m perched on. He closes his eyes and cradles his head in his hands, inhaling like he’s just stumbled into a Starbucks on a blustery winter morning.

  “Man, that fresh air is good. I think my lungs expand a foot every time I come up here. Going back to the city after a month out here is always a shock to my system.”

  “Where do you live?” I ask. Not because I really care, but because a meaningless conversation will be a good distraction from thinking about Quinn.

  “Chicago. Same as you.”

  “You do?”

  “Yep. I grew up in Lincoln Park.”

  “You live in Lincoln Park?”

  “Yeah.” His head cocks slightly, offering me a glimpse of his gleaming white grin. “Is that so hard to believe?”

  “No. I’m just . . . surprised that’s all. We’re practically neighbors.”

  “Yeah, I heard. The Gold Coast, huh?”

  “Astor Street. Who told you where I live?”

  “Rainbow. She mentioned it the other day when I asked her about your dad.”

  “Wait,” I say, leaning forward so I can see his face. “You asked her about my dad? What’d she say?”

  “I thought you didn’t care about his affiliation with the camp.”

  “Colin . . .”

  “I’m just messin’ with you. She just said that she and your father go a long way back. She didn’t offer up any other information, and I didn’t really feel comfortable prying, so I let it go.”

  “They go a long way back? What the hell does that mean?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “You’ll have to ask her yourself.”

  “Right,” I mumble. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

  A week ago, I would have been nervous sitting so close to an enormous black guy I hardly know, and with very little light left in the day, but not today. Colin is about as comfortable as a pair of old sweatpants, and the shared silence is exactly what I need after my rotten afternoon.

  Several minutes pass before he asks, “Did Quinn tell you why he works here every summer?”

  Besides life on the home front, camp life was the only other subject Quinn and I seemed to avoid. Mostly because when we were alone together, I tried to pretend it didn’t exist. “Not specifically.”

  He nods his head, and I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking. Probably the same horrible things Quinn does.

  “It doesn’t surprise me. He’s really private about that part of his life. I probably shouldn’t be the one to tell you this, but given the circumstances, I think you ought to know. Quinn’s older brother, Ethan, was a camper here.”

  My jaw drops. “He was?”

  “Yep, he had Down’s syndrome. Just like Claire,” he adds strictly for my benefit. “He died unexpectedly a few years ago—some complication with a surgical procedure, but while he
was alive, Quinn was obviously really protective of him. He got into more fights defending him than he’d ever admit to. That’s why he’s hypersensitive to people making fun of handicapped kids—he’s still in protective brother mode.”

  The intimate conversation Quinn and I shared last night suddenly hits me on a much deeper level, and I seriously feel like I might throw up. “Crap,” I say. No wonder he got so pissed. He was defending his brother—from me.

  “So I guess he told you what happened between us?”

  “Not in detail,” he says, offering a smile more generous than I deserve. “But I know that for him to have said anything to me, he must be hurting pretty bad.”

  “Bad doesn’t really cover it. He hates me.”

  “He doesn’t hate you.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “No. He’s pissed at you, but it doesn’t mean he’s done with you. It just means you’ve got a lot of work to do to make it right. And that boy can hold a grudge, so be prepared.”

  “Be prepared? That’s your advice?”

  He shrugs.

  “Well, that’s real encouraging, Colin. Thank you so much.”

  “Aw, you’ll be fine,” he says. “You’ll make it right.”

  “How can I possibly make this right? The last time I saw him he was ready to kill me with his bare hands.”

  He pushes himself off the rock and turns toward me so we meet eye to eye. “It’s easy. You just do it.”

  I wait patiently for him to finish unveiling his cathartic, Dr. Phil wisdom, but I soon realize he’s got nothing more to add. “You’re kidding, right? Just do it? We don’t live in a Nike commercial, Colin. I can’t just slam-dunk a ball and poof everything’s all better.”

  “Whoa. You’re way overthinking this. Obviously there’s no magic formula that’s going to make it all disappear. You said some pretty stupid shit and he’s really pissed. It’s definitely going to take some time. But you can own up to it and make sure it never happens again. ‘Just doing it’ simply means you commit to being the person you want to be and . . . doing it.”

  “But what’s the point if he can’t even stand to be around me long enough to realize that I have ‘just done it’?”

  He tips his head slightly as if carefully considering my question. After a long pause he says, “Who exactly are you just doing it for?”

  He must recognize the WTF in my expression, because he quickly clarifies his question.

  “Do you want to make it right for Quinn or for yourself ? Because if this is just about looking good for Quinn, don’t waste your time.”

  His question hits me as gently as a boulder to the head. Obviously Quinn is the motivation for change, but when I think back to those hideous things he said about me, I can’t help but wonder if any of them are true. Or does it just feel that way because someone I actually care about said them?

  “So what’s it gonna be, Cricket? Are you gonna just do it?”

  FIFTEEN

  By the time we conclude our mountaintop therapy session, Colin’s got me so convinced that I can transform myself into the person I want to be, I could probably run for congress. Or prom court.

  We arrive back at the mess hall just in time for the evening hike, and all my hopefulness disappears the moment I spot Quinn. As feared, his eyes sweep across me like I’m a vapor in the wind.

  “What crawled up his ass?” Fantine asks, observing Quinn’s mood.

  “I’ll fill you in later,” I say. “It’s pretty ugly.”

  “All right, gang! Who’s ready to hike?” Rainbow calls the campers to attention, reminding them to stay on the trail and use their whistles if they get separated, before releasing them on their weekly, semi-unsupervised nighttime stroll. I step back to make room for her as she passes by, but the distance doesn’t prevent her from making another one of her unappreciated comments. “Go easy on the bug spray, Cricket. DEET is not your friend.”

  Annoyed by her instruction, I just roll my eyes.

  Colin finishes loading the backpacks with enough snacks, batteries, and first-aid equipment to sustain a militia group for a few months, while Fantine makes one last trip to the bathroom. With no task of my own to complete, I just stand here and pretend that Quinn being halfway down the path, sandwiched between Claire and cock ’n’ balls Chase, isn’t bothering me.

  “You ready, Cricket?” Colin says.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “Cool. Here’s your pack.” He takes the red JanSport from Fantine, who already has an identical yellow one strapped to her back. “And here’s your flashlight. Do you need a whistle, or do you think you can survive without one?”

  “I think I can manage,” I say, slinging the pack over my shoulders as I fall into line between the two of them.

  “What the hell happened with you and Quinn?” Fantine asks, no more than a yard into our hike. “I’ve never seen him so pissed off before.”

  I send Colin a pleading look, but only receive an encouraging nod in return.

  “Okay,” I mutter. “You asked for it.”

  I start out slowly, unveiling the gentler, less deplorable facts first. Like the reason why I fainted the first day, and the truth about my botched escape plan Saturday night. Fantine doesn’t seem fazed, so I continue on with the stuff about Quinn and his brother, and the awful things I said that I wish I could take back.

  “Pumpkin heads,” she says.

  “What?” Colin and I say in unison.

  “Pumpkin heads,” she says again, shaking her head. “That’s what I used to call them. Can you believe that?” She turns and looks at me with disbelief in her eyes. “I took this job thinking I was going to be helping blind kids. Don’t ask me why, but when they said disabled teens I just assumed they’d be blind. When I got here I almost crapped myself. I’d never been around kids with disabilities like these and I definitely wasn’t prepared for it.”

  “I hear that,” I say under my breath.

  “I still remember that first night,” she continues. “I called my cousin and told her some of the kids here looked like they were wearing pumpkins on their heads. Man, it makes me sick just thinking about it now. Anyway, it wasn’t until a few days later when Meredith broke her arm and wanted me to ride in the ambulance with her that everything changed. I’ve never been so scared or protective of someone in my life.”

  Protective. Just like Quinn.

  “We all have our moments,” Colin adds, air quoting the word moments. “Remember Scotty Marshall?”

  “Oh my God!” Fantine shrieks, forgetting her grievances. “How could I forget? That was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Wait, I’m supposed to ask you about him,” I say. “Who was he?”

  “Scotty Marshall was my moment,” he says with a roll of his dark eyes. “He was a drop-in camper I had my second year—”

  “Wait, what’s a drop-in camper?” I interrupt, wondering if there’s yet another disability I’m clueless about.

  “It’s someone like Aidan,” Fantine says. “They’re physically impaired but have no mental disabilities. Rainbow offers it up to college students who are thinking about going into special education. It’s just a different way to get familiar with disabled kids outside the classroom.”

  I quickly flip through my mental Rolodex, and determine that Aidan is one of Colin’s campers—the surprisingly cute guy who maneuvers his wheelchair better than Tony Hawk does a skateboard.

  “Anyway,” Colin continues, “we got along great, and for the most part he was a really cool kid. The only weird thing about him was that he didn’t wear shorts—just jeans or sweats.”

  “All the time?” I ask.

  “All the time,” Fantine mumbles under her breath. I glance over at her and see that she’s working really hard not to laugh.

  I turn back to Colin. “Even when he slept?”

  “Yep,” he says.

  “Why would he do that? It’s so hot out here.”

  Colin opens hi
s mouth to respond, but he’s too slow. “Because he had a prosthetic leg!” Fantine says, unable to contain herself any longer. She bursts into a fit of laughter while my eyes grow wide.

  “He what?”

  “He did,” Colin says. “He had a prosthetic leg and apparently everybody knew about it but me—because I woke up next to it one morning and practically shit myself. I thought somebody had been murdered. It was lying right next to me on the pillow with ketchup splattered all over it to make it look like blood—”

  “Colin came running out of the cabin bare-assed screaming, Call 9-1-1! There’s a leg in my bed! There’s a leg in my bed! I swear to God that was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen,” Fantine says, swiping tears from her cheeks. Her amusement is contagious because now I’m laughing, too.

  “Yeah, well, it was embarrassing. But it was definitely an eye-opener.”

  “How so?” I say. “Realizing that you shouldn’t sleep naked?”

  “Well, yeah, there’s that. But it wasn’t until I learned that my own campers were the ones who convinced Scotty to pull the prank, that I realized I’d been operating under a whole ‘us’ and ‘them’ mentality. Just knowing that disabled kids were down for pulling something like that evened everything out. We were all on the same playing field.”

  “Well, there’s more to it for me,” I say, my amusement disappearing. “There has to be. I already had my moment and I blew it because I was too freaked out to recognize what was happening.”

  “What moment are you talking about?” Colin says.

  “The Karate Kid. Cricket loves Daniel-san, Cricket loves Daniel-san. Remember?”

  “Oh please,” Fantine says. “Karate Kid wasn’t your moment—it was damn funny but it wasn’t your moment. What you need to remember is we all figure it out in our own way, on our own time. And you’ve got seventeen years of prima donna shoved up your ass, so it’s probably gonna take a little bit longer to shake it loose.”

  “This, by far, is the most painfully enlightening day in the history of the world.”

  “Just take it one step at a time,” says Colin. “Before you know it, you’ll love these kids more than a Versace red tag sale.”