The Names They Gave Us

When everyone swivels to look at me, I eke out, “Uhh . . . hey.”


“Let one of us know if you need anything. And they told you that you get Friday nights off, yes?” Before I can reply, she continues, “Junior counselors get Friday nights off; college counselors get Saturdays. No curfew, but you still have to be up at seven a.m., so make good choices. We have a zero-tolerance policy for anyone who is hungover or late.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t—”

“Zero. Tolerance,” she repeats before I can explain that I would never. “Last weekend was good. Everyone was smart about it. Let’s keep it that way. Okay. Any other quick questions or concerns?”

“Where’d we land on the Fourth of July?” Min asks.

“Oh, right.” D’Souza crosses her arms like a drill sergeant with troops under review. “Rhea says you guys get the day off. College counselors will get the next evening off.”

“GLORY!” Tambe cries, as Anna and Simmons whoop.

“Well, thank Jones for that one,” D’Souza says curtly. “Since he’s playing the festival, he’s already off.”

Jones raises his arms, bent at the elbow and palms up. It’s a Saint Francis of Assisi pose, missing only a baroque halo and a flock of delicate birds. Half humility, half acknowledgment.

Playing the festival? The meeting is adjourned before I can ask what that means.

July Fourth feels like five years away.

Noon–1:30 p.m.

Lunch, then another half-hour set of chores: cleaning windows in the gym, although “gym” is a flattering word for this space. It’s a small room off the lodge, used only on desperate rainy days, according to Simmons. The floor is made of indoor track material, rubbery and pilled, and the back wall has crates full of jump ropes, dodge balls, and even badminton rackets. They look like they were donated to Daybreak after a school finally replaced their gym class supplies. There’s even a punching bag in the back corner, which I make a note of. I don’t generally think of myself as a person who wants to hit things for catharsis, but . . . well. Things change.

The whining is epic. These girls make window cleaning into one of the labors of Hercules. Even though we counselors are right beside them, scrubbing the higher windows.

“It smells in here,” Brooklyn moans.

“So bad,” Maya agrees. “Like boys. Like boys’ armpits.”

“The mural’s cool,” I say, trying to be positive.

“I guess,” Nadia says. “I like the rainbow.”

Me too. There are elements of childhood fables—birds holding a banner, a tree made of stars.

“I helped paint that, you know,” Simmons says. “My first summer here.”

“Were you in third grade?” Maya asks hopefully.

“Fifth.”

“Really? What part did you paint?”

Simmons points to the flowers growing around the tree.

“Well, it still smells like actual butts in here.” This is from Brooklyn.

“One more complaint,” Garcia says, “and I’ll take away swim hour.”

For a few minutes we scrub in silence, except for the squirts of spray bottles and the squeak of clean glass.

“Have you ever seen Annie?” Sofia asks, and Simmons shoots her a look. “Just saying.”

1:30–2:30 p.m.

Arts class, which can apparently be everything from painting to crafts to dance.

Today, a college counselor teaches the girls about percussion instruments. There are little bongos and maracas, ribbed wooden sticks that they rub together. It’s cacophony.

They’re delighted.

“Jesus. Christ,” Simmons mutters, rubbing her temple.

Garcia snorts. “Amen.”

And even I know what they mean.

2:30–4:00 p.m.

By the time we get to the daily swim session with the fourth-and fifth-grade girls, I’m amazed these kids are still on their feet. But finally: something I know I’m good at.

“Anna!” I call, waving. She’s in the water near Min, who also waves at me.

“You cool with shore duty?” Simmons asks. “I promised my sister we could play Marco Polo.”

“Oh. Yeah. Fine.” I already got my swim in this morning, I guess. And besides, after my emotional breakdown last night, I have zero room for negotiation.

Most of the Cabin 3A girls splash around, though a few are digging a massive hole in the sandbank. Garcia’s off with the college counselors, who seem to flock together.

I sit down on a nearby towel, feeling like an afterthought. Maybe this is a preview of college, where everyone will know what they’re supposed to be doing and I’ll just . . . be there. The idea of living in a dorm, where I know absolutely no one, makes me feel preemptively homesick for my mom.

“Hey,” a little voice says. I shield my eyes from the sun, looking up at Nadia.

“Hey.” She sits beside me on the towel without asking, which is a surprisingly little kid move. Already, Nadia strikes me as a bit older, emotionally, than the other cabin girls. Her mind always seems to be chewing on something. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I just miss my mom.”

I weigh the options automatically: reassure her or commiserate. “Hey, you know what? I was just sitting here thinking about missing my mom too.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Did she die? Your mom?”

“No,” I say, surprised. “But she’s pretty sick right now. Did your mom die?”

I should use the same language she did, right? She said it bluntly, so that’s how she thinks of it.

“Yes. When I was seven.” Like it was a lifetime ago, instead of a year.

Nadia’s so tiny—just a baby. And yet, she’s three years older than my mom was when she lost her parents to a car accident. At fourteen, after living with extended family for years, she was placed in foster care, with a couple who ultimately adopted her. I have never fully comprehended how young my mom was until this very moment.

“I’m so sorry that happened. Did you swim together? Is that what made you think of her?”

“Yeah. In the pool. She got in with me and played.”

“I used to swim with my mom too.” Here in this lake, feet kicking hard as she coached me in an encouraging voice. And now, swallowing a lump in my throat, I have to ask myself how I’d want people to treat me if she was gone. “Tell you what: Anytime you miss your mom, you come sit by me and we can miss our moms together, okay? And if you want to tell me any good memories about her, I’d like to hear them. Sound good?”

“Sounds good,” she agrees.

“Hansson!” a voice yells from nearby. “Clara took my shovel! She needs a consequence!”

And here we go again.

4:30–5:30 p.m.

Finally, we get a full hour of cabin rest time.

“You know the drill, ladies! Nap or quiet reading.”

I take the most grateful shower of my life. I don’t even care that I have to wear flip-flops or get dressed in the stall after, not feeling quite dry enough.

For the half hour that remains post-shower, I ball up on my bed. Payton plops down next to me, touching the tips of her dark hair.

“Your hair is curly on its own?”

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