He holds out a hand, open-palmed. Miss Suzette smacks it like a high-five, and he scowls. “Just give me the Band-Aid.”
She complies, and turns back to me. “Rhea tells me your mom is a camp nurse!”
Was. I don’t say: She’s taking the summer off because doctors have to put poison in her body to kill the cancer.
“Yeah! And a school nurse. Elementary.” I don’t say: She can’t return this fall because her weakened immune system won’t be safe around sick kids.
“Ah. So you understand my triumphs and struggles.” Miss Suzette pats Chase’s head as he applies his own Band-Aid, looking sour about it.
“All right. We should get back so you can meet your campers before dinner.” Anna throws a conspiratorial glance at Miss Suzette. “Chicken casserole with mozzarella and tomato. I snooped.”
“Yes, Lord,” Miss Suzette says.
Outside, campers swarm toward the lodge. My view narrows into tunnel vision. All these kids I don’t know. All these kids I’m now responsible for. At home and even seeing their bunks, it was only the idea of them. But they’re entirely real—fast feet, waving arms, small bodies. With hair wet from the lake. Two little ones holding hands. Middle-school boys crowing with laughter over something whispered. And I am an interloper. A guest at someone else’s family dinner.
At Holyoke, I greet the campers with my parents, welcome them, and field any questions.
At Holyoke, I know the answers.
The Daybreak campers buzz with energy around the nearest counselor, chattering and a few half-climbing on him. He’s one of the guys beside Keely and Anna in the hallway picture, easy to recognize by his thick, old-school glasses—dark frames on top, clear on bottom. He has deep brown skin and close-cropped hair and a short-sleeved oxford shirt. Linen, the kind my grandpa wore after he moved to Florida. Not that this guy looks like a grandpa.
He . . . really does not look like a grandpa.
The counselor claps a few times to get their attention, and I can already tell what’s coming. A camp song is the easiest way to harness all the nebulous energy. As quickly as I think it, the campers start clapping too, forming two groups. They face one another, leaving a walkway between them.
To the sound of sharp claps, the first kid walks—no, struts—down the center aisle they’ve created, moving his arms in a dance I could never replicate. Next, a girl and her friend do a semi-synchronized dance that involves lots of hips and shoulders. Some of the kids are intent and solemn, others gleefully showing off.
“Hansson?” Anna says, nodding toward the group. It takes me a second to realize she is suggesting that I . . . what? Dance?
“No, no.” I shake my head with the vehemence of someone whose skills are limited to learning swing dancing in sixth grade. At school. With boys who really needed to discover deodorant.
She shrugs, still clapping, as the counselor who started the whole thing stands at the ready. The crowd cheers, “Jones! Jones! Jones!”
He strides purposefully down the center, then vogues—arms sharp and moving, framing his face. I’ve seen my mom do this move when my aunt Rachel visits. There’s usually a part of the night, before I go up to bed, when they’re amped up on ice cream and listening to Madonna, reminiscing. I always pretend to be mortified by their dorkiness. But really, I just wish I had a friendship like that, equal parts silly and devoted.
When Jones reaches the end the line, he snaps back into counselor mode.
“All right! Good work!” he says. “In you go.”
He motions the campers inside like a marathon volunteer, with enthusiastic direction toward the correct way. As they head in, one little girl scrambles up Jones’s back. He tucks her legs under his arms and turns toward the lodge.
“Anna!” the girl yells, spotting us. “There you are!”
“Nev. One of my fourth graders,” Anna mutters to me, unable to suppress her smile. She waves at the girl.
The counselor spots us and heads our way. His grin changes his whole face, lights it up like the flash of a camera. Something about that smile—the lack of inhibition or the way it makes his eyes squint—makes him look like a little kid. It’s the way you smile before you learn how to pose, how to fake it and say cheese.
“You must be the relief pitcher.” He reaches out one hand, the other arm holding the girl in place. She studies me with narrowed eyes, framed in a fan of lashes, as my hand disappears in his. “I’m Jones. This is Neveah.”
“Hansson,” I say.
“And that’s Tambe.” He points to where his co-counselor is hustling another group inside. I recognize him from the photo in the lodge hallway—the wiry guy with bronze skin and thick black hair that I can’t explain other than to say it swoops up. He’s wearing a shirt that reads, in drippy, spray-paint-like text: EVERYBODY’S WERKIN FOR THE WEEKEND. “We’ve got the third-grade boys’ cabin.”
“And Yellow Team!” the girl on his back adds. “The best team!”
“We’re Yellow,” Jones tells me, smiling. “Tambe’s Blue, so you’ll be together for color activities.”
Anna sticks her tongue out at Neveah, teasing. “Green pride! C’mon, Hansson, I’ll show you to your cabin table.”
“Nice to meet you,” I tell Jones. I give Neveah a special little smile, but she’s back to studying me, suspicious.
“Oh, there’s your bunkmate. Simmons!” Anna calls.
She’s crouched down, talking to a middle school–age camper wearing purple hair clips. When they turn toward us, it’s striking how alike they look—wide brown eyes and arched eyebrows.
“Lucy Hansson, this is Keely Simmons, your bunkmate.”
I’m taller than she is, but her presence somehow fills more space. Her stance is wide, feet in line with her hips. Next to her compact curves and dark skin, I feel lumbering, pear shaped, and chalk pale.
“Hey,” she says. Her expression is inscrutable: neutral but not unfriendly. “Guess you heard we scared the last counselor off?”
I can’t tell if I’m supposed to laugh at that, so I settle on a smile and a one-shoulder shrug. Super cool, Luce.
“Hm,” she says. It sounds like a pronouncement about me. “The girls are inside already.”
“I’ll take you,” Anna says. When we reach the table, Anna smiles brightly and introduces me to our third counselor, Garcia, who has a nose piercing and a bored, polite tone of voice that suggests I am totally beside the point. Something we agree on.
“All right, 3As!” Garcia says. “This is Hansson. She’s your new counselor! Tell her your names.”
They’re studying me, top to bottom, taking me in, and I shift my weight, hoping I measure up and can remember all nine names. One of the girls hugs me; a few others look skeptical. Keely Simmons appears, examining her nails as a girl named Maya leans back against her.
“I’m Payton,” one girl says. “Are you the new Ellis?”
“Ellis?” I ask.