Mother-Daughter Book Camp

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  Startled, she looks up from her book. Her face flushes. “This is the Counselors’ Cabin,” she replies stiffly. “That’s ‘counselors’ plural, not ‘counselor’ singular. I have every right to be here.”

  “You are just so, so—maddening!” With a strangled noise, I stomp out.

  At the Art Studio, I pull an energy bar and an apple from my shoulder bag and slam the latest issue of the Birch Bark onto the table. Maybe reading it will take my mind off Felicia.

  Fat chance.

  There she is, front and center, smiling proudly for the camera with her stupid sackbut in front of the stupid flagpole.

  “Nest Counselor Saves the Day!” blares the headline, and underneath there’s a brief account of how she stepped in to help out after the bell was kidnapped.

  I know Emma did this to be nice, because Jess is trying to spruce up her cousin’s image and make sure she doesn’t feel left out, but right now it just feels like my nose is getting rubbed in stupid Felicia. I grab a marker from the supply bin and vent my spite by drawing a big mustache on her picture. Then I add a dunce cap. Feeling a little better, I continue to read.

  “PEANUT WEEK!” trumpets another headline. “Are you ready, campers? Camp Lovejoy’s most beloved end-of-camp event is just around the corner!”

  Gwen has already told us about Peanut Week. It sounds like fun—campers and counselors alike pick a name, and the person you pick is your “peanut.” The one who picks you is your “shell.” It’s a bit like Secret Santas, in that you leave little surprise gifts for your peanut in her cubie or her cabin throughout the week, but you also do nice things for her like make her bed while she’s at breakfast, serenade her at night, or have someone deliver your dessert to her table, that kind of thing. Everything’s a complete secret, of course, until the big reveal on Banquet Night.

  Suddenly, I have a dismal thought. What if I pick Felicia for my peanut? Or she picks me? I flash back to Christmas a few years ago, when our book club went through the horrible Secret Santa mix-up. Peanut Week could go wrong in so many ways.

  Shoving the Birch Bark back into my bag, I get up and cross the studio to the shelves where I’ve stashed my sewing supplies. Pacing back and forth, I run my fingers across the bolts of fabric, letting the crisp cottons and kitten-soft velvets and buttery smooth satins soothe me. On the spur of the moment, I decide to make something for my peanut, who will definitely not be Felicia if I have anything to say about it. If I choose her name, I’ll have to find a way to put it back, or swap with someone.

  Envisioning a small, elegant evening bag—if I get a peanut from one of the youngest cabins, she can always use it to play dress-up—I select a cherry red velvet with matching silk cord for the shoulder strap. I add red-and-white striped satin to line it, swiftly measure and snip, then settle into place in front of the sewing machine. A few minutes later, lulled by the familiar whirr of the sewing machine and the rhythm of the needle as it stitches through the fabric, I’m finally starting to calm down.

  Everything’s going to be fine, I assure myself. Life will go on. There will be other conversations with Simon.

  I smile. Who needs Mirror Megan? I’m perfectly capable of talking to myself without her.

  Later, as I walk back toward my cabin, my eyes are drawn to the reflection of the full moon on the water. Picking my way carefully down the rocky path to the dance platform, I pause for a few minutes to lean on the rail and drink in the view. Camp is silent; everyone’s asleep. No loons, no motorboats, nothing but a sound like rustling silk as a whisper of breeze stirs the leaves overhead. The lake is perfectly still, the moon floating in the sky barely distinguishable from its watery twin.

  Maybe Simon’s looking out his window in England right now, I think. Maybe he’s looking at the same moon as I am.

  I start to hum, then softly sing the words to my favorite song I’ve learned so far this summer:

  I see the moon and the moon sees me

  Down through the leaves of the old oak tree.

  Please let the light that shines on me

  Shine on the one I love.

  The next morning, I’m awakened to the sound of a whispered argument.

  “If you get picked again, it’s not fair!” Grace is saying to Mia.

  “Yeah!” Kate agrees, frowning down on her. Kate towers over Mia. “You were queen last year, when we were in Nest.”

  “So?” says Mia. “There’s no rule against it.”

  “You should make them leave your name out,” Grace tells her.

  “Why should I?”

  “Because it’s selfish!” Kate whispers.

  “I’m not selfish!” Mia protests furiously.

  “Are too,” mutters Grace.

  “Am not!”

  “Girls!” I shush them. “People are trying to sleep!”

  Not me anymore, unfortunately. I’m wide awake now, thanks to that little outburst. I lie in bed for the next few minutes before reveille, wondering if I should be worried. I thought everybody said Queen for a Day was supposed to be fun?

  I mention it to Sergeant Marge as I’m helping her carry the royal accessories to the Dining Hall.

  “Not to worry,” she assures me. “It’s all in fun, and the girls will adjust quickly, no matter who gets picked.”

  She’s wrong, though. When it’s our cabin’s turn, Becca pulls a slip of paper from the jar marked BALSAM glances at it, and shoots me a worried look. “Mia Jackson,” she reads aloud.

  Mia gives a gleeful little shriek and jumps up and down with excitement as the head counselor hands her one of the purple capes. Harper and Amy applaud and cheer, as do Becca and I, but Kate and Grace look positively mutinous.

  “It’s not fair,” I hear Grace whisper, and Kate nods.

  “Let us proceed to Lower Lodge for the crowning ceremony,” Gwen announces when all the cabins have picked a queen.

  “There was a split second there after I picked Mia that I thought about reading someone else’s name,” Becca tells me as we head out of the dining room behind our campers.

  “Maybe you should have,” I reply, watching our girls. Mia is prancing regally down the path with Amy and Harper close behind, holding up the train of her purple cape. Kate and Grace, meanwhile, are keeping their distance, arms linked and heads together as they whisper their discontent.

  “You are our royal court today,” Gwen tells the queens as they line up beside her in front of the lodge’s big stone fireplace. “You reign supreme; your word is law. There are a few rules, however: No mean-spirited decrees, and nothing dangerous or demeaning. You will be allowed one decree at each mealtime, one during rest hour, one for each of the four periods today, and then we will gather on the beach during free period for the royal finale.”

  She motions to the counselors, and we all step forward to join our queens. “These are your royal advisors,” the camp director tells the queens. “They will help you reign wisely. Are you ready to make your first decree?”

  An excited buzz ripples through the room as the queens nod.

  “Then let us begin with Nest.”

  Tara Lindgren, thumb firmly in mouth, steps forward, flanked by Emma and Felicia.

  Gwen places a crown on her head and a paper tube scepter in her hand. Then Felicia leans down and whispers something in Tara’s ear. Tara makes a face, but a second later out pops the thumb. “My subjects will all wear their uniforms backward today,” she decrees, holding up her scepter.

  “Yeth, your majethty,” says Pippa, and she and Meri both drop a curtsy, which gets a laugh.

  It’s our turn next. Gwen places a crown on Mia’s short curls. Sergeant Marge had given us all a bunch of things for us to suggest to our queens, but before we can even step forward to join Mia, she holds up her scepter, looks directly at Grace and Kate, and says, “My subjects will volunteer for Lower Camp Biffy duty.”

  Amy and Harper’s faces fall. Grace and Kate look like they’re going to explode. My eyes slide over to Becca. “I though
t this was supposed to be fun,” I mutter.

  Even Sergeant Marge looks taken aback. “That’s very, uh, civic-minded of you, Queen Mia.”

  Mia may only be eight, but she sure knows how to act. Putting on a pious expression, she inclines her head and gives her scepter a regal wave in response.

  Our morning goes downhill from there. First period finds us all in the Biffy, up to our elbows in rubber gloves and toilet scrub. For second period, Mia decrees that her subjects will do twenty cartwheels and then stand on their heads, which ends up giving Kate a nosebleed.

  “Mia did it on purpose!” Kate sobs as I’m cleaning her up. “She knows this happens when I do headstands!”

  I’m about ready to pull the plug at this point, but Becca takes Mia aside first and orders her to lighten up. “This is Queen Becca speaking, and trust me, you don’t want to cross Queen Becca.”

  Mia meekly promises to behave, but she turns right around and breaks that promise at lunch, clearly still bent on punishing Grace and Kate. We have a full-blown mutiny on our hands when she orders her subjects to hand over their Congo bars.

  Harper’s eyes widen. “But we only get them once a week!”

  Congo bars are Camp Lovejoy’s most popular dessert. They’re kind of a cross between a brownie and an extra-rich, extra-gooey chocolate chip cookie.

  “You have to do what your queen orders,” Mia tells her sharply.

  “They’re my favorite,” says Amy, her dark eyes starting to fill with tears. She clutches her dessert protectively to her chest.

  “It’s the rule!” Mia’s voice rises along with her paper towel-tube scepter, and for a moment I fear she’s going to bop someone over the head with it.

  “Knock it off,” I warn her.

  Grace glares defiantly at Mia from under her Yankees cap. She holds up her congo bar and takes a big bite, then tosses it across the table.

  Becca stands up. “That’s it. No congo bars for anyone! We’re going back to Balsam.”

  By the time we get to our cabin, Amy’s tears have spilled over and Harper is on the verge of revolt.

  “I don’t want to do what Mia says anymore!” she states flatly.

  “Me neither!” sniffles Amy.

  “You have to,” Mia insists, her face nearly the same shade of purple as her royal cape. “It’s the rule!”

  I glance helplessly at Becca. “How did our mothers do it? Raising kids without going crazy, I mean?”

  “I have no idea,” Becca replies wearily.

  I turn back to our campers. “Girls, Queen for a Day is supposed to be a game,” I remind them. “A fun game. Come on now, Mia, think up something fun for your rest hour decree.”

  Grudgingly, she obeys, decreeing that we all play cards. A truce is established over a game of gin rummy, and we manage to limp through the rest of the afternoon.

  “How’d it go?” I ask Jess as we gather at the H dock for the big finale.

  “Great!” she enthuses. “Brooklyn thought up some really funny stuff for us to do. We just spent fourth period pretending to be chickens, and could only talk in squawks. Cassidy really got into it.”

  “Lucky you.”

  She looks at me sharply. “Why? What happened with Balsam?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  A loud fanfare sounds behind us, and we all turn to see Felicia blowing her sackbut for all she’s worth. She’s dressed in full medieval regalia—long velvet dress complete with one of those crisscrossed lace-up bodices, and on her head a hat that looks like an honest-to-goodness dunce cap with a scarf flowing from the end. Recalling my doodle on the Birch Bark last night, I stifle a laugh.

  “What?” says Jess.

  I shake my head. “Nothing.”

  “Time for the royal review,” Felicia announces, then raises the sackbut to her lips again for another fanfare as Gwen and Artie emerge from the Director’s Cottage. Like Felicia, they’re in full regal garb, but with crowns instead of dunce caps. They proceed to parade past the assembled cabins, pausing to invite each of the queens to join their procession.

  “Hey, Artie looks good!” Becca says as they draw closer. “I’ve never seen him in anything but overalls.”

  “That’s King Arthur to you,” Felicia tells her, coming over to join Emma and the girls from Nest.

  “Wait, his real name is Arthur?” I exclaim. “Gwen is Guinevere, right? So that makes them King Arthur and—no way!”

  “Duh,” says Felicia. She looks at me with an expression that clearly says, You are dumb as toast, then sweeps off onto the H dock to trumpet the procession’s arrival.

  “So much for ‘room for improvement,’ ” I mutter to Becca. “I have had just about enough of Miss Know-it-all Felicia Grunewald.”

  “She sure knows how to be a pain sometimes,” Becca agrees.

  “By the way, speaking of King Arthur—did Theo ever get his snake back?”

  Becca nods. “He was hiding in Theo’s brother Sam’s closet. Sam found him when he was looking for his running shoes. He about hit the ceiling.”

  I have to smile at that. “I can imagine.”

  Queen for a Day ends with hilarity, as Artie/King Arthur decrees a royal dunking. While the rest of us stand on the beach and clap and cheer, each of the queens hands in her scepter, robe, and crown, then climbs up the ladder, turns and waves to her subjects, and slides into the lake. Sergeant Marge is waiting in the water at the bottom to catch the youngest ones and give them a boost back onto the dock. Emma and Becca quickly wrap Tara and Mia in towels.

  “Go dry off and get changed, and we’ll meet you at the Dining Hall, okay?” Becca tells Mia, who nods and runs off. Kate and Grace go with her, their earlier falling-out forgotten in the excitement of the finale’s big splash.

  Halfway through dinner, I get up from the table to refill my glass. Felicia’s ahead of me in line at the drink machine. I’m still stinging from her earlier remark, and suddenly, all the anger from last night comes flooding back.

  As she turns to go back to her table, I decide we need to talk.

  “Felicia,” I begin, tapping her on the arm, but before I can say anything else she leaps back, startled. Milk sloshes out of her glass and down the front of her polo shirt. She glares at me, sputtering.

  “What is your problem?” she snaps.

  “My problem? What is your problem?” I snap back. “All I did was say your name!”

  “And grab my arm!”

  “I barely touched it!”

  “Is there something going on over here that I need to know about?” the head counselor asks, coming over to investigate.

  “Uh, no,” I reply. “Just a misunderstanding.”

  Sergeant Marge raises an eyebrow at Felicia, who shoots me a look.

  “Yeah, just a misunderstanding,” she says after a long pause.

  “Let’s be sure and keep it that way,” Sergeant Marge tells us.

  I wait until she’s well out of earshot. “Look, Felicia, all I wanted to do was talk to you about last night.”

  “You were upset. I get it.” She mops the front of her polo shirt with a napkin.

  “With good reason! And then, a few minutes ago, when I finally figured out the whole King Arthur/Queen Guinevere thing—”

  “What about it?”

  “You didn’t have to say ‘duh.’ ”

  She looks at me blankly.

  I heave a sigh. “The thing is, you could maybe think about other people’s feelings once in a while, that’s all.”

  “You and your friends don’t need to point out every single thing I do wrong,” Felicia says stiffly.

  So that’s what this is all about, I realize. She’s still chafing about the Felicia Project. “We don’t point out everything.”

  “Close enough.”

  I pause for a moment, trying to put myself in her shoes. Yes, she’s annoying, and yes, she’s a little O-D-D, but maybe we have been a little hard on her this summer. “Fine. I’ll try to be better about that
, okay?”

  She lifts a shoulder.

  “And I’ll talk to Emma and Jess and the others. Are we good, then?”

  She nods, and I head back to my table.

  Later, for evening activity, everyone gathers in Lower Lodge for a movie—some animated thing about a girl who’s searching for Excalibur, King Arthur’s sword. I yawn all the way through it.

  “What a day!” I groan, flopping onto my bed afterward. Our campers are in the cubie house changing into their pajamas. “I thought it would never end.”

  “What do you say we try to salvage something from it?” Becca replies. “Maybe now’s a good time to bust out our memory-maker.”

  “Right now I could use a memory eraser,” I grumble.

  Becca swats me with her pillow. “Come on,” she orders. “I’ll round up our campers; you go tell Gwen.”

  “We’re raiding the kitchen for ice cream sundaes, right?”

  “Yep.”

  I slip out of our cabin and start down the path to the Director’s Cottage.

  “Hey, Megan, wait up!”

  It’s Cassidy.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To ask Gwen permission for a memory-maker,” I tell her. “Today was a bust.” I tell her about Balsam’s big fight over Queen for a Day, and my run-in with Felicia.

  “Sorry to hear it,” she says. “We had a great time. I’m on my way to see Gwen, too. Jess and I just want to keep the fun rolling tonight.”

  “What are you planning to do?”

  “We’re taking the girls over to Hairbrush Island for s’mores. How about you?”

  “We were going to raid the kitchen for ice cream.”

  “Nah, that’s lame!” Cassidy says. “You should join us. A campfire on the beach is much more fun.”

  “I should check with Becca first,” I tell her as we knock on the Director’s Cottage door.

  “Come on in, girls,” says Gwen.

  Cassidy tells her our plan, and she nods. “Good choice. Just try to keep the noise down. Nest looked completely worn out tonight and I don’t want you waking them.” She shoos us out and closes the door.

  “Meet us on the beach in ten minutes,” Cassidy tells me when we reach Balsam. I nod, then head inside to inform Becca about the change of plan.