Because that’s not nice.”
“Champ, not tramp . But how is Foster?” Steph asks.
“My eye’s twitching, that’s how Foster is.”
“Don’t you feel better now, though?”
“So-so,” I say. “Hey, why’d you and Michelle used to call me Shakes? Because I’m a writer, right? Because I’m an awesome writer and you think of me as, like, the Shakespeare of the group?”
“That—and other reasons,” Steph says, laughing, and then we say good-bye.
Later I text Elliot something cute like the best friends are breast friends and he texts me back curl powder and whirled peas, which I assume means he tried to type girl power and world peace some wacky way but his autocorrect changed them.
I write it all down.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
EACH MORNING WE have what’s called Morning Ceremonies, where all 179 campers and counselors and staff gather in the outdoor amphitheater to sit on stiff seats and listen to various announcements. Today there’s a badly sung sing-along about friendship and letting your light shine, and then Steven introduces the new lifeguard, Marta, and calls an eight-year-old up to the front because it’s his birthday. We tunelessly sing the “Happy Birthday” song and all shout “Hi, Marta!” like a day-care center full of reformed, upbeat addicts.
Foster’s sitting with his group of nine nine-year-old boys (who Steven swears are a “ really great group”) just off to our left, and they keep swiveling their heads around to sideways-scope my girls—maybe because we’re huddled around Alyssa poring over our schedule for the day, not really paying attention and talking too loud. Underneath MORNING CEREMONIES it says FREE PLAY . My girls can’t shut up about it because they’re too excited, even me, I’m dying to play free, but then we look up and I guess we’ve missed some dismissal, because everybody’s up and leaving, even Foster.
I lead my group out to an empty patch of grass not far from the archery field and climb onto a nice big rock, gesturing for the girls to gather close. Alyssa lies down on her stomach, her head on her elbows, and then all the other girls want to lie the same way, so for a few minutes there’s a steady chatter of who’s going to lie where and who gets to be closest to Alyssa. I try to give Alyssa a coded look, psychically instructing her to lead by example , but it doesn’t work because Alyssa’s totally oblivious, and why wouldn’t she be, she’s thirteen and not at all intimidated. None of my girls are intimidated by me, actually, which is the exact opposite of how I thought it’d be when I took this job.
When everyone’s finally quiet, I get a chance to do what I really wanted to do yesterday: take a good long look at each of them, at their faces and their whole presented selves. Then, without making a big deal of it, I start taking notes.
Jessica is small; she’s the redhead dressed all in pink. Lila and Renee are best friends, I assume, because they’re wearing matching best friend necklaces and bracelets and rings, and they’ve braided their hair the same way in a high fishtail with matching scrunchies. Jenna is mean; she has a mean face with a hoodie pulled tightly around it. Zoe must be into sports, because she’s dressed like a mini-Olympian: Nike everything and a backward visor. Maggie’s generic, instantly forgettable; I can’t think of anything to write about her. Rebecca wants to be called Becks and tries to give everyone a similarly nickish-name, which is sort of overbearing. Billie’s bright, a smarty, so I like her right away—she’s an early favorite. Alexis is very, very chubby. And Alyssa’s obviously the coolie; she’s got bangs and high-top purple Converses and her ears pierced four times. I write down Don’t be competitive with your CIT because she’s thirteen and who cares, but it’s already being hard
“Champ, not tramp . But how is Foster?” Steph asks.
“My eye’s twitching, that’s how Foster is.”
“Don’t you feel better now, though?”
“So-so,” I say. “Hey, why’d you and Michelle used to call me Shakes? Because I’m a writer, right? Because I’m an awesome writer and you think of me as, like, the Shakespeare of the group?”
“That—and other reasons,” Steph says, laughing, and then we say good-bye.
Later I text Elliot something cute like the best friends are breast friends and he texts me back curl powder and whirled peas, which I assume means he tried to type girl power and world peace some wacky way but his autocorrect changed them.
I write it all down.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
EACH MORNING WE have what’s called Morning Ceremonies, where all 179 campers and counselors and staff gather in the outdoor amphitheater to sit on stiff seats and listen to various announcements. Today there’s a badly sung sing-along about friendship and letting your light shine, and then Steven introduces the new lifeguard, Marta, and calls an eight-year-old up to the front because it’s his birthday. We tunelessly sing the “Happy Birthday” song and all shout “Hi, Marta!” like a day-care center full of reformed, upbeat addicts.
Foster’s sitting with his group of nine nine-year-old boys (who Steven swears are a “ really great group”) just off to our left, and they keep swiveling their heads around to sideways-scope my girls—maybe because we’re huddled around Alyssa poring over our schedule for the day, not really paying attention and talking too loud. Underneath MORNING CEREMONIES it says FREE PLAY . My girls can’t shut up about it because they’re too excited, even me, I’m dying to play free, but then we look up and I guess we’ve missed some dismissal, because everybody’s up and leaving, even Foster.
I lead my group out to an empty patch of grass not far from the archery field and climb onto a nice big rock, gesturing for the girls to gather close. Alyssa lies down on her stomach, her head on her elbows, and then all the other girls want to lie the same way, so for a few minutes there’s a steady chatter of who’s going to lie where and who gets to be closest to Alyssa. I try to give Alyssa a coded look, psychically instructing her to lead by example , but it doesn’t work because Alyssa’s totally oblivious, and why wouldn’t she be, she’s thirteen and not at all intimidated. None of my girls are intimidated by me, actually, which is the exact opposite of how I thought it’d be when I took this job.
When everyone’s finally quiet, I get a chance to do what I really wanted to do yesterday: take a good long look at each of them, at their faces and their whole presented selves. Then, without making a big deal of it, I start taking notes.
Jessica is small; she’s the redhead dressed all in pink. Lila and Renee are best friends, I assume, because they’re wearing matching best friend necklaces and bracelets and rings, and they’ve braided their hair the same way in a high fishtail with matching scrunchies. Jenna is mean; she has a mean face with a hoodie pulled tightly around it. Zoe must be into sports, because she’s dressed like a mini-Olympian: Nike everything and a backward visor. Maggie’s generic, instantly forgettable; I can’t think of anything to write about her. Rebecca wants to be called Becks and tries to give everyone a similarly nickish-name, which is sort of overbearing. Billie’s bright, a smarty, so I like her right away—she’s an early favorite. Alexis is very, very chubby. And Alyssa’s obviously the coolie; she’s got bangs and high-top purple Converses and her ears pierced four times. I write down Don’t be competitive with your CIT because she’s thirteen and who cares, but it’s already being hard
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