The Lost Summer (6 page)

“Have a good day!” I called after the Sharks as they headed back to their cabins to change for the next activity period.

Katie Bell didn't answer, but I wasn't worried. I knew she would forgive me by dinnertime.

T
he next morning had a chilly bite and a misty haze that would be gone by first activity but that seeped into your bones as you hurried to breakfast. As I shuffled down the path from the cabins to the Mess, via the Bath, the dew bled through my slippers and soaked the hem of my pajama pants. I shrunk deeper into my hooded sweatshirt.

No one had ever mistaken me for a morning person, but I'd had more trouble than usual getting out of bed that day. After Flag Raising, I'd plunged back into bed and joked with my campers from the comfort of my covers as they dressed for breakfast, made their beds, and began the rituals of daily cleaning. To pass inspection the cabin had to be swept, beds made, shoes lined up on cracks, trunks stowed under beds, and trash emptied. Fred ran a tight ship.

At the first breakfast bugle I'd finally dragged myself from the bed and shooed my girls out the door to the Mess. So I was perplexed when I got to the Bath to find Ruby on her tiptoes in front of one of the old spotted mirrors. Her nose was inches from the glass, and she seemed to be staring intently at her chin.

“Ruby, what are you doing?” I asked, drawing a hand from my pocket to push the hood from my head. “You're supposed to be lined up before Soupy blows.”

Ruby spun around to face me. The look on her face was pained—at first, I thought, from the scolding tone of my voice.

I took a few consoling steps toward her. “Ruby, what's wrong?”

Her lip trembled slightly, but she pulled herself taller, determined not to cry. “I have spider eggs in my chin,” she pronounced, as if handing down her own death sentence.

I knelt down on the wet concrete floor and examined the red spot on her chin where Ruby was pointing.

“Spider eggs?” I repeated.

“Yes,” she replied, this time unable to keep her eyes from filling with tears. “A spider bit me in my sleep, and Melanie told me that means the mommy spider laid her eggs in my chin, and they're going to hatch, and a million baby spiders are gonna come out, just like in
Charlotte's Web
,” she whimpered.

I pulled her into a hug and pressed my lips together hard, trying not to laugh. “Oh, Ruby,” I said. “Melanie wasn't telling you the truth.”

But Ruby was now wailing in my arms. “Ruby, it's okay.” I smoothed her tangled ringlets. “I've gotten plenty of spider bites at camp before. You're not gonna hatch baby spiders. Melanie wasn't telling you the truth.”

“Why?” She pulled back, her bottom lip poking out and her eyes confused.

“She was probably just joking.”

“Why?” Ruby asked again.

Why did little girls tease each other and say untrue things? Why did big girls? It was just part of growing up, I guessed—a bonding ritual that either cemented or dissolved friendships. It was just what girls did. Even at summer camp.

“I don't know,” I answered honestly.

Ruby pondered this for a second, pulling in great sucking breaths as she tried to stop crying. She pushed her palms into her eyes, wiping away the tears, and looked at me square in the face. “Well, I'm gonna joke her back,” she said with determination, and took off running toward the Mess.

I laughed and grabbed my toothbrush from my locker. As I brushed, I appraised my own face in the spotted mirror and discovered I also had a red dot on my chin. Only mine wasn't Charlotte's nest; it was a zit. Lovely. I never broke out. Finally, I thought, I had a reason to look good at camp, and my skin had chosen to freak out on me.

From the Mansion, Fred squeaked out a tinny rendition of Soupy, and I heard the Mess's screen door open and slam as hungry campers filed in. If I didn't hustle, my table would find themselves without a counselor. I quickly spit blue foam into the cracked porcelain sink, threw my toothbrush back into my locker, and pulled the skin on my chin taut for one last inspection of my zit before running in my squishy slippers to a breakfast of hot oatmeal and—another perk of being a counselor— weak coffee.

It was announced at lunch the following day that the annual Counselor vs. Cubby soccer game would take place that afternoon in Death Valley, our nickname for the scorched athletic fields past the barn. After rest hour, the whole camp gathered. On one side of the field, the counselors assembled in green Southpoint T-shirts. On the other side, in white, the cubbies circled up, strategizing how to end the counselors' three-year winning streak.

Marjorie was our referee. When she blew her whistle to start the game, I knew my plan: run around
pretend
ing
to be interested in getting the ball, but always make sure someone else reaches it first. It was a strategy that had earned me a consistent B+ in gym class. Despite my considerable height, or maybe because of it, I'd never been the best soccer player—or any player, for that matter. I was about as good at sports as a one-armed sloth. Or so said Katie Bell.

My plan worked like a charm for the first half. By simply refraining from any action that required actual contact with the ball, I liked to think I led the counselors to our 3–1 halftime lead. Once the second half started, however, I quickly realized I had bigger problems, like keeping my pants on.

Caroline kicked the ball in my general direction. I feigned a half-assed run to it and was nearly there (safely preceded by a much more competent teammate), when I suddenly felt a warm breeze where my shorts had just been. I'd been shanked.

The campers on the sidelines howled as I whirled around to find Katie Bell running back to her side of the field, hands raised for high fives from her hooting and whistling teammates.

Yanking up my shorts, I shouted, “I know you did
not
just do that, Katie Bell!”

“Of course not,” she called, putting on her best innocent-until-proven-guilty face.

“You realize I have to retaliate.” From the sidelines, the campers cheered.

“Bring it!” cubby Amanda shouted.

“Oh, it's bein' broughten!” I replied, swiveling my neck in my best cheerleader-with-a-bootay-and-an-attitude-to-match impersonation. There was now a second—and much more important—game on the field.

Marjorie called off-sides in the real one, which by now had moved to the opposite goal. Breathless and laughing, Winn jogged up next to me.

“Nice granny panties,” she joked.

“Thank you. My grandmother actually gave them to me.”

“So you wanna get Katie Bell back?”

I was riled up, sweaty and thirsty and wanting to see some freckled Bell butt. “Um, does a Brownie crap in the woods?” I answered.

Winn laughed. “All right,” she said, eyeing the field.

Katie Bell was in the middle of a skirmish with two counselors, all kicking each other for the ball.

“When she comes back down here,” said Winn, “you come at her from one side, and I'll strike from the other. She won't even see me coming.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

We did a two-person hands-in and break.

It took two more counselor shots on goal before the ball came back to our end of the field. Perfectly, Katie Bell was leading the charge. A much more coordinated player than I, she dribbled the ball between her feet and, when she saw me coming for her, quickly passed it to another cubby. With her eyes glued on me as I clumsily rushed her, Katie Bell clutched at the waist of her shorts and nimbly sidestepped me one way and then the other. What she didn't know was that this was a two-pronged attack. As Katie Bell slithered to elude my reach, Winn grabbed her shorts from behind and yanked down hard. Katie Bell's navy running shorts puddled around her ankles. Revenge was sweet.

The campers erupted again, jumping to their feet. Katie Bell's already flushed face took on a magenta shade. She spun around to find it was Winn who had taken her down. Laughing, Winn and I high-fived each other.

“Who's a big kid now!” I taunted, getting in Katie Bell's face and beating my chest like I was some kind of trash-talking pro basketball player.

She pursed her lips. “Oh, yeah?” she retorted, cocking her head and raising an eyebrow. “I didn't need those to play anyway. I'm just gonna
beat
your pants off!”

Katie Bell gingerly stepped out of her shorts, ran to the sidelines waving them in a circle above her head, and deposited them with the cheering campers.

In true Katie Bell fashion, she played the rest of the game in a T-shirt, underwear, and tennis shoes. Maybe it was her team's good luck charm, because when Marjorie blew the whistle to end the game, the cubbies had pulled ahead, 3 – 4. They screamed and jumped up and down as a camper ran out to give Katie Bell her shorts. She did a victory lap around the field, waving them above her head like a checkered flag.

Out of breath from running and laughing, the counselors and cubbies met in the center of the field. We all hugged and clapped each other on the back, and I picked up a now-fy-clothed Katie Bell to spin her around on my back like a rag doll.

Then the counselors formed a huddle to give the winners their big prize: “Two, four, six, eight!” we chanted. “Who do we appreciate? Cubbies, cubbies, cubbies! Three, five, seven, nine! Who do we think is mighty fine? Cubbies, cubbies, cubbies!”

When we were done, Katie Bell stretched on her tiptoes to hook her arm around my neck. I slung my arm around her shoulders, and together we were swept along with the flow of campers and counselors trickling from Death Valley to the cabins.

After the game there was a long free period before dinner. Katie Bell would probably spend hers at the barn, and I had to change into my bathing suit and get to the swim dock. But for now, we'd just enjoy the moment.

“Good game,” said Katie Bell, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.

I laughed. “Yeah. Good game.” It occurred to me then that this was the first time all week it had felt like we were on the same team.

Dinner was always the loudest meal of the day. Activities were over, and speculation on what the night's Evening Gathering would be circulated table to table. Evening Gatherings were a surprise closely guarded by the counselors. Would it be casino night, the counselor show, Miss Fat Chance, cabin skits, a bonfire and ghost story? Only the counselors knew until the big reveal at dinner, and the campers' anticipation ensured the liveliness of our evening meal. The sound was now reaching an almost deafening crescendo.

“Please pass the baked beans,” Ruby piped as loud as she could above the din.

From the other end of the table, a large steaming bowl of baked beans was passed hand to hand to Ruby. Camp food was hearty, delicious, and should have been hugely fattening. Our husband-and-wife cooks, Tee and Rosie, had been with Fred's family since he was a little boy. They were of the old-school tradition that worshipped the holy trinity of butter, bacon, and refined carbs. There was no such thing as dieting at camp, but we never seemed to gain weight. It was a miracle worthy of Vatican review.

Ruby spooned three heaping mounds of the bubbling brown beans onto her plate, next to her barbecued chicken and corn bread. She had declined broccoli even after Katie Bell made an elaborate, if transparent, show of how good it tasted and threatened that Ruby had better eat her vegetables or she'd never get big boobs.

“Is that why you don't have big boobs?” Ruby had asked in a spasm of giggles.

“Valid point,” Katie Bell had observed.

She now turned to me, her elbows propped on the table. “So what's Evening Gathering tonight?” she asked as she chewed.

“Eww, Katie Bell, I can see the food in your mouth.”

“What, this?” Katie Bell opened her mouth so wide I could see the broccoli stuck in her molars.

“Gross!”

Katie Bell laughed. “Sorry. So what's for Evening Gathering?” she repeated, trying to whisper.

I shushed her, gesturing toward Ruby and the other campers at the table. Leaning over, I cupped my hands over her ear. “Lip synch,” I whispered.

She brightened. Lip synch had always been one of our favorites. My job was picking the song and carefully transcribing the lyrics for us to memorize. Katie Bell was in charge of choreography and costumes, which meant raiding our cabinmates' trunks for the most outrageous outfits she could find—the tighter and more sparkly the better. Polyester always went over well.

“What song are we gonna do?” she asked.

Ruby was watching us, listening. “Are you talking about Evening Gathering?” she asked, with the tiniest hint of a lisp.

“Nope,” Katie Bell answered quickly. “We were just talking about a camp mix we're making.”

“Oh,” Ruby said, disappointed. She turned her attention back to one of her new friends at the table.

“Actually . . .” I hesitated as I leaned in, “I think the counselors are doing a song together.”

In fact, I knew we were. Lizbeth had organized it. We'd come up with the song, Aretha Franklin's version of “Respect,” and all the choreography on the dock during rest hour.

“Oh.” Katie Bell gave a short, indifferent shrug. “Okay. That's fine. Amanda and Molly had already mentioned something to me anyway. Lizbeth told them too. I actually knew. I just forgot.”

I nodded like I believed her, but before I could say I was sorry or offer to do a song with her too, Winn had appeared at the table.

“Scooch,” she announced, gesturing for Katie Bell to slide down the bench and make room for her to sit next to me. “What's up?”

“Stacking, soon,” I said, stating the obvious. The meal was almost over, and we had to clear our plates before dessert was brought out.

“Oh my God, Hel.” Winn laughed. “You have to remind me to tell you later what Peyton Smith said in my cabin today.”

Peyton was one of our more “special” campers. She stuck to herself but still seemed to still love camp. She came every year and brought her entire collection of American Girl dolls. Her favorites she took everywhere with her, even to activities.