Proof of Forever by Lexa Hillyer Page B

twelve-year-olds herded in organized lines from their bunks by their head counselors; the thirteen- to fifteen-year-olds converging from their afternoon sports and activities; everyone flowing together like tributaries into a larger river, headed toward the chaotic delta of the dining hall’s barn-style double-door entrance.
    Luce always had dinnertime down to a science: expertly navigating the steady stream of other campers, surging ahead so she could secure a spot at picnic table 17, the one farthest from the bathrooms and the busy food line, the table with the best light in the early evening.
    But today, she feels like a leaf pulled along by thecurrent—undirected and uncertain, unable to stop. Unmoored.
Unmoored, unprecedented, unwitting. Without an anchor, never having happened before, unconscious.
    After the relay race was curtailed due to Ricky’s injury—a fractured ankle, just like two summers ago (just like
this
summer)—the girls were eventually sent back to their cabin, Bunk Blue Heron. (Nobody knows, not even Luce or her mother, why the girls’ bunks are named after animals and the boys’ bunks are simply numbered.) Now she shuffles toward the dining hall—wearing the purple and yellow flip-flops she found tucked neatly under the corner of her bottom bunk, waiting for her like a pair of obedient puppies—as though compelled by a malicious force. She feels itchy and antsy, sticky and confined, as though she’s been forced to put on an old, still-wet one-piece.
    The other girls may be referring to what happened as another one of Okahatchee’s reunion night “miracles,” but Luce personally does
not
want to be back, does not want to have to consider the repercussions this could have on the time-space continuum, as Zoe put it. She does not want to pretend to be someone she’s not: her former self.
    As soon as she steps through the giant entryway, inhaling the smell of limp pizza and squishy, mayonnaise-drenched pasta salad, Andrew calls her name.
    â€œLuce! Hey, Luce!”
    The relief is immense; his voice anchors her, finally, and she’s so drawn in, she doesn’t even bother to scan the crowd for Zoe, Tali, and Joy. Another thing she isn’t prepared to do: pretend tobe close again, like they were that summer.
This
summer.
    Luce weaves her way through the packed dining hall, careful not to bump into anyone’s tray. As she nears table 13—square in the middle of the mayhem—Andrew’s grin grows so wide it seems to take over his whole face. He looks almost exactly the same, except for his facial hair, which is basically nonexistent. Luce feels something pull inside her chest. She realizes that in Andrew’s mind, they have probably been together for only approximately five weeks. Five weeks! The idea seems crazy to her now, after more than two full years. How is she supposed to act around him?
    Will he know something’s wrong?
    This
Andrew is still getting to know Luce. He has never seen how ridiculous she gets when watching corny old Disney movies. He hasn’t yet held her hand while she cries, waiting for Amelia to undergo surgery. He hasn’t even seen Luce’s boobs. Second base is still a few weeks away, in his dorm room at Brewster. . . .
    â€œHi, babe—er, Andrew,” she says, trying to seem casual. She’s already completely unsure how to behave. Do they call each other babe yet, or did that start later, at some distant point post–second base?
    Luckily, he doesn’t seem to notice. He slides down on the picnic bench to make more room for her, then immediately throws his arm around her shoulders and kisses her cheek. She leans into him, marveling at how good it feels to be next to him. His smell is a little different—more sunscreen and less of the sharp spice of the deodorant she knows he’ll switch to eventually.
    â€œYou aren’t hungry?” he asks.
    She realizes