by Susan Wiggs
She and her cousins, Olivia and Dare, had stayed up late last night playing whist with Freddy. Whist was a card game that was dangerously close to bridge. If she ever learned bridge, Daisy would know she had officially turned into the dork of the century. Whist. If her dad had told her what actually awaited her here at Camp Kioga, she would have asked somebody to shoot her, which was preferable to the slow, lingering death-by-boredom that the summer was in danger of becoming.
She had believed the stories Dad and her grandparents told about Camp Kioga, where the fun never stopped. Cluelessly, she had not questioned the picture they drew of an idyllic private retreat by a pristine lake. It hadn’t occurred to her that once she got here, she would need to find something—besides work—to actually do at the idyllic private retreat.
Except the funny thing was, she wasn’t that bored. Thank God her older cousins had a sense of humor. Olivia in particular seemed sensitive to the fact that Daisy’s family situation currently sucked in the extreme. It was slightly encouraging that Olivia had survived her own parents’ divorce and seemed to be okay with it. And when Daisy’s boredom and frustration started to seem unbearable, she had a few tricks up her sleeve, those tricks consisting of a carton of cigarettes stashed under her bed, a bag of weed and even a small, red-gold chunk of hashish from Lebanon. One of the benefits of going to a high school with an international student body was that many of her friends had diplomatic immunity, and they took advantage of it.
Thinking of her friends back in the city, she gave a restless sigh. She missed hanging out with kids her age. Yet at the same time, now that senior year was coming up, she noticed a slight bit of relief. Her friends were all so focused and driven. A number of them had known exactly what they wanted to do with themselves since kindergarten. They’d all set their sights on an Ivy League college or the Julliard School, or some incredible place overseas like the Sorbonne. In the face of her friends’ talent and ambition, Daisy felt like a complete phony. Sure, her grades were all right, she went to one of the best high schools in the country, she played piano and guitar and lacrosse. But even with all that, she was drifting. She didn’t know where she wanted her life to go. She’d overheard her mom—a high-powered, type A international lawyer—tell her grandmother that Daisy was like her father. This was not a compliment. Although her father was really talented at being a landscape architect, the family’s affluence sure as heck didn’t come from that. It was family money and her mother’s giant salary that financed the Upper East Side co-op and the private schools. Yet for all that, her parents still couldn’t manage to stay happy with each other.
Maybe if I was more focused, they would stay together, she thought. Maybe if I got some horrible disease, they wouldn’t split this family apart. The ideas swirled through her head like so much useless dust. Deep down, she knew there was no point in trying to force them together. She’d just go on doing her thing. She had a stack of college catalogs and brochures. This summer, she was supposed to figure out where she was going to apply to college.
Daisy bent forward at the waist to tug a brush through her hair. She used a cloth-covered band to make a ponytail and finished dressing in a pair of jersey shorts with Pink written across the butt, a tank top and a hooded school lacrosse-team sweatshirt. Shoving her feet into flip-flops, she stood and automatically grabbed for her iPod. Then, regretfully, she set it down. Although her dad claimed he knew what he was doing, a little warning voice in her head advised her to leave the thing at home. If she drowned it, her music source for the summer would be gone, completely, and then she really would have to shoot herself.
As she washed her face and brushed her teeth, she felt grateful that there was no mirror over the sink, no mirror anywhere. The sight of herself was bound to be depressing. Casting a last envious look at her cozy bunk, she stepped outside into the quiet darkness and stood on the stoop. An oppressive fog shrouded the camp.
A cigarette pack lay under the stoop next to the old Mason jar she used as an ashtray. Although anybody with half a brain knew how stupid it was to smoke, Daisy did it anyway. Smoking was so forbidden, so incredibly, shockingly bad that of course she had to do it. Smoking was considered worse than sex or recreational drugs. Therefore, it was the perfect thing to do in order to drive her parents crazy.
And of course, that was Daisy’s mission—to drive them crazy. Because God knew, they had been doing it to her for years.
Yet her dad never told her to quit. Didn’t he understand that she wanted him to order her to quit, so she could fight with him and tell him no and rail at him that it was her life, and her lungs, and her health, and she could do what she wanted with them, and then he would point out that she was still his daughter, and her health was very much his concern, and if she didn’t quit, he was going to make her. That was all he had to do. She would fight with him, and then she would quit.
“‘Good morning, Merry Sunshine,’” her dad sang, dredging up the song from her childhood, “‘and how are you today?’”
“I’ll give you a hundred bucks to stop singing,” she grumbled.
“You don’t have a hundred bucks.”
“Shows how much you know. Nana told Olivia to pay me in cash, every Friday. I’ve made almost six hundred bucks so far.”
Her dad gave a low whistle. “You got it, then. I won’t sing a note. Not even to say good-morning to my best girl.”
She knew he wouldn’t make her pay up. He never made her do anything. “Besides,” she pointed out, “in case you haven’t noticed, the sun is not even up yet, so technically, it’s not morning.”
“I know.” He made a great show of taking a bracing gulp of morning air. “It’s great, huh? My favorite time of day.”
She shivered in the clammy chill. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
“I had no choice. Neither of my children has ever caught a fish. This is a sacred quest.”
“I don’t get it,” she said. “How can it matter what time of day we do this great deed of catching a fish? Don’t tell me fish can tell time—”
“It’s got to do with the light and water temperature. The trout feed when the bugs are out, dawn and twilight.”
“Yeah, that’s my favorite time of day, too. When the bugs are out.”
There was an eerie quality to the quiet that settled over the compound. The shroud of fog insulated the sound of their voices and the slap of her flip-flops against the soles of her feet. The camp looked like the setting of a creepy horror movie where an ax murderer lurked in the deep woods.
“How did you sleep last night?” her dad asked.
“It’s still last night. I was sleeping fine. It’s not like there’s anything else to do around here.”
“Oh, I think you’ve definitely done a good job amusing yourself.” He gestured down at the lakeshore, where the blackened remains of last night’s fire were barely visible. “We used to do that, too, when we came to camp. We’d build a big fire down on the beach and get high.”
“I don’t—” Daisy glared at him and stiffened her spine in defiance. Why deny it? He obviously knew, and he obviously didn’t give a shit, so why should she? A part of her wished he would put his foot down, order her to stop, but he never did. Instead, he took the fun out of getting high by acting like it was no big deal, because it was something he himself had already done. Yelling at her to behave herself was her mom’s job, and her mom was out of the picture now. Just for the summer, Mom said, a trial separation, but deep in her gut, Daisy already knew.
“Whatever,” she muttered, pushing into the kitchen ahead of him. “What’s for breakfast?”
Max was already there, entranced by something on the back of a box of cereal as he mechanically shoveled each bite into his mouth.
“Hey,” Daisy said. “Where’d you get the Cap’n Crunch?”
He didn’t look up. “Dad and I went to town for supplies last night. Dare has this place stocked up with too much healthy stuff. Want some?”
“N
o, thanks. That much sugar is addictive, in case you haven’t noticed. It’s pretty much the worst thing you can put into your body.”
“’Cept cigarette smoke,” Max said. “So don’t go criticizing me.”
“Shut up,” she said, and took a carton of low-fat Greek yogurt from the industrial-size fridge. She topped it with a scoop of Dare’s muesli.
“Dad, you should make her stop smoking,” Max said.
Their father found a big bowl and filled it with Cap’n Crunch. “She should stop on her own,” he said.
“She should be in bed, sound asleep, instead of being up at this hour with a couple of morons,” Daisy said.
“Morons,” Max repeated, and high-fived their dad across the table.
Daisy cut a peach into chunks and added it to the yogurt and muesli. That was the kind of morning it was going to be—just peachy.
They finished breakfast and piled their dishes in the sink. Her dad and Max headed for the boathouse. Daisy took a minute to wash the dishes. The huge stainless-steel sink was equipped with a showerlike commercial dishwashing apparatus, and she had everything clean in about half a minute. She put away the cereal and milk—did they think it would put itself away?—and then went outside to find the guys and nag them about cleaning up after themselves. They weren’t being rude. They just didn’t think. And that habit was harder to break than rudeness.
She stepped outside and headed along the path to the boathouse and dock. All right, she thought, now fully awake, she had to admit, there was something about this place at this hour of the morning. A special hush hung in the air and there was a mystical quality to the lake at sunrise. The mist moved as if it had a life of its own, sneaking across the perfectly still water. With the light from the rising sun shining through, everything took on a soft, magical glow. Everything smelled so fresh, of clean water, wildflowers and dewy grass, and the birdsong was somehow muted by the air around them. If the Lady of the Lake herself rose up, holding Caliburn aloft, Daisy wouldn’t be surprised.
Every so often, a trout rose to grab a bug, its movement forming gentle concentric rings that gradually subsided. Poor, unsuspecting trout, Daisy thought. Why would anyone want to rip the poor thing from the peaceful lake, gut it and fry it up in a pan?
Because she and her brother had never caught a fricking fish, and their goofball dad thought it was important.
“Daisy, look!” Max said, running toward her. “Look what Dad and I got last night!” He held out a large coffee can for her inspection. She saw a mound of dark, moist dirt, braided through with flesh-colored earthworms, gleaming and undulating with mindless creepiness.
“Golly, that’s great, Max,” she said with false brightness. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go yark in the bushes.”
“What a baby,” he mumbled. “They’re just nightcrawlers.”
She swallowed and took a couple of gulps of air, and if she didn’t look at the can, the queasiness subsided. Nightcrawlers.
The thing her dad refused to see about this whole family bonding, let’s-go-fishing expedition was that it was all such BS. On the surface, he might look like Father of the Year taking the kids fishing, but there was still a can of worms to deal with. There was always a can of worms.
Next to the boathouse was a big storage barn filled with sports equipment. “Whoa,” said Max, his eyes wide. “Look at all this stuff. They got everything here.”
“That they do, buddy.” Dad lifted a dusty canvas shroud to reveal a row of parked bicycles.
“Bikes!” Daisy exclaimed. She loved riding bikes.
“There are even a few tandems,” Dad said. “We’ll have to pump up the tires later.”
There was a ton of other stuff, including nets and raquets and balls, floating goals for water polo, bows and arrows and targets, croquet sets, you name it. Daisy made a mental note to check it out later. With none of the usual entertainment available, she and Max were learning to be creative when it came to amusing themselves. She never thought she’d get excited about a game of badminton, but the prospect took on a new appeal.
One whole section of the barn was devoted to fishing gear, with poles and reels of every size, boxes of hooks and lures, waders and vests with every pocket imaginable. There was a big tackle box filled with equipment and an even bigger box marked Majesky.
“What’s this stuff?” Max asked.
“Ice-fishing gear,” Dad explained. “Old Mr. Majesky from town used to come up here during the off-season to fish. He and Granddad were fishing buddies a long time ago, so I guess that’s why his stuff has been left up here.”
“What’s that sign say, Dad?” Max pointed.
“It says—”
Daisy hushed her father. With Max, they were supposed to seize on teachable moments whenever possible, in order to help him with his reading. Since he’d been in first grade, he had struggled with reading. A bunch of testing and daily tutors had ensued, but her brother’s reading didn’t improve.
“What’s the matter?” her dad asked, frowning.
Did he really not know? “You read the sign, Max,” she said. “You tell us what it says.”
“Never mind,” he grumbled, his temper foul now. “Sheesh, you’re as bossy as Mom.”
“No, I’m not. For Mom, you’d try to read it.”
Max stormed out, muttering something about checking the can of worms.
Their father looked completely astonished. “Wait a minute. The sign says Fishing Regulations for Local Residents. Are you saying Max can’t read it?”
Daisy folded her arms and thrust up her chin. “Hello? This is news to you?”
“I knew he was having a little trouble in school, but I thought his tutor was taking care of that.”
Typical, she thought. Her dad always figured the solution to every problem was to hire someone to solve it. You’d think by now he would realize that the strategy didn’t always work. Her mother wasn’t much better. Her solution was to hire someone and then run away, clear to Seattle. Sometimes Daisy felt like the only member of this family who realized something needed fixing, and not by the hired help. Oh, they did all that bullshit family counseling, but it never worked. Dr. Granville was all, “How did that make you feel?” He had a knack for making people break down and cry, but so what? Oprah had that same talent, but it never seemed to help the situation, so big deal.
“Did you even read his IEP?” She could tell from her dad’s expression that he needed remedial help, too. “Individualized educational plan,” she said, exaggerating each word. “The main component of the plan for summer is that you read with him every day for at least an hour. I can’t believe Mom didn’t tell you.”
“You’re kidding,” Dad said.
“Right,” she agreed. “Kidding. I thought it would be hilarious to tell you Max can’t read and then lie to you about how to deal with it.”
Her dad either didn’t pick up on the sarcasm, or he was ignoring it. “So I’m supposed to read to him? That’s great,” he said, and he grinned. He actually grinned from ear to ear.
Daisy wasn’t sure she had heard correctly. “Excuse me? Great?”
His face lit up with boyish enthusiasm. “There are all kinds of books I’ve always wanted to read to Max. To both of you.”
Then why didn’t you? she wanted to ask.
“I mean, I know you can read just fine, right?” Dad said.
“You’re asking me?” She grabbed three canoe paddles from the pegs on the wall. “Do you really not know?” He looked so crestfallen that she relented. “No worries, Dad. I can read just fine.” He acted like he was the world’s coolest father just because he didn’t freak even though he knew she smoked cigarettes and pot. But really, he didn’t realize how much he didn’t know about her—that she’d won the Dickinson prize for poetry this year and had earned a key in the National Honor Society. That she had scored a record number of goals in lacrosse last season. That her favorite jazz pianist was Keith Jarrett and that she’d tried coca
ine at a party.
“There’s a ton of stuff we could read,” Dad said. “The Once and Future King and Treasure Island. There used to be a camp library in the main pavilion by the rec room. We’ll go check it out tonight.”
One thing about Dad, he never lacked for enthusiasm.
They picked out rods and reels, lead sinkers and red-and-white bobbers, and headed out to the dock. Dad had launched a big canoe, one that had six bench seats going across. He had brought along a cooler of drinks, sandwiches and snacks, enough for an army. She pictured him up before first light, putting all this together for them, and her heart lurched. He was trying. He really was.
She noticed a bundle of towels and a tube of sunscreen. Sunscreen? Did he think they were going to be out on the water long enough to need sunscreen?
“You said you wanted us to plant flowers all along the front drive and around the main pavilion,” she reminded her dad.
“That’s right,” he said, tossing her a life jacket. “Flowers will really dress the place up. In the garden plan, I went with traditional red and white geraniums.”
“So I shouldn’t stay out too long,” she added.
“Don’t worry about that. The flowers won’t care what day you put them in the ground. What good is summer camp if you can’t play a little hooky once in a while?” He grinned. “Looks like you’re trapped with Max and me.”
“Super.”
The canoe was more wobbly than it looked, floating placidly alongside the dock. When they got on board, the hull lurched ominously from side to side, which Max thought was hilarious.
“Sit still,” Daisy said as she picked up a paddle. “If you make me fall in, I’ll make you sorry.”
“It’s only water.”
“Yeah, but have you felt it?”
Max trailed his hand in the water. “Feels great to me.”
“Just paddle, numb nuts.”
