Girls in Pants - Ann Brashares [49]
“I think it will be fine,” he said. “You let me handle it, okay?” He was so calm.
Was it possible her mother had gotten to him first? Carmen detected the faint smell of a parental plot. Even divorced parents were capable of such things when they got concerned.
“Thanks, Dad.” Once again, tears jumped into the breach. “Are you sure you’re not disappointed?” Her voice disobeyed her and cracked on the last syllable.
He sighed. “If you want to go to Williams, I want you to go to Williams. If you want to go to Maryland, I want you to go to Maryland. I want you to be happy, bun.”
How did she get such nice parents? How did such nice parents turn out such a disaster of a daughter?
He wasn’t done being nice. “I love you, Carmen. I trust you to make the right decisions.”
Carmen felt that an anvil had mysteriously replaced her lower intestines. Sometimes trust felt like the worst gift in the world.
It’s the same old story. Boy finds girl, boy loses girl, girl finds boy, boy forgets girl, boy remembers girl, girl dies in a tragic blimp accident over the Orange Bowl on New Year’s Day.
—The Naked Gun
The rafting went smoothly. This time there were no dive-bombing bees. No splashing or tipping or crashing overboard. Bridget and Eric made a convincing show of knowing what they were doing.
Meanwhile, the campers, eight boys, did plenty of splashing and colliding and smacking each other with their oars. They had a blast while Bridget and Eric were all business.
During the long hours of floating along the hot, quiet river, Bridget had lots of time to regret her last conversation with Eric. It had changed the mood between them. Of course it had. The ease had vanished. They were suddenly considerate and polite. She really hated that.
Tension of all sorts had risen. She felt self-conscious pulling her T-shirt up over her bikini when she got hot, even though everyone else was in bathing suits already. She averted her eyes from Eric’s bare chest, even though she’d seen him like that plenty of times before. While she braided her hair, she looked over to see him looking, and they both instantly cast their eyes down.
When the rain began soon after their dinner of bland, camping-style beans and rice, they both looked slightly stricken. There were three tents: two four-person tents for the campers. One two-person tent for the leaders. The two-person tent looked comically small to Bridget as she began to set it up.
She could guess that Eric had bargained on getting to sleep under the sky. So had she. That way, he could be on one side of the campsite and she on the other, and they could avoid this whole conundrum. The wind blew harder and pushed fat drops of rain down on them as if to make its point. They would all be sleeping in tents tonight.
Bridget was usually good at stomping out tension. It was a special talent of hers. She would march around boldly, crushing it underfoot, not paying it any mind. But this time, it was tricky. It wound its stalks around her ankles and held her fast.
She didn’t know where to go to change out of her bathing suit. She didn’t want him to see her brushing her teeth or her hair. Obviously she didn’t want him to spot her peeing in the woods. She didn’t want to walk into him wearing just his boxers, or worse. She felt nervous about the thought of him watching her climb into her sleeping bag in her nightshirt.
When she thought of her recklessness with him two summers before, she recoiled. How could she have done that? She didn’t even know him then.
Maybe that was exactly how she had done that.
Eric gave her a good long time by herself in the tent before he politely asked if he could come in. He was so polite, he was soaked.
Lying in her sleeping bag, her hair bundled under her neck, she turned her back to him, like she wasn’t noticing him getting into his own sleeping bag not two feet away. She wished they could laugh about this, but she couldn’t find a way.
There they were lying in a tiny orange tent, side by side. The rain beat down. She could smell his shampoo and his wet skin. It was