Apparently, we're going to a lake.

Well, Newt says we are, and I'll believe that.

I gave him his shirt back this morning. He 'bloody loved it' and has mentioned my 'bloody amazing skills' every hour until now.

"I think I want you to paint all my clothes now," he says. "Is there paint that doesn't wash off in water? My swim shorts are boring."

I shrug. "This paint doesn't wash off. You can throw it all in the laundry. But chlorine might be another story."

"Yeah, you're probably right." He readjusts the bag on his shoulder. "But I could still swim a lake with it."

We're currently walking to the lake. Newt appears to know where that is, as he has been there with his friends before, and also seems very excited.

"And from who did you get this invitation again?"

"Your sister," he says. "With a threat that if I told anyone, she'd kill me."

"Typical." A short pause. "But you told me."

"She told me to tell you."

"Ah, alright." Another pause. "Would you have gone without me if she didn't tell you to tell me?"

He doesn't hesitate to reply. "I wouldn't have gone. Or I would've told you and sneaked you in."

My smile brightens at that. Not that it's good he'd be ruining his own fun by staying at the camp or having to secretly sneak me in, but just the fact that he wouldn't leave me out.

"But your sister wouldn't," he finishes.

I realize I wasn't listening. "Wouldn't what?"

"She wouldn't leave you out." He smiles. "So don't think that."

"Never said I did."

Newt lets out a laugh. It's like a breeze sweeping my worries away. "You're easy to read. I could see the thought on your face."

"Is that good?"

"You decide that." He readjusts the bag another time, groaning. "Why would she think she'd leave you out?"

"Uhm, because I don't like alcohol and drugs?"

"I don't like it either. Thomas isn't a giant fan. Yet we still get invited. And your sister really won't depend how much she likes you on alchohol and drugs."

I hum. "You have a point." My eyes trail to the bag and his sometimes twitching face and his limp, which seems to cause him pain at the moment. "Give me your bag."

As if he hadn't heard me, his head snaps to me. "What?"

"Your bag. Come on. I'll carry it."

"I can carry a bag."

"You'd make me very happy if you'd let me carry it."

A scoff leaves his mouth. "Carrying bags makes you happy?"

"Carrying yours does."

He falls silent for a second, eyes on the ground. With some mutters of protest, he hands me his bag. I hang it over my shoulder, satisfied.

I decide not to ask about the limp, because that would be rude. He must know that I've noticed by now and he would've mentioned it, had it not been a sensitive subject.

"Can you paint my bag? Please?" He nearly makes a jump at the request. "I want flowers on mine, too."

It's my turn to laugh now. "Sure."

Just like me, he brought a tote bag. Just like mine, it's beige, except mine's decorated with flowers and a sun and a butterfly.

Eventually, I can sense we're close to the final destination. I can hear laughs and screams coming from a distance. Splashes of water and even people running on sand.

I recognize Lelia's laugh. It's the genuine one. Just like that, she also has a fake one, and a more awkward one. But everyone has them.

Newt and I walk down a small hill of sand, bushes beside us, and then we meet the dozens of blankets that have been spread around the ground. Above me, someone holds onto a rope, swinging into the water with a scream.

But surprisingly, I don't see a crowd as big as I expected. I recognize most of the people here. No, I think I recognize all of them. I'm just not sure about everyone's names. As much as I'd like to, I'm still not good with names.

"Oh, hey!" Dripping because of the lake's water, Lelia runs toward us. Her excitement adds more to mine. "Good to see you guys."

Okay, she must be in a very good mood.

Or she found her people and is turning into the Lelia I know. The one before she... changed.

Either way, I'm happy about it.

She even hugs me!

But then Newt lets out a certain kind of laugh and I realize she only did that to wet my clothes.

Well, whatever. I'm already wearing my swim shorts and I'm not the one who'll ruin the mood because my shirt got a bit wet.

"You can just put your stuff there." She makes some kind of movement to the blankets. "See you!" And then my sister's gone.

Quickly, I follow Newt onto a blanket that doesn't seem occupied. We put our bags down and remove our shirts. I've got to admit that even though this is like the third time I see him shirtless, it's still hard not to look. And I don't know why that is.

He's wearing black swim shorts. Nothing very special. Mine are blue. Baby blue, if you care. 

"So are we immediately going swimming or take advantage of the sun before it goes down?" Newt shakes me out of my thoughts.

As people often do.

I really need to learn not to zone out all the time.

"Uh— yeah, the sun sounds good. Might as well get a bit tanned," I suggest.

He agrees with a laugh. "I'm as pale as a ghost. You're right."

We lie down on the blanket, faces now next to each other. I close my eyes. Immediately, I'm reminded of when I was a kid. I close my eyes in the sun and play with the way my eyesight would be black if I squeezed my eyes shut, but red if I only closed them lightly, and sometimes even yellow due to the daylight.

When I couldn't sleep, I'd press my fists to my eyes and would watch the figures dance in front of my sight. It sounds crazy, but it works. Try it.

"Tell me something about yourself."

My eyes open at the question. "Like what? You know a lot about me, Newt."

"I don't know much about your family. Tell me about it."

"Oh, uhm." Stop saying 'uhm' all the time. "Well, I have a stepmom, but I see her as my real mother. And she's nice. So is my father."

He doesn't ask about my real mother as long as I don't mention her, just like I don't mention his limp as long as he doesn't. I think it's an understanding we have.

Except I do mention her. "My real mother died when Lelia was born. I barely remember her. I was only one and a half."

"Oh," Newt says. I don't care what he says next. It's hard to reply to a death. Maybe it would even be the best if he stays silent. I don't want him to pity me, at least. "Well, I'm glad your stepmom is kind."

"Yeah." I nod. "She's from Spanish culture. Her mom's Spanish. Dad Arabic. I think that's why she likes her slipper. Though she doesn't use it a lot. Only when we don't listen."

He turns to me, a grin on his face. "So do you get hit a lot or not?"

"Not," I confirm. I look back at the sky. "My dad's tall and blonde. Mom's short and has dark, long hair."

Newt nods. I'm starting to consider he finds this boring, but then he asks me to continue.

"Well, Mom's parents live in Spain, so we don't visit them a lot. Dad's parents, we do visit. They're sterner than my dad, though we get money and food if we do something well."

I look at him to check if even that is interesting, but he's beaming, so I guess I'll keep going.

"Lelia doesn't like it when I call Amina 'Mom'," I say. I'm not sure if she'll appreciate me saying this, but I trust Newt, and I'm not spilling anything private, honestly. And I just need some opinions on this. "Neither does she really like Mom. She says it's because some people just can't get along, but it might have to do with our real mother's death."

Newt hums. "Probably. I don't think you can really blame her, as long as she acts appropriate towards Amina. She might be blaming herself for your mom's death. I'm not sure how that would be connected to not liking Amina, though."

"I'm not sure either." A sigh escapes my mouth before I know it. "I just want to help her, you know? But she doesn't talk about those sort of things and I don't want to force her."

"Just ask her about it. See how she reacts." Newt's hand touches my arm. I nearly flinch at the sudden movement, as if it's an electric shock. It does feel like that, especially when it sends a feeling to my stomach. I'm not sure if I should welcome it.

I ignore it all. "Yeah, I'll do that. Now you tell me about your family."

"Oh, well." He chuckles a bit. "I have a sister. Same age as Lelia, and probably as fiery and stubborn. Sonya, but you knew that. My dad looks like yours. Tall and blonde. Mum's brunette, but also tall. She has glasses and works as an esthetician."

"Oh, that's nice. Do you get free facials?"

"I always squirm and talk and don't move along, so she refuses to give me them at this point."

We both laugh out loud. I can see it. Newt talking and the product getting in his mouth, or his eyes squeezing uncomfortably shut as his mom gives him a headband.

"Your skin's awesome, though. Does she give tips?"

The words leave my mouth before I even realize. A sudden shame washes over me. You only said his skin is awesome. That doesn't mean anything. That doesn't confirm anything. He won't care.

Indeed, he doesn't. Well, he cares, but luckily not in... that way. Wait— now I'm getting confused, too. Whatever—

"Sometimes. But I guess it's just genes." A pause. "Your skin's fine, so don't worry."

A bit more at ease, I smile. "Thanks. And what about your dad?"

"Weird business things I don't understand. He likes to sport. I sometimes go with him. Mom does give Sonya facials and they do nails as they watch romcoms. I've got to admit that I do watch those with them."

"Not blaming you. Do you like Pretty Woman?"

"Love it. Though technically, no."

I frown.

"Sorry, that was the worst joke ever."

My frown gets deeper. "I don't—"

"I don't like pretty women," he says, and waits.

I do laugh at it. And then laugh even more at how ridiculous the joke is. "Okay, wow."

"What does your room look like?"

"Lots of paintings. And paint. And foil on the ground. And then my bed in the corner. Basically that. You'd have to come and see it to believe it's not as crazy as it sounds."

"I'd love to."

I stop. Feel my stomach doing things again. Even though I hadn't seriously meant it, the thought isn't bad. It means that we aren't just each other's company during this camp, but always.

"What about yours?" I ask.

"Lots of pictures and plants. I have a big window, which is amazing. The walls are white, but decoration covers it up," he explains. "Hm. How far away from this camp do you live?"

"Like two hours," I say. "And you?"

"Half an hour." The pause between his words is too short for me to say something in. "You know, since fifteen weeks is super long, there's a few weekends in which you're allowed to go home. I mean, you're allowed to go home anytime, but you get what I mean." Another pause, in which my heart does a jump. "You should come sleep over."

The jump gets higher. "Sure. Sounds great," I say casually, and I'm afraid it was too casual.

Luckily, we get saved when splashes of water wet our skin, and we sit up.

"Come on, losers! Don't be boring and get in the water!"

We share a glance. It means that we mutually agree, so we get up.

"I'm taking all your bloody time in." Newt snickers. "You've barely had the chance to talk to anyone."

"I don't mind. I'm not the biggest socializer. And you're fun to talk to," I say.