The Color War Read Free

angel leaned forward and touched her finger to Raymond’s cheek, too.
    Raymond sucked in his breath. “Do you know Monroe?” he asked.
    Her eyebrows drew together, making a small crease. “Not yet,” she said. “Is he another camper?”
    That’s when Raymond remembered where he was supposed to be, and that this wasn’t his angel. He began to notice more about her, embarrassed that he had been dumb enough to think she was heavenly, when she was just a girl. She had freckles over the bridge of her nose; she smelled of lemons and clean laundry. He sat up straight, looking out the windows for landmarks he didn’t know. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’m Melody. Everyone else went off to find their bunks, but I didn’t want to wake you up. You were sleeping like a baby.”
    Raymond bristled. “I’m not a baby,” he said. “I’m nine.”
    “I’m sixteen. I’m a lifeguard.” Then Melody smiled. It hit Raymond like an unexpected patch of blue sky on a weekend forecast to be 24/7 rain; and that was about when he fell in love.
    Melody walked him back to the little cabin he would be sharing with three other boys and her cousin Matthew—Raymond’s counselor. She kept up a steady chatter as they walked, telling him that the best part of the camp was the lake, which felt like a sinkhole when you first walked in but bottomed out to sand if you stuck with it; and that the worst part was Bad Weather Days, when they had to sit in the auditorium and watch movies about being Good Samaritans and Jesus’ early life. “Here you go,” she said, and Raymond was caught in the web of her voice for a moment before he realized they were standing in front of the door to a cabin, where the other boys and the counselor had already picked out their bunks. Raymond’s mouth went dry. He waited for Melody to say something or introduce him or make him seem like less of an outsider, but when he turned around to look at her, she was already gone.
    Lamar and James were from Roxbury and had known each other before they got to camp. They lived for basketball and quizzed each other about which player had the highest career player efficiency rating (Michael Jordan) and whether it was Chris Ford of the Celtics or Kevin Grevey of the Bullets who made the first three-point shot in NBA history. Winslow came from Jamaica Plain and was so big for his age that he’d nearly been placed with the older campers. They sat on their bunks while Matthew explained the routine at Camp Konoke. “By the time you leave here,” he said, “everyone in this cabin is going to know how to swim, how to sail a Sunfish, and how to get a bull’s-eye.” He smiled at James. “Have you ever shot a bow and arrow?”
    James looked up. “You ever shot a gun?”
    Once, Monroe’s older brother DeShawn had let him hold his P380. Raymond could remember scratching his nail against the grooved metal where the serial number had been filed off. At the time he’d felt like he was holding lightning in his hands, like if he let out the breath he was holding the trigger would go off. Now, when he thought about that gun, he just wanted to throw up.
    Raymond shook his head. Beside him, Winslow pulled a penknife out of his sock and began to pare his fingernails. Matthew blinked once, then turned to the other boys. “We’ve got a camp meeting in ten minutes,” he said. “Who needs to use the latrine?”
    Raymond was the last boy out the door. He was wondering if and when he would be seeing Melody again, and he was concentrating so hard on remembering what her skin had felt like that he almost didn’t notice Matthew slipping a hand into Winslow’s duffel and confiscating the knife, with no one the worse for wear.
    * * *
    He saw her once, walking across the empty archery field behind Reverend Helm during the opening address to campers. He couldn’t be sure it was her, not with the half-dozen life jackets looped around her neck and the kickboards stacked in her arms, but his