2006, Camp Wawa, Week One
“Ready for your first full day in the best place in the world?” Darian shouts, her diminutive stature looking especially grandiose from atop the picnic table. The morning sunlight is creeping over the tree line behind her, causing squints and hand-shields as both counselors and campers look on, their cereal dishes empty and forgotten.
No! I want to yell back. I could kill for a caffeine hit right now.
Darian wasn’t lying when she said yesterday would be long. Kyle and I came back from the cliff just in time to hitch the trailer to the golf cart and speed back to the pavilion. No one but Eric and Ashley seemed to realize that we’d left in the first place, and Ashley promised me she wouldn’t say a word to anyone, right before she asked why my clothes were damp.
We were shoveling our hot dogs into our mouths when the first round of children started arriving, a full hour early. Kids as young as eight and as old as fifteen piled out of their parents’ cars, many searching for familiar faces and gleeful when they found them. There were also a few with scowls and glossy eyes, pleading to go home as their frazzled parents marched them up to the registration desks.
Since then, it’s been controlled mayhem. Greeting, smiling, identifying, collecting, and leading kids to their respective cabins like proverbial ducks, refereeing them as they fought over top versus bottom bunk, getting them to the various orientation and ice-breaker activities, coaxing them into eating their vegetables, ensuring they didn’t burn their little fingers on marshmallows, and reminding them to brush their teeth and use the bathroom before lights-out, otherwise it’d be a trek in the night to the facilities.
The tears began as soon as the lights went out at nine P.M. First it was Izzy—the pint-sized platinum blonde who in her eight years of life had never spent a night away from her mother. The whimpers grew to sobs, then all-out wails, as she cried about wanting to go home and about missing her dog, Otis, and her dead dog, Rose. It caused a chain reaction, and soon we had four girls crying for home and the other six crying from irritation, and Christa and me tag-teaming around the cabin for two hours, trying to get them all to settle. By the time the last whimper sounded, I thought I was going to start crying.
When Izzy woke us up at four this morning because she had wet her bed, a tear may have slipped out.
Whoever thought it’d be a good idea to give us ten eight-year-olds who are not only new to Camp Wawa, but also new to being at any sleepaway camp, deserves a punch in the head.
Or they could at least open the canteen now so I can grab myself a Coke, because I’m going to need it to get through this day. But how on earth am I going to get through this entire summer? Eight weeks, eight new sets of kids. Eighty little girls. What if they all cry themselves to sleep every night?
This must be why camp counselor looks so good on college applications—they know you’ve endured hell and lived to talk about it.
My gaze wanders one picnic table over, to where Kyle is tossing Cheerios at one of his kids’ heads. The curly-haired boy of maybe ten keeps turning to try to catch his counselor mid-toss, only to giggle at the mock-stern look and shush from Kyle, who points toward Darian as if to say “pay attention.”
Perhaps sensing my gaze, Kyle suddenly turns my way and our eyes catch. A crooked smile curls his lips and I feel a stupid, wide grin form, as I forget my exhaustion and instead focus on what his mouth felt like against mine yesterday.
I can still feel him there, still taste the mix of apple candy powder and, faintly, menthol.
Does he want it to happen again as much as I do?
Darian’s sharp claps and boisterous voice echo through the space, pulling my attention back. “And the most important thing of all, Wawa campers, is let’s have fun!”
“The yarn tubs are in the supply room. How many are there, Christa?”
“Three,” Christa chirps from one table over, as she lines paint-filled squirt bottles and trays in a tidy row.
“Great. Find them and head on out to the pavilion.” Darian’s brow furrows with concentration as she directs counselors in Wawa’s recreation center—a long, simple rectangular building of paneled walls and public school–grade linoleum, used mainly for rainy days and end-of-camp dances. “Ashley, Marie, you two know how to knit, right?”
Marie shrugs and then nods.
“Uh . . . hello.” Ashley gestures at the blue scarf loosely wrapped around her neck.
“The stockinette stitch master! How could I forget?”
Ashley giggles. “I learned the garter stitch over winter.”
“Ooooh.” Darian’s eyes widen with excitement. “I love a good Foxy Roxy scarf.”
“In a soft dove-gray wool?”
Darian hugs her clipboard to her chest and closes her eyes. “You’ve always been my favorite, Ashley!”
I cast a questioning glance at Marie, who shrugs again, capping it off with a small eye roll and smile. At least I’m not the only one who thinks they’re being weird.
“Okay, so you can show Piper the ropes, then?” Darian asks, switching back to leader mode.
“I’ll teach her,” comes a male voice from behind.
My heart skips as I turn to see Kyle saunter in, the sleeves of his camp T-shirt cut off to the seam, displaying the unfinished ink lines on his shoulder.
“Kyle, aren’t you supposed to be covering . . .” Darian frowns at her master sheet, searching for his name.
“Hiking. Yeah, I was, but Jessica swapped with me.”
“You know you’re not allowed to swap!” Christa bursts out with irritation.
Darian sighs. “Kyle, you know the rules. It’s camp policy, for child safety. I need to know which counselors are where at all times.”
Walking past Christa—not giving her so much as a sideways glance—Kyle holds his hands up in surrender as he edges in closer, until he’s towering over Darian’s diminutive frame. “I know, I told Jess that. But she begged me to switch and I figured, if I could get hold of you to tell you, it’d be okay.” He drops his voice in a mock whisper. “I think she has a thing for Mitch.”
Darian’s blue-gray eyes flicker toward me, a knowing look in them, as if I had something to do with this.
“They’ve already taken off down River Trail, but if you want me to run out and send Jess back, I can,” Kyle offers innocently. “She could make it back in like . . . fifteen minutes. Twenty, tops.”
Darian sighs. “No, I don’t want to disrupt the group. Just . . . no more switches. I’m serious, Kyle.”
I catch Christa’s exaggerated eye roll.
“Of course! No problem.” Kyle’s fingers toy with the spiky hair atop his head, hesitating a moment. “Except for kayaking, okay?”
Darian groans, but Kyle’s already talking again. “Because I kinda already got Mark to switch with me. I’m just not feeling confident in my swimming abilities.”
One blonde eyebrow arches severely. “You? Not confident in something?”
He shrugs. “It’s been a while since I’ve been swimming in a lake.”
I frown. He just jumped off a thirty-foot cliff, into a lake, twenty-four hours ago.
I wonder if he can feel my penetrating “liar, liar, pants on fire” look.
Kyle leans in to scan the clipboard. “So could you just scratch his name off there, and add me in? And then you know where everyone is and it’s all good. Right?”
Darian scans the board, then shoots a pursed-lip look my way before her gaze shifts up to his playful smile. It’s a moment before she shakes her head, but then she’s scribbling her pen across the page. “So Mark is going to do kayaking, and you are on badminton.”
Badminton.
An excited flutter stirs in my stomach. That’s my second activity. Kyle has switched his activities for the next two weeks to match mine.
“Just this one time. Make sure you know your new schedule. And . . . coordinate better from now on,” Darian, not clueless, scolds softly, but caps it off with a knowing smile.
He drags his fingers over his chest in a sign of the cross. “You’re awesome, Dare.”
“I know,” she answers lightly, but there’s no missing the way her chest puffs up with a proud, deep breath.
Meanwhile, Christa is shaking her head, her mouth working over words as if debating whether to release them. By the annoyed look on her face, she probably shouldn’t.
It’s the perfect time for Avery and another girl to stroll through the door.
“Oh, good. You’re here. The art supplies are ready for you. You’re going to be making origami!” Darian exclaims.
“Yay!” Avery holds her hands up in mock enthusiasm.
Darian thrusts a sheet of paper out to the knitting group. “Here’s your camper list. One of you should get out there now to start rounding them up.”
“I’ll go.” Marie grabs it and rushes off before anyone can suggest otherwise.
Kyle sidles up next to me as we trail Ashley toward a door marked “Storage. Staff only.”
“Knitting? Really?” I tease; meanwhile my insides are screaming with glee. “I thought you hated knitting.”
“Someone’s got to teach you. And I’m good. Way better than Freckles.”
“Yeah, right,” Ashley says over her shoulder. “You know the garter stitch?”
He grins. “I know garters.”
“Not . . . Oh my God.” She shakes her head at him, her cheeks flushing.
He reaches out to give the end of her scarf a playful tug. “You know it’s, like, ninety-four degrees outside, right?”
“It’s a prop. I’m going to take it off, after I wow them.”
Kyle pauses long enough to let me ahead of him, his hand skimming the small of my back in the process, sending shivers up my spine.
The storage room is long, narrow, and lit by one naked bulb. And jammed with supplies.
“Here’s one,” Ashley announces, tapping a Rubbermaid container that’s labeled “Knitting” across the sides and top, her eyes lighting up with an odd excitement as they skim over the clutter. “But I don’t think they’re all marked.”
“How’s it going so far?” Kyle asks me, setting aside a container marked “Drama.”
“Fine. I’m exhausted.”
“Rough night?”
“The worst. They were crying.”
“How many?”
“All of them.”
He chuckles. “It’ll get better.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Do you think any of us would come back if it didn’t?”
He makes a good point.
Kyle pulls a white mask from a nearby box and presses it against his face, covering the top half, leaving only his square jaw and pouty lips visible. “You’ll never guess who I am with this on.”
I laugh. “That’s the only musical I’ve ever been able to sit through.” Though none of the actors looked as good as he does right now.
“Which one?”
“The Phantom . . . You know?” I gesture at the mask.
“Oh . . .” Kyle tosses it back into the bin and shuts the lid. “Never seen it.”
“Seriously? You should go. I’ve seen it four times now. On Broadway, and then in Singapore, London, and . . . Vancouver, I think.” I crack open a bin to find a colorful mess of pom-poms and Popsicle sticks and other basic art supplies. “My mother’s a huge theater geek. Andrew Lloyd Webber actually spent a weekend at our summer house. She drags me to so many shows.”
“Yeah, that all sounds rough,” Kyle mutters, fishing out a ball of white yarn from an orange container. “Incoming! Two of three.”
“Hey!” Ashley scowls as the yarn bounces off her forehead, but her annoyance fades almost instantly. “ ’Kay. I’m gonna take this one out. You two find the last one.” She trots out with her arms laden, but not before offering me an exaggerated wink.
Meanwhile my cheeks have begun to burn as I replay what I just said, wondering how obnoxious that must have sounded. “I’m not like Olivia, I swear,” I blurt out.
Kyle chuckles. “Is that what you’re worried about? Me thinking you’re like the Gasoline Queen?”
“Nice. She’s Miss Sunoco in my head. And, well . . . yeah.”
Kyle shoves another tub aside. “I know you’re not like Olivia. She goes out of her way to make it sound like her family is rolling in dough and rub people’s noses in it. Meanwhile, here you are, going out of your way to pretend you’re just like the rest of us.”
“I am just like everyone else here!” Except with an enormous trust fund.
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I was thinking, when I first saw you,” he murmurs as he peeks in a blue tub full of paint bottles and brushes.
“So . . . what were you thinking?” I dare ask, avoiding his gaze as I pry a lid off a green tub to discover knitting needles. My stomach clenches with anticipation of his answer.
Kyle shifts to stand behind me, his body oh so close but not touching me. “Well, I definitely was not thinking that you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
“No?” I smile as a warm shiver runs down my spine.
“No way.” He leans in, until his mouth is next to my ear. “And that first night by the campfire, there’s no way I was wondering what it’d be like to kiss you.” His hands settle gently on either side of my waist, as his lips skate over my cheek. “And last night? When I was falling asleep? I definitely wasn’t thinking about you at all.”
My breathing has turned ragged.
Voices carry near the doorway then, reminding us that we’re not alone.
Kyle releases his gentle grip of my body and slides around to face me, but not without a distinctive sigh of frustration. “I’ll take this one out. It’s heavier.”
“I can handle it.” Spiking tennis balls across courts since I was eight has guaranteed me slender but strong arms. To prove my point, I lift the tub. It’s awkward but manageable.
His fingers slide over mine, weaving their way through to grasp the handles, his hands warm and strong. His gaze drops to my mouth, and I hold my breath, hoping he’ll lean in and kiss me. “You’re coming out tonight after lights-out, right? It’s a full moon. We’re going up to the cliff.”
“To jump?”
“Don’t know yet. If it’s bright enough, yeah.”
A tiny thrill swirls inside at his insistence. “If I can get away. Avery said Christa’s going to be a problem.”
“Whatever. You heard Darian at orientation. As long as we’re not being idiots, she doesn’t care.”
I wonder if she’d think jumping off a thirty-foot cliff—at night—would qualify as being an idiot.
“Please?” he whispers, leaning in farther, until his mouth is a mere inch from mine, so close that I sense rather than see his smile, his breath kissing my skin.
He must be able to hear my heart pounding.
Finally . . . finally . . . he presses his lips against mine in a sweet, slow kiss.
“Did you guys see the other tub of paint in here?” Christa’s sudden voice at the doorway makes me jump.
I silently curse her as Kyle takes a step back, weaseling the tub from my grip. “The orange one in the corner.” With a wink my way, he saunters out of the supply room, leaving me light-headed.
“There’s no PDA in front of campers,” Christa scolds.
I grab the last container. “Do you see any campers here?” I throw back over my shoulder as I hurry out, not giving her a chance to get the last word in.
Through the small window beside our bunk, I spy two tall figures trudging along the path. Is one of them Kyle? We agreed to meet by the fork in the path toward the girls’ cabins at ten. That was almost half an hour ago.
He’s probably gone already.
I pull my weary body to a sitting position and pause a moment, to listen to ten little girls, breathing deeply. Kyle was right; tonight was nothing like last night’s horrors. After a full day of sun and heat and excitement, the kids curled into their sleeping bags and didn’t utter a sound. At one point I thought I’d have to carry Izzy from the campfire to bed, her tiny body melting with exhaustion into mine.
Below me, Christa is quiet as well, having finally tucked away her book and shut her flashlight ten minutes ago. I know because I’ve timed it, and it’s been the longest ten minutes of my life.
It’s now or never.
With a stir in my stomach, I ease myself down the ladder and grab my hoodie and my bathing suit from my hook.
“Where are you going?” comes Christa’s rushed whisper the moment my hand touches the door handle.
I stifle my curse. “Restroom,” I lie, and duck out. I’m ten steps away when I hear her footfalls on the gravel pathway behind me.
“You can’t just take off like that and not tell me.”
I roll my eyes before turning to face her. She’s standing just outside the cabin door, arms crossed, pajamas rumpled, her jaw set with hard determination. My guess is she’s been lying in wait, knowing what I was planning and determined to foil it.
“I don’t care if no one likes me because I follow the rules. We’re here to take care of the kids, not get drunk and fool around.”
“Who’s getting drunk? I’m meeting up with Ashley and a few others. I’ll be back soon.” It’s not entirely a lie, as Ashley said she’d come out.
“And what if one of our kids has to go to the bathroom?”
“They’re in comas. They’re not waking up—”
“But what if they do?”
“Then you take them! It’s right there!” I gesture over my shoulder in the direction of the restrooms, not bothering to hide my annoyance. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be back in a bit.” I turn to leave.
“Don’t hook up with him,” she blurts, as if unable to keep it in any longer.
So this is really about Kyle. I sigh. “Why? Because you don’t like him?”
“No.” She closes the distance. “Because you don’t know him.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. “And you do?”
Her brow tightens. “No. I just know things, okay?”
My curiosity gets the better of me. “Like?”
“Like . . .” She looks ready to swallow her tongue, keeping whatever’s on her mind from spilling out. “You have to be around him for the next two months, you know.”
Something tells me that’s not what she was going to say.
Now it’s my turn to fold my arms over my chest. “And?” Two months of seeing Kyle every day doesn’t sound like a hardship. It’s what happens after those two months that should worry me. What happens when we both go home? I guess we can drive back and forth to see each other. I’ll have my shiny new car . . .
Christa interrupts my daydream with, “What happens if it doesn’t work out and he hooks up with someone else?”
“Oh my God. Okay.” I laugh, raising a hand. “You have got to learn how to chill, Christa. I’m not gonna think about ending things when I’m not sure if we’re even together yet.” Though hopefully that will change tonight. If Christa would just go back to sleep.
I turn to leave again.
“Ask him about his father!”
And I’m reeled back in. “What do you mean?” I frown. “What about his father?”
She lifts her chin in an indignant way. “No one else around here knows, but I do. And that story about the robbery? That was the real lie. Well, technically it was the truth, but he left out the important details . . .”
Something small cuts through the air behind Christa’s head and swoops past the cracked door into our cabin, distracting me completely. “What was that?”
Christa pauses. “What was what?”
“I think a bird just flew into our cabin.”
“A bird . . .” Two beats pass and then Christa’s eyes widen. “No! No no no no no . . .” She bolts inside. I run in after her, just as the interior of our cabin is bathed in light. Her sharp gaze searches the ceiling’s corners. “There!” As sleeping bags begin to rustle and squinty-eyed faces emerge, she points to the far corner, where a small, wiry black body clings. “It’s not a bird. It’s a bat!”
In those few seconds of calm before reality registers and mass pandemonium explodes, I let out a disappointed sigh.
So much for seeing Kyle tonight.
