Summer of Brave

by Amy Noelle Parks

  Mom pokes her head in the door, taking in the pile of clothes on my bed. “What’s all this?”

  “Figuring out what to wear tomorrow.”

  She sits down and picks up a black dress with little white polka dots. “This is perfect,” she says. “Mature, but age-appropriate.”

  “I was thinking the orange skirt.” I hold it up. “The camp’s for kids…so something fun?”

  “It’s up to you, but you want to be taken seriously. That’s important for girls.”

  “I’ll wear the black.”

  “Good choice. Have you thought about what you’re going to say?”

  I shrug. “Not really. I don’t know what they’re going to ask.”

  “But you can guess. Why you want to do this. What experiences you’ve had that will help. You need to show them who you are. Demonstrate passion.”

  “Sure.”

  “But don’t be overemotional.”

  “Got it.” To me, my voice says, “We’re done here,” but Mom seems to hear it as “Please, tell me more.”

  “Be yourself. See if you can let your test scores slip. That will help.”

  I nod.

  “Talk about your science fair project, and how much you loved that paleontology camp. And your babysitting too.”

  “Sure. My passions,” I say.

  “Absolutely. And watch your language. Rein in those ‘reallys’ and ‘totallys.’”

  “Myself. But more.”

  “Exactly.”

  This is our family motto.

  CHAPTER 5

  Life Skills

  The next morning, I walk to the museum with Dad.

  At the door, he gives me a quick hug. “Do you me want to…” His voice trails off.

  I nod. Everyone will know I’m my dad’s daughter, but we don’t have to make a big deal of it. I let him go toward the employee entrance before I walk through the area that connects the three museums.

  There’s a classroom in the back with floor-to-ceiling windows. A sign on the door says, “Welcome, future junior counselors!” I check my phone. Ten minutes early. I fuss with the straps on my sandals. I have no idea how I’m supposed to do this. Will someone come out? Should I go knock? Nine minutes. Maybe I should have had Dad stay with me?

  I go to the drinking fountain. From there, I can check out the classroom without being obvious. A woman, a little younger than my parents, lays out art supplies on the table, making the room look more like a birthday party than a job interview. Her blond hair is up in a ponytail, and she’s wearing a bright-pink flowered dress. My orange skirt would have been fine. I sort of want to take a picture to show Mom, but probably taking pictures of the person interviewing you is weird.

  Three minutes before nine o’clock, I go to the door. The woman doesn’t notice me, so I back up and try again, stomping my feet a little this time. When she hears me, the woman looks up and smiles. She holds out her hand. I take it and squeeze. This is a completely normal thing to do, but I can’t remember if I’ve ever shaken someone’s hand. It seems weird that with all the totally useless things I’ve learned in school, no one ever had me practice this.

  “I’m Kate Krause, and I’ll be running the camps this summer. You’re Lilla?”

  “Yes,” I agree. My voice is too quiet. I give a big smile to make myself seem louder. And bigger, I guess.

  She smiles back. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

  Kate asks why I’m interested in being a junior counselor. I talk about how much I’ve loved the camps I’ve done at the museum, keeping secret my plans to build a block fortress. This must work because Kate tells me I am a Mature Young Lady. Mom would not like this. She thinks lady is an insult.

  “Okay. Hands-on part next,” Kate says. “I’m going to leave the room for fifteen minutes. I want you to plan a camp activity using the things in this room.”

  Whoa. I definitely did not expect this. And neither did Mom.

  The table’s full of art supplies—markers, scissors, craft feathers, straws, cardboard tubes, and popsicle sticks. Maybe musical instruments? But I always hated being told exactly what to do when I was at camp, and it’s super hard to get little kids to follow directions.

  Looking for ideas, I run my hands along the spines of the books at the back of the room. One on hot-air balloons catches my eye. I pull it out and find some others on planes, blimps, butterflies, and birds. Then I stand them up on the table and sort the art supplies so they look more inviting.

  “Want to tell me about this?” Kate says when she returns.

  I explain my idea: invite kids to make their own museum exhibit about flying machines.

  Kate nods. “Well done. Open-ended is important. Lots of people don’t get that.”

  “Thanks,” I say, feeling like I passed a test without knowing what was being graded.

  “Let’s say you’re doing this, and a six-year-old asks how planes fly. What would you say?” Kate looks like she can’t wait to hear whatever fabulous thing comes out of my mouth, which I suspect had better not be: look it up on my phone.

  I remember sticking my hand out the car window and feeling it get pushed up and down when I tilted it in different directions. I share this with Kate. Then I panic.

  “Wait. Was that a terrible answer? Is it bad to tell a kid to stick her hand out of a moving car?”

  She laughs. “No. Bad happened last year when one of our senior counselors answered a physics question by saying ‘magic.’ You want to see parents in this town flip out, go all anti-science on them. Most of them are willing to risk a broken finger or two if it’ll teach their kid something.”

  I nod, because that seems about right. If she wants science, I can give her a little more. I hand Kate a strip of construction paper.

  “Hold it to your lips.” I show her with mine, and she copies me. Our paper strips flop down in front of us like giant lizard tongues.

  “Now blow across the top,” I say.

  She does and the paper strip rises in front of her. Amazed, she looks at me. “Why did that happen?”

  “Lift. Like an airplane wing. The air blowing across the top shields the paper from the air pushing down, but the air underneath is still pressing up. So the paper rises. That’s what happens when a plane goes fast and wind blows across the top of the wing.”

  “Clever,” she says. “I don’t normally do this at the interview, but how would you like to be one of our junior counselors?”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. You did great. Is the science museum good? We don’t get many girls we can put into that role.” That’s a surprise. My advanced science class at school is at least half girls.

  I wonder if I actually have a choice. I want to play in the grocery store and put on puppet shows and chase bubbles in the children’s museum. But it seems safer not to argue.

  Mom will be happy with this. And Vivi. We can work together.

  So I smile and say, “That sounds great.”

  “Okay. I’ll be in touch with your parents tonight. We’ll have a week of training before the camp. Your job is to help the high school students who will be our senior counselors.”

  “Will you let everyone know if they made it tonight?” I ask. If Vivi and Knox get in, we can celebrate.

  “Not sure, but everyone will know by tomorrow morning at the latest.”

  “Well, thanks for not leaving me in suspense.”

  She slides a folder over to me. “Our handbook. There’s a couple of things I want to go over. And a few forms for your parents to sign in the back.”

  Paging through the book, she tells me the camp hours and my responsibilities. The museum can’t pay us until we’re fifteen, but Kate says she’s a judge for the Grover Academy Summer Showcase, and her junior counselors usually do well. She tells me she’ll be judging visual arts, but that she can put in a good word for me in anything. I don’t tell her that maybe I’d rather she didn’t.

  Then she flips to a page at the back of the handboo
k that says “Dress Code.” There’s a line down the middle. One column says “boys” at the top. The other says “girls.” There are no other options.

  The boy side has three rules: no vulgarity, no tank tops, no underwear showing over beltlines. The girl side has fifteen. The ones most important to me are: no leggings; all skirts and shorts must hit no more than three inches above the knees; and shirts must not be inappropriately tight.

  I smooth my dress on my lap, wondering if the three inches is when I’m standing up or sitting down. I’m tempted to pull on my top too. What is inappropriately tight?

  This whole list makes me feel like I did something wrong.

  “Any questions?” Kate asks cheerily.

  “Um, no leggings?” I ask. Leggings seem like they’d be good for getting down on the floor and making messes.

  Kate smiles, like we’re sharing a secret. “We want to focus on the kids.”

  I frown because that’s what I’m trying to do.

  “We don’t need any distractions,” she continues.

  “Distractions?” I echo.

  “You know how boys are.”

  I nod and smile because I want the job, but I don’t see why boys have anything to do with what I wear to camp.

  Kate pats my hand. “Trust me. It’s easier this way.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Commitment and Passion

  Vivi and Knox have soccer camp every morning this week. I hurry home to change before heading to the fields to meet Vivi. Even in practice, she’s fierce. Girls flinch when she moves in to take the ball.

  Afterward, she runs over to me. “Thanks for coming!”

  “No problem. Come over for lunch?”

  “Grilled cheese and apples?” she asks.

  “I bet we can talk my mom into it.” Unlike some parents, Mom’s totally okay with me eating the same thing over and over. She says there’s more important things to think about than food.

  “Great!” Vivi says, pulling out her phone. “Let me ask.”

  “And then I have to tell you something.” I feel some kind of way about telling Vivi about the museum, but with everything she said about my silences and white lies, I feel like I have to.

  “Okay,” she says. “But let’s say hi to Knox and Colby first. Colby got his hair cut. It’s super cute!”

  “Oh. Okay.” It’s fine, I think. She doesn’t know what I have to say is important.

  All this talking about boys being cute and who likes who and how you know if you have a crush is new. It’s not that these things never cross my mind, but I don’t want to say them out loud. It all feels ridiculous. Like we’re characters on a Disney show instead of real-life friends.

  When we come up to the field, Colby—whose hair is, I guess, more sticky-uppy than usual today—shouts my name and shoots a ball toward me, putting an alarming amount of force behind it. Before I can decide what to do, Vivi jumps in front me, traps it, and kicks it back.

  “Pick on someone your own size.”

  Colby grins. Vivi’s only an inch taller than me.

  “Or at least pick on someone who plays,” Vivi adds.

  Colby gives me an apologetic smile. “Sorry. Forgot you don’t do sports.”

  Irritated that he thinks my lack of soccer skills means I have no athletic ability at all, I take a few running steps and launch into an aerial. It’s been a while, but it’s pretty close to perfect, especially considering I’m on grass instead of a spring floor.

  “Wow,” he says.

  “Don’t underestimate Lilla,” Knox says. “She’s tougher than she looks.”

  “Maybe you should go back to gymnastics?” Vivi says. “You were so good.”

  I shrug. I don’t want to talk about it. “It took a ton of time. And it was getting super expensive.” This is the truth, but not the whole truth. (Does that make it a lie? Or a silence? Bravery-through-honesty turns out to be complicated as all get-out.)

  My last two years in gymnastics I was at the gym every day and going to meets on weekends. I never saw Vivi or Knox and barely kept up with my schoolwork. And I wasn’t like the other girls. It wasn’t that they were better. Or at least not much. But they loved it. Came in early. Stayed late. Begged their parents to bring them to open gym on Sundays. Whatever spark they had, it wasn’t in me.

  Sometimes I miss it—that feeling of flight and of being a part of a group working toward the same thing. But mostly I’m happy to be free.

  Neither Vivi or my parents get this. Vivi’s all commitment and passion—for soccer and coding and math and manga. Mom and Dad could talk for hours—and painfully—about bugs and impressionist paintings. Even Knox would give up anything—even soccer—for music.

  Maybe there’s something like that waiting for me, but I haven’t found it yet.

  To change the subject, I say, “Guess what? I got hired as a junior counselor!”

  “We’re going to have so much fun!” Vivi squeals and throws her arms around me. “I mean, if I get it too.”

  We laugh. Of course she’ll get hired. She’s Vivi.

  Knox messes with my hair.

  “That’s awesome,” Colby says. “But how do you know? My interview’s not till this afternoon.”

  “I guess I nailed the ‘making things’ part.”

  “The what?” Knox asks.

  I tell them about the arts and crafts. Maybe it’s not exactly fair, but Kate didn’t tell me to keep it a secret, and these are my friends. Helping them makes it feel less like bragging.

  “Thanks for the heads-up,” Colby says. “I could use some good news.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “I got a big fat no on the magnet school. Just missed the cutoff scores. For both math and English.” Colby laughs at my horrified expression. “It’s okay,” he adds. “It sucks, but it’s not a major tragedy. For me anyway. My parents are devasted.”

  He says this like he thinks it’s funny. But I can’t imagine shrugging off Mom and Dad’s disappointment so easily.

  “It’s because you’re good at all different kinds of things,” Vivi says. “The magnet school doesn’t make sense for you.”

  Colby smiles at her. “I’ll clean your cleats if you explain that to my mom.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The Hard Stuff

  We promise to meet Knox and Colby at the park to celebrate after everyone’s interviews. Knox’s dad missed his weekend with him and, as an apology, sent a giant package of paintballs that explode when you throw them at people. Both Knox’s parents make tons of money. They like to say sorry with fancy presents, and Knox likes to share.

  Sometimes, I wish both he and Vivi wanted to spend more time with just us, but mostly I’m grateful they drag me into things. I’d be alone in my room a lot more if it weren’t for them.

  When Vivi and I come into Mom’s kitchen, Mom gets up from her laptop and gives me a big hug to congratulate me. I told her and Dad earlier on our group text. I try to make sure they find everything out at the same time.

  Vivi looks at the computer. “What are you working on, Dr. B?”

  “The usual. South American wasps.”

  “For what?” I ask. Mom doesn’t normally teach in the summer.

  “A little talk at Northwestern. Two nights next week. I put it on the calendar.”

  She motions toward the whiteboard on the fridge, where we track whether I’m sleeping upstairs or downstairs. Their schedules are too unpredictable for a regular routine, so the nights I’m at either place change all the time.

  It’s fine.

  “Congratulations on your test scores, Vivi,” Mom says, getting the panini maker out from the cabinet. “You and Lilla must be excited about high school.”

  “So excited,” Vivi answers.

  “And do you know what you’re doing for the showcase?”

  Vivi tells Mom about the computer program she wrote. She’s all set.

  “Maybe you can help Lilla?” Mom says. “She’s dragging her feet.”

&nbs
p; “Have you decided between art and STEM?” Vivi asks.

  Behind Mom I shake my head frantically.

  “Oh, I don’t think that part was much of a decision,” Mom says. “We’ll wait until the information night to make it official, but given her scores, why wouldn’t she do STEM? She needs to get going on her exhibit though.”

  Vivi gives me a disappointed look. I shrug. She told me to keep track of my lies, not stop telling them.

  To distract Mom, I point at her screen and say, “Isn’t that my wasp? Why are you talking about old research?”

  “It’s sort of a highlight reel of my work.”

  “Is Lilla’s your favorite insect?” Vivi says. “Because you discovered it?”

  “Well, favorite’s tricky.” Mom sautés apples while she talks. “I love Lilla’s wasp, but right now, given how important they are to our food supply and how under threat they are, it’s hard not to have a soft spot for honeybees. And the Chalcidoidea agaonidae has always been a personal favorite. Without them we wouldn’t have figs. Plus they have telescoping genitalia. So that’s pretty great.”

  “Mom!” I say, horrified. “Don’t say ‘telescoping genitalia’ to Vivi.”

  “She’s very sensitive,” Mom tells Vivi.

  I roll my eyes and Vivi giggles. But really, what kind of mother doesn’t just say, Yes, the insect I named after my only daughter is my favorite?

  Mom puts the sandwiches on the grill.

  “Is it hard to talk about that stuff? In public?” Vivi asks.

  “Genitalia, do you mean?” Mom looks like she’s trying not to laugh.

  I can’t believe I never thought to ask this. Because, yes, I wish she’d bring it up less with my friends. But her work is about the mating habits of insects, so she must talk about this stuff all the time. And thinking about what our biology unit was like this year, I’d guess that must be hard sometimes. Like when she’s the only woman in the room.

  But she shakes her head. “Not really. I know it’s hard to imagine, but boys do grow up some after middle school. The hard stuff is usually more subtle.”