Girl Walks Out of a Bar by Lisa F. Smith

year round: nine months in the school yard, one month at camp, and two nebulous summer months when other kids jumped, biked, and ran around like young gazelles. When I threw a football, it sputtered end over end and landed eight feet in front of me. When someone yelled “Race you home!” I’d give it a half-hearted jog for half a block and then gasp my way through the rest of the walk. I was picked last for every team and placed last in every lineup, but when my teams lost, I was the first one blamed.
    The camp was located on what felt like a massive property made up mostly of scattershot woods and otherwise undeveloped terrain that would appeal to an aspiring serial killer. I’d seen Helter Skelter on my parents’ bookshelf and developed a fear of being randomly murdered by hippies.
    The focal point of the camp was a giant swimming pool made to resemble a lake and was referred to as the “plake.” I thought that if the two words had to be crossed, it was wrong to take one of them in full and just add a letter from the other. It should have been “pake” or “lool.” This is the kind of observationthat regularly entertained my mind, but whenever I tried to point out the misnomer, the other kids would roll their eyes as if to say, “Nobody cares, Word Nerd.”
    Each morning, our group of about a dozen eight-year-old girls congregated around Dina, our counselor, to hear the day’s schedule. My only reprieve from physical activity was the daily “elective” period that immediately followed lunch. Avoiding sports, I was left with something called “Indian Lore,” which involved sitting in a tepee for an hour and a half with a man called “Uncle Jim.” He didn’t appear Native American in his sleeveless white undershirt, thick, black-rimmed glasses, and black pants with the outline of a hard pack of cigarettes in the pocket, but he wore a colorful headdress fashioned from oak tag paper and cardboard cutouts. Uncle Jim told stories of Native Americans—their lives and traditions. I loved a good story, especially from a seated position, so Indian Lore quickly became the only part of the camp day that I enjoyed.
    After several weeks of my finding comfort in the cross-legged tales of tribes long gone, Dina and another camp supervisor sat me down to talk. “Lisa, you’ve really learned all you can learn at Indian Lore. You need to start choosing other electives. It’s supposed to be a time for you to try new things and meet other campers,” Dina said.
    â€œBut I don’t want to go to another elective. I hate sports,” I protested, knowing that this was futile. The two of them just shook their heads at me and I fought back tears.
    That night, I explained my plight to my mother while she made dinner for my brother, Lou, who was six, and me. “I know you don’t want to do it, but it’s good for you to try other things,” she said, stirring powdered Ore-Ida mashed potato mix into a pot of hot milk, her gold chain bracelets jangling. “And get your hand out of the cookie drawer! Not before dinner!”
    Lou and I heard the groan of the garage door opening, and that meant one thing: Dad and his ’72 Chevy Nova were home for the night! We squealed as we rushed to the door that connected our living room to the garage.
    â€œDAD! DAD!” We both tried to simultaneously hug and climb up him as he crossed the threshold, still in his suit and carrying his tennis bag. I always wondered why he wore a suit to work when all he was going to do was take off the jacket so he could wear the black robe.
    â€œYessss. What’s going on, kids?” he said, messing up our hair and trying to high-step beyond the little koalas that clung to his pant legs.
    â€œDad, the idiots at camp don’t want me to go to Indian Lore anymore because they think I need to try something else. I hate everything else. I hate that