by Erica Sage
She laughed. “I’m going to tell you a secret, even though you are the worst interrogator on this planet.”
“Okay.”
“I just got accepted to City School. Have you heard of it?”
“No.”
“Okay, well, it’s a public school, but you have to apply, and you have to sign a contract and stuff.” It surprised me that she would switch from a private school to a public school. “It’s a school of the arts.”
“Oh, you’re into the arts?”
“Well, yeah, like design. I want to go to Rhode Island School of Design. Have you heard of that?”
“No.”
“That’s right, you’re about grammar.” She smiled. “I want to do some kind of design with books. Like covers or something.”
“Or marginalizing.”
“Exactly.” She laughed, and then it died away. “Anyway, I have a confession in that box that violates that contract.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
She sighed. “Because you’re not the only one with something to lose.”
My turn to sigh.
I appreciated the fact she was trying to make me feel better, but she didn’t know.
Later that night, as I was walking back to the cabins, I thought about what I could lose. What she could lose. She was worried about school, but there were lots of schools. This confession was about my family. You only get one.
And then I realized, Natalie may have told me a “secret,” but she still hadn’t told where she’d gone that night.
And there was no doubt in my mind she’d done that on purpose.
Gawd, I really was a terrible detective.
Back at the cabin, Matthew and I found everyone except Charles sitting around in a circle. Jeez, this camp had a lot of sitting around in circles.
But this circle was a little different. Donkey Lottery Winner Chris and Goth sat in the center, both with their fingertips resting on the plastic planchette of a Ouija board.
I had been hoping Payton wouldn’t be in the cabin yet, but he was there, all f lared nostrils, pursed lips, and dropped brow line. I wanted to say, Mr. Neanderthal, talk to your girlfriend—ex-girlfriend. But he could probably kick my ass even with a broken arm, so instead I inquired about the “demon worship” going on center-cabin.
“It’s the Holy Ghost we’re after here,” Chris explained.
“It is the Holy Ghost. It already said it was,” Payton barked.
“How old are you?” Chris asked the board.
I watched, but nothing happened. So I went over to my cubby and grabbed my toothpaste.
“Holy shit,” someone said.
“Holy Ghost, you asshole,” someone else said back, laughing.
I looked over and saw Chris’s and Goth’s hands moving with the planchette.
“It’s just going in circles,” Payton said. “You guys are pushing it.”
“No, it keeps going back to the A and then the Z,” Matthew said.
I watched as my bunk mates theorized.
“A-Z.”
“Azzz …”
“What starts with A-Z?”
“From A to Z?”
“Infinity,” I interrupted.
“Yeah, A to Z. The whole alphabet. Infinity,” Matthew confirmed.
“No,” I said. “The thing is making the infinity sign. Watch it move.” I pointed.
Silent, we watched the ivory-colored game piece move around and swoop down and to the right, around and down and to the left. A sideways eight over and over.
Goth pulled his hand back, and the planchette stopped moving immediately. “No way,” he said.
“Ask it something else,” Chris said.
Matthew sat next to Chris and put his fingers on the planchette. “Is there a God?” Matthew asked.
“Whoa, right off like that?” Payton said.
“What’s it gonna say?” I jested. “It’s the Holy Ghost. It has to say yes, or it has no credibility.”
And, indeed, it said yes.
Then it spelled out “A-L-L H-O-L-Y.”
“All holy?” Chris asked.
The planchette moved on. We watched as the letters spelled out “E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G.”
“What an existential game,” Charles mumbled from his bunk. He looked like he’d been crying. What had he written in his confession?
“Fine,” Chris said. “When am I gonna die?”
“Shit, you guys are not messing around,” Payton said.
The planchette slid across the board to land on the eight. Then it crept in small circles for a moment before sliding back to the two.
“Eighty-two. Not bad,” Chris said.
Payton shouldered Matthew out of the way and took a seat next to Chris.
He placed his two fingers on the planchette with Chris’s. “What’s your name?”
“Holy Ghost doesn’t need a name,” Chris chastised.
But the planchette moved. “J-”
“E-”
“A-”
“N-”
“Jean?”
“The Holy Ghost is a girl?”
“It’s obviously not the Holy Ghost, dumbass. I mean, Jean? That’s not even biblical.”
“It is now.”
The planchette continued to move.
L-O-U-I-S. My face got warmer with every letter.
“Louis? Do we have two ghosts? Jean and Louis?”
What we had was a French-Canadian dead man.
The planchette was moving to NO.
“This is dumb,” I said. “Ask a new question.” I could not let the board reach the last name, a name most of the guys probably would recognize, even if they hadn’t read his books.
K-
E-
R-
“Ask a new question,” I said, a little too loudly.
O-
“Like what?” Chris asked.
U-
It was still moving, but they couldn’t keep track of the letters if I kept talking.
“Like anything that’s not boring, like a name. Like who cares about the ghosts’ names? Obviously we have a man and a woman.”
The planchette stopped.
“Okay,” Chris said, his tone serious. “Tell us a secret.”
“Not that,” I said in a panic. I had to stop Jack from answering that. “I mean, you can just get those in the PC Box.”
Damn it. Why did I always keep talking way past the time for shutting up?
Heads whipped in my direction faster than if I’d admitted to tossing puppies in a blender.
“Do you know where it is?” Charles asked, upright in his bunk now.
“I’m joking, for God’s sake.” But they kept staring. “Keep going.”
Chris cleared his throat. “Tell us a secret,” he said again. Matthew looked around at the group. The planchette didn’t move. And then it did.
It started out doing the infinity sign and then it stopped on S.
“This better not be about me,” Goth said. I was confused till I remembered his real name: Stewart.
The planchette moved to the I.
S-
It landed on the T.
I took a step back.
E-
R.
It stopped.
“Seriously. This isn’t helping,” I said, making sure not to look anyone in the eye as I grabbed my toothbrush.
In the bathroom, I brushed and brushed and brushed. I stared at my complexion in the mirror: the purple half moons under my eyes, the way the f luorescent lights pierced the skin and revealed everything underneath—the blood, the bone, the grief, the guilt.
Is this what confession felt like? I didn’t want people to know what I stored in the dark parts of my psyche. I did not want lanterns and headlamps searching in there for the hidden things.
The door swung open, and I spit my toothpaste into the sink. “What’s wrong?” Matthew said.
“Nothing. Just tired.”
Matthew eyed me.
“You guys done out there?” I asked, nonchalant.
“Must be you,” he said.
“What?”
“Nobody else out there knows anything about a sister.”
“Well, Chris might. His sister was pretty pissed when he won the Donkey Lottery on the bus.” Matthew leaned against the wall while I rinsed my toothbrush. “Do you seriously think the Holy Ghost hangs out on the Ouija board, whispering secrets like some middle school girl at a slumber party?” I said.
“No. But you’re the one who snuck away at the mention of a sister.”
I rinsed my mouth out, my teeth more than clean, my gums brushed raw.
“And, dude, you’re awfully defensive,” he added.
I sighed. “It’s not really a secret.”
Matthew waited.
“Just nobody here knows.”
“Knows what?”
“My sister died. That’s the thing. That’s why I’m here.”
“Because your sister died?”
“Pretty much. My parents thought this would be better than mourning at home because that’s just awkward. All that silence and tears.”
Matthew squinted at me for a beat, then grinned. “Yeah, I hate it when people act all sad when someone dies.”
We both laughed.
Matthew brushed his teeth while I took a pee. When I came out to wash my hands, he was done and sitting on the counter waiting for me. “Do you really think that was the Holy Ghost?”
Obviously, I didn’t. “I don’t know,” I said.
“It said it was.”
“Yeah, but then it said Jean and Louis,” I said, careful to make it two separate entities, careful to mispronounce the names into ugly hard English consonants and sharp vowels. Even though no one could Google it on their phones while we were here anyway.
“That plastic thing really moved under my hand.”
“I believe you.”
“It spelled out sister when I asked for a secret.” Matthew looked legitimately shaken.
“Pretty much any noun could’ve led to some secret,” I explained. But obviously Jack had picked just the right word for me. I put my toothbrush up in my cubby. “But, listen, I really don’t want to talk about my sister, okay? So …”
“Yeah, I get it,” he said. “It’s private.”
“Well, it was,” I said. I imagined for a moment the scene—me, my mom, my dad, Pastor Kyle, the truth. I felt the pang as though it were already happening.
When Matthew and I emerged from the bathroom, the Ouija board was gone, but the group was still in a circle, and our counselor Dan had joined them. Dan was a college kid who also, as the brochure promised, was a specimen of orangish-tanned, bleach-white, four-hours-per-day-in-the-gym perfection. The unfairness of it all. Perfect godly lives. Perfect football champions. Perfect complexions. And then there was me—nerdy blaspheme.
I hated Dan.
Especially when he told us to sit down.
In something called a “Trust Circle.”
“What happens in the cabin stays in the cabin,” Dan said, as if strippers, shots of tequila, and lucrative poker games were imminent.
He summed up the story of Jesus and then demanded that we share our own anecdotes of mischief, like the pastor had done during his sermon.
Were we really doing this right after the PC Box got stolen?
Apparently so.
Charles: didn’t do the dishes once when his mom asked.
Matthew: lied to his girlfriend. (Lied next to her, if you know what I mean, he said to me later. Lay, I corrected. I know, he said, but bad grammar is part of the punch line.)
Stewart, a.k.a. Goth: had fallen in love and gone out on a secret date.
I got the distinct impression no one was totally trusting the Trust Circle, because these stories were lame. But who would? The worst of our truths were out there somewhere with someone of questionable intent.
“What about you, Nick?” Dan asked.
I looked at Matthew. Did he tell Dan about my sister being dead? It wasn’t a secret, but I’d said I didn’t want to talk about it. And I certainly wasn’t going to share that in the Trust Circle.
I thought of one of the nights Jack and I stayed up too late, one of the nights he actually made me laugh instead of making me mad. The night he told me he’d lost his virginity to a prostitute.
“I drank beer a couple weeks ago,” I admitted. “I snuck it into my room.”
Charles nodded, his suspicions confirmed.
Payton perked. “I got shit-faced a couple weeks ago too.”
Charles gasped. Dan tsk-tsked.
“I didn’t get shit-faced,” I clarified.
“Language,” Dan snapped at me.
Really?
“Oh, because you’re better than me?” Payton glared at me.
“No, I just wanted to clarify.”
“Just admit it. You think you’re better than me. I saw you out there with Holly.”
“Wha—” I started.
“Okay, let’s pray,” Dan said. He did. We did. Or, at least we all bowed our heads and closed our eyes. I closed one eye, lest Payton attack. “Now, speaking of doing bad things …”
I eyed Dan—with both eyes now—finding his segue odd for Jesus camp.
“We’ve got some pranks to pull, gentlemen. As most of you know.”
Matthew nodded vigorously and leaned in.
Charles left the Trust Circle and climbed into his bed. “This is when I go back to my workbook.”
“We know,” Dan said, rolling his eyes. “Nerd,” he added under his breath.
“Okay, Nick,” Dan said. I was the only kid new to Dan’s cabin. “This is a Christian camp. But it’s still a summer camp. Thus, pranks must ensue. There are some rules to these camp pranks, however.” Dan looked around. “Gentlemen?”
The other eight campers recited the rules:
“We will not physically or emotionally hurt anyone.
“We will not spend too much money on any one prank.
“We will not damage the camp property or the property of others.
“We will not harm children or puppies, but rodents might suffer.
“We will not overshadow the purpose of our time here, which is to worship our Lord Jesus.”
“Good. So, tonight I’ve got a new one for us. The Garbage Can Cleanup.”
We all changed into black clothing, which apparently had been on the camp packing list for glow-in-the-dark mazes and Frisbee golf, or something, but Dan had also employed them annually for his cabin’s pranks. He’d been doing this for three years.
As he explained the tradition, I suddenly realized I’d actually been blessed to have this asshole as my counselor. He was giving me direct permission to be out and about, all over the camp, under the cover of darkness.
I didn’t care about the pranks. I cared about finding that box.
In the dining hall, we snagged three garbage cans. Then Dan led us to the amphitheater, where we found two more. Two more in the sanctuary. I made a mental note of nooks and crannies to search later.
By the time we slid through the dark space behind the cabins, all nine of us had garbage cans.
“We need buckets,” Dan whispered. “Nick, follow me.” We snuck along the side of the sanctuary, through a door, down a hall. We opened one door, but Dan closed it fast. “Backstage.” He went to the next. It opened into a small office. Shelves, a desk, boxes.
“Is this the pastor’s office?” I asked, my heart beating wildly. Breaking into the pastor’s office seemed like a capital offense.
“Custodian’s, you idiot.” He sighed. “Grab the buckets.”
So, this was Jesus’s domain. Well, when he was less the scrub-your-feet guy and more the scrub-your-toilets guy.
I grabbed the bucket by the door. I didn’t see buckets, plural.
“That one,” Dan growled, pointing to one half-hidden behind the custodian’s apron, or jacket, or whatever. I fumbled with the bucket
handle and we slipped back out the door, down the hall, through another door, and along the side of the sanctuary.
I noted more rooms, more corners to investigate. And then I saw it, in the corner, like a moth. A small, white, f luttery piece of paper. I dropped to my knee and pretended to tie my shoe. Dan spun. “Hurry up, newb.” When he turned back around, I snatched the paper off the ground and slipped it into my pocket. I couldn’t read it now. Maybe it was nothing but a phone number or a Bible verse, but it looked a whole lot like the papers I had seen people slip into the PC Box over and over that afternoon.
After rejoining the group, Dan led us to the far end of the campgrounds. There was a small building with a spigot. We filled the buckets with water as fast as possible, then dumped them in the garbage cans until each was three-quarters full. I kept checking my pocket to make sure the paper hadn’t wiggled out. Dan chose nine cabins at random, and we rolled the garbage cans to the doors, then leaned them there to wait for morning.
Our cabin was on an upper f loor, and so were half the other campers’. They would be very happy in the morning that they had to trudge up and down stairs each and every day, because it spared them from our prank. Those garbage cans were just too heavy to carry up the stairs.
Finally, we snuck back to our cabin and closed the door. We didn’t turn on any lights. We followed the beams of small f lashlights throughout the cabin and kept the curtains closed. If anyone spotted the tiny lights moving, they would assume people were just going to the bathroom.
I slipped out of my shorts and tucked the paper under my pillow.
Matthew leaned over the side of the bunk. “Dan’s been doing this for years, and he’s never been caught.”
I feigned interest and crawled into my bunk. Under my blanket, aided by my own small f lashlight, I unfolded the paper and read.
I realized quickly that what was written there had never been intended for someone else’s eyes. It was not a number, or a Bible quote. It was simply this: My uncle molested me. I think I’m going to tell.
Holy crap. This wasn’t some girl drama that had campers crying and hugging and hoping they hadn’t included names. This was real. And it had been f loating around in the hallway.
I doubted some camper had just missed the hole on the top of the box when they dropped this in. And slips of paper didn’t just fall out of slots like the one the confessions had been dropped into. That box had been opened, that’s for sure, or that paper wouldn’t have been on the ground. Maybe this secret had blown out when the box was opened. Or maybe the papers had been moved from the box to a different receptacle.
