CHAPTER 18
Dear Mom and President Cleveland,
It is a fact that we will all be a statistic some day. Did you know that the odds of drowning are one in 1,073? I now know a girl who will not be that statistic.
Your son,
Grover Cleveland
Cassie is placed in solitary for a week. She has to sit with Kerry and the counselors at all meals, where she is still only eating with a spoon and knife, and sleep in Kerry’s personal cabin with Madison, while he sleeps in one of the boys’ cabins. A “counselor in training” named Anne, who’s a sophomore premed major and who most days assists the nurse doling out medicine, sleeps in our cabin.
The first day Cassie isn’t with me, I swim down at the lake in the afternoon, until it starts to rain. When Kerry hears a crack of thunder, he makes us all get out and tells us to find another activity, preferably one inside, but I sneak back to the cabin.
It’s extra musty as I listen to the plunk of rain on the roof and stare at Cassie’s empty bed. I put her sweatshirt on it. She’ll need it when she gets back. I flip through the Seventeen magazine I brought to camp. The cover is gone and the humidity has made the pages wavy and crinkle when I open it. I turn to the article on how to flirt without being obvious and read the list of rules.
Keep eye contact.
Don’t play with your hair.
Act confident.
Smile.
Show off your neck.
This is ridiculous. I close the magazine. I don’t like that Cassie isn’t here. I feel alone, a feeling I used to like, but not really anymore.
I walk over to her bed and touch the bare mattress.
Inside the mess hall, campers gather around an old television, watching a movie. I find Grover sitting at the back of the group. Cassie is tucked in the corner, her arms crossed, as she sits between Kerry and Hayes. She looks tortured.
I sneak up and sit behind Grover. His tall torso blocks my view of the screen, and he’s wearing a bright blue tank top. I can see all the bones that run along his shoulders and collarbone. His skin is golden from being out in the sun.
I lean in a bit and smell the coconut sunscreen on his skin.
Grover turns around with a wicked grin on his face. He knew I was behind him.
I motion toward the door, and, quietly, we sneak out of the mess hall, but I steal a look at Cassie before the door closes. She gives me the middle finger. I do the same back. We both smile and I feel better already.
Grover and I stand in the rain for a moment as I play with my hair, unable to look at him. I try to remember the rules to flirting. I’m pretty sure I just broke them all. I finally blurt out, “What movie is playing?”
“The Breakfast Club.”
“I’ve never seen it. Is it good?” I ask.
Grover shrugs. “It just started.”
A raindrop hangs seconds from dripping off of Grover’s chin. I watch it as it collects more water and gets heavy. The moment when I think I’ll reach up and wipe it away, it falls to the ground. I stand in the rain, disappointed yet again.
“Do you want to go back inside?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“It’s wet out here,” I say.
“I don’t care,” he says. “Do you care?”
I do care, about so many things I didn’t before, but not about the rain. “I’m starting to,” I say.
“Follow me then.” Grover smiles.
We walk down to the beach. I slip off my flip-flops and feel the wet sand between my toes. I even wiggle them around so I can feel every grain stuck on my skin. But when Grover moves to step onto the dock, I grab his arm.
“Probably not the best place to be during a thunderstorm.”
“You’re right. The experience could be shocking. Did you know the odds of us getting hit by lightning are one in seven hundred thousand?” He steps onto the dock.
“Did Bek tell you that?” I ask.
Grover looks at me over his shoulder. “The odds are in our favor. Not to be struck by lightning, that is. Other odds, not so much.”
“I’m pretty sure the odds increase when you’re on a metal dock.”
“This is probably true.” Grover motions for me to join him on the death trap. But I guess all of life is a death trap, so I follow him. We sit down on the end and he puts his feet in the water.
“So what odds aren’t in your favor?” I ask.
Grover’s wet hair sticks to his forehead and he wipes it back as he gets out his notebook. He flips to a page and holds his hand over it to protect the paper from the rain. “The odds of dating a millionaire: one in 215. Not bad. The odds of winning an Academy Award: one in 11,500. Still more probable than lightning.”
“Wow.” I put my feet in the water next to him. Raindrops splash around us and on the surface of Lake Kimball, making it murky.
“The odds of writing a New York Times bestseller: one in 220. The odds of being in a car accident: one in 18,585.” I watch Grover read from his notebook. He doesn’t look at me. “The odds of getting arthritis: one in seven. The odds of dying from heart disease: one in three.”
“These are all general statistics. I asked what odds aren’t in your favor?” I say.
“The odds of getting cancer: one in two,” he says. “That’s not good for anyone.”
“Grover, tell me something about you.”
He looks out across the lake. Houses and cabins line the shore across from us—it all looks so normal, but Grover doesn’t. For a moment, he seems like a lost kid longing for one of those houses to be his reality.
Then he seems to snap back together. He looks down at his notebook.
“The odds of becoming president: one in ten million. Did you know Grover Cleveland was one of the fattest presidents?”
“I don’t want to know about that Grover Cleveland. I want to know about you,” I say.
“But the president was way more interesting. For starters, his real name wasn’t even Grover, it was Stephen.”
“I don’t want to know about the president!” I yell.
“You’re mad. I can tell. That’s good. Mad is good. You’re finally acknowledging how you feel.”
I grab Grover’s hand. “I want to know how you feel.”
“You’re touching me right now, so I’m feeling warm in inappropriate places.”
I drop his hand, like it’s something gross. It’s not. But I feel his pain and I know he feels it, too.
When I stand up on the dock, he looks at me.
“Tell me why you won’t eat apples,” he says.
“We’re not talking about me.”
“You are so much more interesting. And Molly, tell me something about her,” Grover says. A crack of thunder rolls overhead.
“What are you afraid of?” I say slowly.
“Well, that sounded close, so right now, I’m kind of afraid the odds of getting struck by lightning just went up.”
“Fuck the odds,” I say.
“I love it when you talk dirty.” Grover smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. I stay silent as thunder rumbles through the sky and the upturned corners of his mouth fade into a straight line. His lip quivers in the rain. “The odds of being schizophrenic when you have a schizophrenic parent: one in ten,” he says. He doesn’t read that one out of his notebook. It’s memorized.
The air is pushed out of my lungs like someone just punched me.
“Fuck the odds,” I say again. I hold out my hand for him to take as thunder rolls above us.
He looks at my palm.
Rain falls between us.
“I can’t,” Grover says. “I can’t.” He leaves me on the end of the dock to fight the odds alone.
I look out at the gray water. It doesn’t look dangerous.
“Durga, Durga, Durga,” I say.
I strip off my clothes and dive in.