I point to the bag of candy, which is lying flat in the bottom of the cart, and then I try one last time. “Maybe we should see who would win a real game…”
For a second, it seems certain he’s going to say no. His face slips into a kind of blankness, and he looks unaccountably tense, and I steel myself, preparing to get rejected right here in aisle 8. But then something seems to settle in him, and he blinks a few times, his features softening.
“Okay,” he says finally. “How about tomorrow?”
* * *
That night as I brush my teeth, my little sister, Meg—eleven years old and my constant shadow—leans against the door of the bathroom we share.
“So,” she says, batting her eyelashes in an overly dreamy sort of way. “Is it a date?”
I consider this for a moment, then spit into the sink.
“I don’t think so,” I tell her.
* * *
I’m a million miles away the next morning, thinking about the moment when Griffin will pull into the camp parking lot later, thinking about the dress I stashed in the staff bathroom so that I won’t have to wear my grubby uniform again, thinking about the way my heart lifted when I spotted him yesterday—thinking about pretty much anything except for the game of freeze tag happening around me, where a couple dozen six- and seven-year-olds are running around the soccer field, stumbling and wobbling and tripping over themselves like miniature drunks—when someone lets out a sharp cry.
I snap back immediately, scanning the field until I find Noah, who is crouched on the ground, his knees tucked up beneath him, his hands over his ears, his head curled down so that only a mop of reddish hair is showing.
Beside him, a small girl named Sadie Smith is staring with wide eyes. “All I did was tag him,” she says quickly, blinking up at me.
I give her a pat on the shoulder, trying to be reassuring. “It’s fine,” I tell her. “Go tag someone else.”
But she remains there, her eyes fixed on Noah, who is rocking now. I turn around to see that they’re all watching. It’s impossible to tell who’s been frozen and who’s still free, because each and every one of them is standing stock-still.
Over near the school buildings, which the day camp borrows during the summer, I spot Grace, one of the junior counselors, carrying over the midday snack: a giant box of Popsicles, which leave everyone tie-dyed and sugar-happy but are always the highlight of the day.
“Snack time,” I call out, and just like that, they’re off, sprinting across the field to meet Grace, with more energy than they’ve shown during any of the games this morning.
Once we’re alone, I sit down on the grass beside Noah, who lets out a soft moan but doesn’t otherwise acknowledge me. It’s been about a month now, and I’ve learned this is the best tactic. At first, when this kind of thing happened, I would try to talk to him, or reason with him, or soothe him in some way. Once, I even tried to take his hand, which turned out to be the worst possible thing I could’ve done. He wrenched it away from me, then promptly began to wail.
Now I peek under his arms, which are clasped around his knees, to where his face is hidden. His cheeks are pink from the heat, and his mouth is screwed up to one side, and there’s a single tear leaking from his right eye, which breaks my heart a little.
“Hey, Noah,” I say softly, and he stiffens.
I sit back again, picking a few blades of dry grass, then letting them scatter in the breeze from the nearby lake. In the distance, the other campers are running around with their Popsicles, their chins sticky and their shirts already stained. On the blacktop, the older kids are playing basketball, the sound of the ball steady as a drumbeat.
On the first day of camp, Mr. Hamill, the director—a middle-aged man who worked as a gym teacher for most of the year and was never without a whistle around his neck—had asked me to arrive an hour early. It was my third summer as a counselor, and I assumed I was getting a promotion. When I’d started working here a few years earlier, it was mostly just because I needed a way to earn some extra spending money. I’d loved going to camp as a kid, and it seemed a better alternative than bagging groceries or scooping ice cream or any of the other jobs that might consider hiring a fourteen-year-old whose only résumé item was babysitting.
But now, after a couple years of corralling kids and pressing on Band-Aids, leading wildly off-key songs and supervising glitter usage during craft time, I’d come to genuinely enjoy it. Still, everyone knew it was easier to work with the older kids, who tended to be more self-sufficient, less likely to burst into tears or wander off or forget to put on sunscreen. So I hoped that might be where I was headed this summer.
Instead, it turned out Mr. Hamill wanted to tell me about Noah.
“Listen, Annie,” he said in a thick Chicago accent that wasn’t often heard this far out in the suburbs. “We’re gonna try something out this summer. And if it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work.”
I nodded. “Okay…”
“It’s a new camper,” he continued, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “He’s, uh, on the spectrum. You know. He has autism. So I just wanted to give you a heads up, since it might be a challenge. He’s not all that verbal, for one thing, but I guess they’re working on that. And he’s pretty active. Apparently, they tried a special-needs camp last year, but it didn’t keep him busy enough. It sounds like he has a lot of energy.”
“So he’ll be in my group?”
“Yeah, he’s six, so he’s one of yours. The idea is to be patient, but also get him involved as much as possible, you know? I figure we’ll give it a try, as long as it’s okay with you, and basically just see how it goes.”
“Okay,” I said brightly, because that’s what I do. I smile, and I nod, and I give it my best shot. That’s always how it’s been. If my friends are fighting, I’m the one who tries to smooth it over. If someone is mad at me, I walk around with a pit in my stomach until we’ve managed to sort things out. If somebody asks me a favor, or gives me a challenge, or needs something from me, the answer is always yes.
And if the kids at camp aren’t having fun, it feels like I’m failing.
Which is what makes Noah so tough. I’ve spoken to his mom enough over the last month to know that he just needs time. But sitting here on the warm grass, watching his shoulders shake—it’s almost too much to bear. And worse than that is the feeling that no matter what I try, I just can’t seem to reach him.
The thing is, I’m good with these kids. I know that Emerson is allergic to peanuts and to save a red Popsicle for Connell. I know that Sullivan will always want to play kickball when given the choice, and that Ellis likes to sit on my lap after lunch. Caroline keeps a stuffed rabbit in her backpack, and Will wears his lucky astronaut socks every day. Georgia sings under her breath when she’s nervous, and Elisabeth lights up when you compliment her on her cartwheels.
There’s a key to every lock, a trick that works for every kid.
Every kid except Noah.
We sit there for a long time. The other campers head into the gym for a game of dodgeball, led by one of the junior counselors, and the sun drifts higher in the flat, white sky. But still Noah remains hunched on the ground, curled into himself like a pill bug. Every once in a while I reach over and give his shoulder a pat, which makes him flinch.
Finally, just before pickup—almost as if he’s been keeping track—he lifts his head.
“You okay?” I ask, but he doesn’t say anything. His eyes are focused on the school building, where the other kids are lining up to go home.
When he still doesn’t answer, I say, “I promise we’ll play a different game tomorrow.” I don’t know if it was freeze tag that set him off, or if it was an unexpected hand on his back, or if it was just the sun and the grass and the day all around him. It could have been anything. It feels horrible not to know exactly what.