All these ideas have merit, so why am I still frozen, pretzel-legged on my bed that isn’t mine, and thinking: Is it too late to get out of this? What are the actual consequences? The third-grade girls would have only two cabin counselors? I think I can live with that. My mom is hugely disappointed?
I don’t think I could live with that.
There comes a time when you just have to put on some mascara and pull yourself together. And I know that, but I have very little experience with the fake it till you make it philosophy. It simply doesn’t work for things I care about. Feigned confidence won’t help you perfect a backstroke or a smoky eye or a concerto. It takes practice, skill, careful hands. And you can’t fake faith. I mean, maybe you can to others—but that won’t make faith manifest within you.
But I’ll try to act like a capable and qualified and emotionally stable counselor until maybe it becomes true. I’ll try. That’s what echoes through me like a mantra, like a prayer, alone here on a sagging mattress. I’m trying; I’m trying. It’s the friendliest I’ve been to God in a month. Please see me trying. I’m trying to hold it together for my family, I’m trying to be a good person, and I’m trying to adapt in a biome that won’t stop shifting—goodness, I’m trying so hard that I ache. Outside, the sun is trying to meet the horizon, the tall trees are trying to reach the clouds, and the campers are trying to perfect cannonballs off the pier. And I am really, really trying not to cry.
CHAPTER SIX
The cabin door clatters open, startling me. “hey! you must be Hansson!”
The voice comes from a girl around my age with blond hair, stylishly dark at the roots. The girl from the picture above my bunkmate’s bed. “Anna. Tour guide, at your service.”
She bends into a goofy bow, hand wafting snootily like a page in a royal court. When she looks up, I’m struck that she’s almost exactly my height, though waifish. And her makeup is good—subtle mascara and expertly smudged brown eyeliner. She either has naturally great eyebrows or excellent pencil technique. So I guess some people do wear makeup at this camp. It’s a cheering thought, as much as anything could be right now.
“Hi!” I bumble, remembering myself. “Yes. Lucy. Hansson.”
“You okay?” Anna studies my face just as intently. “I’m not being nosy! Well, I am. But you look a little . . . overwhelmed.”
“No! Well. I was just”—I heft the binder off my bunk—“looking at this.”
“Oh, Christ. No wonder!” she says, and I tense at her choice of words. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, that monstrosity is helpful. But it’s stuffed full of exceptions. Most days around here are rules.”
“Thank goodness. I was thinking I’d be helping with a seizure while explaining death and also running an art class.”
“Nah. We try to juggle only two crises at any given time.” She smiles, trying to cue me that she’s joking. With makeup defining her high cheekbones and symmetrical nose, she could be as sharp and lovely as the runway models who strut down glossy magazine pages. But smiling, showcasing the full apples of her cheeks, she could never look anything but fun.
“Ha,” I say, realizing how long I’ve been staring. “Great.”
“Here are the main things, really.” She ticks them off on one hand. “Some of the little campers might want to sit on your lap or hold your hand, get a piggyback, et cetera. That kind of touch is fine if they initiate it and you’re comfortable with it. Um, you’ll get to know any health issues, which is no biggie—we have a nurse. Try not to swear in front of the kids. If the older kids do, pull them aside and ask them to be a good example. Always try to de-escalate. If you have a concern about something a camper says or draws or whatever, give Rhea or Bryan the heads-up.”
“Says or draws?” I repeat.
“Yeah. Like, in art class, they might draw . . . I don’t know, needles or a coffin. Some of them have seen some messed-up shit.”
Sure. Needles or a coffin. Great.
Anna notices my blank horror before I can shield it. “Hey, let’s stop at the kitchen for a snack as part of the tour. You’ll feel much better.”
“Oh. I’m actually fine; I—”
“No, you need this snack. Trust me.”
And . . . I do trust her. Her energy livens up the cabin, and all I can think is how much I want her to like me. As we head outside, I glance over hopefully. “So, are you in this cabin too?”
“No, you’re with Simmons, who’s our age—just finished junior year, right?” I nod, dully recalling that school ended barely a week ago. The last month is like a gray smear across the calendar, every day blurred together and dim. “Your third cabin counselor is Garcia. Camp is college internship credit for her and some of the other older counselors.”
“So, I have nine third-graders, but also an all-age color group.”
“Exactly. You’re Blue Team. Color activities are usually in the evenings—sometimes for points against one another. Tug-of-war, cheer-offs. It’s called Color Wars.” She smiles grimly. “You’re lucky you missed the naming of the color captains on Saturday. Lots of tears from those who didn’t get it.”
I’m about to ask more about competitions, when a group of campers walks by. They look fourteen or fifteen—the oldest camper age. It’s funny, once you’re going into senior year of high school, how young freshmen look—coltish legs, baby cheeks, adult noses taking shape. As they pass us, one of the girls calls hello to Anna, whose response becomes static to my ears. Because the girl’s stomach protrudes out in a perfect sphere that leaves no space for doubt. I almost stop walking midstride. She’s so young.
Somehow, my legs keep walking down the path, though the rest of me has stalled out. Finally, I stutter: “Was she . . . ? Is she—”
“Pregnant? Yeah. That’s Tara.” I can feel Anna looking at me. “You’re not from a camp like Daybreak, huh?”
“Not exactly. Not grief camp.”
“Well, we’re not all grief campers, necessarily. It’s more like, in the scheme of baggage we carry, all of us here have at least one big suitcase. My checked bag is my anxiety disorder, for example.”
“Oh,” I say. Am I supposed to drop that my mom has cancer? I can’t seem to push the words out of my mouth. “Okay. That makes sense.”
Anna takes me down to the water’s edge, and I crane my head to see if Holyoke is visible. It’s a silly thing to do—I’d need X-ray vision for the mile through the trees. But maybe I could make it out in the evening. My dad keeps the chapel lights on all night, in case any of the campers want to seek prayer time or solace there.
“There’s another camp that way,” Anna says. “But don’t get excited. It’s some crazy church camp, so not exactly boyfriend potential. Or girlfriend. Whatever!”