Love & Betrayal & Hold the Mayo

by Francine Pascal

  Most guys I know are either creeps or semicreeps. I guess there are a couple of okay ones around. Todd, for one. But even Todd can be a pain sometimes. Especially when we go out at night. We have a great time. He’s a terrific dancer with a great sense of humour, smart, fun, and everything, and then suddenly at the end of the evening he turns into Dracula. Sometimes I feel like I ought to get myself one of those big wooden crosses to keep him away. It’s not that I don’t like fooling around, but unless you’re really in love with someone, I can’t see me getting that involved. I don’t know how I’d feel if I were in love, but so far it hasn’t happened.

  We have to be at the bus station by 7:45 A.M. For some reason it’s a group activity. That means not only my parents but El Creepo and Norman.

  “Are you wearing jeans?” That’s me, asking my mother.

  “Don’t start, please.” That’s my mother answering.

  I have to explain a little about my mother. She’s very pretty and very young looking. Which is good. I mean it’s ideal to have that kind of mother, but sometimes I’d like her to look a little more like everybody else’s mother.

  There’s some last-minute craziness because Nina says it’s my turn to walk Norman, but my father says it’s obvious that I’m too busy, and Nina says something stupid like I’m always too busy, just to have the last word. My father is in no mood for her nonsense and tells her simply to walk Norman. She grumbles, whines, moans, and does the full Nina act, even throwing in a couple of quick tears. It’s a tired act and nobody is impressed. Certainly not Norman, who simply waits at the door for the loser.

  By 7:30 we’re still not out of the house, and now it’s getting frantic.

  When we finally arrive, the bus station is jammed. It looks like a billion different camps are leaving this morning. It takes us forever to find our bus, and then I don’t see Steffi. One bad thing about Steffi, and her mother, too, is that they’re always late. Incredibly enough, they’ve never missed a train or a plane, but it’s always a sweat at the end.

  I look around but, naturally, I don’t know anyone. My mother gets busy looking for the person in charge. She’s always very big with people in charge. It’s as though, if she makes herself known, they’ll know they’d better take good care of her child. Let them know someone cares. In this case, the man in charge is Uncle Roger, and I’m introduced to him like a six-year-old. Nobody really has anything much to say to Uncle Roger. The message has been delivered. This camper-waitress has a family, and a dog, and you’ll be held accountable for anything that happens to her.

  It’s time to get on the bus. I’m starting to get in a small panic because Steffi isn’t here and I’m having trouble saving her a seat. Somehow, everyone seems to want that particular seat.

  Big parting scene, hugs, kisses. Norman, in a frenzy, knows something unusual is happening and is pulling, not in any special direction, just pulling. That’s a hundred and twenty pounds of pulling.

  Steffi finally arrives. There’s all kinds of squealing and hugging and kissing. Obviously my friend Steffi is very popular. Strangely enough, this makes me a little uneasy. Not that I’m jealous, that’s not it, it’s just that she’s the only one I know at camp, and I’m not anxious to share her with a million other people.

  And that’s what happens right away. I’m saving her a seat next to me, but though she dumps all her stuff on it, she whispers that she’s going to sit with Ellen Rafferty for a bit. Ellen lives next door to the famous Robbie in Connecticut, and Steffi’s dying for information. I can understand. I really can.

  The bus pulls away, and my wonderful parents, fabulous sister, and adorable dog get smaller and smaller and further away. Two minutes into the summer and I hate the whole thing, because my best friend is sitting next to someone else. Can you be sixteen and six at the same time? The only thing left is a few tears, which I could easily work up. I don’t, though. Instead I bury my head in my new book, but that’s all I can do because I have to keep my eyes closed. I get nauseous if I read in a car or a bus.

  Funny how people look when you meet them for the first time. After you get to know them, they never look the same again. Right now I look around and everyone seems sort of formal and cold, like they could never be my friends. They all look much older, too. That’s possible, because camper-waitresses can be as old as seventeen. I hope I’m not the youngest. I can see right away that one girl looks, at most, twelve. There’s always someone who looks so young, and then you find out that they’re really seventeen. Even when they’re twenty-five, they still look like kids. I don’t think I’d like that. Life’s hard enough without having to explain all the time that you’re really not twelve. This particular girl seems pretty nice and she’s sitting right across from me, so I figure I’ll act a little grown-up and try being friendly.

  “Hi, I’m Victoria Martin,” I say.

  And she smiles and says she’s Annie Engle.

  I go on with the usual things about how this is my first year up here, and how I’m sort of nervous about it.

  “It’s my first year too,” she says, and she is so natural and easygoing, I hit it off with her right away. She’s got a nice innocence about her that’s really adorable, and I know we’re going to be good friends. With some people you can tell right away.

  “Naturally I’m a little nervous about the work because I never waited on tables before, but the way my friend Steffi and I figure it, it’s going to be a snap,” I say. “Have you ever done this before?”

  “You mean wait tables?”

  “Right.”

  “No, I think I’m too little.”

  “Hey, don’t worry,” I tell her. “I don’t think it makes any difference if you’re short.”

  Surprisingly, she gets really indignant. “I don’t think I’m so short.”

  We’re not even out of Manhattan, and I’ve had my first failure. I’m the Norman of the camp set. “I didn’t mean it that way.” I start falling all over, trying to ingratiate myself. “I always wanted to be petite. It’s so cute.” Once I start burying myself, there’s no stopping me. “Tiny hands and feet.”

  Now she’s really insulted. “I was next to tallest in my class last year.”

  I’m beginning to get a sinking feeling about my new friend. “What class was that?” I ask.

  “Sixth grade.”

  No wonder she looks twelve.

  I go right back to my book. Things are tough enough without latching on to a twelve-year-old. They must have put her in here just to trick me. Like a decoy. God, I hate this place.

  I’m sitting there with my eyes closed, turning the pages at the proper time, when I sense someone looking over me.

  “That’s a great way to read a book if you don’t like it,” the guy leaning over me says, in a friendly voice that has the little bumps and chuckles running through it. I like him before I can even twist around to see his face.

  He pulls back and stands up straight. I was right—he is nice, tall and lanky, with silky straight brown hair that hangs over his forehead and always will. He’s got a nice face. It’s not gorgeous, but lively and smart, with a few freckles sprinkled across the top of his nose to give him a casual, easygoing look. He must be at least six one. Probably a tall twelve-year-old.

  “I’m Ken Irving. I work in the front office.”

  “Hi, I’m Victoria Martin and I’m going to be a waitress.”

  “You mind?” he says, sweeping Steffi’s stuff toy one side and sliding into her seat. “You’re going to be a waitress, huh?’

  “Is that bad?’

  “No, it sounds great, I guess.”

  Suddenly I’m nervous. “What do you mean, you guess?’

  “Hey, I didn’t mean anything.” I can see I’ve thrown him off balance, which I didn’t mean to do. “This is my first year here so I’m just guessing at everything. Waiting tables sounds terrific.”

  I smile to let him know everything’s all right. “You think so?’

  “Are you kidding,
it’s great. I guess.” Now he’s smiling back, and I have to smile too.

  Waiting on tables, what could be so great about a job like that—except if it’s your first adult job? Not like babysitting or mother’s helper or some other kind of gofer kid job. Being a waitress is the real world, and so it is great. Naturally, I don’t tell him all that. He’d think I was off my nut.

  “What are you going to be doing in the office?” I ask him.

  “I’m not even sure. So far all they told me was that I’d be answering phones.”

  “Boy, that’s a snap. How’d you get such an easy job?’

  “The usual way.”

  “From an ad in the paper?’

  “Are you kidding? That’s the easy way. We had to get my mother’s cousin Caroline’s daughter to marry Mo of Mohaph’s son. Then Caroline put in the fix, and, voilà, here I am. How’d you get your job?’

  “Obvious,” I tell him. “I’m Mo’s son.”

  And we both laugh. I like Ken because he’s one of those people you feel comfortable with instantly. It’s as if we’re old friends after five minutes. Only trouble might be if he tries to make it more than that. Right now, I don’t feel like it. I can sense a little something else from him, but not from me, not yet, anyway. Good friends, that’s all.

  And we’re gabbing away a mile a minute, having such a good time that I don’t even see Steffi come over. Ken sees her first, and he gets a funny look on his face. Uh-oh, looks like I won’t have to worry about Ken bothering me. I think he just got zonked. Too bad, but I know there’s no chance for him against Robbie.

  “This is my friend Steffi,” I say. “This is Ken … uh …”

  “Irving,” he adds, not taking his eyes of Steffi.

  “Hi,” Steffi says, open and friendly as always. And not noticing a thing.

  Now, straight off, I want to make it clear that I don’t have any real interest in Ken Irving. None at all. Not even the slightest bit, though I like him as a friend. A lot. But no other way. However, it does make you feel a little frumpy, dumpy, gross, and highly rejectable when, after spending fifteen minutes dazzling someone, one look at your best friend and he forgets you ever lived. And she isn’t even trying. This is not my day. In fact, what with Judy First probably making out with Todd the minute I got on the bus, this may not be my summer. But I’m not going to let it bother me. After all, it’s only my whole life.

  While Steffi chats with Ken, I sit there not allowing the destruction of my entire summer ruin a lovely bus trip. Just as I’m being overcome, Ken reluctantly tears himself away from Steffi and goes back to his seat. And Steffi turns to me.

  “He’s cute,” she says. “Do you think he likes you or what?”

  “Or what what?” I kid her. That’s her new thing, everything ends in “or what?” Last year it was “you know.” When she gets these things it can sometimes take months to get rid of. And they’re very catching.

  “Seriously, Torrie, I really think he likes you.”

  Even smart people can be so dense sometimes. “He is cute,” I tell her, “but it isn’t me he likes.”

  “Come on, all he did was say three words to me.”

  “Sometimes you don’t even need that,” I tell her.

  “Oh, Victoria, you’re so romantic. You read too much. It doesn’t happen like that. Whammo, and you’re in love.”

  “How did it happen with Robbie? Didn’t you know the minute you saw him?”

  “Not really. At first I thought, gee, he’s cute. Then after a couple of minutes talking to him, I thought, gee, he’s smart and nice and even better looking than I thought. By the end of the first date I thought he was gorgeous and brilliant and the most exciting guy I’d ever met. And when he didn’t call me the first thing the next morning, my stomach got so knotted up I couldn’t even cat breakfast or talk or even think. It was either a twenty-four-hour virus or I was in love. Since I didn’t have any fever, it had to be love.”

  “You see too many movies.”

  We both laugh, and then Steffi gets serious. “Wait till you meet him, Victoria, he’s so terrific you’re just going to love him. I’ve never met anyone like Robbie before. He’s not like any of the people we know at school. Most of them are just stupid kids

  “I mean, all they care about is making out. But Robbie’s different. He’s a real person. He cares. Not just about the people close to him, but everybody. Whole countries, the world. If something happens in Afghanistan, it really matters to him. And he’s ready to pitch in and help or donate something or write a letter or whatever. He’s the kind of person who could be president. I mean it, he’s so special. I really am in love with him, Torrie.”

  I never heard Steffi talk that way about a boy before. Even her voice has a different sound to it. You can probably hear the love. I’m really happy for her and I tell her so. “I can’t wait to meet Robbie. I like him already,” I say, and I mean it. Anyone who’s that important to my best friend is going to be very important to me, too.

  Steffi goes back to her daydreaming about Robbie, and I sit worrying about the summer, watching the countryside zip past. The sight of green meadows begins to relax my fears. I’ve lived in the city all my life, and I still get very excited when I get into the country; show me a brook and I go nuts, or those farmhouses that look like the ones I used to draw in fourth grade. And the sight of a herd of cows just hanging out in somebody’s front yard still knocks me out. Steffi spends every summer up here, so she’s not nearly as impressed as I am. I think she’d rather stick with her Robbie fantasies than listen to my babbling about the beauties of nature, so I just stay quiet and take it all in. It’s hard for me to imagine what it would be like living in any of these small towns we’re passing through. Sometimes I think it might be a nice life, sort of easy, in a place where everyone knows and cares about everyone else. Somewhere warm and friendly and safe, with lots of country fairs and hay rides. Or maybe it’s only like that in the movies. Come to think of it, it might not be so great having everyone know everything about you. You can get lost in a big city if you want. Still, I think I might like to try a small town for a while. Maybe after college. Just to find out what they do in between hay rides and country fairs.

  I’m so busy planning the rest of my life that I almost don’t notice that we’ve turned off the main road and are on a single-lane country road. Everybody is grabbing stuff off the racks and putting things together.

  “Another five minutes,” Steffi says, stuffing her jacket into her overnight case.

  “I’m so excited,” I tell her.

  “Me too. You’re going to love it, Victoria. It’s going to be our best summer. Nothing but fun from early morning to late, late, late, late as you want at night. Nobody’s going to be standing over us. We’re on our own.”

  “Excellent! I just hope I can handle the work, though. I’ve never waited on tables before.”

  “Are you kidding or what? It’s a cinch. It’s not like you’re serving real people in a restaurant. These are just kids. You just shove the food in front of them and they eat it in two seconds and then you’re finished. Free! Nothing to do for the rest of the day but lie around in the sun, swim, curl our hair, polish our nails, and dress for fabulous parties every night. The hardest thing you’ll have to do is fight the boys off. They’re going to just love you, Victoria. Wait’ll you see.” With that, the bus pulls up to a big iron gate and stops.

  “Are we here?” I ask.

  “Yup, this is picturesque Camp Mohaph on Mohaph Road. High on Mount Mohaph above beautiful Lake Mohaph. Remember from the brochure?”

  “It’s beautiful,” I say, and it is. We drive through the high iron gates up a winding tree-lined gravel road, and at the very top of the hill stands the camp. It’s divided into two circles of bunkhouses, one for the boys and one for the girls. Both are fantastic. It looks more like a hotel than a camp. I thought they said it was an old camp, but all the bunks look brand new.

  From the bus, if you look dow
n behind us, you can see the lake. It’s small but sparkling, with a tiny island right in the middle (Mohaph island, I guess) crowded with weeping willows that drip their long branches into the water. Along the banks there are acres of green lawns carpeting the hills, and in the distance you can see the playing fields, playground for the little kids, and a gigantic pool shining aqua in the sun. Steffi’s right. I’m going to love it here.

  The bus pulls into the parking lot, and we all grab our stuff and, loaded like pack horses, slowly make our way out of the bus. Uncle Roger leads the way. The closer we get, the better it looks. The bunks are glossy white, so freshly painted they look almost wet. Each bunk has different color shutters. On the girls’ side, wonderful violets, soft mauves and pinks, with an occasional splash of burgundy. On the boys’ side, the bunks are also sparkling white, but the shutters are in the more traditional browns, grays, deep blues, and reds. I love it all.

  With Uncle Roger in the lead, we all start moving toward the bunks.

  “I hope it’s the one with the mauve shutters,” I whisper to Steffi. “It’s my favorite color.”

  “Actually, these are for the campers. Ours are further back.” For some reason Steffi seems a little uncomfortable.

  “Great,” I tell her. “More privacy.” And I mean it. I’d hate to be in the first row with all the little kids.

  Uncle Roger turns around and holds up his hands for us to stop. “Waitresses can head over to the right,” he says, pointing toward a big, beautiful building, almost like one of those New England meeting halls.

  “Fantastic,” I tell Steffi, “it’s the best one of all.”

  For some reason Steffi is hanging back a little. Almost like she’s trying to keep away from me. Maybe she’s worried that I’ll be disappointed because it’s not one of the little bunks. I try to reassure her. “Steffi, I love being in the big building away from everyone else, and we’ll have the whole place to ourselves. Just waitresses. Fabulous.”