Mother-Daughter Book Camp

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  “I know some of you have girls struggling with it—especially in the younger cabins,” Gwen acknowledges. “This is part of the challenge that goes along with being a camp counselor. I’ve weathered nearly twenty summers here at Camp Lovejoy, and believe me when I say that there’s a cure for what ails your girls. But it’s different every summer, because the girls are always different. Be creative; be persistent. I know you’ll find just the right way to deal with this.”

  She gives me a sympathetic smile as we file out. “Don’t worry about Marge,” she tells me quietly. “She’s more bark than bite, and trust me, there’s no one you’d rather have in your corner when the chips are down.”

  “She said what?” Cassidy asks, incredulous, when I repeat Gwen’s words to her and Emma on the way back to the Dining Hall. “That’s hard to imagine.”

  We collect our campers, and Cassidy, who is all perky and full of energy, thanks to the sugar rush from double desserts, prances ahead as we lead them away.

  “We are going to have so much fun tonight!” she tells our girls.

  Cabin Nights are a once-a-week bonding activity planned by each set of cabin counselors. For Twin Pines, Cassidy and I decided to take our campers to Upper Meadow for a game of flashlight tag. Nest is trying to turn this afternoon’s lemons into lemonade with a teddy bear’s picnic in Lower Lodge, and for Balsam, Megan and Becca have arranged a canoe bubble bath. Artie helped them set everything up on Boathouse Beach with the big war canoe, which is large enough to fit all of them inside, and he’s supervising as they ferry buckets of warm water to fill it up.

  “Only Megan and Becca would dream up something like that,” I tell Cassidy, waving to our friends and their campers as we pass them on our way up the hill.

  “Can we do that for our next Cabin Night?” begs Freddie. “Please?”

  “Aren’t you guys a little old for bubble baths?” I ask her.

  “What are you talking about?” scoffs Cassidy. “No one’s ever too old for bubble baths.”

  I look at her in astonishment. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously what?”

  “Seriously, you are so not the bubble bath type.”

  “I take baths!” she protests.

  This strikes our campers as funny, and they start to laugh. Cassidy plays it up, sniffing her armpits for effect, which makes them laugh even harder.

  Our game of flashlight tag is a big hit, and my day ends on a much-needed high note. We corral our girls into the showers afterward, and they’re asleep before their heads hit the pillows.

  Not me.

  I lie awake listening to the loons out on the water and thinking about what Gwen said earlier about finding a way to deal with the homesickness. As I drift off to sleep, it occurs to me that I might be able to kill two birds with one stone. If I can find a cure for the plague, as Felicia calls it, maybe I can redeem myself in Sergeant Marge’s eyes too.

  * * *

  Morning arrives not to the sound of reveille from Felicia’s sackbut, but rather to the insistent banging of metal spoons against pots.

  “SCUM!” hollers someone right outside our cabin. “SCUM! SCUM! SCUM!”

  “What’s going on?” I ask, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. I peer through the screened window at the pack of CITs thundering through Lower Camp.

  “Saturday Clean Up Morning, remember?” Cassidy tells me, yawning.

  “Oh yeah. I forgot.”

  Surprisingly, SCUM is a popular activity at camp. Probably because it always starts off with French toast. There’s real maple syrup, too. Breakfast is so good it earns the cooks, or “Cookies,” as they’re affectionately nicknamed, a song:

  Skinnamarink-a-dink-a-dink,

  Skinnamarink-a-do,

  Cookies, we love you!

  The song ends with everyone drumming their feet under the tables until Ethel and Thelma Farnsworth, two older ladies from Pumpkin Falls who cook for camp every summer, come out from the kitchen and take a bow.

  Afterward, the four teams get their marching orders. In addition to a thorough sweeping of Cubbyhole and Primporium, the Sapphires are put in charge of weeding Lower Camp, while the Rubies do the same for the Hill. Emeralds spread mulch and rake the beaches, and the Amethysts wash all the windows in the Dining Hall and lodges. The CITs, meanwhile, have a special assignment: decorating for the upcoming Fourth of July beach party and BBQ.

  There’s an extra air of anticipation surrounding this, because the beach party means one thing: boys. Boys from Camp Pinewood, to be exact. The party is an annual event, which Camp Lovejoy always hosts because we have the best spot for watching the fireworks over the lake. The boys return the favor in August at their camp with a luau and dance for the older campers.

  Sergeant Marge blasts the William Tell Overture over the loudspeakers—a SCUM tradition—and we’re off and running. By lunchtime, everything is sparkling clean, and the Dining Hall has been transformed.

  Red, white, and blue bunting hangs from the railings of the porch and the big fireplace mantel inside, and a giant American flag waves from the rafters. Bouquets of smaller flags in beribboned mason jars serve as centerpieces on the tables, and crepe paper streamers flutter overhead. I spot a helium canister in the corner, along with a big pile of red, white, and blue balloons waiting to be inflated.

  “Nice,” says Cassidy.

  The girls in our cabin don’t really have the bandwidth yet for boy stuff, but they know there’s a party coming in a few days, and they’re excited about seeing fireworks.

  After lunch, it’s time for mail call. It’s my turn to retrieve it for our cabin, and while our campers line up outside along with everyone else, I wait by the small office in the Dining Hall’s lobby until Sergeant Marge calls out “Twin Pines!” When I step forward, she hands me a small stack of letters. Just four today for our cabin—one each for Frederica and Monica, one for Cassidy (which is probably from Tristan because it has a British stamp on it), and one for me. It’s from my boyfriend, Emma’s brother Darcy, which is unexpected. This summer Darcy is interning at the Smithsonian down in Washington, DC, and he’s been so busy he hasn’t had much time to write.

  I glance over to where Felicia is handing out the mail for Nest. I can tell by the droop in Emma’s shoulders that there’s nothing for her.

  “Sorry, Ems,” I tell her as we head back to our cabins for rest hour.

  “It’s no big deal,” she replies, but I know Emma almost as well as I know myself, and I can tell from the tone of her voice that it is a big deal. She hasn’t gotten any mail at all since we’ve been here. Her parents are away in England, visiting the Berkeley family and doing research for Mr. Hawthorne’s new book, and of course Stewart isn’t writing to her. I remind myself to put a bug in Darcy’s ear to at least send her a postcard.

  Maybe she’ll meet somebody new this summer, I think, giving her a sidelong glance. Maybe someone from Camp Pinewood, at the Fourth of July barbecue. There has to be life after Stewart, right?

  As the bell rings for the beginning of rest hour, I stretch out on my bed and open my letter. I’m really grateful for this little oasis during the day—being a counselor is tiring, and it’s nice to have a whole hour to myself, with nobody asking me questions and nothing I have to do. I glance around the cabin at our girls. Freddie and Nica are reading their letters. Brooklyn is playing solitaire, and Carter, who’s been inspired by Megan’s example, is drawing in her sketchbook. Cassidy, as usual, is already asleep. She naps during every rest hour, thanks to her early-morning training sessions.

  I start to read:

  Dear Jess,

  Washington is incredible! My internship is going well—the Smithsonian is huge, and I keep getting lost, but there are so many cool things to see, I actually look forward to when that happens. Maybe I’ll think about working for a museum someday. It’s hot hot hot here—a lot hotter than Concord—and ridiculously humid, but the dorm I’m living in for the summer is air-conditioned, of course, and so are the museum
s.

  I got your letter. Camp sounds really great. Are your campers there yet? What’s your favorite thing you’ve done so far with them?

  I miss you!

  Love,

  Darcy

  I read it again, then fold it up and put it back in its envelope, smiling.

  The rest of the day passes quickly. Saturday is laundry day for Lower Camp, so we collect all our dirty clothes and make sure they get into the right laundry bags, then drop them off on the Dining Hall’s porch.

  There’s a free swim this afternoon, and Cassidy takes our girls down to the waterfront for some extra coaching. She’s serious about making Sharks out of all of them. I help out with group games for the youngest campers, playing freeze tag while starting the countdown to my night off, which begins right after dinner.

  I’m actually kind of sorry to be missing tonight’s activity, which is an all-camp float-in movie. Artie’s busy inflating inner tubes and rafts over by the kayak shed, and earlier he took The Lady of the Lake, the camp’s water ski boat, and hauled Dreamboat around in front of the H dock. A big screen is now set up on the floating cabin’s front porch, ready for the movie to be projected. Tonight’s feature is The Parent Trap, which is a perfect movie for camp and one of my all-time favorites.

  As sorry as I am to miss it, I’m not sorry enough to skip my night off. I could really use a little time away, especially since Sergeant Marge is still giving me the cold shoulder. Plus, I need some Emma time.

  Since we didn’t get to be co-counselors the way we planned, Emma and I asked Gwen if she could try to schedule our days and nights off together. She said she’d do her best, but couldn’t promise anything. In the end, we weren’t able to have the same day off this week, but Gwen came through for our night off.

  We mean to enjoy every minute of it. After dinner we change into our civvies—camp-speak for regular clothes instead of uniforms—sign out at the office, then grab the keys to Cassidy’s minivan, which she’s lending us so that we can drive over to Pumpkin Falls.

  “Ooh, a covered bridge,” says Emma a little while later, as we descend the hill toward town.

  We stop and take pictures, then turn down Main Street.

  “Cute,” says Emma, looking at the buildings and shops, and I nod in agreement. Everything is decorated with red, white, and blue in anticipation of the coming holiday. I park in front of the General Store, which is still open, and we go inside to do some shopping.

  “Don’t let me forget to get extra mosquito repellent,” I tell her. “My poor Junior Naturalists were nearly eaten alive up at the bog this week.”

  “Too bad they don’t sell homesickness repellent,” Emma replies.

  I grin at her. “Plague-B-Gone. We could make a fortune.”

  We buy ice cream cones and drop our purchases in the car, then wander down Main Street through the town center. Most of the shops are closed, except for Lou’s Diner, which we decide to visit on our next day off. Emma spots a bookstore she wants to come back to browse through as well.

  “I think that’s the one Pippa’s family owns,” she tells me.

  “Lovejoy’s Books? Cool.”

  There’s no movie theater, and really nothing much to do, so we end up sitting on a bench on the village green while we’re finishing our ice cream. After that, we still have a couple of hours until curfew, so we head back to camp to hang out in the Counselors’ Cabin. It’s the only place at Camp Lovejoy with a TV, plus there’s a computer terminal. A bunch of other counselors who have the night off are waiting in line to check their e-mail, though, so I head for the big sectional sofa where another group is watching a movie.

  Emma wanders over to a bookshelf and scans the titles, then pulls one down and settles into an armchair to read.

  Halfway through the movie, I glance over at Emma. She’s oblivious, of course, a half smile on her face. The Counselors’ Cabin could be in flames and she wouldn’t notice. It’s always that way when she’s immersed in a book.

  And then it hits me.

  The perfect solution.

  I jump up off the sofa and tiptoe across the room. “Emma!” I whisper.

  She drags her gaze from the page. “Yeah?”

  “I have an idea!”

  “What?” She sounds irritated. Emma hates being interrupted when she’s reading.

  “A cure for the plague!” My voice rises in excitement. The counselors watching the movie shush me, and I lower it to a whisper again. “We need to round up Cassidy and Megan and Becca. It’s time to work a little mother-daughter book club magic.”

  JULY

  “It is possible that what stirred inside her head at that moment was her brain, waking up. She was nine years old, and she was in the third-A grade at school, but that was the first time she had ever had a whole thought of her very own.”

  —Understood Betsy

  CASSIDY

  “Your Uncle Henry is just daft on being read aloud to . . .”

  —Understood Betsy

  When I was a little kid, the Fourth of July ranked right up there with Christmas and Halloween as one of my favorite holidays.

  We lived in California back then. My dad loved boats, and we had a small ketch that we’d sail over to the Old Glory Boat Parade in Newport Beach. Afterward, we’d hang out with friends until it was time for fireworks.

  It was magical.

  And then my father died, and we left California and moved across the country, and things were pretty bleak for a while. But life has a way of surprising you, and some of my surprises have included a stepfather I’ve grown to love and a baby sister I adore. Not to mention the mother-daughter book club, which I hated at first, but which I can’t imagine not being a part of now.

  A person could get kind of choked up thinking about this kind of stuff, if a person was the type to get choked up.

  Which I’m not.

  I finish stretching and turn to face the nearly two dozen campers and counselors milling around behind me. “ARE YOU READY, CAMP LOVEJOY?” I holler at them.

  “READY!” they all holler back, and I punch my fist into the air and let out a whoop. We’re at the starting line of the Pumpkin Falls Four on the Fourth road race with what feels like half of New Hampshire. The excitement in the air is electric.

  I scoped out the route yesterday on my early-morning run. It’s a 4K loop that heads out of town through the covered bridge, follows the river for half a mile or so, crosses another bridge and doubles back through the tiny downtown, then goes straight up Hill Street. That’s the toughest part, especially toward the top, where it gets really steep. From there, though, it’s all downhill—literally—as the route cuts over to the main road and back through the covered bridge again to the finish line.

  Even though it’s mostly a “just for fun” kind of race (the prizes are gift certificates for ice cream cones at the General Store, and everyone who finishes gets one), I can still feel the adrenaline kicking in as we approach the start time.

  “Hey, Camp Lovejoy!” someone calls. I look over to see a group of guys nearby, watching us. The tallest one, who looks to be about my age, is wearing a neon green T-shirt. He turns his back to us and points to the words CAMP PINEWOOD STAFF printed across it. “Hope you like the view, because that’s what you’re going to see all the way to the finish line!”

  “In your dreams!” I shout back at him.

  Now my adrenaline is really pumping. I can’t help it; I was born competitive.

  Scanning the crowd, I spot my friends and the rest of the campers gathered at the edge of the village green, near the church with the big steeple. They came on the buses from camp and will be waiting for us there at the finish line. They’ve all tied red bandannas around their necks, and together with camp’s regulation white polos and navy shorts, they’re a patriotic-looking bunch. Jess spots me, and there’s a flutter of American flags as she and the rest of our cabin wave them at me. I wave back.

  A moment later, a voice over the loudspeaker tells
us to take our places.

  The other counselors and I coordinated ahead of time as to who would be placed where, and I’m on tap to keep pace with the three fastest campers. Melissa Yee volunteered to run sweep with the slowest ones, and Brianna is keeping an eye on the middle of the pack. No campers from Nest or Balsam are running, but Brooklyn Alvarez runs regularly with her mother back home, so we gave her permission to sign up. She may only be nine, but she’s strong and she’s fast.

  At the crack of the starting pistol, we’re off.

  It’s a gorgeous morning, sunny and clear with a bit of a breeze. Our thundering herd makes a racket pounding across the wooden floor of the covered bridge. I look over at Brooklyn and cover my ears, grinning. She grins back.

  Once we reach the other side of the bridge, the herd starts to thin out. The group from Camp Pinewood, including neon T-shirt guy, are ahead of us. For now, anyway. If it’s up to me, things won’t stay that way.

  “Wanna see if we can catch them?” I ask Brooklyn and the other two campers in my care. They nod enthusiastically. “Let’s kick it up a notch then, ladies!”

  Our group closes in on the Pinewood runners as we approach Main Street. The sidewalks are packed with cheering onlookers, and we wave and smile at them. I haven’t run a road race in a while, and I’ve forgotten how much fun they are. The four of us fall back a bit as we begin heading up the big hill. I wasn’t planning on being in it to win it this morning—not with campers to keep an eye on—but when neon T-shirt guy looks back over his shoulder at us and smirks, something inside me uncorks and the competitive genie pops out.

  Like I said, I can’t help it.

  I start to speed up, then hesitate as I realize that my campers aren’t speeding up with me.

  “Go for it!” calls Brooklyn. “We’ll be right behind you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She and the other two campers nod.

  I’m not a particularly fast runner, but I am an athlete, and my training pays off. As we reach the top of the hill and make the turn onto the downhill stretch, I dig deep and am rewarded with a burst of energy. I can practically reach out and touch the neon-green T-shirt now. I pour it on, legs and arms pumping as I fly down the road. As we enter the covered bridge, I pull up even with the Pinewood pack, then whoosh past them and on across the finish line.