Twelve by Lauren Myracle Page A

funny square hats thrown into the sky. Only we were the ones flung topsy-turvy, not knowing where we would land.

July
    CAMP WINDING GAP was divided into three cabins: the Chickadees, ages nine to ten; the Hummingbirds, ages eleven to twelve; and the Peregrines, ages thirteen to fourteen. It would have been fun to have been a Chickadee, because that was such a dorky-cool name, as in “Hi, I’m a Chickadee!” or “Hey there, little Chickadee!” But Hummingbirds were cool, too. Even cooler, since Amanda and I were Hummingbirds together. We got to share a bunk bed and everything, me on the top and Amanda on the bottom. We both wanted it that way. We both got our first choice.
    â€œFinish making your beds and then come outside,” said our counselor, whose name was Amy. Amy had jet-black hair and a square jaw and big breasts. I guessed her to be around Sandra’s age. She was a photographer, and if we wanted we could pick photography as one of our activities. I probably would.
    I plumped my pillow with a series of overzealous punches, making the girls around me laugh, then walked with the others outside and sat down on a log. I propped my chin on my hands and made my expression super attentive.
    Amy cleared her throat, and I said, “Yesssss?”
    The other girls laughed again. It made me tingle and want more.
    â€œ Shhh, ” Amanda said.
    â€œThank you, Amanda,” Amy said. “Now. Who can tell me why we’re sitting around the fire ring, but there’s no fire?”
    â€œBecause no one had any matches?” I suggested. Madison, the girl to my left, snickered.
    â€œNo,” Amy said.
    â€œBecause no one lit the kindling?” I couldn’t help it—it was there for the taking. I felt proud of myself for knowing the word kindling .
    â€œ No ,” Amy said. Amanda nudged me with her knee.
    â€œIs it for safety reasons?” a girl named Jaden asked. “Like, maybe a fire restriction?”
    â€œNo, but good guess,” Amy said.
    No better than mine, I thought.
    â€œThere’s no fire,” Amy said, “because until today, there have been no campers.”
    â€œOhhhh,” I said.
    â€œAnd without campers, our fire has no life.”
    â€œIt’s a metaphor,” I whispered loudly to Madison. “We are the fire! We are the coals that give it new life!”
    â€œWinnie, hush,” Amanda said under her breath. “For real.”
    But I was having too much fun, and I didn’t understand why Amanda wasn’t equally amused. Amy, too. I gave her my cutest smile, which I stole from Ty, but it had little effect.
    With great formality, Amy lit a match from the box she pulled from her pocket. She tossed it into the kindling, and it fizzled out. Several of us tittered. She tried again, and this time one of the twigs caught fire.
    â€œWe are like the fire,” Amy said. “Alone, we’re nothing, just random pieces of wood. But together, we burn bright and strong.”
    â€œYou mean we’re going to burst into flames?” I whispered to Madison. “Owwie!”
    Amy glared. “Winnie, did you have something you wanted to share with the group?”
    Everyone looked at me. I looked back. And then . . .
    I farted. A loud one, loud enough to be heard over the popping of the fire. There was a shocked silence, and then Madison said, “She tooted!” My cabin mates, including Amanda, fell into hysterics. I was mortified.
    â€œFine,” Amy said. “Thank you for that, Winnie. But I think we’ll stick to fire and take a pass on the natural gas.”
    The hilarity tripled, and Amy allowed herself a small smile. Amanda put her arm around me as if to comfort me, then drew back and said, “Pewww!”
    â€œHa ha,” I said, face burning.
    â€œJust teasing,” she said.
    â€œIt’s time for Group Sing,” Amy said, heaving herself to her feet. “You guys head on to the