“I saw a chipmunk,” she replies cautiously.
“How cool is that?” says Becca, shooting me an amused look. Chipmunks are about the only thing Amy likes about camp. She’s been trying, unsuccessfully, to tame one that lives under Balsam.
Each of our campers chimes in with her accomplishments as I go around the table, asking the campers for an update on their mornings.
“Ladies, I am impressed!” I tell them when they’re done. “I’m having lunch with masters of archery, canoeing, and the tennis court! All I’ve done today is cover myself in glitter.” I hold up a forearm to prove it, which gets a laugh.
Amy and Harper perk up as the CITs bring dessert around. It’s chocolate-orange tofu pudding today, which my mother would totally flip over. I naturally assumed it was hideous the first time they served it, given my extensive prior experience with tofu, but to my surprise it’s actually turned out to be my favorite dessert here at camp so far.
We’re just finishing up when Gwen rings the bell for announcements.
“It’s Meal Ticket night!” she says as the hubbub in the Dining Hall subsides. “Counselors, I’d like you to devote rest hour today to making sure all your campers complete their assignment.”
“Meal tickets” are what they call letters home here at Camp Lovejoy. They’re mandatory once a week, I guess to make sure that parents hear from their kids.
“And since it’s Thursday,” Gwen continues, “you all know what’s coming next . . .”
What sounds like thunder erupts in the dining hall, but it’s really the drumming of many feet on the floor. All around the room, campers and counselors alike hold up crossed fingers, grinning in anticipation. Tuesdays and Thursdays are when Gwen chooses a cabin to sleep over on Dreamboat.
Sergeant Marge parades over to Gwen, holding aloft a big glass fishbowl. The camp director dips a hand inside and pulls out a slip of paper. She holds up her other hand for silence, and the drumming stops.
“And the cabin that will be spending the night aboard Dreamboat is . . . Balsam!”
Becca lets out a whoop. I leap to my feet and do a little victory dance as our campers squeal in excitement. Cassidy and Jess give us a big thumbs-up from the other end of the table.
“Marge will give you full instructions after dinner,” Gwen tells us. “Meanwhile, girls, whenever your table is finished with lunch, the mail is ready for pickup.”
It’s Becca’s turn to collect ours, so the rest of us clear our dishes, then hustle outside to wait.
“We’re going on Dreamboat!” sings Grace, linking arms with Kate and Mia. Catching Grace’s eye, I nod my head slightly at Harper and Amy, and she turns to them and adds, “You guys are going to love it!”
Harper quickly joins in their excited chatter, but Amy hangs back, her big dark eyes clouded with concern. I slip an arm around her shoulders.
“I’m sure Grace is right—Dreamboat’s going to be fun.”
Amy doesn’t look convinced.
“So, are you still planning to try quilting?” I ask. “Becca is hoping to see you during free period.”
She nods.
It’s kind of hilarious that Becca of all people is teaching quilting. It’s the last thing I ever would have expected her to develop an interest in, but she spent this past spring break in Minnesota with her grandmother again, and came home a full-fledged quilter. I think her grandmother brainwashed her. Grandmothers can do that.
Summer Williams is thrilled, of course. She’s one of our friends from the Wyoming book club we’re all pen pals with, and that we visited a few years ago. Summer’s been a mad quilter ever since we’ve known her. I have one of her quilts on my bed at home, in fact. It’s one of my prized possessions and will definitely be coming with me to the dorm at Parsons in September. Anyway, Becca and Summer chat online all the time now, sharing patterns and tips and mailing fabric squares back and forth.
Becca finally emerges from the office with our mail. There’s not much for the girls, just a letter each for Harper and Grace, but I have a care package from Gigi and Sophie, a postcard from Wolfgang, and a letter from my mother.
“Lucky you,” sighs Becca. “Not a thing for me today.”
“Like you’ve got anything to complain about!” I retort. “Theo has written to you practically every day since we got here.”
I duck into my cubie before rest hour to take a quick peek inside the care package. Score! Gigi and Sophie came through with more goodies. No French candy this time around, but they sent homemade brownies, which is even better. I stick my nose in the tin and breathe in the heavenly smell of chocolaty goodness. If I weren’t so full of pudding, I’d have to sample one. I close the tin and put it in my footlocker for later. It’s the perfect thing to sneak aboard Dreamboat tonight.
Between supervising the writing of meal tickets and keeping a lid on the excitement about our sleepover, rest hour is not very restful. Our girls are practically bouncing off the walls with anticipation. All except Amy, that is. I can hear Becca over by her bunk, trying to comfort her. Amy’s convinced that she’s going to sleepwalk, which she’s never done in her entire life, and fall into the lake in the middle of the night and drown.
“What if Dreamboat sinks, like the Titanic?” Amy whispers.
Becca and I exchange a quick glance. One of the things we’ve had to learn as counselors is not to crack up when campers say something unintentionally funny. Which is hard, because they often do. I tuck this one away to share with our friends later.
“First of all, Amy, Dreamboat is not going to sink,” Becca assures her. “And second, even if it did, it’s anchored in the cove, where the water’s barely over your head.”
Amy’s worried look doesn’t budge.
“You could always wear a life vest over your pajamas, I guess,” Becca jokes, and Amy perks up at this suggestion. Becca looks over at me and rolls her eyes.
Eventually we get everybody settled down and busy writing their letters home, and I finally have a chance to read my mail.
Wolfgang’s postcard has a picture of a swanky New York hotel on the front, and a brief message on the back, penned in his trademark spiky handwriting:
Hope your time in the north woods is FABULOUS, darling! Can’t wait to have you here in MY neck of the woods! Tea at the Palm Court as soon as you’re settled in the dorm? Kisses!
I grin. It doesn’t matter if he’s on the phone, sending me an e-mail, or writing me a postcard, Wolfgang always manages to sound like Wolfgang.
Next I open the letter from my mother.
Dear Megan,
We’re all looking forward to Parents’ Weekend so much! The house seems too quiet since you’ve been gone. Coco checks your room every day to see if maybe you’ve magically reappeared, and I find her curled up on your bed often.
I give my eyes a surreptitious swipe, embarrassed to realize that I’ve been struck by a sudden pang of homesickness. All I need to do is start crying—that would totally set Amy off.
We can’t wait to see you, and meet your campers, and tour the Art Studio and the Gazebo and the Dining Hall and all the other places that you’ve described to us.
Life here in Concord continues apace. As always, work in general keeps me busy, especially since my referendum about soda in the schools is gathering steam. With any luck, it will pass and we can have it in place before the new school year starts.
Your grandmother and Edouard are looking forward to their trip to France at the end of the summer. They’re planning to spend a few weeks at their cottage after they help get Sophie settled at the Sorbonne.
I’ve talked to Sophie about the possibility of doing my junior year abroad in Paris, and she’s excited about it too. She’s going to ask and see if I might be able to room with her in her dorm. I would love that.
It’s hard to believe that you’re all grown up and about to start college. You’ll be spreading your wings for the wider world soon. You leave for Parsons in 56 days—can you believe it?
I miss you, Megan Rose! See you soon!
Lots of love,
Mom
P.S. Your father and I have a surprise for you! We’re planning to bring it with us for Parents’ Weekend.
A surprise? That sounds intriguing. I fold the letter up and put it in the envelope, wondering what it could be. I know it’s not a car—I’ve wanted one forever, but after Gigi and Edouard got married, we added the truck they bought to help out with teashop deliveries to the two cars already in our garage, and there wasn’t room. Plus, with three vehicles in the family now there’s almost always one around for me to use, so it didn’t make sense. And I’m certainly not going to need one in New York. It’s not a car kind of city. It’s a subway and bus and walk everywhere kind of city.
I ponder the surprise all through third and fourth period—more Popsicle stick boxes—and only manage to put it out of my mind when the bell rings for free period.
I have to admit, this is my favorite time of day. Crafts are fun and everything, and the campers absolutely love doing them, but fashion is my world, and free period is when I get to play in my sandbox.
When we were planning stuff during pre-camp, I decided to divide the six weeks of camp into half a dozen different projects. That way, I figured, some girls who might want just a taste of fashion design could take a class with me for a week, complete a whole project, and then go off and do other things during free period over the rest of the summer. And those who want to do nothing but sew all summer would have a chance to work on multiple projects.
Last week, we kicked things off with easy fabric hobo bags. That was a big hit, and I actually have several girls back this week who are making more, as presents for their moms and sisters and friends back home.
But the main project this week is a sarong-style skirt that can double as a swimsuit cover-up. I brought yards and yards of gauzy fabric in various shades that I thought would be perfect. Everyone picked out their fabric yesterday, and we got started cutting it. Today we’ll be pinning it to the pattern that I designed and printed myself, thanks to a computer software program my dad created for me. When I’m sewing at home, I almost never use a pattern. Ideas just come to me, and I transfer them directly to the fabric. But that doesn’t work for teaching. I have to be able to give the girls specific instructions.
“Hi, Megan.”
I look up from where I’m setting out sewing supplies to see Amy standing shyly in the doorway.
“Hey, Amy! Looking for Becca?”
She nods.
“She’s out on the deck with the other quilters,” I tell her, and she gives me a fleeting smile and scurries off.
My fashionistas arrive next. They find their projects, which I’ve spread out on the large tables in the studio, and get to work cutting and pinning.
“That’s it, but make sure the pins are all facing the same way,” I tell Carter from Twin Pines. “It makes it easier to cut.” I demonstrate with a few of the pins, then watch over her shoulder as she tackles the rest. “Perfect.”
Circling the room, I pause at each table to answer questions and offer assistance. By the end of free period, the skirts are all cut out and most of them are pinned and ready to go. “Good job, girls!” I tell them. “Tomorrow we sew.”
Back at Balsam, it’s time to inspect the meal tickets. Gwen warned us that some campers would try to get away with murder, and she was right.
“Grace, you can’t just write ‘This is a meal ticket’ inside!” I protest.
She grins at me. Kate and Mia think it’s hilarious, of course.
“C’mon, you can do better than that.”
Thanks to the rewrite I force her to do, we’re late for dinner.
“What’s on the menu?” I ask Becca, sliding into my seat.
“Chicken pot pie,” she tells me.
“Mmm.” Ethel and Thelma are amazing cooks. The food here is fabulous, as Wolfgang would say.
Our campers can hardly sit still, they’re so excited about tonight, and dinner feels like it takes forever. Finally, Sergeant Marge comes by our table with the sleepover checklist.
“It’s pretty straightforward,” she tells Becca and me. “Artie swept Dreamboat out this afternoon and made sure there were fresh batteries in the lanterns. All you need to bring are sleeping bags, pillows, and a flashlight each. There’ll be wet sacks for all your things waiting for you in the canoes at Boathouse Beach.”
“When should we plan to paddle over?” Becca asks.
“At the start of evening activity,” the head counselor replies. “Lights out at the usual time, and just make sure you’re back in time for breakfast.” She hands us a walkie-talkie. “I’ll keep mine on all night in case you need anything.”
After dinner, our cabin joins the rest of the campers in a circle around the grove. As a pair of CITs step forward and start to take down the flag, Gwen gives the signal and we all sing softly:
Day is done, gone the sun,
From the lakes, from the hills, from the sky;
All is well, safely rest, God is nigh.
Singing “Taps” is one of my favorite moments in the day. A hush settles over the camp, and I breathe it in, enjoying the sense of peace—for about thirty seconds, that is.
“Dreamboat!” shouts Grace the instant Gwen gives us the nod to go. She and Mia and Kate pelt down the path toward Balsam. Harper jogs along after them, red braids bouncing. Only Amy hangs back, clinging to Becca. She’s still worried about the whole sleepover/shipwreck scenario.
I’m feeling nearly as giddy as our campers, to be honest. I duck into my cubie and change into my pajamas, pull a sweatshirt over them, then stuff the care package from Gigi and Sophie into my backpack. When I’m done, I head over to Balsam to get my sleeping bag and pillow and a few other things.
“Let’s go, girls!” I call when our campers are ready, and Becca and I lead them down to Boathouse Beach. Dreamboat is bobbing peacefully at anchor out in the cove, a battery-powered lantern hanging from a hook by the bright red front door. Artie has a pair of canoes waiting for us on the beach, and after stowing our gear in the wet sacks, we all start to pile in.
“Wait—did everyone visit the Biffy?” Becca asks.
Everyone but Amy nods.
“I’ll take her,” I tell Becca. “Be right back.”
Five minutes later, we’re finally ready to go. Sergeant Marge and Artie help shove us off, and we paddle out toward the middle of the shallow cove.
“You go first,” I tell Becca as we arrive at Dreamboat, reaching over to help steady her canoe. She and Grace, Kate, and Harper climb out. After they grab their gear, it’s my turn.
Becca kneels on the front “porch” of Dreamboat—actually a narrow deck that juts out from the front of the floating cabin—and holds our boat steady as Mia and I clamber out.
“Come on,” I say to Amy, who’s still seated in the canoe. I extend my hand but she shakes her head, refusing to release her white-knuckled grip on her seat in the canoe. I sigh. “Amy, it’s perfectly safe. You’re going to have fun, I promise.”
She shakes her head again.
I exchange a glance with Becca. It’s time to resort to bribery.
“Amy, you know that package I got in the mail today?”
She peeks out at me from under her veil of dark hair and nods shyly.
“My grandmother sent a surprise for our cabin—brownies! The best homemade brownies in the entire world. If you stay in the canoe all night, you’re not going to get any.”
That does it. Trembling, she loosens her grip and reaches for my hand. I haul her up onto Dreamboat.
The floating cabin is similar to Ba
lsam, just a bit smaller. There are four bunks, and the girls each quickly claim a spot.
“Guess you and I will be sharing a bunk bed, too,” I tell Becca.
“I call top!” she says, before I have a chance to. I pretend to be mad at her, which makes our campers laugh. As they unpack their sleeping bags and pillows, I spread a big blanket on the floor.
“How about a game of cards?” I suggest.
We play old maid and go fish and Becca and I teach them gin rummy, and then we tell them stories about goofy stuff we did when we were younger. They love hearing about how Cassidy and Emma and Jess scared the pants off us one Halloween at Sleepy Hollow Cemetery.
“Cassidy taped a flashlight to a hockey stick and stuck it inside a plastic jack-o’-lantern,” I explain. “Then they waited behind one of the tombstones, and stuck it up in the air and wagged it at us when we walked by.”
“Megan just about fainted,” Becca tells them.
“What? You screamed so loud, all of Concord heard us!”
Mia laughs so hard she gets the hiccups.
“Tell it again,” begs Harper, and I do.
As I listen to my campers’ laughter, I’m aware of other sounds drifting across the cove—the slapping of screen doors, girls calling to one another in Lower Camp and on the Hill, a loon in the distance, and then Felicia playing the “lights out” “Taps” from the grove.
I also hear the splash of a paddle in the water. Peering through the dusk, I spot Sergeant Marge approaching in a kayak.
“Everything okay out here?” she calls.
“Yes!” Becca and I chorus back.
“See you in the morning, then. Sleep tight.” Her paddle resumes its soothing swish as she glides away.
I wait until she’s safely out of earshot, then pull out the brownie tin. “Are you guys ready for some more Understood Betsy?”
Our campers nod.
“You read, Becca, and I’ll pass around the snacks.”
Our girls climb into their sleeping bags as I distribute the brownies. Then I climb into mine, too, and we all listen as Becca reads.
“You can imagine, perhaps, the terror of Elizabeth Ann as the train carried her along toward Vermont and the horrible Putney Farm! It had happened so quickly—her satchel packed, the telegram sent, the train caught—that she had not had time to get her wits together, assert herself, and say that she would not go there!”
Mother-Daughter Book Camp Page 10
