“Hey,” he says. “Just wanted to let you know that D’Souza called a quick junior counselor meeting before lunch.”
“D’Souza,” I repeat stupidly.
“The head counselor. She’s a senior in college.” He must notice my confusion because he adds, “It’ll just be checking in and schedule stuff. Five minutes, tops. In the Bunker. The door that says ‘Maintenance’—Anna told you that, right?”
“Right. Though she didn’t mention why it’s labeled ‘Maintenance.’?”
“Helps keep nosy campers out.” His smile is rueful. Even when he’s not breaking into that huge grin, something about his eyes—or cheeks? What is it?—makes him seem deeply, genuinely happy. “And honestly, the junk food and relative quiet in the Bunker help us maintain our sanity.”
My laugh comes out as a snort. You just don’t expect a dorky dad joke from someone so handsome. Not that I care that he’s handsome. I don’t.
But I do wish I hadn’t snorted in front of him.
11:00 a.m.–??noon
Our short outdoor activity is a nature walk. As we trek through the woods, Simmons points out types of trees and plants and asks questions: Who knows what poison ivy looks like? Which animals hibernate and why? The girls gather fallen leaves and tiny buds of wildflowers like they’re treasure. I haven’t done this since I was little—roamed around nature, letting my imagination fill in every gap. I used to notice unusual trees that might hold magic; I used to half-believe animals would talk to you if you were gentle and quiet enough.
Toward the end of our walk, we sit in a clearing and we talk about our favorite thing about being outdoors. The girls say “deer” and “creeks,” “flowers” and “the moon.” My shirt sticks to my lower back as the sun beats down on my bare legs.
“I like squirrels,” Sofia says. “A group of squirrels is called a scurry.”
We all agree that this is awesome.
When it’s my turn, I answer, simply, “Clouds.”
“Any reason?” Simmons asks.
Because they’re always shifting, sometimes as pink as cotton candy, sometimes pearlescent with gold edges, sometimes like smoke across the moon. Because when you’re little, it seems like clouds are solid, like you could sit on one. But then you grow up and cut through them in an airplane, and when you’re high enough, they blanket the world with soft cotton.
Because when I learned the song “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands,” I imagined God’s hands made of clouds. For longer than I should have, I felt like clouds wrapped around the world, evidence that we are cradled—cherished, protected.
But the sky is unbrokenly blue today.
“It’s fun to look for shapes in them,” I say.
“Yeah!” one of the girls says. “I wish there were some to look at now!”
Me too.
“You didn’t go yet, Simmons,” Nadia says.
“My favorite thing about being outside is looking up at planets and stars,” she says, and the girls murmur agreement. “Did you know that some of the parts of our bodies—the teeny, tiny parts that you need a fancy microscope to see—came from stars?”
“Nuh-uh,” Payton says. “For real?”
“For real,” Simmons says. “Elements called hydrogen and carbon were, millions of years ago, formed by stars called supernovas. So you, little girls, are made of stardust.”
They all look around the circle, marveling at one another in a new light.
Noon
I report to the counselors’ room with a cup of tea in my hand. The space looks even smaller with a few people already in there, the walls even more covered in notepaper. I study a few flyers for jazz shows in town and a picture of counselors I don’t recognize sitting on each other’s shoulders, playing chicken in the pool (strictly forbidden, per the binder). Nearest me, a scrap of neon yellow paper says: TAMBE OWES SIMMONS 1 BASKET OF ONION RINGS AT TOM’S. NOT JUNIOR SIZE EITHER. THE WHOLE BASKET.
“Hansson! Hey!” Anna’s in the corner of the couch, sipping a soda.
“Hey.” Before I can sit beside her, Tambe breezes in. He plops onto Anna’s lap, squashing her.
“What a day!” he proclaims, then turns his head toward Anna. “Am I hurting you?”
“Nope. Like holding a puppy.”
He gasps. “How dare you. I’ve been working out.”
“A pit bull puppy,” Anna amends.
“Thank you.”
Simmons strolls into the room, eyes fixed on the shelves. She digs around, then glares at Tambe. “Did you eat the last of the good pretzels?”
“I resent that you accuse me right away,” he snaps. “But yes.”
She jerks a chair back from the table and slumps down, breaking open a container of what I can only assume are the bad pretzels. “Where do you even store all the food that you eat?”
Beside me, Tambe splays out on Anna dramatically. “Why is everyone persecuting me today?”
A girl breezes in, wearing a floral top and striped canvas shoes. She’s Asian and pretty—glossy hair to her shoulders, and a peachy blush on her cheeks. When she sits on the couch beside me, I press myself into the armrest, hoping I’m not sitting in someone’s usual spot.
“Hi! You must be Hansson.” When I nod dumbly, she says, “Min. Rose Min. I’m fourth-grade girls’ cabin and Purple Team. Sorry I didn’t get a chance to say hi yesterday. How’s your first day so far?”
“Good! The food’s great, and the girls seem really sweet.” It’s pathetic how happy I am that someone’s acknowledging me. Tambe’s not the puppy—I am. Yay, yay! Attention. Next I’ll flop on my back and offer up my belly for rubs.
“Enjoy this moment with Rose.” Tambe leans around so he can make eye contact with me. “She’s in lurve with Davis, so she spends all her time with the college counselors. Too good for us now.”
“Aw, Tambay-bee,” she coos, glancing back at him. “I was too good for you before too.”
Tambe gives me a look as if his point is made. “See? So sassy. This is why we miss her. Relish the little moments she graces us with.”
“Oh, stop. I see you all the time.”
“So sue for me for missing you, Min-y Muffin.”
Lord help me if I don’t want my own stupid nickname. Instead, I sit there on mute, wishing I could find an entrance to this conversation.
Jones jogs in last, easing himself onto the floor in front of Anna and Tambe. He’s wearing another short-sleeved oxford today, this one rust red with tiny white diamonds on it. The print looks like it belongs on a vintage tie.
D’Souza turns out to be a very short girl with the kind of squared-shoulder posture that makes it clear she’s in charge. After giving a few updates—seriously, Leo Leery can’t have gluten no matter what he tells you, and whoever is finishing the coffee without making more, honestly, stop it—D’Souza puts her hands on her hips.
“Okay! I think that’s it. Oh! Did you all meet Hansson?”