The Rules of Regret Page 2
“I don’t see how it will actually be much different than it is now.” I gazed around the room at our paint job. Not too bad. I foresaw a cleaning deposit coming my way in the near future, and if I was also able to secure some kind of summer employment, I just might have enough money for the surprise visit I had planned for Lance in a month.
“You’re right,” Sonja said. “You’re already part of the family. You’ll just have the name to make it official.”
After six years with Lance, everything about our lives had become intertwined. Our holidays, our travel, our days and nights—it was all spent together. And at first I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Not that I didn’t love my own family, but with three older brothers and three younger sisters, it was easy to get lost in the mix. But that’s pretty much what we all were—lost.
I knew my mom and dad loved me and they showed it the best way they could. But there was something different about Lance’s family. I wasn’t just one of the nine Duncan’s to them. I was Darby, Lance’s long-term, loyal girlfriend and I was an addition to their family. So even if my life did feel swallowed up in theirs sometimes, and even if things between Lance and I hadn’t really been all that great recently, I found comfort in the monotony and consistency. Part of me disappeared on that night my sister did, and sometimes it seemed like I was never going to reappear. At least that didn’t bother the McIversons. They honestly didn’t know any different.
“I’m gonna head to the store to stock up on the Cheetos you said you don’t want.” Sonja snagged my keys off the hook by the back door. My red Jeep Grand Cherokee sat under the parking spot overhang behind our duplex. “I’ll only be gone twenty minutes, so you won’t be alone long. Need anything while I’m there?”
“Nah,” I answered, collecting the paintbrushes to take them to the sink to be washed, thankful that Sonja knew me well enough to know I hated being alone. It was nice to have someone that understood and respected my quirks, without even having to explain those oddities in detail. “I’m good. See you when you get back, Sonja.”
“See ya, Deborah.”
***
From: Quarry Summit Info
To: Deborah Duncan
Subject: Camp Counselor Positions
Thank you for your interest in our staffing program at Quarry Summit Adventure Camps. We still have availability for the camp counselor positions, though they are filling up quickly. If you are interested in securing a spot, please complete the attached application and submit it no later than this Friday. You will also need proof of a cleared TB test, as well as fingerprinting documentation.
Our summer camp program runs six weeks long. Counselors reside in the cabins with the campers and have all of their meals provided, with the exception of Saturday, which is considered a “free” day.
Our camp focuses on providing an encouraging, nurturing atmosphere for at-risk youth ages 13-15. We instill the fundamentals for confidence and self-reliance through adventure programs, as well as survival activities that push youth to accept responsibility for themselves and their actions.
Though previous experience is not required for the counselor position, if you have any, please feel free to mention that in your following email and application.
We look forward to hearing from you. Please do not hesitate to contact us with any questions you might have. Counselor orientation takes place June 12th at noon at the Rec Hall at Quarry Summit Camp if you are selected to participate in our program. Thank you for your interest in our camps and in the lives of the future generation.
Sincerely,
T. Westbrook
Quarry Summit Associate Director
I skimmed over the email, looking for some hint of personality, but it was completely devoid. Total robot talk. It sounded like a good idea at first and an easy way to make $600, but the more I thought about it, the less the position seemed to be a fit.
I was not outdoorsy. I was never technically at-risk. I wasn’t even good with teenagers. I was awkward and clumsy during my own early teenage years with my more-red-than-brown hair, the collection of freckles that smattered my nose, and the slight gap between my teeth that wasn’t corrected until senior year when Lance’s mom gifted the money for braces.
It took a long, painful while to grow into my gangly body, and even longer to accept those freckles I once hated. I’d secretly wished for pimples instead, knowing that they were just a phase and would eventually disappear, whereas freckles were there to stay. It wasn’t until one night when Lance traced over every single one with the tip of his finger, telling me how much he loved me and how much he loved them, that I accepted the beauty he saw in them.
So no, I didn’t think I’d be much help to anyone currently going through that stage of life. I’d probably make them even more at-risk by inadvertently screwing them up with my own embarrassing stories of adolescence. Lance was the one that would make a great counselor with his ability to reflect and project his opinions on others. I could only imagine what it would do to a young girl’s self-esteem to have someone like Lance tell them they were valuable. If it was even a small fraction of what it did to me back when I was thirteen, they’d think they were the only girl he’d ever laid eyes upon.
I stared back at the formal letter and began running my fingers across the keyboard to compose a response.
From: Deborah Duncan
To: T. Westbrook
Subject: Not a good fit, but thank you
Dear T. Westbrook,
Thank you for your prompt response to my email. Upon further thought, I don’t think this program is the best fit for me. I just completed my second year at Stanford where I am studying Architectural Design. Unfortunately, I do not have a lot of experience with outdoor adventure camps, even less experience with teenagers. I think I’ll stick with buildings :)
I apologize for taking up your time. Thank you again for the reply.
Sincerely,
Darby
I shoved off from the desk with my palms and snatched my phone out of my purse, eager to call Lance. We hadn’t talked since last night, and I was beginning to go through withdrawals. But since I’d never done drugs, I could only assume the feelings I experienced were withdrawal-like. When someone was a part of your life twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, even three days apart felt like an unwelcome eternity. We hadn’t been getting along much lately (and by lately I mean the past couple of years), but I’d come to realize that even arguing was better than silence. At least there was interaction. At least there was emotion. As odd of a sensation as it was, and as hard as it was to verbalize, I’d actually been wishing for an argument recently, just to keep the lines of communication open.
When my fingers fumbled onto my phone, there was a lengthy text already waiting for me.
Lance: You’ll never guess who I just had lunch with…Congressman Stanley! You know it’s been a dream of mine to rub shoulders with that guy! Invited a few of us from the firm out for dinner this evening. Missing you like crazy, Babe. But I think this break in our relationship is what we need. Have fun and enjoy yourself and don’t think twice about me.
I’d already started tapping out a reply, telling how proud I was of him and how exciting it must be to have a chance encounter with his political idol, when my eyes fell upon those last two sentences. Everything stopped. My key punching, my breathing. And apparently our relationship. I wasn’t planning on a hiatus, and wasn’t sure I’d be able to get through the next six weeks without “thinking twice” about him. In reality, I’d probably be in a constant state of Lance pondering.
My email dinged from across the room and snapped my attention before I had a chance to respond to Lance’s text. Probably more spam. I wasn’t sure what website I visited or what list I’d mistakenly got myself on, but over half of my inbox was littered with promises of male enhancement and deals on prescription drugs from Canada. I was about to routinely press the delete button when I saw it was from the camp, instead.
F
rom: T. Westbrook
To: Deborah Duncan
Subject: See you on the 12th!
Dear Darby,
You are in luck! We have buildings at our camp! And since you already have the perfect camp name (I was a little worried with Deborah, but Darby is right on), you have two advantages over all of our other applicants who made no mention of loving buildings, and who have boring, commonplace names like Ryan, Sarah and Chris.
We look forward to receiving your completed application and meeting you at orientation on the 12th!
Until then,
Torin
I blinked rapidly at the screen, like the fluttering of my eyelids could somehow magically rearrange the words and letters into a way that made more sense than their current configuration. What in the world was that? If the first email felt contrived and manufactured, this last exchange was a total one-eighty, like an entirely different person penned it.
I was pretty sure the intent of my original message was to decline the position, yet this Torin seemed to have completely overlooked that. I was a little annoyed that this last note demanded another response because I wanted to just be done with this so I could start pounding the pavement, looking for a real summer job. I wasn’t sure why I ever thought summer camp would work for me. McIversons didn’t camp, and while I wasn’t officially one, I was sure some of that had rubbed off on me by osmosis or something.
From: Deborah Duncan
To: T. Westbrook
Subject: Again, no thank you
Dear Torin,
I appreciate the encouragement, but I am still declining the camp counselor position at Quarry Summit. After looking at my schedule further, I will need to take off time between the third and fourth weeks of camp to visit my boyfriend in Washington D.C., and now that I know the campers are at-risk youth, I don’t think it would be fair to leave partway through the camp and disrupt any relationships that might be forming while there. Because I cannot be consistent, I don’t think this is the best option for my summer employment.
Sincerely,
Darby
Send.
There, that should do it. I scanned over the note again as it sat in my sent folder and lifted nearly a foot off my seat when the inbox chimed as I was still re-reading my last message.
From: T. Westbrook
To: Deborah Duncan
Subject: Luck o’ the Irish
Darby,
You are in luck once again! Any chance you’re Irish (I’m guessing so with a name like Darby Duncan)? Our counselors do not need to commit to the full six-week program, and since the gap between the third and fourth weeks brings in a new set of campers, any time taken off then will not affect the relationships you form.
I’m still looking forward to meeting you on the 12th. Be sure to get fingerprinted soon because it can take up to a week before it enters our system.
-Torin
P.S. I will make sure the cafeteria is fully stocked with Lucky Charms prior to your arrival ;)
CHAPTER THREE
The smell of the pines swept into the Jeep before I was even able to prop the driver’s side door open all the way to let it filter in. It was like Pinesol—only more natural—lacking the potent, disinfecting scent that took me back to fourth grade when Lucy Haverson puked all over her desk during our weekly spelling test.
But even now, it was a fitting aroma that summoned an appropriate memory. Because that’s how I felt—like I could empty the contents of my stomach onto the crunchy gravel that gripped the tread of my shoes. I wasn’t a nature girl. Give me buildings and concrete and I was in my element. But tall, ominous trees and looming mountain peaks that framed them like a Bob Ross painting made me feel anything but comfortable. I started to regret my hasty decision already. Maybe I should have sent out just a few more resumes.
“Welcome!” A slight woman with a chin-length, blonde bob shouted as she scurried toward me across the small parking lot, startling me like she’d just fired a gun into the crisp, thin air. “You must be Darby.” She extended a calloused, tanned hand my direction. Her blue and red flannel shirt was tucked into her jeans that rose well above her navel, and her boots looked more like practical military garb than actual footwear. While the term ‘mountain woman’ wasn’t one that is readily at hand in my vocabulary, she fit the description to a T in a sort of adorable, sort of scary way.
“I’m Marla Westbrook. You’ll meet my husband, Curtis, during orientation. Here, let me help you with your bags.” She didn’t wait for my reply and popped the back to the Jeep open, tucking her clipboard up into her armpit. With two strong grasps and a slightly audible huff, she yanked my luggage out of the trunk and swung around toward the stretch of cabins that sloped down the hillside. “Let’s get these dropped off and then we’ll meet in the Rec Hall with the rest of the counselors. You’ll be in the Spruce Cabin with the thirteens,” she called over her shoulder, her voice gruff and authoritative. I trailed her obediently, because even though she was a tiny bit of a woman, she had the overwhelming presence of a drill sergeant. And she sort of frightened me. “You’ll have eight campers bunking with you at a time.”
“You said join the rest of the counselors.” I tripped over an ill-placed log that outlined the dirt path on the way to the sleeping quarters. After stumbling two feet, I reclaimed my balance before Marla had the chance to notice my falter. Good thing, because I was fairly certain there was nothing that would stop her from commanding me to drop down and give her twenty and I had small, weak arms that trembled just thinking about it. “Does that mean I’m the last one?”
“Yup,” she grumbled. Her whole no-nonsense demeanor made me cower, like I was five years old again and just got in trouble for sticking my hand in the cookie jar. “Last one to commit to the position. Last one to be fingerprinted. Last one to show up for orientation.” She didn’t look back at me as she spoke and instead continued down the trail.
Though it was mid-morning, the further into the canopy of trees we hiked, the darker the surroundings grew. Flashlight. That was the one thing I forgot to pack. I highly doubted these pathways were equipped with solar-powered ground lighting like our backyard at the rental. Stumbling my way through this summer was something I’d need to get used to. I could really use something to guide my path.
“This is it,” Marla said, kicking open the door to the second cabin on the left with the steel toe of her shoe. The walls were flanked with four sets of metal bunk beds, their plastic mattresses bare, and two low dressers rested under the windows on either side. There was an open door at the back of the box-like structure that I assumed housed a toilet and a shower based on the chipped tile floor that peeked out, its grout dark and stained. From the looks of things, this camp had been in operation for quite some time.
Marla dropped my bags onto the ground, a small cloud of dust billowing out from underneath it, and she wiped her hands across one another briskly. “You can unpack after orientation, but this is your space. Feel free to decorate it as you wish, but these kids likely won’t notice—nor appreciate it—so don’t put yourself out too much.”
My eyes traveled down to my pink duffel bag—the one containing nothing but cartons of craft materials and teenybopper posters. I groaned. I so wasn’t cut out for this. I wondered if Marla needed any bonfire kindling, because she was welcome to the entire bag if so.
“Let’s head back up the hill. You have a lot to learn, Darby.” Marla propped the rickety door open for me and I walked through, met with the unfamiliar sounds and smells of the forest that made my stomach roll with hesitation.
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“So that’s the procedure in case of an emergency,” Curtis reiterated, his large hands folded across his chest as he casually balanced his weight on the edge of the metal stool. His gray, handlebar mustache obscured his mouth when he spoke, though the permanent smile was evident underneath, despite the whiskers that curled over his upper lip.
Curtis and his wife were quite the odd pa
ring. While she probably didn’t weigh more than 100 pounds soaking wet, Curtis was a big bear of a man, but more like a teddy bear rather than a grizzly. The warmth in his green eyes and the upward pull of his mouth indicated nothing but compassion and kindness. But I guessed you needed that balance, especially when working in the field they did. I imagined Marla knew how to get unruly youth in line, and I also supposed Curtis did a great job easing any of their fears and troubles that might unexpectedly arise during a week at camp.
“We will have a different medical staffer on hand each week, so get to know each of them and get to know them well. We’ve yet to have a week that doesn’t involve injury in one form or another.”
A girl with two sleeves worth of colorful ink coating her arms and a headful of black, spiky hair slipped her hand up. “What types of injuries should we be prepared for?”
Curtis wobbled his head as though he was recalling past incidences. “Mostly cuts and bruises, an occasional broken limb, lots of stomach issues and vomiting,” he said, stroking his mustache the way they do in movies. I really liked his mustache and how deceiving it was. How it made him appear tough and intimidating, yet that seemed to be so far from the actual truth about his character.
I always felt like an open book. I wore my heart on my sleeve. My emotions were written all over my face. Insert any other cliché descriptor for vulnerably expressing oneself, and I could be its poster child. What you saw was what you got when it came to me and I sort of hated that. Maybe that’s why I’d tried so hard all these years to be someone else. Then at least what you saw wasn’t the entire story.
Curtis twisted the curled edge of his mustache, rolling it between his fingers. “Like I said, usually just routine illnesses, but at least once a summer we have an attempt, so be prepared and on the lookout for any signs or indicators.”