Summer at Willow Lake (23 page)

The Julian he’d seen that year had a broken arm, a crooked grin and a heart full of grief, having just lost his father.

Three years later, Connor found himself looking at an extremely tall stranger with a sullen, hostile expression. “Hey,” he said, stopping a few feet from Julian.

His brother jerked his head to clear his overly long locks from his eyes. “Hey.” He had a man’s voice now, a man’s anger burning in his eyes. And more tattoos and body piercings than a sailor in the merchant marine.

“I just got off the phone with Ma,” Connor said. “She was worried that you might not show.”

Julian shrugged into his army-surplus backpack. “I showed. Lucky you.”

They didn’t shake hands. They sure as hell didn’t embrace like brothers who hadn’t seen each other in three years.

“The truck is over here.” Connor indicated the Dodge Power Wagon, circa 1974. “Throw your stuff in the back and get in.”

“Nice wheels.”

“Shut up.”

The duffel bag made a clanking sound when it landed. Connor wondered how the kid had ever made it through airport security. Julian kept the backpack with him, his gangly limbs sprawling over the sides of the bench seat and the pack between his knees. He unzipped the top, took out a Power Bar and stuffed it into his mouth in two bites. Connor glanced at the contents of the backpack—clothes and a surprising number of books. The thing probably weighed a ton, but Julian carried it as if it were nothing. Good. He was going to need his strength this summer.

“So I’ve got good news and bad news,” Connor said. “The good news is, you don’t have to spend a summer in juvenile hall.”

“And the bad?”

Connor threw the truck in gear and left the train station behind. “The bad news is, you’re spending the summer with me.”

Sixteen

F
or Julian Gastineaux, life reached a new level of suckitude when he passed through the gates of Camp Kioga. Camp-freaking-Kioga, where summers go to die, he thought, looking around with contempt. It resembled the set of a Disney movie, the kind of place that made white folk burst into song.

He had been here only one time before, the summer he was eight years old. Except back then he’d actually regarded camp as an exciting adventure. Then, like now, he’d been sent away because his mother had better things to do than take care of him, and his father…He thought for a minute. That year, his father had gone on sabbatical. To Italy, as Julian recalled.

His father’s people, as they were referred to, lived in a forgotten town of shanties and lottery-ticket stands in southern Louisiana. They were always happy to look after Julian, but both he and his father were misfits there. A Tulane professor and his son found little in common with the rest of the Gasti-neaux family, so when Julian’s father went away that one summer, he was supposed to go live with his mother. But back then, she hadn’t wanted him around any more than she did now, so Camp Kioga became his temporary home. History repeating itself, he thought, only this time he was a hell of a lot more pissed off about it.

As a little kid, he had been totally blown away by summer camp. Raised in an ancient, musty-smelling house in New Orleans, Julian recalled a childhood was filled with yellowing books stacked high on every available surface. All the desks and tables were riddled with papers, notes, journals and every possible gizmo known to man. This was the trailing edge of a district that was just barely genteel, separated only by a couple of mews from an area where smart women didn’t walk alone after dark, where his father forbade him to go, on those occasions when Louis Gastineaux remembered Julian was around.

Louis often forgot, because he was an eccentric genius. He was a bona fide, pocket-protector-wearing, bad-haircut, Coke-bottle-glasses geek. He had the brilliant mind and dorky personality to back it up. The only thing that was not uncool about Julian’s father was that he was black, and built like a linebacker.

Julian used to try everything to get his father’s attention, but nothing ever worked. Not making straight A’s in school, or flunking every class. If he tried to fake illness or injury, he got bored with bed-rest before his father even noticed.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” Louis Gastineaux used to say, his face bathed in the misty glow of a computer monitor. Although his scientific calculations were precise to the eleventh decimal place, the guy had no clue how long a “moment” was supposed to be. Professor Gastineaux inhabited the universe inside the computer much more comfortably than he fit into the everyday world of school lunches and PTA meetings, remembering birthdays and shopping for groceries. Sometimes he seemed to forget he had a son at all.

Julian entertained himself by seeking out physical thrills. He climbed to high places—treetops and fire escapes, tall bridges and rope swings. He learned to love the sensation of danger screaming through his blood, and to crave the weightless thrill of flying, whether by taking a jump on his skateboard, or parasurfing in the hot wind over the Gulf of Mexico.

There was no possible way Julian could imagine his parents in the same room, much less the same bed. His mother, the blond bombshell, and his father, the nutty professor. About that fateful meeting, his father had little to say. “It was at a jet propulsion conference in Niagara Falls,” he said. “She was performing at a club, and I’d presented a paper on a breakthrough my research team had achieved in solar and laser sail technology. We had plenty to celebrate.”

When Julian was little, he’d been unfamiliar with the term “one-night stand” and his father failed to enlighten him. Julian’s dad had been an embarrassing fifteen years younger than his mom. It skeezed Julian out just thinking about it.

Later, Julian’s mother filled in a few more blanks in the story. “After you were born, I realized I couldn’t support another kid, so I gave Louis full custody.” Julian suspected there was a good deal more to the situation than that. Ultimately, he drew the conclusion that he had been an accident, an unwanted child who fell into the hands of the parent who had drawn the short straw.

Years ago, his father did remember to explain the perils of unprotected sex. He had done so in his trademark detailed fashion, as though he was delivering a lecture on propulsion mission concepts. Then he’d handed Julian a box of condoms.

The life of a college professor was not supposed to be hazardous, but an eccentric genius driving a rusted-out Duster in rush hour traffic was an accident waiting to happen.

The day Julian’s life had changed had been completely ordinary. The last thing Louis had said to him that morning was nothing profound or prescient. He’d simply told Julian he wouldn’t be home for dinner.

It was the next morning by the time someone remembered to call him. Louis Gastineaux barely escaped the wreck with his life, and when he awoke from a coma induced by a swelling of the brain, he was a quadriplegic, his body no more than a life-support system for his brilliant mind. He was eerily comfortable with this turn of events, for with some training on a modified system, he could still operate a computer, could still think like a genius. And one of the first things he thought was that he couldn’t look after a fourteen-year-old son. Julian would have to go to live with his mother.

She agreed, and once again he suspected there was a lot more to the story. He was pretty sure there had been a generous financial incentive, and Julian was sent to Chino, California, a charmless freeway town where his mother lived and worked as a cocktail waitress at a dinner theater, never quite giving up her hope of a stage career. There, he joined a crowd of skaters and baby outlaws, and spent most of his time seeking thrills and evading capture. When the call came, a few months later, that his father had passed away due to complications from his condition, Julian’s fate was sealed. He was stuck.

Now, resentment boiled in every cell of his body as he crossed the main compound of Camp Kioga with his brother. Connor-fricking-Davis. Other than being the same height—six-foot-two—the two of them looked as though they were from different planets instead of the same mother. Connor had that long-haired-biker-meets-Paul-Bunyon thing going on, while Julian cultivated the hip-hop dreadlock look. It helped him blend in at school, while setting him apart from his Nordic queen of a mother.

He couldn’t believe she had tricked him into coming here. Just a week, she’d wheedled. Just so the judge thinks we’re taking his advice. He should have known better.

A blue lake in the middle of the woods might be some people’s version of paradise, but not Julian’s. Not even close. A concrete skateboard park would be good. Back home, he had his best times flying his board over a freeway divider or surfing at Huntington Beach during a storm. Here, he had no clue what to do with himself. With his luck, his brother would have him digging latrines or something. Because that was another thing about Connor. Although Julian barely knew him, he understood somehow that his older brother had that thing known as the “work ethic.” As in, the harder you work, the more ethical it makes you. The logic simply didn’t follow. Julian could even prove it using a deductive model, but every time he used his brain for something like that, it seemed to get him deeper in trouble.

They passed by Meerskill Falls and the bridge arching above the gorge. Oh, man, did he remember that bridge. At the age of eight, he’d made his first bungee jump from it. There had been hell to pay after, but the ride had been worth it. The stunt had even earned him a nickname from the other kids—the Birdman of Meerskill Falls. He’d earned a different name from his brother—shit-for-brains dumb ass. Connor had always worried about Julian in a way Julian’s parents never had.

“We’re bunking here,” Connor said, indicating a row of cabins tucked against the brow of the hill and surrounded by miles of forest. The cabins were identical, made of weathered wood, each with windows facing the lake and a rock-clad chimney, steps leading up to a front-porch area. “The whole camp’s been shut down for years,” Connor explained, unlocking the cabin on the far end. “We’ve got some cleaning up to do.”

Julian set down his backpack and duffel with a sigh. Clouds of dust rose from every surface. “Dude,” he said in his best surfer imitation, “this is awesome.”

“Uh-huh.” Connor headed for the larger of the two bedrooms. “I’m taking this one,” he said. “You get the other.”

“I can’t believe you’re making me stay here.”

“Hey, considering the alternative, you’re in fine shape.” Connor didn’t take the bait, didn’t lash back. “You can take the whole day off. Make your bed, get going on the cleaning. Rest up after your trip, check out the camp, grab something to eat.”

If that was his idea of a day off, Julian thought, then work was going to be a bitch.

“Ma e-mailed me a list of recommendations from family court,” Connor continued. He took some folded pages out of his back pocket. “There’s, like, forty-seven rules and guidelines.” He tossed them on the shelf in Julian’s room. “As far as I’m concerned, you only have to remember one rule while you’re with me.”

Julian narrowed his eyes, thrust up his chin. “Yeah? What’s that?”

Connor stuck the wad of keys deep in his pocket. “Don’t fuck up,” he said.

It was close to sunset when Julian’s hunger overtook his pride. Sadly, it didn’t take much. He ate all the time, his appetite like some insatiable monster with a ravenous need for sustenance. Initially, Julian had planned to keep to himself the entire time and go to bed hungry, just to show Connor what he thought of this suck-ass summer.

Connor probably thought it made him seem cool to reduce all the house rules to a single one—
don’t fuck up.
What Connor didn’t know was that he was taking away the only thing Julian was good at.

Now, with hunger gnawing at his belly, he made his way to the dining hall, which was in the main pavilion. It didn’t seem as big and palatial as it had when he was little, entering the place with the other Fledgling boys.

A bell rang to signal mealtime, just like it used to when the camp was operational. Connor said that if Julian missed out, he was on his own. Julian had every intention of skipping this pukefest of a meal, but as usual, his stomach betrayed him. He was hungry enough to start gnawing on his own leg. When the dinner bell sounded, he made a beeline for the dining hall, salivating like Pavlov’s dumbest dog.

Connor introduced him to everyone—Olivia Bellamy, who had hired Connor’s firm to renovate the camp, was a complete blond hottie. She said she remembered him from years ago, but he didn’t recall her. In his mind, all the counselors were a blur of bland, smiling white folks who listened to bad music and sang lame campfire songs. There was some guy named Freddy, and some combo of relatives—Cousin Dare, the event planner, who also prepared the meals, a guy named Greg and his annoying-looking kid, Max. The apple-cheeked boy, who was about ten, resembled one of the von Trapp children in the most horrifying film on record—
The Sound of Music.

“Daisy should be here any minute,” Olivia said. “Go ahead and get something to eat.”

Daisy?
Daisy?

Trying to quell his curiosity, Julian sauntered over to the buffet table. All right, he had to admit, Cousin Dare was a phenomenal cook. He shamelessly loaded his plate with chicken potpie, mashed potatoes, salad and rolls. Beside him, Max watched with an open mouth.

“You going to eat all that?” the kid asked.

“For my first course,” Julian said. “For my second course, I eat little boys.”

It didn’t work on Max. Instead of scurrying away to the protection of his father, the kid snickered. “Oh, I’m shaking.”

Ah, well. The fun in scaring a little kid was limited, anyway. Julian set down his tray at a table just as Daisy—apparently the missing cousin—arrived. Maybe it was a trick of the light, and maybe Julian was hearing things, but the moment she appeared in the arched doorway of the dining hall, everything changed. There was a hush, like an indrawn breath of anticipation.

As she stood there, her feminine silhouette backlit by the setting sun, he was sure he heard a chorus of heavenly voices blaring in perfect harmony.
Hallelujah.