pieces.
At noon there’s a camp sing-along, but I only mouth the words because I never finished reading the camp packet, so I don’t know the lyrics. I make sure I’m peeing during the ropes course, peeing during lice check, even during most of lunch. If I can’t pee I at least pretend to, sitting on the toilet, reading graffiti. I don’t go anywhere near the horses, and I don’t pet the bunnies. I linger at the lost and found station, even though it’s the first day and nothing’s been lost yet. I sign a list volunteering to stay at camp with future sick kids on future field trip days.
I let the littler ones from the younger groups climb on me, pull my arms, braid my hair, and assault me with questions:
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Are you going to college? To be a doctor, a teacher, an actress?”
“Do you know any famous people?”
“Are you a camp counselor all year long?”
“Will you be a camp counselor forever?”
I tell them I have zero boyfriends, that I’m going to write novels and a bunch of other things, that I know one girl on a Nickelodeon show because we had the same geometry tutor, and that I’m not really a camp counselor. That I must be magical like Mary Poppins because I was never even here today.
“Go ahead,” I tell them, “check. There’s no evidence of me anywhere.”
No one knows who Mary Poppins is.
I barely get ten minutes alone with my girls.
I never see Foster once. I even try looking through my glasses for a change, sneaking peeks when a Foster-shaped polo shirt or pair of cargo shorts jogs by.
At three as I’m heading home, I call Michelle and then Steph, but neither of them is off work yet. I call Elliot, but he’s on his way to Tempe and doesn’t pick up. I squeeze the steering wheel a little tighter as I dial Courtney’s number, and when she finally answers, I vent to her how I screwed up majorly, that I can basically never go back. She reminds me about Roush.
“What about the open door and the walking through it?” she asks. “What about an open mind at least?”
I try to visualize what the worst camp counselor looks like, but all I can picture is me. Then I try to visualize what the best camp counselor must look like and nothing materializes—I don’t even have a reference point.
I drive the rest of the way home in a daze, rolling through who knows how many stop signs while trying to picture this ideal dream counselor, who doesn’t even exist. Courtney’s waiting for me when I walk in. All she does is hand me a photo of myself—eleven years old, smiling, my arms linked with some girls I used to be best friends with at Camp Hollywoodland—and I’m, like, completely comatose.
I go upstairs and collapse in my room, wondering how to bounce back. I may have never been Teacher’s Pet, but I’m still a Star Student. I don’t have to necessarily ace this summer, but I absolutely have to pass it. Tomorrow it’ll just be me and my group. Jessica, Alexis, Lila, Jenna, Zoe, Maggie, Renee, Rebecca, Billie, Alyssa—I repeat the names a dozen times, like I’m cramming for a Civil War exam.
Later I check my email. Lindsay’s written.
Hey gurl, sweet 2 meet. Wanna chat? Roomies, yay .
I forward it to Michelle and Steph for deeper analysis and then keep studying my names.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
AFTER I’VE MEMORIZED all the names and feel confident I know them, something else starts to stress me out, and that something is: What Next? Just knowing their names isn’t anything. I’m sure Foster knows the names of all the campers in the entire camp—and I bet they know his name too, first and last.
I’m lying on my bed, rolling from side to side, sighing, restless. I text Elliot something vague like where do we go from here? and he texts me back Albuquerque. I’m still staring at my phone, my eyes itchy from not blinking, when Michelle
At noon there’s a camp sing-along, but I only mouth the words because I never finished reading the camp packet, so I don’t know the lyrics. I make sure I’m peeing during the ropes course, peeing during lice check, even during most of lunch. If I can’t pee I at least pretend to, sitting on the toilet, reading graffiti. I don’t go anywhere near the horses, and I don’t pet the bunnies. I linger at the lost and found station, even though it’s the first day and nothing’s been lost yet. I sign a list volunteering to stay at camp with future sick kids on future field trip days.
I let the littler ones from the younger groups climb on me, pull my arms, braid my hair, and assault me with questions:
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Are you going to college? To be a doctor, a teacher, an actress?”
“Do you know any famous people?”
“Are you a camp counselor all year long?”
“Will you be a camp counselor forever?”
I tell them I have zero boyfriends, that I’m going to write novels and a bunch of other things, that I know one girl on a Nickelodeon show because we had the same geometry tutor, and that I’m not really a camp counselor. That I must be magical like Mary Poppins because I was never even here today.
“Go ahead,” I tell them, “check. There’s no evidence of me anywhere.”
No one knows who Mary Poppins is.
I barely get ten minutes alone with my girls.
I never see Foster once. I even try looking through my glasses for a change, sneaking peeks when a Foster-shaped polo shirt or pair of cargo shorts jogs by.
At three as I’m heading home, I call Michelle and then Steph, but neither of them is off work yet. I call Elliot, but he’s on his way to Tempe and doesn’t pick up. I squeeze the steering wheel a little tighter as I dial Courtney’s number, and when she finally answers, I vent to her how I screwed up majorly, that I can basically never go back. She reminds me about Roush.
“What about the open door and the walking through it?” she asks. “What about an open mind at least?”
I try to visualize what the worst camp counselor looks like, but all I can picture is me. Then I try to visualize what the best camp counselor must look like and nothing materializes—I don’t even have a reference point.
I drive the rest of the way home in a daze, rolling through who knows how many stop signs while trying to picture this ideal dream counselor, who doesn’t even exist. Courtney’s waiting for me when I walk in. All she does is hand me a photo of myself—eleven years old, smiling, my arms linked with some girls I used to be best friends with at Camp Hollywoodland—and I’m, like, completely comatose.
I go upstairs and collapse in my room, wondering how to bounce back. I may have never been Teacher’s Pet, but I’m still a Star Student. I don’t have to necessarily ace this summer, but I absolutely have to pass it. Tomorrow it’ll just be me and my group. Jessica, Alexis, Lila, Jenna, Zoe, Maggie, Renee, Rebecca, Billie, Alyssa—I repeat the names a dozen times, like I’m cramming for a Civil War exam.
Later I check my email. Lindsay’s written.
Hey gurl, sweet 2 meet. Wanna chat? Roomies, yay .
I forward it to Michelle and Steph for deeper analysis and then keep studying my names.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
AFTER I’VE MEMORIZED all the names and feel confident I know them, something else starts to stress me out, and that something is: What Next? Just knowing their names isn’t anything. I’m sure Foster knows the names of all the campers in the entire camp—and I bet they know his name too, first and last.
I’m lying on my bed, rolling from side to side, sighing, restless. I text Elliot something vague like where do we go from here? and he texts me back Albuquerque. I’m still staring at my phone, my eyes itchy from not blinking, when Michelle
Similar Books
