The Lost Summer (5 page)

I
had been wrong when I thought, returning from the riflery range, that I wouldn't be able to fall asleep. When I slipped quietly into my bed, not even bothering to change my clothes, just removing my smoky fleece and kicking off my boots, all the excitement of the last two days caught up with me. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.

I woke to the sound of Reveille the next morning, and the day began like any other at camp. Bleary-eyed and rumpled, I slipped on my flip-flops and padded with the other girls to the flagpole that stood always at attention in a clearing at the middle of the cabins. In front of it were a very chipper Marjorie and Butter.

Once we had all lined up, Marjorie placed her hand over her heart. We followed her lead as two counselors carefully unfolded and raised a large American flag. When the metal of the clasps clinked against the top of the pole, and Old Glory hung limply in the windless morning, we launched into a plodding recitation of the Pledge of Allegiance.

“See you at breakfast . . . pancakes and bacon!” Marjorie called cheerfully as Butter bounded behind her back to the Mess. The woman had an inhuman supply of energy. Southpoint didn't have cows, but if it had, I could picture Marjorie rising and shining at four a.m. to milk them for fresh cream to make butter for our pancakes.

At Southpoint we ate family-style at long wooden tables (although whose family it was styled after I didn't know, because it certainly wasn't mine). That morning it was both fun and a little strange to take a seat at the head of the table instead of on one of the low benches where the campers sat shoulder to shoulder.

At our first counselor meeting I'd volunteered to handle table assignments and had used my newfound power to put Katie Bell at my table the first week. Good thing, because I was almost literally dying to fill her in on the night before. As soon as the cowbell that signalled chow time was rung, I grabbed her across the table and whispered that she was never going to believe what went on out at the riflery range at night.

Katie Bell was mystified. She needed details, and I was more than happy to pore over the really important ones—for example, what brand of dip he used (the importance of this detail escaped me, as I thought dipping was generally gross, but Katie Bell figured he was a Skoal man), and more critically, how close, in millimeters, Ransome's knee had been to mine at the closest point of the night.

“Hel,” Katie Bell gasped. “That's like, huge!” Katie Bell had a problem with whispering. She couldn't.

“What's huge?” a camper asked.

“Nothing,” we both answered quickly, and luckily the camper returned, untroubled, to her stack of syrup-drenched pancakes.

“You think?” I wondered, turning back to Katie Bell. I was less confident in the morning light that the electricity I'd felt between Ransome and me wasn't imagined.

“Yes.” Katie Bell gave me a look that said her opinion on the matter was to be trusted. Of course it was the answer I wanted, so I took it.

Running my life past Katie Bell over bacon—even if I was seated at the head of the table now—felt normal. But it was after breakfast that the usual camp routine skidded to a halt and took a left.

When First Call blew, the campers tramped down to the Bowl for Morning Gathering. For the first time ever, I didn't go with them. Instead I blared music in the empty cabin and leisurely made my bed. I folded the sweatshirt and shorts I'd worn to breakfast, placing them back in my trunk in the “slightly worn” pile, and wriggled into a bathing suit.

Mornings at Southpoint meant scheduled activities with your “fish group”—age groups named after fish, smallest (Minnows) to largest (Sharks). As the lowest on the counselor totem pole, JCs got stuck teaching the activities that involved dehydrating on the athletic fields, moldering in Ye Olde Crafts Shoppe, or leading some ill-defined activity that required a lot of creativity and usually elicited little enthusiasm. Thus, my friend and fellow JC Lauren had been stuck with field hockey, Lila with crafts, Abby with leadership (i.e., trust walks), and Megan with art, which usually devolved into nail-painting and magazine reading.

I, on the other hand, had lucked out. After reading in one of her parenting books that offspring of divorced parents sometimes lack the work ethic of their co-parented counterparts, my mom had cut off my allowance for the past two summers, leaving me no choice for spending money but to babysit for the Stanley twins next door. Mrs. Stanley had insisted I get lifeguard certification before I could take her little darlings to the pool. I'd griped then, but the certification had paid off. With most of the other certified counselors on the boating dock, I'd gotten a coveted place on the swim dock with Winn and Sarah.

As I strolled out to the dock that day—instead of to Morning Gathering with Katie Bell—it felt slightly wrong, like ditching class.

Winn and Sarah were already there. They'd lugged a busted old stereo from the craft shop to the lifeguard stand, and the music carried over the lake.

At the edge of the dock I kicked off my flip-flops and stood hesitantly, wrapped in an oversize beach towel, next to Sarah and Winn. They were already stretched out on their towels, lithe bodies glistening with carrot oil. I felt dumpy. Somewhere in my mind I knew I wasn't. But that part of my mind was being suffocated by the part that had eaten four pieces of bacon at breakfast.

“Hola,”
Winn said lazily, her eyes closed behind her sunglasses.

As I dropped my towel, I was acutely aware of Winn's taut stomach. I was tall with legs I could admit were better than average and a butt that wasn't too bad either. So I had that going for me. But I loathed the doughnut of pudge that bulged around my belly button, and the muffin top my friends and mother swore they couldn't see, but which I could actually
feel
spilling over my jeans. I was my own bakery display.

Quickly, I spread my towel next to Winn's and lay down so that the doughnut melted into the rest of my stomach. If only I could lie like this all summer.

Winn raised herself on her elbows and glanced over at me. “Ugh, I hate you. You're so tan,” she said before collapsing back on her towel.

“Uh, thanks,” I said. Normally I shrugged off compliments, but this one was true. Another perk of babysitting for the Stanleys. “So, which group has swimming first?”

“The Sharks,” Sarah answered.

I was glad. Katie Bell was a Shark.

Content, I soaked in the sun until the peaceful calm of the lake was broken by the sound of the bugle announcing first activity.

Soon the Sharks were lined up at the edge of the dock. We stood from our towels and waited as the girls counted off—a safety precaution—before stepping onto the grayed wood.

“Okay.” Winn clapped once, the sound echoing on the water, and grinned broadly. “Y'all know the drill!” She climbed the rusted rungs of the lifeguard stand and blew a shrill blast on her whistle.

Every camper, every summer, had to take a swimming test before she could participate in any water activities. From the end of the dock by the lifeguard stand to the floating dock and back was not exactly a marathon. The test was almost silly, especially for the older girls, but required.

The Sharks dropped their towels and shorts and stood, toes curled over the edge of the dock, contemplating the freezing water below them. A few dove straight in, emerging with ear-piercing shrieks. Two girls, Amanda and Molly, held hands and unleashed a massive duel cannonball that sprayed those of us on the dock. As soon as they were in, they all started toward the floating dock.

All except Katie Bell, who shuffled over and plopped down next to me.

“So how's your first activity as a counselor?” she asked, pulling her knees under her chin.

“Good. You missed a spot.” I wiped a smear of sunblock from her jawline. Katie Bell had to apply SPF 50 about six times a day at camp.

“I see they entrusted you with a whistle. That must be terribly exciting.” She nodded at the cheap plastic thing in my hand.

I swung the whistle around my finger. “It saves lives.”

“Safety first.”

I laughed, surprised as always at how easily Katie Bell and I could pick up where we left off. We'd even made that exact promise to each other one summer. We were sitting on her bottom bunk, it was raining outside, and we were contemplating becoming blood sisters, but neither of us wanted to prick ourselves, so we settled on a long string of promises instead.

I wouldn't have been lying if I said I liked my friends at home. They were nice, and we were mostly into the same things. But they weren't the kind you trusted with the most sensitive bits of your self. I'd learned that as I'd watched them pull away after my father left, and come back only when they felt it was safe again. When we headed to college, I knew we'd lose touch.

I didn't see that happening with Katie Bell. We sat side by side on the dock in comfortable silence, watching the Sharks splash spastically across the lake. The sun felt like warm hands on my hair and shoulders.

The song on the radio changed to an old disco tune, the kind of funny, random song that you only listened to at camp, and because of that, reminded you of summer every time you heard it. Winn and Sarah started to dance on the platform of the lifeguard stand. They pulled out all the cheesy dance moves they could remember: the Lawn Mower, the Sprinkler, the Roger Rabbit. Winn did the Running Man.

“Do the Worm!” I shouted from below. Winn dropped to her stomach like she was really going to do it, sending us all into hysterics, but there wasn't enough room.

“Katie Bell,” Winn called from the lifeguard stand, “you have to walk the plank too!”

Katie Bell shielded her eyes with her hand as she looked up at Winn, standing like a goddess of summer on her pedestal.

“My stomach hurts,” Katie Bell called. “Female problems.”

This was the excuse every camper had given at one point or another to avoid swimming. It seemed that ninety percent of Southpoint campers' menstrual cycles were attuned to the weather, because cold days saw a sharp increase in cramping. It was the only thing the counselors could report back to Fred that he wouldn't question—until the eight-year-olds overheard us and started using it as well.

“Sorry, Katie Bell,” Sarah shouted this time, twirling her whistle just as I had been moments before. “Everyone has to. Dock rules.”

Katie Bell heaved an exasperated sigh and looked at Sarah and Winn blankly before turning to me. “Hel,” she entreated, “come on. You know I can swim. I won the freestyle at Field Day last year.”

“Everyone has to, Katie Bell,” Winn echoed from the lifeguard stand.

“Last time I checked,” Katie Bell called, her attitude kicking in, “I don't
have
to do anything. It's camp.”

“Katie Bell . . .” Winn said impatiently.

I caught Sarah rolling her eyes at Winn as she turned her back to us and faced out to the lake.

“Katie Bell,” I repeated quietly, wondering why she was making this into a thing. We always had to take the swim test. It wasn't news.

She looked at me with determined disbelief. “You know I can swim.”

I sighed and glanced up at Sarah and Winn, who were whispering. “I'm sorry.” I shrugged helplessly. “Maybe you've forgotten since last year.” Stupid joke. She wasn't buying it. “It'll only take a minute,” I pleaded. “Then you can get out and sunbathe with us.”

Katie Bell let out an annoyed, accusing huff and stood, dropping her towel, where it landed at my feet. She marched to the edge of the dock in front of the bench and dove off, the water barely rippling where she pierced the surface. Gracefully, she sliced through the water, quickly catching up with the last of the girls, who were doggie-paddling.

As Katie Bell tagged the floating dock and flipped to come back, the sound of a motor emerged over the teeth-chattering and talking of the landed Sharks. A boat was cruising from the center of the lake toward the swimming area. My heart skipped a beat, and I squinted to see who was driving.

Winn had come down from the lifeguard stand. She sidled up beside me. “What's her problem?” she asked, nodding at Katie Bell in the water. She seemed less irritated than perplexed.

I'd long ago accepted Katie Bell's quick temper. It was part of what made Katie Bell Katie Bell. But for others, I knew it could be jarring. “Don't worry,” I sighed. “That's just Katie Bell. She hates to be told what to do.”

“Yeah,” Winn said, but she wasn't really listening, because now she was also peering out at the motorboat with an unreadable expression on her face.

To my half-blind eyes, the driver of the boat was just a brown figure in long swim trunks and no shirt. I assumed that it was a boy, since it was topless (or at least hoped, since it was topless). He waved. Four smaller hands also shot up in greeting.

“It's Ransome,” Winn said, although I hadn't asked. One hand on her hip, she raised the other over her head and waved back, hand flopping on her wrist.

I wanted to wave but couldn't. My hands were glued to my sides like a toy soldier awaiting orders. Instinctively, I sucked in my stomach, as if the doughnut might miraculously liquefy and recongeal about two inches higher into a six-pack. But the boys couldn't see this far, and anyway, they'd already started their wide arc back toward Brownstone.

The boat's wake slapped at the dock.

“Show-off,” Winn said, laughing.

I laughed too, but there was a sharp edge to Winn's comment that I wasn't sure what to do with. I was sure I'd misheard.

Katie Bell didn't speak to me for the rest of the activity period. As if to make a point, she stayed on the floating dock with Amanda and Molly, even though it meant drying and then having to dive into the cold lake again when it was time to go.