Where We Used to Roam Jenn Bishop (red white royal blue TXT) 📖

out a pointer finger. “I think I can guess who does,” she said, her voice breaking into laughter as she pointed right at Becca.

All at once, it was like something out of Mean Girls. Becca, climbing out of her sleeping bag, trying to flee to the bathroom, be anywhere but in this cabin. Haven shouting, “Oh my gosh, guys. She brought it.”

Tilly Weathers. “She did! She did.”

“Let’s see,” Haven Mulligan said.

I couldn’t see who did it, who had shaken out her sleeping bag. Whether it was Haven or Grace. All I saw was Becca’s tattered kitty blanket on the dusty cabin floor and the girls pouncing on it. Waving it in the air like they were playing capture the flag. I was the worst kind of bystander, frozen in place on my cot.

“What on earth is going on in here?” Mrs. Collins stared at us, bewildered. “Girls! Please. Calm yourselves.”

As the commotion came to a stop, I locked eyes with Kennedy. I didn’t mean to, she mouthed.

“That’s about enough. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow, and we’re well into quiet hour. Now, I’m going to turn off the lights. Let’s hope that tonight was an anomaly or it’s going to be a long three days. Okay, ladies?”

“Yes,” half the girls murmured.

“Now, back into your sleeping bags.”

In the far corner of the room, Becca’s cot was empty, her sleeping bag all bunched up on the floor. The tiny remains of her kitty blanket, trampled.

Had she managed to slip out when all of that was going on? She must have, because she wasn’t here now. Had she run into Mrs. Collins outside? Had she told on everyone? Or had she only escaped to the bathroom to wait it out?

Mrs. Collins flicked the light switch and then we were in the dark. Cots creaked as girls tried to get comfortable. A few of them still whispered, but Mrs. Collins shushed them sharply and they shut up. I buried my face in my pillow. There was no way I could fall asleep after what had happened. This was going to be the longest night of my life.

I hated myself for ever saying anything to Kennedy and Lucy. And even more, for all the feelings I had about Becca that I couldn’t stop. Why had every little thing about Becca started to bother me so much? It never had before.

She was my friend. My oldest friend.

Was.

Was that all in the past now? The Becca-and-Emma days? Maybe it was. And realizing that felt worst of all.

In the dark, as the girls around me drifted off to sleep, I lost all sense of time. But eventually there was a tap at the door and Mrs. Collins stepped outside. Soon after, Becca came in and climbed onto her cot.

One of the girls whispered in the softest voice, “Meow.” Another giggled.

“Hey!” Mrs. Collins was using that voice Mom and Dad used occasionally, one step below absolutely losing it. “That’s enough. Quiet means quiet. I want to be able to hear a pin drop.”

“Mo-om.” Grace drew it out into two syllables.

“Even you, Grace. Pin. Drop.”

What happens at Camp McSweeney stays at Camp McSweeney.

I wanted Austin to be right, but I had the worst feeling that this time he was so, so wrong.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

By the time I stepped off the bus on Monday, my duffel might as well have been filled with bricks. That’s how heavy it felt as I dragged it across the parking lot.

“Meow!” some boy shouted through a bus window.

“Mroooooowl.”

“Hey!” Coach Lipinski shouted. “That’s enough.” He turned to Mrs. Haney, the social studies teacher, and in his thick Boston accent said, “I know it’s always somethin’ with kids this age, but I swear tah God, feels like we spent the weekend in an animal sheltah fulla stray cats.”

I glanced back, searching for Becca. When I finally spotted her, she was looking down at the pavement, probably counting the seconds until she was safely home with her parents and away from all of us.

Up ahead, Mom and Dad stood beside Dad’s Audi. Wait—why was Dad here? He was supposed to be on TV doing the six o’clock weather, not standing there in shorts and an old Red Sox T-shirt. I picked up my pace.

“Hey, Em. Did you have a good time?” Dad popped open the trunk.

“Why aren’t you at the station?”

He pushed aside some sports equipment, ignoring my question as he made room for my bag. “How was the Cape?”

“Fine.”

I took my place in the back seat, trying to figure it all out. Dad didn’t get fired, did he? They wouldn’t fire the most popular weather guy… right? As Dad navigated us out of the parking lot, I kept a close eye on Mom in the rearview mirror. She wasn’t wearing any makeup—not that she did often—and her eyes looked tired. And she kept doing this thing with her jaw, like she was tightening and loosening it, maybe even grinding her teeth.

Did they already know what happened at Camp McSweeney? Had Becca’s mom called and told them? Or did Dr. Grossman not even know yet? Camp McSweeney was a “cell phone–free environment” after all.

“So,” Dad said while we waited at a stoplight, “did you bring home any free potato chips?”

At the end of the factory tour, everyone had gotten a free bag of Cape Cod–brand potato chips. Some kids were saving them, others tore right in, but then once the boys started popping the bags on the bus, Coach Lipinski had to collect them.

“No, sorry,” I said.

“Everything okay, E?” Dad eyed me in the mirror. “You’re awfully quiet.”

I could ask the same question of you and Mom, I thought as I picked some dirt out of my fingernail. “I’m just tired,” I said. “We didn’t get a lot of sleep.” At least that was true.

We pulled into the driveway right next to Mom’s car. Austin’s was gone.

“Where’s Austin?” I asked, stepping out of the car.

Just as Mom was opening her