Savannah’s going to Georgetown too.
Smiling, I fold up her letter and put it back in its envelope, then turn to Frankie’s—Francesca Norris officially, another friend from Colonial. She got invited to spend the summer with Adele Bixby. The three of us roomed together again during our senior year. Adele lives in San Francisco, and she and Frankie are working as au pairs for some of Adele’s mother’s colleagues, which is kind of like being a camp counselor, I guess, except that they have to change diapers and stuff. The two of them are going to be staying in the Bay Area for college, with Adele at Stanford and Frankie at Mills College.
Dear Jess,
I have to keep pinching myself, knowing that I’ll be living here for the next four years! San Francisco is the most beautiful city I’ve ever seen. The Golden Gate Bridge is amazing, and with all the hills, there are views of the water everywhere I turn. It’s cold here, though, and foggy. Adele says it’s always that way in the summer. We’ve been exploring the neighborhoods on our days off, and in one of them she showed me this fabulous staircase all made of colorful tile. And we’ve been to the ballet twice, and guess what else? I just found out that I can apply to study at the San Francisco Conservatory of Dance my senior year through a special program at Mills. Isn’t that cool?
I’m so glad my friends are as excited about college as I am. Madison’s postcard is typically brief—my mother calls her a woman of few words—but her excitement about the future spills over in an abundance of exclamation points:
T-MINUS ONE MONTH AND COUNTING!!!!
SEE YOU SOON!!!!
Madison and her mother are going to stay with my family at Half Moon Farm the weekend Madison moves into her dorm. She’s another of our Wyoming friends, part of a mother-daughter book club out West that we became pen pals with back in eighth grade. Madison’s been accepted to the Berklee College of Music, and we’re already making plans for a big reunion in Boston at one of Cassidy’s hockey games. Bailey Jacobs said she’d take the bus into the city from Mount Holyoke, and Megan and I will take the train up from New York. I can’t wait to see everybody.
It’s weird to think about how long ago our Wyoming summer seems. It’s really only been four years, but it feels like a lifetime! I’m glad our mothers forced us all to be pen pals. The habit stuck, and we all still write to each other. I like keeping in touch with real letters or postcards now and then.
I lie back in my bunk, staring up at the ceiling. It’s already August! In a little over a month from now I’ll be starting college. I have this strange feeling of being on a downward slope these days, hurtling toward the future.
A future with radically different hair, I think morosely, running my fingers through my shorn mane. Oh well.
I must have drifted off after that, because my eyes fly open a few minutes later at the sound of another loud bleat from the grove—not a conch shell this time, but my cousin’s sackbut, signaling the end of rest hour.
“We have got to get our bell back!” growls Cassidy. “That thing is even more obnoxious than the bell!”
Poor Felicia. She means well, and she’s trying to help, but Cassidy is right. Her hourly sackbut blasts are pretty annoying.
“Who wants to serenade Pinewood at the luau?” I ask my third period chorale group.
By the number of hands that fly up—all of them—I’m guessing this idea’s a hit.
“Great! I have just the song for us to do,” I tell them. “How many of you know ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’—the Israel Kamakawiwo’ole version?”
“Kamakawaka-who?” asks Pippa Lovejoy, her little forehead furrowing in confusion.
I laugh. “Kamakawiwo’ole,” I repeat slowly. “He was a really famous Hawaiian musician.”
Felicia raises her hand. “I know that version.”
For some reason this surprises me. When it comes to songs, Felicia mostly seems interested in period folk ballads about knights in shining armor rescuing fair maidens.
“Can you sing it for us, Jess?” begs Amy.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Felicia leaning against the wall. None of the campers are paying any attention to her; nobody’s clamoring to hear her sackbut, or anything else for that matter. Sometimes you don’t need to be sprayed by a skunk to feel like an outcast.
With a stab of guilt, I remember that I was going to do something to make up for her not getting invited to my mini-birthday party. “Okay,” I tell the girls. “I’ll sing it for you. But only if Felicia accompanies me.”
My cousin looks at me, surprised.
“That’s the deal,” I continue firmly. “Felicia and I are a team.”
Felicia’s face lights up, and I feel another stab of guilt. It really doesn’t take much to make someone feel included. She grabs her sackbut and warms up with a low toot.
“Um, how about something a little less, uh, strident?” I suggest. “You know, more like Iz’s ukulele?”
She nods slowly. “I might be able to do something with my lute.”
Somehow, by strumming on the instrument’s neck, she manages to make it sound just like a ukulele. Which doesn’t surprise me. The thing is, everybody already knows how smart Felicia is—mostly because she’s always so eager to tell them—but they don’t necessarily know how creative and talented and fun she can be too. I keep thinking maybe there’s a way I can help her be a little more, well, normal.
I sing the song through once for the girls, and then we practice it a couple more times all together.
“That was awesome!” I tell them when we’re done. I wait until my cousin darts out of the lodge with her sackbut to trumpet the end of third period, then turn back to the campers. “Let’s try it one more time, really quick—with a little twist,” I say in a conspiratorial whisper. “But we’re going to keep it a surprise, okay?”
Later that afternoon, I’m at the boathouse finishing up with my Junior Naturalists—we canoed over to Cherry Island to check on the bald eagle family—when a tremendous racket breaks out all over camp. A herd of CITs flashes past us, banging on pots and pans and shouting “UTENSIL NIGHT!”
The girls who have been to camp before all start to shriek with delight. Utensil Night is one of everybody’s favorite traditions, and like the all-camp birthday party, nobody knows when it will be held, which makes it doubly fun. I remember it vividly from when I was a camper here myself.
“This should be interesting,” says Cassidy a few minutes later, as we line up by cabins outside the Dining Hall. Artie is standing at the top of the porch steps. When we file past him, each camper reaches into the big garbage bag he’s holding and blindly grabs a utensil.
“No way!” says Cassidy when it’s her turn. “I seriously have to eat with these?” She holds up a pair of extra-long barbecue tongs.
“Yup!” Grinning, I wave the garlic press that I snagged.
Of course, Ethel and Thelma always make sure to cook the messiest possible meal on utensil night. Even Carter, who usually never has a hair out of place, manages to smear spaghetti sauce all over her face trying to take bites off a spatula, and watching Freddie trying to eat with a giant whisk—she’s our messy camper anyway, so this was a disastrous choice—sends our table into gales of laughter. Cassidy laughs so hard she actually cries.
“I love camp!” she gasps.
I smile at her. Of all of us, I think Cassidy is having the most fun this summer. I envy her sometimes. She has such a gift for throwing herself wholeheartedly into things.
“I’m going to starve to death,” complains Brooklyn, daintily spearing a single strand of pasta with a lobster pick.
I pat her shoulder. “I doubt it. Don’t forget, we have book club tonight. At least there’ll be snacks.”
She brightens at this.
And in fact, there are snacks—good ones, too. It’s Balsam’s turn to host, and they serve applesauce, since in one of this week’s chapters Betsy makes applesauce from scratch. We also have cookies in honor of Emma, who’s been running arou
nd for days spouting one of her favorite quotes from the book: “It’s against my principles to let a child leave the pantry without having a cookie.”
“That’s kind of a perfect life motto, isn’t it?” she muses, taking another one from the plate. They’re chocolate chip, her favorite. “We should get it put on T-shirts or something. We’d make a fortune.”
“We wanted to make maple syrup on snow, the way Cousin Ann taught Betsy to do in the book,” Becca tells us. “But it’s August, so that was out.”
“Fine with me.” Cassidy grabs a handful of cookies as the platter comes around. “I like cookies better than maple syrup, anyway.”
“So,” says Felicia, who’s livelier than usual tonight. I’m wondering if it has something to do with me making a point of including her earlier today. “What plot points did you discern that advanced the theme of transformation?”
Emma looks over at me and crosses her eyes. “How about we keep it simple?” she says, turning to the campers as I smother a giggle. “What are some of your favorite things that happened in the chapters we read this week?”
Meri waves her hand in the air. “Betsy isn’t scared of dogs anymore—at least not Shep.”
“We have a dog,” Pippa volunteers. “Her name ith Mith Marple, and nobody’th thcared of her.”
“That’s great, Pippa,” says Emma. “Anybody else have a favorite part in the book?”
“I like it that Betsy’s figuring out how to do things on her own,” says Harper.
“Me too!” Becca agrees. “She’s starting to develop a little backbone.”
Tara pulls her thumb out of her mouth. “I didn’t like it when Betsy and Molly got lost in the woods,” she whispers.
“Me neither,” I tell her. “But what did Betsy learn from that?”
Tara’s forehead puckers.
Grace’s hand flies up. “Maybe that she can find a way to rescue herself. She’s figuring out how to do things on her own, like Harper said.”
We all nod.
“I don’t like it when everybody makes fun of Elias Brewster because he’s raggedy and dirty and he never combs his hair,” says Kate.
For the second time today, my eyes slide over to Felicia. Her hair is tidy and her clothes aren’t raggedy, and she’s hardly Elias Brewster, but still, she’s been the butt of a lot of jokes around here this summer, and I’m betting it stings.
“Who’s got the Fun Facts?” Emma asks, and Megan holds up a sheaf of papers. Amy rushes forward to pass them out.
FUN FACTS ABOUT DOROTHY
1) Dorothy was the first woman appointed to the Vermont Board of Education, working to improve conditions in rural schools.
2) She counted the famous poet Robert Frost and the writer Willa Cather among her friends.
3) Dorothy was nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature, but she didn’t win.
4) Eleanor Roosevelt once named her one of the ten most influential women in the United States.
5) During World War I, Dorothy and her husband and family moved to France to help with war relief work.
6) An educational reformer, bestselling author, and social activist, Dorothy was a champion of women’s rights, racial equality, and lifelong education.
7) She died in 1958 in her adopted hometown of Arlington, Vermont, after having lived a rich and fulfilling life.
“Finally!” says Cassidy. “It’s about time one of the writers we read didn’t die tragically or too young.”
“She was an accomplished woman,” says Felicia, scanning the list.
“That means she did a lot of stuff,” Emma translates for her campers.
“One more question for you all,” says Becca. “What do you think of Betsy’s plot to help Elias?”
I’m surprised to see Monica’s hand go up. She so rarely says anything.
“Yes, Nica?” says Becca.
“I like it that she wants to do something nice for him, and help sew him some new clothes,” Freddie’s twin says softly.
I look ruefully at Felicia again. I should want to do something nice for my cousin, shouldn’t I? Helping her with her clothes would be a good place to start.
Two nights later, I get the opportunity.
We’re waiting for the buses to Pinewood’s luau. Everybody’s dressed for the occasion, with fake grass skirts that camp provided and big fake flowers in our hair.
“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” mutters Felicia, who’s standing beside me, hugging her lute to her chest. “It’s so embarrassing.”
No more embarrassing than those dumb medieval capes you insist on wearing half the time, I’m tempted to tell her, but instead I just say, “You look great. And besides, we’re all wearing the same thing.”
My cousin looks down at her top. “I’m going to freeze to death. I really think I should bring a cape.”
I sigh, wishing she could at least try to be normal.
In the end, I’d enlisted Emma’s help in the Felicia Project, as we’re calling it. We cornered my cousin in her cubie, where she was getting ready for the luau, Felicia-style. Which meant grass skirt, baggy T-shirt over it, plus a cape. Over her protests, Emma and I managed to whisk the cape away, then find something nicer for her to wear than an old T-shirt.
“How about this?” I’d asked, holding up a bright turquoise yoga top.
“That’s an exercise top,” Felicia had responded indignantly. “I am not wearing that in public!”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t look like an exercise top,” I’d told her. “It looks more like a pretty bathing suit. Plus, turquoise is a great color on you. This is supposed to be a party, remember?”
It took some doing, but we managed to wrestle her out of the ratty T-shirt and into the yoga top, and we fixed her hair, too. Hers is longish, like mine—or like mine used to be, pre–skunk fiasco—and when we unbraided it, it fell in ripples down her back. Since the no-makeup rule was relaxed for tonight’s dance, as a final touch we brought in Megan and Becca. They’re way better at all that stuff. While they were busy glamming Felicia up, Emma and I gave her some pointers in the social graces department.
“Who’s that?” asks Cassidy as we finally board the bus.
“You’re joking, right?” I reply. “It’s Felicia.”
Cassidy whips around to take a second look. “Whoa!”
“You seriously didn’t recognize her?”
She shakes her head, and I settle into my seat, feeling proud of my efforts on my cousin’s behalf. Now if I can just get a boy or two to take a second look at her.
Our bus chugs up the big hill, then continues on around the lake to the far side, where Pinewood is located. I guess back in the early days, Camp Lovejoy used to canoe across for the luau, but there are a lot more campers now, and it’s easier to take the buses.
The WELCOME TO CAMP PINEWOOD sign has been draped with paper flower leis, and flanking it are two counselors holding big tiki torches. They start waving them when they spot our buses, pointing the way to the parking lot.
Pinewood is laid out completely differently from Camp Lovejoy. It’s up at the top of a hill, for one thing, instead of at the lake’s edge. There are a lot more sports fields, for another, and the cabins are clustered around one big central lodge, the porch of which is alight with more tiki torches. Hawaiian music blares from hidden speakers, and a greeting party of counselors, including Jake and Chase, drape paper flower leis around our necks as we get off the bus.
“Nice skirt,” Cassidy says to Chase, who is sporting a grass one identical to ours over his shorts. “Did you borrow it from your sister?”
Before he can think up a snappy comeback, Felicia steps off the bus.
“Uhhhh,” he mumbles.
“This is my cousin Felicia,” I tell him.
“Uhhhh,” he says again.
“Whatever,” snaps Felicia, and starts to walk off. I grab her by the arm and quickly steer her back to Chase.
“What are you doing?” she mutters under her br
eath.
“Making sure you get asked to dance,” I mutter back. Smiling broadly at Chase, I gesture at the lodge and the lawn in front of it. “The decorations look great! Right, Felicia?”
My cousin doesn’t say anything. I nudge her with my hip.
She grunts. “Unh-huh.”
Seriously, if there’s a picture next to “clueless” in the dictionary, Felicia’s face is on it.
“We pull out all the stops for the luau,” Chase tells us proudly. Well, tells Felicia, to be more accurate. He hasn’t taken his eyes off my cousin since she got off the bus.
The pillars on the lodge porch have been wrapped in white paper and painted to look like tiki totem poles, and in front of them long tables have been set up. Each one is topped with a bright tropical tablecloth and loaded with food, and each is flanked by two inflatable palm trees that sway gently in the breeze.
“This looks great! I’m starving!” says Cassidy, surveying the food.
“We used to roast a whole pig,” Jake tells us, “but I guess it grossed out some of the girls, so now we just have barbecued chicken.”
We load up our plates, then head for a big sign that says TIKI SMOOTHIE BAR.
“How adorable is this?” says Becca, twirling the little pink umbrella in her pineapple-mango smoothie. “Wouldn’t this be fun to add to the Pies & Prejudice menu? A tiki bar, I mean.”
My mother says Becca could totally be an event planner someday. She’s really good at both the creative and the organizational side of things.
After dinner, there are games. First up is the hula hoop contest, which is a riot to watch, especially with the little kids. The hoops are nearly as big as they are.
“And now, it’s time to do the limbo!” announces Pinewood’s camp director as a few of the counselors start setting up the pole that contestants will shimmy under.
“The limbo isn’t Hawaiian,” scoffs Felicia. “It originated in the West Indies. In Trinidad, to be exact. It was—”
Sensing that she’s winding up for one of her long, pompous lectures, I sidle closer and elbow her sharply in the ribs. “Knock it off,” I whisper.
She looks over at me, frowning. “Knock what off?”
Mother-Daughter Book Camp Page 18
