Twelve

by Lauren Myracle

  “Bring your mom,” Amanda said. I’d forgotten how pretty she was, with her sprinkling of dusty freckles. “Bring Dinah, too, if you want. That would be totally fine.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  Mr. Hutchinson blew his whistle, and she squeezed my arm and dashed off.

  “I don’t understand why she waited so long to invite you,” Mom said, grumpy at missing her TV show even though I set up the VCR to tape it for her.

  “I don’t know, because she was busy,” I said.

  “It’s not the most convenient of times,” Mom said. “Sandra’s volleyball banquet is tomorrow, and I’m supposed to bring refreshments, which means I need to bake a couple dozen cookies. And I still haven’t hemmed your graduation dress.”

  I eyeballed her. She maintained her indignation for a moment, then laughed, knowing she’d been called out. Like she’d really be hemming my graduation dress instead of mooning over the cute gardener on her show.

  At Amanda’s house, the camp presentation had already started. Mom joined the other parents in the cluster of chairs and sofas, and I scurried onto the floor beside Amanda. Some of the girls I didn’t know. They were probably from Amanda’s neighborhood and didn’t go to Trinity. But I saw Maxine leaning against the coffee table, and Louise was sitting next to her. I gave a small wave. They waved back. Mysteriously, there was no sign of Gail.

  Mrs. Foskin, the camp lady, talked for a bit about Camp Winding Gap, then dimmed the lights for a slide show. We saw girls doing farm chores, girls paddling canoes, girls with their arms around one another in front of their cabin. They looked so happy. We saw girls eating dinner in a big room with rows of long tables. We saw a line of girls on horseback, framed by the setting sun.

  I glanced behind me at Mom. She smiled at me, and I smiled back. I imagined myself hiking through the woods and building fires, and on Sundays having church in an outdoor chapel. I imagined myself galloping on a pure white horse, its mane flying in the wind. I’d never ridden a horse, but I’d seen people do it on TV. It didn’t look hard.

  “Good ol’ Lightning,” I’d say at the end of a satisfying day. My campmates would gather round as I brushed his silky coat. “We rode out early to see the sunrise, and then we just kept going. What about you guys? You ever ride a horse so fast it felt like flying?”

  The lights in the Wilsons’ living room came back on. I blinked in surprise.

  “Camp Winding Gap is a wonderful, positive, enriching experience,” Mrs. Foskin said, clasping her hands in front of her. “And now, I’d be delighted to answer any questions.” She lifted her eyebrows to acknowledge a woman in the back. “Yes?”

  “How much does it cost?” the woman asked.

  Mrs. Foskin explained about two-week sessions versus three-week sessions. Amanda’s mom caught Amanda’s eye and subtly tilted her head, and Amanda got to her feet. She pulled me up with her.

  “It’s time for snacks,” she whispered. “Come help.”

  In the kitchen, I fell into my role as if it were second nature. I remembered every little thing about Amanda’s house, even though I hadn’t been over for months. But when I went to get some napkins, I came up empty. The napkin drawer was full of plastic containers.

  “My mom rearranged,” Amanda said, coming over and opening the next drawer up. She pulled out a stack of napkins, the good kind that were soft and thick. “Here.”

  “Mercy buckets,” I said, stealing Mom’s fake French way of saying “thanks.” I started pairing brownies with napkins, arranging them on a tray. “So . . . why isn’t Gail here?”

  “She already has a summer camp,” Amanda said. If she knew it was hard for me to ask, she didn’t show it. “It’s for being an equestrian. You know, horses?”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “She goes every year. She’s really good.”

  She would be, I thought. She probably wore those tight black pants and everything. Jodhpurs.

  Knowing that Gail was an expert rider made my Lightning fantasy seem stupid, until I rebounded with an encouraging thought. It was quite possible that I had my own horsey talent, hidden until now. This could be the summer to reveal it.

  “What about Dinah?” Amanda asked.

  “Huh?” I said.

  “Why didn’t she come tonight? To the slide show?”

  “Ohhhh,” I said. “Um, spend-the-night camp wouldn’t work for her. She’d miss her dad too much. You know.”

  Amanda nodded understandingly. She made a sound of sympathy for Dinah’s long-gone mother.

  “They’re really close,” I said.

  The truth was, I hadn’t told Dinah about Amanda’s invitation. Again, that sense of unrealness washed over me, of everything falling away if I let it.

  “Well,” Amanda said. “It’s probably best.”

  “Yeah,” I said, not sure what I was agreeing with.

  On graduation night, I wore my beautiful white dress, and I felt beautiful, even with the knowledge of my nude-colored bra pressing into my shoulder blades. Mom had finally gotten around to hemming the one loose thready part, and she’d bought me a pair of white sandals with teeny blue dragonflies where the straps crossed over my toes. I wore my blue flower earrings and felt exquisite from head to toe.

  “You look like a fairy,” Dinah whispered as we lined up to the right of the stage.

  “Don’t I?” I replied. I grinned and sashayed my hips. Then I leaned in and said, “You look good, too. I really like your necklace.”

  “Thanks,” she said, blushing. It was so easy to make her happy. It made me happy, making her happy. Tonight was all about being happy.

  During the “Now and Then” part of the evening, I watched, rapt, as my sixth-grade life flashed in front of me. Pam had been very sneaky with her camera, catching shots of the Halloween Parade, the Spring Carnival, even student-teacher conferences—with one hilarious picture of an abashed Alex Plotkin being lectured by Mrs. Daly. Most of the pictures showed kids who were smiling, though, and it occurred to me that we looked like the kids at Camp Winding Gap. Just as filled-to-the-brim with life.

  I pressed my lips together to keep from sharing my observation with Dinah. Mom had said “we’ll see” when I begged her to let me join Amanda at camp, and “we’ll see” was a good sign. Graduation plus the possibility of camp with Amanda was an intoxicating mix. I wiggled in my seat.

  After the “school life” part of Pam’s presentation came the baby-picture finale. There was rosy-cheeked Maxine, her hair as dark and curly when she was an infant as it was now. And there was Alex Plotkin as a toddler, wearing a diaper and cowboy boots and nothing else. Everyone howled.

  Gail’s picture showed her in a pink ballerina costume; Amanda, in her photo, was propped precariously against a teddy bear. The teddy bear was bigger than she was. It was so amazing, all these lives. All these lives changing and growing and turning into . . . us.

  Dinah’s picture was sweet, showing her as a baby nestled under a Christmas tree. She drew a chorus of awwws, and I was glad for her. I reached over and squeezed her hand.

  My picture was one of the last. I had no idea which one Mom had picked, and I laughed with the others when I saw four-year-old me, looking stern in a trench coat and safety goggles from our dress-up drawer. I remembered pretending to be a spy in that particular outfit.

  “That’s so you!” Louise called.

  I hid my face, but of course I loved it.

  When the ceremony was over, we were sixth graders no more. We were soon-to-be seventh graders. Soon-to-be junior-highers. We shrieked with the weirdness of it while our parents chatted in the parking lot, and we ran like crazy around the playground. One last glorious free-for-all, like those funny square hats thrown into the sky. Only we were the ones flung topsy-turvy, not knowing where we would land.

  July

  CAMP WINDING GAP was divided into three cabins: the Chickadees, ages nine to ten; the Hummingbirds, ages eleven to twelve; and the Peregrines, ages thirteen to fourteen. It wou
ld have been fun to have been a Chickadee, because that was such a dorky-cool name, as in “Hi, I’m a Chickadee!” or “Hey there, little Chickadee!” But Hummingbirds were cool, too. Even cooler, since Amanda and I were Hummingbirds together. We got to share a bunk bed and everything, me on the top and Amanda on the bottom. We both wanted it that way. We both got our first choice.

  “Finish making your beds and then come outside,” said our counselor, whose name was Amy. Amy had jet-black hair and a square jaw and big breasts. I guessed her to be around Sandra’s age. She was a photographer, and if we wanted we could pick photography as one of our activities. I probably would.

  I plumped my pillow with a series of overzealous punches, making the girls around me laugh, then walked with the others outside and sat down on a log. I propped my chin on my hands and made my expression super attentive.

  Amy cleared her throat, and I said, “Yesssss?”

  The other girls laughed again. It made me tingle and want more.

  “Shhh,” Amanda said.

  “Thank you, Amanda,” Amy said. “Now. Who can tell me why we’re sitting around the fire ring, but there’s no fire?”

  “Because no one had any matches?” I suggested. Madison, the girl to my left, snickered.

  “No,” Amy said.

  “Because no one lit the kindling?” I couldn’t help it—it was there for the taking. I felt proud of myself for knowing the word kindling.

  “No,” Amy said. Amanda nudged me with her knee.

  “Is it for safety reasons?” a girl named Jaden asked. “Like, maybe a fire restriction?”

  “No, but good guess,” Amy said.

  No better than mine, I thought.

  “There’s no fire,” Amy said, “because until today, there have been no campers.”

  “Ohhhh,” I said.

  “And without campers, our fire has no life.”

  “It’s a metaphor,” I whispered loudly to Madison. “We are the fire! We are the coals that give it new life!”

  “Winnie, hush,” Amanda said under her breath. “For real.”

  But I was having too much fun, and I didn’t understand why Amanda wasn’t equally amused. Amy, too. I gave her my cutest smile, which I stole from Ty, but it had little effect.

  With great formality, Amy lit a match from the box she pulled from her pocket. She tossed it into the kindling, and it fizzled out. Several of us tittered. She tried again, and this time one of the twigs caught fire.

  “We are like the fire,” Amy said. “Alone, we’re nothing, just random pieces of wood. But together, we burn bright and strong.”

  “You mean we’re going to burst into flames?” I whispered to Madison. “Owwie!”

  Amy glared. “Winnie, did you have something you wanted to share with the group?”

  Everyone looked at me. I looked back. And then . . .

  I farted. A loud one, loud enough to be heard over the popping of the fire. There was a shocked silence, and then Madison said, “She tooted!” My cabin mates, including Amanda, fell into hysterics. I was mortified.

  “Fine,” Amy said. “Thank you for that, Winnie. But I think we’ll stick to fire and take a pass on the natural gas.”

  The hilarity tripled, and Amy allowed herself a small smile. Amanda put her arm around me as if to comfort me, then drew back and said, “Pewww!”

  “Ha ha,” I said, face burning.

  “Just teasing,” she said.

  “It’s time for Group Sing,” Amy said, heaving herself to her feet. “You guys head on to the main lodge.”

  “What about the fire?” Jaden asked.

  “I need one person to stay behind and help me put it out,” Amy said. She scanned the group. I thought she was going to pick me, as punishment or reward or some sort of peace treaty, but she didn’t. She picked Jessica, a tall girl with red hair pulled back in a ponytail. The rest of us were free to go.

  That night, in my new-to-me bunk bed that squeaked when I moved, I felt strange in my own skin. I was so far away from Mom and Dad—that was one weird thing. I was basically sleeping outside—that was another. Yes, we were in a cabin, but the walls were thin and there weren’t real windows, just screens. And no electricity, of course. Or running water. To wash up before bed, we’d used the one girls’ bathroom at the top of the hill. If I had to use the bathroom in the middle of the night—which I wouldn’t, because no way was I going up there alone—I’d be in deep doo-doo.

  Deep doo-doo. Ha. Too bad everybody was asleep, or I’d have had another good one for them.

  And that was the weirdest thing: this new barrel of laughs I’d somehow become. At home I was funny, sure, but in spurts like everyone else. Or more often, funny to myself but not funny to, say, Sandra. Here, I started out being funny because of nervousness and hyperness, and it had stuck. It had been only one day, but I could feel, because of how camp was, that this wasn’t a role I’d be able to shrug off. Even if I wanted to.

  I wished I hadn’t farted, though. That hadn’t been on purpose. Who could fart on purpose, anyway?

  Never mind. Half the boys from my class, that’s who.

  But not me. I wished I could go back and make it so that moment never happened. Not said the bit about bursting into flames, so that Amy wouldn’t have put the spotlight on me. Or maybe, if I’d felt the fart coming, I could have fallen backward off the log at the same time, which would have covered the sound and still given people something to laugh at.

  Well, what was done was done. If I really was the person I was pretending to be—and who’s to say I wasn’t? Who’s to say that this me wasn’t the real me, and the back-home me the fake? But if I was that person, the jokey confident one, then I’d laugh over the fart and move on. So that’s what I tried to do, as cicadas chirped and darkness wrapped around me and rustlings came from the woods that could have been bears, but probably weren’t.

  A week into camp, a horse stepped on my foot and wouldn’t get off. The horse’s name was Pudding Treat, and perhaps this was the reason. Because who names a horse “Pudding Treat”? Good ol’ Lightning, now that had a noble ring. But good ol’ Pudding Treat? He was fat and lazy and flies were always buzzing around him. He was as far from my fantasy horse as a horse could be without, in actuality, being a cow.

  And he was standing on my foot. And it hurt.

  “Um, excuse me?” I said, trying to get the instructor’s attention. At the same time, I pushed hard against Pudding Treat’s massive side. He didn’t budge.

  The instructor, whose name was Leigh-Ann, kept talking about whatever she was talking about.

  “Excuse me,” I said louder. Leigh-Ann was out in the middle of the riding ring, and all of us who were taking horseback riding were circled around her with our horses beside us. Or on us, in my case. “Excuse me, but I’ve got a problem!”

  Leigh-Ann broke off. She shielded her eyes from the sun. “Yes, Winnie?”

  I fought back tears. “He’s on my foot! He’s standing on my foot!”

  “Oh my God!” Leigh-Ann cried. She dropped everything and ran over. “Move,” she said to Pudding Treat, shoving on his foreleg in a way that made his knee buckle. My foot slipped free.

  “Let’s get that shoe off,” Leigh-Ann said, fumbling with the laces of my sneaker. She put her arm around my waist and helped me hobble to the water trough. “Put your foot in there. Why on earth didn’t you tell me?”

  “I did,” I said.

  “But why didn’t you yell? Or scream? Or something?”

  The other girls gathered around. They all looked concerned.

  “You’re so brave,” Madison said.

  “Are you okay?” Jaden said. “Your foot’s turning red!”

  “Can you wiggle your toes?” Leigh-Ann asked. “Is anything broken?”

  I wiggled my toes in the lukewarm water. Everything worked.

  “Thank goodness,” she said. “But you’re done for the day—and next time, if a horse steps on your foot, I want you to do something about
it.” She pushed her bangs out of her eyes. “Girls, I need one of you to take Winnie to the cabin. Who wants to go?”

  Everyone raised her hand, and a chorus of “Me, me!” filled the air.

  “Amanda,” I said.

  Amanda stepped forward, proud to be chosen.

  “Stop by the lodge and have Alice give her some ibuprofen, ” Leigh-Ann instructed. Amanda nodded. My foot still throbbed, but it was fun being the patient everyone wanted to take care of.

  “The rest of you, back to your spots,” Leigh-Ann said. “And keep your feet out from under your horses!”

  Back in the cabin, with my foot propped on a pillow, I let Amanda make a fuss over me.

  “Eat one of these,” she said, handing me a Mike and Ike’s HOT TAMALE from the stash in her trunk.

  “Ooo, spicy,” I said, smushing the candy between my teeth.

  “I know I’m not supposed to have them in the cabin—but oh well,” she said. She perched on the edge of my bed. “I can’t believe you just stood there while Pudding Treat was on your foot. Did it kill?”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “But I was too embarrassed.”

  “I would have been screaming my head off,” she said. She shook another handful of HOT TAMALES into my hand. Her expression told me she was going to change the subject. “So . . . who do you think’s going to be Miss Hummingbird?”

  Miss Hummingbird was like the most popular girl of all the Hummingbirds. There’d also be a Miss Chickadee and a Miss Peregrine. All the cabins voted, and the winners would be announced on the last day of camp.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe Jessica?” Jessica was the red-haired girl who was so clearly Amy’s favorite. I watched Amanda’s face and quickly added, “Or you? Maybe you, I bet!”

  “No, not me,” Amanda said. “I think it’ll be you.”

  “Ha ha,” I said.

  “No, seriously,” she said. “Everybody loves you. It’s so weird.”

  “Hey, now!” I couldn’t decide whether to be thrilled at the compliment or put off by Amanda’s qualification. I laughed.

  “You know what I mean,” Amanda said.