And one that I can’t forget.

7

When it’s time for dinner, I stay behind, using the excuse that I have to unpack and change into my shorts and camp polo. The truth is that I want to be alone with Dogwood, just for a moment.

I stand in the middle of the cabin, rotating slowly, taking it all in. It feels different from fifteen years ago. Smaller and tighter. Like the cramped sleeping car where Marc and I once spent a red-eye train ride from Paris to Nice. But the cabin’s differences are outweighed by its similarities. It has the same smell. Pine and musty earth and the faintest trace of woodsmoke. The third floorboard from the door still creaks. The trim around the only window still bears its faded-blue paint job. A touch of whimsy I noticed even during my first stay here.

Memories of the girls’ voices return to me, like an echo of an echo. Random snippets I had completely forgotten until now. Allison mock-singing “I Feel Pretty” while flouncing around in her too-big polo shirt. Natalie sitting on the edge of the bottom bunk, her legs spackled with calamine lotion.

These mosquitoes are, like, obsessed with me, she said. There’s something about my blood that attracts them.

I don’t think that’s how it works, I said.

Then why are they biting me and not the rest of you?

It’s your sweat, Vivian announced. Bugs love it. So slather on that Teen Spirit, girls.

My phone squawks deep inside my pocket, snapping me out of my self-indulgent, admittedly morbid reverie. I dig out the phone and see that Marc’s attempting to FaceTime. With only one bar of signal, I have doubts it’s going to work.

“Hey, Veronica Mars,” he says once I answer. “How’s the sleuthing going?”

“I’m just starting.” I sit on the edge of my bed, holding out my arm so my entire face fits into the frame. “I can’t talk very long. The signal here is terrible.”

Marc gives me his dramatic pouting face in return. He’s in the kitchen of his bistro, the glossy, stainless-steel door of the walk-in freezer behind him.

“How’s Camp Crystal Lake?”

“Devoid of masked killers,” I say.

“That’s a plus, I suppose.”

“But I’m rooming with three teenage girls.”

“Definitely not in your wheelhouse,” Marc says. “What are they like?”

“I would describe them as sassy, but that term is probably out-of-date.”

“Sassy never goes out of style. It’s like blue jeans. Or vodka. Is that a bunk bed?”

“It is indeed,” I say. “It’s about as comfortable as it looks.”

Marc’s expression changes from pouting to horrified. “Oh dear. I apologize for convincing you to go back there.”

“You didn’t convince me,” I say. “You just nudged me a little closer.”

“I wouldn’t have nudged if I’d known bunk beds would be involved.” His image sputters a moment. When he moves his head, an afterimage follows in a stream of pixels.

“You’re breaking up,” I say, when in reality it’s me. The signal has dropped from one bar to none. On the screen, Marc’s face is frozen, nothing but an abstract blur. Yet I can still hear him. His voice cuts in and out, letting me catch only every other word.

“You . . . out . . . bored . . . okay?”

The phone gives up the ghost, and the call dies. My screen goes blank. Replacing Marc’s face is my own reflection. I stare at it, shocked at how tired I look. Worse than tired. Haggard. No wonder Miranda made that crack about my age. I look positively ancient compared with them.

It makes me wonder what the other girls of Dogwood would look like today. Allison would probably still be cute and petite like her mother, who I saw a few years ago in a revival of Sweeney Todd. I spent the whole show wondering how much she thought of her daughter, if there’s a picture of Allison in her dressing room, if seeing it made her sad.

I suspect Natalie would have remained physically formidable, thanks to sports in college.

And Vivian? I’m certain she’d be the same. Slim. Stylish. A beauty that bordered on haughtiness. I imagine her taking one look at present-day me and saying, We need to talk about your hair. And your wardrobe.

I shove the phone back in my pocket and open my suitcase. Quickly, I change into a pair of shorts and one of the official camp polos that arrived in the mail two weeks ago. The rest go into my assigned trunk by the door. It’s the same trunk from my previous stay here. I can tell from the grayish stain that mars the satin lining.

I close the trunk and run my hands across the lid, feeling the bumps and grooves of all the names that have been carved into the hickory. Another memory prods my thoughts. Me on my first morning at camp, kneeling before this very trunk with a dull pocketknife in my hand.

Carve your name, Allison urged.

Every girl does it, Natalie added. It’s tradition.

I followed that tradition and carved my name. Two letters in all caps white against the dark wood.

EM

Vivian stood behind me as I did it, her voice soft and encouraging in my ear. Make your mark. Let future generations know you were here. That you existed.

I look to the other side of the cabin, at the two trunks resting by the door. Natalie’s and Allison’s. Their names have faded with time, barely distinguishable from all the others carved around them. I then move to the trunk next to mine. Vivian’s. She had carved her name in the center of the lid, larger than all the others.