Girl Walks Out of a Bar by Lisa F. Smith Page A

camp,” I said.
    My dad smiled. He hadn’t even had a chance to put his bag down. Then he looked to my mom for help. She shook her head and pursed her coral-glossed lips. “Listen to your mother,” he said with a laugh. That was his escape line that signaled the death of the subject. Then he headed for the stairs and said, “I’m going to change out of these clothes.” With Dad upstairs and Mom busy stirring instant potatoes, I sneaked into the bread drawer and ate two Yodels.
    Back at camp I accepted defeat and searched for the next least physically challenging elective. Although it involved more time on the plake, canoeing appeared to be the best option. It didn’t require real strength or coordination, and it didn’t seem to involve competition or any of the athletic world’s other countless opportunities for failure. Over in a designated area of the plake, canoers practiced in long aluminum two-man canoes. If at least eight people showed up on a given day, I would be out of thewater lounging on the grass around the plake at least half the time. It wasn’t Indian Lore, but I liked the numbers.
    But to my surprise, I wasn’t a bad canoer, so I elected canoeing every day. I attributed my non-disastrous learning curve to the fact that canoeing involved more strategy than strength. I worked with a partner, Tim, a nerdy brown-haired boy about my age. Together we learned the most advanced canoe maneuver: tipping the canoe over, righting it, and climbing back in from the water to retake control. We practiced this move over and over, getting every step just right. Before long, I was instructed to man the back of the canoe and lead the “tip overs,” the role assigned to the better canoer in each pair. Me. The “better canoer.” Incredible.
    At the end of the summer, Tim and I were chosen to perform in front of the entire camp at the Water Show, the big performance on the plake featuring the best people in each water skill. “You should be excited! This is a real honor!” Dina said when she heard the news.
    â€œYeah, it’s great. I can’t wait,” I lied, gnawing my fingernails. The dread in my stomach told me that no good would come of this. I thought about faking illness on the day of the Water Show—the only problem was Tim, who was excited to show the camp what he could do. I couldn’t ruin it for him. Dear God, how long until ice cream break?
    The day of the Water Show was sticky hot, and I was made even stickier by the Native American gear and headdress that Dina had convinced me to wear. “It’s perfect!” she had gushed. “You know—the whole Indian theme with the canoes . . . you’ll be so authentic!” Standing at the side of the plake, I turned to look at the hundreds of kids scattered along the grass. I felt dizzy and leaned against a tree.
    A lifeguard with a bullhorn on the plake’s diving platform narrated the show. The counselors cheered and shouted at their protégés from the sidelines, like revved up Little League parents with everything to lose.
    When it was our turn on the plake, my stomach rumbled and swirled like an old washing machine during its last days. The feathers in the headdress caught some wind and I worried that the whole thing might blow off. Tim and I climbed into the wobbly canoe, and my bare feet felt colder than usual against the metal bottom of the boat, but we paddled out without incident. The sun shimmered off the water, and the sky was the brilliant blue that every child chose from the Crayola box when asked to “draw a picture of a perfect day.” After a few turns and glides by the crowd, we waved to them, smiling, and I thought I might be enjoying myself.
    Then came the big move. I lifted my paddle to signal to Tim that we were ready for the tip over. “One! Two!” I called out and we rocked the canoe with our hips, increasing the momentum until we