guard dogs - chapter 1 - brain stew
coupling: joel miller x female reader x tommy miller
summary: your mom falls in love, elopes and suddenly you're uprooted from your shitty apartment and moved into a house with her new husband and his two sons, joel & tommy. your mom thinks you're the brady bunch, but you wholeheartedly disagree. eventually you get the hell out of dodge for a summer camp gig where you find a version of yourself you didn't know existed. and the step-brothers who never looked twice are about to notice.
warnings: 18+ MDNI: coming of age story involving minors, emotional bullying, toxic step-sibling dynamics, neglectful parenting, crying, emotional hurt, self-esteem & body image issues NEW WARNINGS WILL BE ADDED TO EACH CHAPTER. YOU CAN SEE A SPOILER LIST OF WARNINGS BY CLICKING ON THE SERIES MASTERLIST BELOW THE AUTHORS NOTES.
authors note: hey party people! i hope you enjoy! this first chapter is a very difficult time for the reader, joel and tommy aren't very nice to her -especially tommy- but stick with me it gets much better between the 3 of them in the chapters to come *wink*
series masterlist / ao3 / my masterlist
“I’m serious about him,” your mom says, standing at the stove in her wrinkled office blouse, the smell of cheap spaghetti sauce bubbling behind her. “We’re moving to his house at the end of the month.”
“Moving in?!” you repeat, realizing it’s not a joke.
“Mmhm, it just makes sense.”
Come to find out during the rest of this conversation with her they eloped at the courthouse last Saturday while you were left alone to fend for yourself. Eating an expired box of lasagna hamburger helper and watching re-runs of Home Improvement. And she tells you this like you’re supposed to be grateful because you'll finally be escaping this shitty apartment and you’ll have a yard, a garage, and won’t have to listen to the neighbor above you practice their Irish step dancing at all hours any more.
Your mothers always been one to make hasty decisions but never ones this quick or this life altering. Eloping after only 3 months together, 3 months isn’t enough time to know somebody, no matter how many times she repeats, when you know, you know.
Though at least it’s with Ricardo Miller –or Ric as he insists– and not one of the other deadbeat exes she’s dragged through the apartment – i.e. the one dude who talked like he was selling extended warranties and lived off her paycheck after your dad bailed. But Ric comes as a package deal. Not just the house with the yard and the garage, but with 2 sons. Joel, 15, same as you, and Tommy a year younger. Who are now effectively as of last Saturday at around 2:30pm, your new step-brothers.
Oddly enough the men your mom dated in the past either had no kids or they had sons, not once did they ever have a daughter. So you were always stuck with the prospect of possible step-brothers. Which, when you were younger was fine, always leaning more rough-n-tumble tomboy-ish anyway. Playing sports, never afraid to get dirty, part of you genuinely liked doing the things that were more boyish, but looking back now, you know a piece of you just wanted to be apart, and not be the odd one out.
The secondhand smoke from the Marlboro Ultra Light your mom just lit up assaults your nose before she cracks the drivers side window, reminding you what day it is. Move-in day. Your mother had squealed with excitement at you this morning after you emerged from your room. In response you had given her a tight smile and jazz hands. Now heading towards your new house, you really start to ponder what your relationship with your new step-brothers will look like now that you're older and quite different from the person you used to be. More reserved and quiet now. You really hope you’ll get along with these 2 boys and can end up being friends, you don’t see why not, you’ve always been able to make friends with anyone. But seeing as your mom decided to jump into a whole new life so quickly, you’ve heard little about them, only seen a photo or two, and have yet to actually meet.
You arrive at the house, and you’ll give your mom credit where credit is due. This house is definitely a couple steps up from the apartment. It’s a 2 story house, white exterior and navy blue door with a clunky brass knocker on it, windows adorned with shutters you’re sure don’t work as intended – these purely for aesthetics only. Straight away you can tell Ric is probably like one of those old farts who tells people to get off my lawn, because here in Texas where the summers are brutally hot and the grass should be a dry and crunchy light beige color, his is a lush green.
The ’92 Toyota Camry, your mother’s beloved champagne-colored chariot, pulls into the driveway, Ric’s truck is already backed in with the tailgate down and your whole life stacked in uneven cardboard boxes that he, you and your mom loaded up this morning. The last bits of your life, all here to be placed under his roof.
Your mom kills the engine and just sits there, both hands on the wheel, smiling at the house like it’s the answer to her white picket prayers. Through the windshield, you watch Ric directing his sons on what to do, he points somewhere and one of his sons follows through. Even though you can tell the teenage boys aren’t super happy about having to do manual labor on a Saturday.
You notice Joel first, on the ground beside the truck, taking whatever gets handed to him. He’s in faded jeans and a loose old T-shirt you can tell used to belong to somebody else before it belonged to him. Then there’s Tommy. He is taller than he looked in the picture your mom showed you, wearing a Nirvana shirt with the sleeves cut off and a rip across one knee of his jeans. You can very much tell the brothers have a similar style and probably share most of their clothes, since they’re only a year apart in age.
“You okay?” she asks, glancing over.
You wanna laugh in her face. That question has become one of her favorites these past couple of months, mostly because it can be answered with two words to let her off the hook.
She nods, choosing to believe you.
Outside, Tommy jumps down from the truck bed, his Converse landing with a smack. Joel says something to him and gives a playful wack upside the head. Tommy answers with a face and his tongue poking out from between his lips.
Your mom checks herself in the rearview mirror. “Ready?” she asks, floofing her bangs.
But she’s already opening her door. You get out after her, feeling the Texas heat radiate up off the driveway. Ric looks over first and lifts a hand in greeting, smiling wide and welcoming. The boys turn with him and you know how sometimes people look at you and you can feel them deciding what kind of person you are before you’ve even said a word? Yeah… Tommy does that, his eyes move shamelessly up and down you. He grins a little, like he’s been handed something new and entertaining. Joel’s look is shorter. He doesn’t rake over you the same way, he just looks at you with a blank expression.
“Well helloooo there pretty lady, fancy runnin’ into you here.” Ric says with a chuckle, coming forward to kiss your mom on the cheek.
Hardy har har. Looks like he got dad jokes.
Ric turns to you then. “And there’s our girl.”
You fight a look of disgust that wants to take shape on your face. You do not care for that wording one bit, though maybe that’s unfair. You know he means well, he’s a nice guy, you’ve met him a handful of times, never getting a weird pedo vibe from him, unlike that one dude your mom dated, the one who asked you if you wanted to play Twister with him when you were 12. So you let his wording slide. Small mercies.
“Hey Ric,” you say, fitting a small pleasant smile on your face.
“These here are my boys.” He gestures back toward them. “Tommy and Joel.”
You say hi. Joel says hi back and gives you a little salute with two fingers.
Tommy says, “Hey,” with a face that suggests the word has several hidden meanings, none of which are nice.
Your mom is beaming, seemingly already convinced y’all are the Brady Bunch.
“Why don’t you boys show her where her room is?” Ric suggests, looking at his boys. Tommy glances toward the house, then at Joel, like maybe one of them can dodge it but Ric points at the stack still in the truck. “Take one of these boxes with you, they go to her room.”
Joel grabs a box, then Tommy and he jerks his head toward the house. “C’mon.”
You follow Tommy as he cuts through the living room –not giving you any time to take in the space around you that you’ll be calling home– and heads for the steps that lead to the basement –okay… 3 story house, you stand corrected– and you follow him down with Joel on your heels. The staircase is narrow, boxed in by solid walls on both sides, so you're single file the whole way down. At the bottom, Tommy turns right and the space opens up to the living room. He informs you that he and Joel occupy the main living area of the basement and their rooms are on the other side of it at the far end. It's a cozy cave of guitars and game controllers, with dark wood paneling, a big stereo, and a worn-in plaid couch, along with a TV on a stand against one wall.
You’re led back to the bottom of the stairs, there going the other way is a small hallway with 2 doors. Tommy walks through one of those doors. “And here we are.” He drops the box at the foot of your bed –that Ric has so graciously already put together for you, huh, maybe this guy will be good for your mom afterall– as your eyes move around the space.
Your room is small, square, same plain wood paneling along the walls. There’s one little window high up near the ceiling where a strip of daylight comes in level with the lawn outside. If you stood on the mattress, you figure you could hoist yourself up and shimmy out of it, if you ever needed a possible escape route.
“Cute,” your mother says from behind you, arriving breathless with two smaller boxes in her arms. “Isn’t it cute?”
She’s clearly trying to get you to love it.
“Yeah, it’s nice,” you lie, enthusiastically.
Joel sets his box down by the dresser, his eyes moving once around the room, then to the hallway, then back to you. That’s when you realize that the other door you passed was a bathroom and you’ll be sharing it with them. You look up to the ceiling and let out a breath through your nose, hoping this won’t be a point of contention between you and the brothers.
Tommy notices and says, “Just don’t take forever in there and we’ll get along fine.”
Your head turns to look at him. “I don’t take forever,” you say nicely with a smile.
Tommy widens his eyes trying to act innocent. “Didn’t say you did.”
Then under his breath he mutters –but yeah, it doesn’t look like it– quiet enough that your mom and her old ass ears miss his insult. But you hear it, and Joel’s close enough to hear it too. The words hurt and make you feel like shit. You don't glob makeup on or anything, but you brush your hair, put in little efforts here and there. You're far from a bridge troll and at least always thought of yourself as pleasant looking, but you guess you are pretty plain.
Joel finally speaks for the first time. “Tommy,” he says with a slight reprimand to his voice.
Tommy lifts both hands. “What? I’m just saying.”
You look down at the floor, now feeling ugly –u-g-l-y, you ain't got no alibi ugly– and smaller than ever. Your mother, oblivious to the interaction that just happened and to your current feelings, claps once and says, “This is going to be SO good, I can feel it.”
After that day, one of the first things you learn about Joel and Tommy is that they take long showers. What in the hell are they doing in there?? This noticeably starts affecting your new life, 2 weeks into living here. Standing in the hallway at 7:15 am with your towel and shampoo tucked under your arm – you already know better than to leave your shampoo in the bathroom, found that out week 1 when you suspect over half of it was squirted down the drain – waiting and waiting. Meanwhile, the water has already been running for 20 minutes. You let out a frustrated sigh and politely knock again.
"Occupied." Tommy says cheerfully and unbothered, while the water keeps flowing.
"I have school," you say through the door.
"Then why are you still—"
"Relax, Goody. I'll be out in a minute."
You continue to stand there in the hallway with your shampoo and your towel, doubting he’ll be out in the next minute. What’s hard is knowing somewhere upstairs your mom and Ric are having breakfast together, all happy, and you're down here losing a war of attrition against one of your new step brothers.
The door finally opens six minutes later. Tommy comes out in a cloud of steam with a towel around his waist and his hair dripping, looking pleased with himself. He glances at you, sees the worry and upset look on your face, and grins.
"See? A minute," he says, and disappears around the corner.
Now you stand in the steam he left behind, the mirror completely fogged, and you just know there's probably not a single drop of hot water left.
The brothers don’t really ever take you into consideration and Tommy most of all finds it amusing if he inconveniences you. They have their own world downstairs, their own hours, and are always with each other. Your bedroom, carved out of their territory, just a door they walk near on the way to the bathroom. You keep your room tidy. You do your dishes. You go to bed at a reasonable hour. You are, in every outward way, the model of a person who is not causing problems. Yet they don’t become your friends, like you’d hoped for, instead all there is is turbulence.
It's Tommy who coins it, during the first week of living here. You're at the kitchen table with your school books fanned out — even though classes only just started, you're trying to get ahead, knocking out a reading assignment before dinner — when Tommy spots the highlighters lined up by color and pulls a face. "Geesh," he says, nudging Joel as he trails in behind him from outside. "See? Told you she was a goody."
Goody. As in two-shoes. As in no fun.
Apparently they've already decided what kind of girl you are before they really know a single thing about you, and you can’t figure out how to prove them wrong without sounding pathetic. So you don't try. You don't let it show on your face how much the new nickname hurts you. But that night, back in your room, a few tears slip down your face, there is only so much you can take. And everyday you see just how happy your mom is with Ric and how well he treats her, and you don’t want to be the person who ruins it, but this house you live in now, definitely doesn’t feel like home to you.
Weeks go by. Then a few months. The weather changes and you keep learning more about your new step-brothers. In the cooler months the boys wear old ratty flannels over their T-shirts and Tommy digs out a few colorful sweaters and cardigans, trying to look like his idol Kurt Cobain.
Ric and your mom stay in their own little world upstairs, They make dinner together. They fall asleep on the couch watching old movies. They go to estate sales on Saturdays and come back with things to make his house their house. Eye roll.
Which means you, Joel and Tommy are basically unsupervised, all the time. The boys take full advantage of this. Friends over on school nights, music until whenever, the basement running on its own hours entirely. You can hear it through the wall when you're trying to sleep — laughter, guitars strumming, noise of teenage boys who have never once been told to keep it the fuck down. Clearly, never having to fight for their right to party. You’ve gathered that Ric trusts his sons fully, because the brothers have a lot of people over, more than your mom seems to be aware of. All coming in through the basement door. You like to think if your mom knew her 15 year old daughter was down here constantly surrounded by 14 and 15 year old boys, she might say something to Ric. But she never seems none the wiser. And you never let on about it.
You discover more about the brothers listening though the walls at night, like how Tommy is always trying to be the center of attention. Surprise, surprise. He laughs first and loudest. Joel hangs back more, but not in a shy way. You’ve gathered he’s a pretty confident person around his friends. And the 2 of them together are impossible. They move around each other without thinking. One drops something, the other picks it up. It’s like they share the same instincts, forged from years of roughhousing, shared space, and a silent alliance against the rest of the world. One forgets his wallet on the counter; the other is already tossing it to him before he even pats his pockets. They finish each other’s sentences, usually with some smartass remark that only makes sense to them. And they share everything; clothes, inside jokes, friends, food. You find it obnoxious and also, against your better judgement, a little fascinating.
You slowly develop a new life of your own there, though. You aren't sitting downstairs pining for their approval like some loser. You have school. A few friends. You spend as much time out of the house and away from them as you can.
Most days you hang around with Jenna and Riley, 2 friends you made since moving here. You steal Tommy’s beat up bmx bike outta the garage, to go to the Sonic in town. You all pool your money together, split a large order of tots and share a Route 44 Cherry Coke. On cooler evenings you ride the back roads, kicking up gravel, racing each other to the old water tower on the edge of town just to sit and watch the world move below.
Some weekends you help out at the county animal shelter because the dogs don’t care that you’re the new kid or what’s going on at your house. You play with the big mutts in the dusty yard out back and sneak them extra treats when no one’s looking. You've always preferred the big ones — the ones other people pass right by because they look like their too much to handle. Those are the ones that make you feel the most safe cause they just wanna be close to you, wanna prove their loyalty to you. They just wanna love you and be loved back. You like that.
So no, you're not completely miserable. It more so feels like death by a thousand stings. Because your step-bothers can be so infuriating. They take your laundry out of the dryer before it’s done. They both talk over you at dinner. Always leaving the toilet seat up, you learned to check after falling in once in the middle of the night. They use the last of the toilet paper and don’t replace the roll.
But there is the one thing Tommy does that just chaps your ass like nothing else, and it happens at least once a month and you know he does this shit on purpose. You caught him doing it before and he just smirked like it was funny.
You wake up, get ready for school, and drag yourself into the kitchen hoping for something easy before the bus comes. Your eyes land on the Frosted Flakes box sitting there on the shelf. For a second your mood lifts.
You’re already tasting the sweet crunch, imagining pouring a big bowl and drowning it in milk. You reach up excited now and pull the box down with actual energy for the first time that morning, but the box feels way too light. That rush of excitement collapses instantly into pure annoyance, then disappointment. You stand there staring at the stupid colorful box in your hands, the bright tiger on the front still smiling like everything’s fine. They're Grrrreat!
You open the top anyway, hoping maybe there’s a handful left at the bottom. There never is. Just an empty bag shoved back in the box like trash. It makes you want to slam the empty box on the counter. Instead you just crush it hard between your hands. It’s such a small thing, but it fucks up your whole morning every single time. That brief spark of this is gonna be good followed by the letdown. It feels exactly like living here.
Yet you still don’t hate them, just wish they’d be nicer to you. What you do hate is how they can make you feel like a stupid little girl with one look and how they can be so inconsiderate of you, but so instinctively considerate with each other. Mostly, you hate that after a while, being called Goody starts to feel less like an insult and more like a role you’ve been shoved in. So you play it. You keep your grades up. Keep your room neat. Keep your mouth shut more than either of them deserves. You become very, very good at not being seen or heard.
Time still carries on, winter comes and goes, and to your dismay, the bathroom situation never improves. The noise doesn’t either. You finally invest in a cheap pair of ear plugs with your allowance but they only help so much.
By the time school is 3 weeks away from letting out for summer, your eyes feel like they're gonna bleed and you are starting to feel a deep-seated anger that you truly have never felt before. Every slammed door, every late-night jam sesh from the boys’ side of the basement is like a hand shaking your mattress, pushing you past the point of delirium.
It’s been 8 months of Tommy and Joel’s friends coming and going in packs, always loud, shouting over each other, playing music or video games. Now on the rare occasion Ric will holler down the stairs to keep the volume down before he goes to bed, but you know once he gets into the bedroom with your mom and their big box fan, they won’t hear a thing. It won’t be 10 minutes later somebody’s laughing again, the TV or music is up, the bathroom door is slamming, somebody’s banging something against the staircase wall, and there goes another decent night of sleep.
So when the flyer goes up on the school bulletin board for a 10 week counselor program at a lakeside camp a bones throw from Austin, you tear off one of the tabs before you even finish reading it.
It’s not for the fresh air. It is not about some grand destiny and finding yourself in nature or any of that hippie dippy bullshit they put on the flyer. It’s solely about leaving. You sign up because your brain feels like stew and the thought of being trapped downstairs all summer listening to the boys and their friends shred the same three Nirvana riffs just might cause you to be committed.
You're filling out the application at the kitchen table, your mom brings over dinner and the rest of the family arrives. "Camp counselor, huh?" she asks as she sets down the main course and peers over your shoulder. “Will they let 15 year olds do that?”
“Mmhm, plus I’ll turn 16 while I’m there,” you say, continuing to write.
Your mom sits down with a sad look on her face. “Oh, I didn’t even think about that. I suppose we can celebrate it when you get back. Where’s the camp?”
“Somewhere on Lake Travis,” you inform her.
Ric, to his credit, thinks it sounds practical. “Looks good on applications,” he says around a forkful of food “Responsibility. Leadership and all that.”
Tommy, lounging in his chair with one knee up and laughing says, “You all gonna gather ‘round the campfire and sing kumbaya?”
You roll your eyes to yourself and keep writing.
“And braid friendship bracelets?,” Joel adds smirking.
You get an acceptance letter 2 weeks later that feels like a pardon from the president and the whole house knows by dinner that night – thanks to your mom of course.
She’s thrilled, probably more so because she will have something new to talk about with her friends. “10 whole weeks!” she says. “We’re all sure gonna miss you!”
Then Tommy buts in. “Yeah,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest, “We’re gonna be inconsolable.”
Joel chuckles. Tommy lifts his brows, cutting a look to Joel. “Think they got a merit badge for bein’ a goody? Maybe they’ll teach her how to loosen the hell up out there.”
“Watch your mouth boy,” Ric says sharply, pointing his fork at him.
Tommy’s shit-eating grin immediately slips from his face.
“Both of y’all knock it off,” Ric adds, looking from Tommy to Joel. “Ain’t a damn thing wrong with her wanting to do something worthwhile with her summer, and you two knuckleheads ain’t gonna sit here and make a joke out of it.”
Joel drops his eyes to his plate as Tommy mutters, “Was just kiddin’ around.”
“Well, I’m not,” Ric says. “She’s a sweetheart and good girl. Better sense than most kids her age, definitely more than the pair of you put together. I’d be real pleased if more young people acted the way she does.”
While Ric’s words are nice and all, you have never wished more than right now that teleportation was a real thing and something you had the ability to do. Your mom just smiles, pleased, at the lovely things her beau just said about you. And here you are the good girl at the dinner table, held up like an example. Such a little sweetheart.
Later that night, Tommy comes up to you, stands with his shoulder leaning against the bathroom door frame, while you're brushing your teeth.
“Better be a good girl and run along to bed now, wouldn’t want you up past your bedtime,” he says.
You look up at him in the mirror, spit into the sink and reach for the towel, not answering him. You can feel your eyes start to build tears, and it only gets worse the harder you try to hold them back. It's been months of this - of him treating you like shit. It's becoming too much.
“Aww,” Tommy smiles and leans in towards you. “You gonna cry?”
“No! Shut up,” you say, looking down at the hand towel you’re holding.
His grin widens as he pushes off the frame satisfied with himself and heads down the hallway, straight past Joel, whose back is resting against the wall, arms folded. He wandered over to use the bathroom, but ended up hearing the whole exchange between you and his brother.
You make eye contact with Joel and look down fast, but not fast enough, tears finally slipping loose. Humiliating in their timing, happening in front of Joel. But something in his face changes, his arms drop, he pushes off the wall and reaches toward you, the movement surprising him as much as it does you.
You back up away from his reach and flee before he can say anything else, before your body can betray you any further. You make it to your room, slamming the door shut and twisting the lock with shaking fingers.
You back away from the door, wiping furiously at your face with the back of your hands, angry now on top of everything else. Angry at Tommy and angry at Joel for always just standing there, laughing along. But now he wants to act like he gives a shit about your feelings cause he witnessed the effects of Tommy’s berating.
The floor creaks outside your door. Then Joel’s voice comes through the wood. He says your name, you squeeze your eyes shut. “Go away!” you shout, a sob breaking out of you. “I can’t wait to get away from both of you!”
A moment passes and Joel speaks again. “I’m sorry, I’ll—”
You cut him off. “I said go away!”
The floor makes another little sound as Joel stands there, and then you hear the sound of his retreating footsteps make their way down the hall. You stand in the middle of your room listening until he’s gone. Only then do you crawl into bed, pull the blanket over your head. Now upset and angry with yourself too, because for the first time since moving into this house, one of them saw you break.
You get the feeling that Joel must have said something to Tommy about what happened after he teased you the other night, because for the next week -the week before you leave for camp- Joel and Tommy steer clear of you. You’re grateful.
A few days before you leave, your mom takes you to K-Mart and lets you pick out two pairs of shorts and a new one-piece bathing suit that doesn’t feel matronly but is still modest, and lives up to your Goody name.
The morning you leave, the basement is quiet, assuming both the boys are still dead to the world this early, and part of you would love to be loud and interrupt their sleep, but you don't wanna have to interact with the pair and most importantly you don’t want to be like them.
Tip-toeing down the hall, you sit your duffel at the bottom of the staircase. Looking up, you see Joel, sitting on the couch, faintly lit by the bathroom night light coming from the hallway.
He looks over. “You need any help?” he whispers.
The offer catches you off guard, part of you wants to ask if he has a fever.
“I’ve got it,” you coldly reply.
Now you can’t be sure due to how dark it is but dare you say Joel looks a little hurt.
The camp bus is set to leave from the H-E-B parking lot in town. Your mother hugs you twice. Ric says, “Have fun, kiddo,” and squeezes your shoulder. Tommy was still asleep when you left and Joel despite being awake doesn’t come, though you didn’t expect him to.
Boarding the bus, your nose notes the smell of sunscreen and someone's body spray fighting a losing battle. You carry your backpack down the aisle and take a window seat by yourself. After the bus pulls off and you wave goodbye, you spend the first 15 minutes doing a threat assessment. Which girls look friendly. Which ones came already locked in with their own people and have no interest in expansion. At the next stop sign, a brunette with a high ponytail drops into the seat beside you in cutoff shorts.
“Hi! You look normal enough. Mind if I risk it?”
“That’s a bold assumption,” you say chuckling.
“Anna,” she smiles, sticking out her hand.
You tell her your name, and that is that. By the time the bus gets to the lake, you've swapped stories. Anna has told you about the time she accidentally set her aunt’s patio umbrella on fire with a magnifying glass. You’ve told her about your step-family, presenting it like a joke you don’t care much about. She seems to read between the lines anyway and just nudges your shoulder with hers and says, “Well, their loss. You’re funny.”
It surprises you how much you need to hear something like that right now. And it gets you more excited for what else is to come at camp.
Your cabin is a narrow row of bunks with screened windows and one small bathroom with a toilet and a sink. It should feel cramped. Somehow it doesn't. Here it just feels communal instead of invasive, the way things at home feel invasive. Nobody stays in there forever. Nobody leaves the floor wet on purpose.
That first night, you wake up on instinct around 1:30am, certain there must be shouting, or music, or the sound of roughhousing on the other side of the basement. There is only the fan. A throat being cleared in sleep. Somebody turning over in a bunk hard enough to make the frame creak. You lie there in the dark and feel your whole body slowly realize it can finally relax.
By the end of the first week, the dark circles under your eyes start fading. And by the second, you stop waking up at every small noise. The lake itself is prettier than it had looked in the brochure. There are dragonflies that skim low over the surface and disappear before you can track them. Then there are mornings when mist hangs over the water making everything feel calm and serene. You come to love the routine of camp. Waking up early. The way breakfast smells from across the field. The chaos of girls getting ready in the cabin. The scheduled activities.
At first, you wear the new one-piece your mother bought you and sit with your knees together and laugh with your mouth mostly closed and say sorry too often. Sorry for reaching across someone. Sorry for being in the way. Sorry for being sorry.
Anna notices. Saying things like you apologize too much, you know you don’t have to do that here with us. And other things such as why do you always do that, when you tug your shorts down after standing, you have good legs, stop hiding them.
By the third week, little things begin to shift.
Anna lends you a different swimsuit, then a different top, then a pair of shorts that show more thigh than you would’ve dared on your own. She doesn’t push you to wear them, though she does have the subtlety of a fire alarm, but it seems some of her confidence rubs off on you.
At first, wearing one of her bikinis makes you feel overly exposed. You keep tugging at the fabric that covers your tits, crossing your arms, glancing around to see if anyone is staring.
“Everybody has seen what you’ve got to offer before babe,” Anna says, sunning beside you on the dock. “But with jugs like those attached to the rest of that bangin’ body, be prepared for some stares.”
You sheepishly look down and try to hold back a smile. The confidence in her words embolden you, you stop folding in on yourself and just let yourself be.
After that, things change faster. You get a little color. Then a little more. Your shoulders deepen from pale to golden honey. The bridge of your nose freckles. Your hair goes lighter in places where you spray the lemon scented Sun-In spray on it. One day you catch your reflection in a small bathroom mirror, looking miles different from the girl who showed up in sensible shorts with her whole personality tucked in.
One of the senior counselors, a girl named Liza with bleached bangs, pierces your ears in the craft cabin after curfew with a needle sterilized over a lighter. And not just the lobes, but small silver hoops up along the cartilage, 3 on one side and 2 on the other. You adore how they look on you. Then Anna tries to talk you into a nipple piercing while you're at it.
"Absolutely not," you say.
"Oh come on, you'd love it."
"Fine. Eventually you'd love it."
By week four you're laughing louder. By week five you’re rolling the legs of your shorts up twice instead of once and not tugging them back down every time you stand. By week six you catch boys looking. You start to love the male attention you're getting. Becoming bolder, holding eye contact with them just long enough that the boys grin back at you.
Then flirtation with Grant starts. He’s one of the senior counselors that oversees water sports, which means you see him every afternoon at the dock while helping the small kids. He’s really sweet and easygoing. The first time he really notices you, you’re dragging a canoe up onto shore, he steps in and lifts the other end like it’s nothing.
“Dang girl, let me help you,” he says. “You trying to impress somebody?”
“Is it working?” you say, eyeing him.
“…Maybe,” he says, with a grin and a look where you can tell he wasn’t expecting you to say that.
After that, he starts finding reasons to talk to you. What you like most is that he doesn’t call you a Goody.
Before you know it, the middle of July is here, along with your 16th birthday. You told Anna not to make a big deal of it, and wouldn’t you know it, she doesn’t listen. Shocker.
So of course, on the night of your birthday, after lights out, Anna leads you down to the dock where a loose half-circle of junior and senior counselors have gathered. Somebody has smuggled in a bottle of rum. Somebody else has brought a cake in a smashed plastic container. The lake is like black glass and the near full moon lays a silver path across it, so bright, it looks like you could walk across it. They light the candles and sing to you, badly. You make a face, laugh and tell them to shut up, embarrassed by being the center of attention. A paper plate with cake gets pressed into your hand and the rum burns all the way down.
That’s when Anna starts a game of truth or dare. She doesn't start with you, which you are so thankful for. She works her way around the circle, you watch and laugh, thinking maybe you're going to get through this without becoming the subject.
"Truth or dare," Anna says, and you can hear the smile in it without looking at her.
Grant doesn’t hesitate. “Dare.”
A few people oooh like idiots. Anna tips her head, pretending to think, though you bet she’s had this cocked and loaded since the game began.
“I dare you,” she says, drawing it out, “to kiss the birthday girl.”
The dock erupts. People clapping. Somebody pounds a heel against the wood. Anna looks at you so pleased with herself, part of you wants to throttle her.
Grant glances at you first. That is what you remember later. That he looks at you first. Not at Anna. Not at the crowd. At you. Suddenly the sweatshirt you wore to help keep the chill of the night off of you, is now holding in the flames that burst over your skin. You know everybody is watching. You know that 6 weeks ago this would have sent you straight into yourself, a turtle retreating under its shell.
Instead, you lift one shoulder, licking your lips and say, “C’mere handsome, make my birthday wish come true.”
The whole circle loses its mind.
Grant laughs a little under his breath, and moves closer. One hand comes up, holding your face then his soft lips press against yours, lips now moving together slowly in unison as all sound fades. When he draws back, the cheering rushes in all at once. You give a coy laugh. Grant is grinning at you now.
“Worth the wish?” he asks, a little flushed.
You can still feel the shape of the lips on your mouth. “Definitely.”
Anna is shrieking like she has personally orchestrated the moon landing, and you can’t find it in you to be too upset at her after that kiss.
Lying in your bunk after the night comes to a close, you press your fingers to your lips and stare up into the dark. It isn’t really about Grant, well not only about him. It’s about the fact that somewhere between the H-E-B parking lot and that kiss, between the one-piece swimsuit and Anna’s relentless campaign against your old self, you realize how much more at ease you are in your own skin.
Your duffel is fuller leaving than it was arriving. A borrowed paperback one of the girls gave to you. A camp T-shirt you cut up because Liza told you to stop dressing like the assistant manager of a Christian bookstore. A Polaroid from the dock, all of you squinting sun-drunk into the camera, Anna half climbing onto your back. A bottle of vanilla body spray that Dee brought and didn’t like, so she gave it to you. Anna tosses you one of her tank tops, which you put on to head home in. White and tight, hugging your tits and accentuating your waist perfectly, paired with the same shorts you arrived in, only now you’ve taken shears to them, making them super short. Your legs are darker and your hair is lighter. The messy bun atop your head allows the silver on your ears to flash when you turn your head.
Grant meets you at your cabin door, the morning it’s time to leave and takes your duffel, carrying it for you. The bus lot is last-minute chaos. Girls calling to each other and crying. The adult counselors checking names off clipboards.
Grant bends to slide your duffel under the bus, then turns back to you.
"So," he says. "You were fun to have around, I’m gonna miss you." He opens his arms and you step in, he pulls you flush up against him, his chin brushing your temple.
When he leans back, one hand stays at your waist, the other reaches into the pocket of his shorts and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “Just in case.”
You take it, already smiling before even opening it. Inside is his number, and beneath it, in his handwriting, In case you need someone to talk to. Or advice about guys.
You glance up at him. “Advice about guys?”
You laugh, folding the paper back up. “And he’s an expert?”
“Debatable,” he says. Then, a little softer, “The first part was the important one.”
There is that feeling again, that bright little lift low in your stomach – the same one you got when you kissed him. You know it's not because you think Grant is the love of your life. But because how he actually gives a fuck about you, and about all the things you told him about your home life between makeout sessions behind the mess hall.
Behind you, Anna shouts, “We’re boarding babe! C’mon!”
You turn halfway and yell, “Get on the bus, I’ll be there in a sec.”
Grant laughs, looking over your shoulder at her, then looks back at you. “I mean it,” he says. “I’m always here if you need someone in your corner”
“I know, thank you, really.”
His gaze dips to your mouth, then returns to your eyes. His lips meet yours in a simple goodbye kiss. His thumbs brush once at your sides through the cotton of the tank top, then he lets you go.
“Go on, pretty girl.” he says, nodding toward the bus.
Your hand closes around the folded paper, stepping back. You stand there for a moment looking at him and it occurs to you that you are going to miss him or maybe more the feeling he gives you and not so much him. You’re not naive, you figure the odds of ever seeing him again are slim, you’re okay with that, you can make peace with that. You know how to handle a person no longer being in your life.
You turn and head toward the bus, your duffel already swallowed beneath it, your flip-flops slapping warm pavement. You climb onto the bus with his number tucked in your palm. You drop into the seat beside Anna and shove at her shoulder. “Move over.”
She eyes the paper in your hand. “Did he give you his number?”
Your hips raise up and you shove it into the pocket of your shorts. “Maybe.”
She clutches her chest. “My work here is done.”
As the bus pulls away, you glance out the window. Grant lifts a hand. You lift yours back. Then the camp begins to recede. The dock. The cabins. The trail to the lake. The place where you became more yourself.
But with every mile home, the old life starts coming back into view.
The ride home feels shorter, you wish it was longer, not eager in the slightest to come back to what awaits you. Before you know it, the bus hisses to a stop in the same H-E-B lot you shoved off from. Your mother is already there, standing beside the champagne chariot in sunglasses, one hand lifted against the glare. You de-board, grab your duffle, say bye to Anna –excited to have learned at camp she lives one town over, so you’ll be able to hangout– and head toward your mom as she calls out, “There’s my girl! Lord, look at you!” Pulling you into a hug. She leans back to get a better look, both hands on your shoulders.
“You got tan,” she says, then squints at one ear then the other. “And pierced.”
“Mhm.” You say, hoping she doesn’t disapprove.
“You look beautiful! I’ve missed you so much, the house just isn’t the same without you, honey.”
The old duffel gets chucked in the back seat. Your mother talks all through the drive. She asks a little about the camp but says you can talk more about it at dinner.
“I’m sure Ric and the boys would love to hear all about it too!”
You’re kidding… right? It’s nice to see your Mom’s still delusional.
Then she asks if you met any boys, which makes you turn and look at her because she has not asked you that sort of question in a while.
"What?" she says, smiling at the road ahead. “I’m your mother, not a nun.”
You let out a short laugh.
You don’t answer her question and she doesn’t ask again. You watch the road along with her. The familiar turnoffs coming back one by one. The gas station with the busted Coke sign. The feed store with the faded mural on the side.
Your mother keeps talking, filling the car with what she and Ric have been up to while you were gone, but you’re not really listening. The closer you get to your neighborhood, the more you start to feel the outline of the basement again. You look down at your hands instead, trying to distract yourself. Silver rings circle your fingers now, two on your left hand, one thin one on your right thumb. Nails painted a dark blue with that Wet ‘n Wild shimmer Dee let you borrow. You twist one of the rings absently, then lift one bare foot into the seat without thinking, your knee bent toward your chest. Your mother glances over and catches sight of it.
You wiggle your little piggies, a little grin tugging at your mouth. “Maybe.”
“Who are you?” She laughs. “And what have you done with my daughter?”
You rest your temple against the seat and look at her, returning the laugh. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Oh, listen to this girl,” she says, delighted, and reaches over to tap your knee. “Camp put some mouth on you.”
Maybe it did. Or maybe the mouth was always there, tucked away with a dozen other things you got used to hiding. The radio fills the rest of the drive. That Collective Soul song, December, the one that's been everywhere all summer.
When the Camry finally turns onto your street, you sit up a little straighter without thinking. Body bracing for impact, the old you bracing for impact. But you aren’t that person anymore, you left that little timid bitch at camp. You pop your gum once, cross your arms and settle back against the seat. If those two boys want to make your life difficult, they can fucking try. They haven't met the real you yet.
I'd love to hear what you think so far!
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The next chapter is the one that contains the snippet of the wip I posted several weeks ago. If you haven't read that yet, you can find it here.
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