Free Don't Ever Change by M. Beth Bloom

not to worry about getting wet, that now he’ll be nice and cooled off in the sun. This is how a counselor should be. I do like Foster! Foster’s a saint! Why were we rivals instead of friends? Why, on accident , were we ever such frivals?
    “Why not?” Foster says again when he returns with the boy, holding hands, as they follow me out of the nurse’s station into the hot day. “People do die,” Foster whispers. “Death is an end.”
    “Because, Foster!” Then I turn to him and say something I’ve always wanted to say to him, ever since our sophomore year creative writing class with Mrs. Dubrowski, ever since Foster’s first short story about the mailman who gets stabbed in the eye with his own letter opener: “Because aren’t things sad enough already?”
    “Your stories are sad,” Foster says.
    “My stories are . . . hard .”
    “And is your life so hard?”
    I’m about to answer when Alyssa walks up with the rest of my group. Their hair’s all wet, some of them still wearing bathing suits under their jean shorts. Alexis is holding my clipboard, and Billie’s gripping a clump of rainbow lanyard string, on their way to the Craft Shack. I scan their faces for frowns, dulled senses, disinterest, and notice they’ve all got freckles, every one of them, and a sense of duty floods through me, and I suddenly feel super protective. How many more summers are these girls going to have freckles, and how can I make these freckle-filled summers as fun as humanly possible?
    Alyssa tells me the girls want me to pick out our group’s colors so they can make beaded necklaces in those colors and wear them to the End-of-Day Ceremonies. I suggest pink and turquoise, which they all love, and then, God, I realize I’m actually feeling loyal to the nightmare of my choice. Then Alyssa counts off, “One, two, three !” and that’s when they each hold up peace signs and all together yell, “Whirled Peas!”
    A few seconds later they wander off, and I feel so sensitive I want to hug Foster because even though I did this, it feels like he did it too.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
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    AT HOME COURTNEY’S on the couch arguing with Dad about the same stuff as always, while Mom leans against the counter eating soy chips out of the bag, watching the two of them longingly, like somehow even this aimless afternoon bickering is a precious family moment. When I tell them about the Conrad quote, Dad answers back, “Sure, but that guy will say anything to get on a syllabus,” and Mom chimes in too, something about how the redeeming things in life aren’t happiness and pleasure but the deeper satisfactions that come from struggle. Then she brings up F. Scott Fitzgerald, who wrote about Gatsby and guilt and tycoons and other Classic stuff. Mom actually had a cat when she was little named the Grrr-eat Catsby, and Dad always tells us about his idea for a cookbook called Recipes for Disaster . Whenever I think about that, I think about how people always say babies are so cute, but parents can be just as cute sometimes.
    Courtney doesn’t think so; when I go upstairs my sister follows me, shutting the door behind us.
    “I’ve got two thousand saved,” she says, “but Dad’s making me put it toward that stupid scratch on his car instead of letting me use it for Amsterdam.”
    “Mom and Dad were being so cute,” I say. “Did you hear when Dad made that syllabus joke? I could potentially miss them a lot.”
    “Potentially,” Courtney says. “But Dad’s taking my money.”
    “Yeah, but you hit that guy’s speedboat.”
    “Like a hundred years ago.”
    “Dad’ll forget,” I say. “He’s literally forgotten every single thing that’s ever happened. And Mom doesn’t care. She’s hit, like, thirteen mailboxes just this year, and she hates Dad’s car.”
    “That’s actually helpful,” Courtney says, encouraged.
    “Hey,