by Anna Katmore
“This is our last session. I’ve never missed an appointment, I haven’t sampled a drop of tequila and company in nineteen months, and I’m a happy, stable twenty-year-old now.” Hopefully he gets the hint. My senior year of high school was an episode I’d rather forget. Risking my life for a boy I was crushing on but who’s happily in love with my cousin was the dumbest thing I’ve ever done—and I did many stupid things in high school…
The sooner I can walk out of here, the sooner I can close this chapter for good, pack my suitcase, and fly to Europe with my friends. The ticket has already been bought, and Les and Kir have a luxurious four-bedroom apartment in Mayfair, which we’re going to share for the next year. Luckily for me, they decided to finish their acting classes in England, and I don’t have to do my study abroad year alone after all. They’re merely coming home for a month this summer to see their families. So I’m going to do exactly two things this summer: for the first half of it, I’ll party and sip nonalcoholic cocktails with Brinna, Lesley, and Kirsten beside the pool in our garden, and for the second half, I’ll party and sip real cocktails overseas.
Now there’s only one last thing to cross off my list before takeoff.
“I guess I’ll need an official notice from you for the authorities to let me retake the driving test next week?” I ask.
Dr. Devonport chuckles. “Ah, always so eager to leave my office. But you did hold to your part of the deal, and there’s no point in rolling out old stories today, I believe.”
Damn right!
“Did you bring all the paperwork I need to let you off? The results of your last FST?”
Diligently, I pull the folded sheets from my handbag and hand them over to him across the table. “All here.”
“Very good.” He thumbs through them, looking pleased. “And the signed proof of your community service, please.”
“Um, yeah, about that… I haven’t gotten to do all of the hours yet.” I lower my gaze and scratch my brow. “You see, with the new school and the hard schedule and all, there just wasn’t enough time.”
He looks up at me. “How many hours did you get done then?”
I twist my mouth to one side, biting the inside of my cheek. “Er…fifty-three?”
The doc stares at me like I’m a damn bus on a collision course. “Fifty-three hours? In a year and a half?”
“Yeah. Spare time was scarce.” I shrug, feeling an uncomfortable heat rising inside me. “But that won’t be a problem, right? I mean, I can do the remaining hours when I get back from my year abroad, or maybe continue with them in England.”
“I’m afraid not.” Lips pursed, he scratches his clean-shaven chin. His eyes find mine. “Community service has to be done before the end of your probation, which will be…” He grabs a folder and skims through the pages.
“At the end of July,” I help him out in a voice flat from shock.
“Right.” He closes the briefcase. “If you can’t complete the hours by then, you’ll have to go to court again. And the penalty may be tougher this time.”
Horrified, I jump to my feet and start pacing the room in front of the line of wide windows. “Even if I go to the soup kitchen every weekend from today, it will take like a hundred years to fulfill that demand!”
“You might have thought about that sometime in the past year and a half.”
Yeah, rub salt into the wound, why don’t you? That’s what he does best, anyway. I grit my teeth.
“Perhaps there’s a solution to your problem, though,” he murmurs. I stop in my tracks and spin to face him. He taps his pen against his lips, his gaze moving to the wall in thought. “You could do them in a block.”
“What do you mean?”
“My son and his friends wanted to go to summer camp in July. It’s supposed to be five weeks long, but the camp is short two counselors. Two they had lined up canceled recently, and if they can’t find replacements, the whole session has to be called off.”
“You want me to be a counselor at a summer camp?” My chin drops a little. “To watch some ten-year-olds flounder about in the water?”
“All the campers are between twelve and fifteen. And yes. Considering your predicament, this might just be the perfect chance for you.” He waves his hand, asking me to sit down again, but I shake my head. “The camp starts in the middle of July. That’s early enough for you to complete your hours before the end of the month.”
“And after my hours, I can leave?”
“Of course not. For the camp to happen in the first place, you have to commit to the full five weeks.”
“But that’s impossible. I’m flying to Europe the first week of August!” And I’m definitely not going to cancel that trip a second time.
The doc tilts his head. “You can either do this, or find another way to complete your hours.”
Rubbing my hands over my face, I weigh my options, which are quite limited. Continuing with volunteering at the soup kitchen means it’d take forever to finish my service hours. If I agree to be a counselor, on the other hand, all my problems could be solved in one go. And who says I have to do the whole five weeks? I could just fall ill at the end of July or find another reason to leave. Once my probation is over and I’m safe, it’s really not my problem what happens at a silly summer camp.
“So, let’s say I agree…” My hands drop to my hips, and my gaze sharpens on him. “What about the second counselor? You said they were short by two.”
“I know the director has asked another college student. If he agrees, too, then your problem is solved.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“Then there won’t be a camp.”
I spin on the spot and gaze through the wide window into the bright sunlight that’s warming my face. If that other guy says no, I could ask Brinna to come with me instead. She didn’t make it into the drama school in London last year after all, and in hindsight, I was quite glad about it. Living in San Francisco without a best friend would have sucked. As I think of her by my side, the whole idea of dealing with hyperactive kids for a couple of weeks doesn’t seem so loathsome anymore. And afterward, I can party with Les and Kir in London.
“So?” the doctor prompts me.
I take a deep breath, wrapping my arms around myself, and turn back to him. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
*
I step out of the blue Camaro, stretching my neck and spine after the drive to Frog Pond Mountain, and blink up at the high-noon sky. Outside the air-conditioned car, the heat forces a drop of sweat to roll down my nape into the collar of my black blouse. I wipe it off and scan the area around me. The pebbled parking lot is packed with parents saying goodbye to their kids, some of them actually tearing up. Seriously, how stupid is that? If anyone should be crying right now, then it certainly should be me. I’m about the only person here who didn’t come voluntarily.
Brinna climbs out of her car, too, and gets my suitcase from the trunk. We have to lift it out together, because it’s so big someone might think I packed a corpse in it…or two. “You have everything you need?” she asks as she slams the trunk then runs a hand through her plum-colored curls.
“Yes.” Three weeks’ worth of fresh clothes plus nail polish and makeup is in the suitcase, and my iPod and phone in my purse. “I’m all set to wait out my time in hell.” Until the end of July. Then I’ll be gone.
In an excessively dramatic move, she throws her arms around me. “I’ll miss you!” Yeah, drama school is definitely going to her head. Then again, she’s probably referring to more than just my time at camp. When this torture is over, I only have one last weekend with my best friend before flying out of the country—to stay with my other two best friends. Brin has a boyfriend now in San Francisco and refused to apply to Guildhall a second time. Jace is a cute guy. She’s probably doing the right thing not leaving him behind.
I hug her back and thank her for the ride. Too bad it turned out she can’t do this whole summer-camp-freak thing with me, because the other
guy agreed to help out after all. Doc Devonport called to tell me the very same evening he dropped the bomb that the first half of my summer vacation wouldn’t be filled with pool parties and fancy cocktails, but rather with a bunch of teenagers kicking off into puberty.
“If you need anything, call me,” Brinna says as she pulls back. “And I’ll be waiting right here the night of July 31st.” Then she cocks her head and smirks. “Unless you need me to spring you from this prison earlier. Then I’m totally your girl!”
I laugh. “Yeah, let’s keep that option in mind, okay?”
Brinna’s eyes take on a sad quality. “I really hate that we don’t get to spend your last couple of weeks in the country together.”
“Me, too.” More than I can even tell her. Suddenly, the farewell sadness of the parking lot seems to rub off on me. My throat clogs. I press my lips together and hug her one last time. Then I watch her climb back into her car.
Grabbing the handle of my suitcase, I wait for her to drive off, but after she starts the engine again, she rolls down her window. “I almost forgot…” As she leans over to get something from the glove compartment, I shuffle closer. She holds out a cell phone to me.
My brows form a V of confusion. “What’s this for? You know I have my own.”
“It’s an old phone from my little sister. Call it precaution. You know the rules at camp. No phones, no tablets, no laptops, no nothing that could ever let you get in touch with”—she makes a funny face—“the world outside.”
“That rule only applies to the campers, certainly not the counselors,” I reason.
“Are you sure?” Brinna arches her brows. “If I’m right, you’ll have to hand in your phone, and then you’re thoroughly screwed.”
“Valid point.” I take her sister’s discarded phone and drop it into my handbag, then I wave goodbye until the Camaro is long out of sight.
With one last deep breath that smells of pinewood and teenage anticipation, I pivot and wheel my giant suitcase behind me across the lot, gravel skidding everywhere. The point of no return is marked with an arched board set high above the ground on two thick poles. The red color has faded a little over the years, but the name on the sign still reads the same as the last time I stood beneath this arch, four years ago.
Welcome to Camp Clover!
My chest expands with a deep sigh, then I forge on. If nothing has changed over the years, it’s the walk of a quarter mile to the main office on the girls’ side of the camp. The boys’ huts and the dining hall should be across the lake.
Some kids are storming past me, squealing and laughing. Their suitcases don’t seem to weigh more than half of mine. What did they bring? A bikini and nothing? Maybe the hair dryer and straightener were a bit much, but I don’t want to spend the next couple of weeks with frizzy hair.
The walk down the dirt path becomes increasingly troublesome with roots and twigs lying across it. Perhaps I should have put on sneakers today instead of my black high-heel boots that match my white stretchy jeans. Thank God there’s a selection of shoes to pick from every day in my luggage. If it wasn’t too cumbersome now, I’d open my suitcase and change immediately. At least the trees lining the path provide some shadow, so I won’t break out in sweat before reaching the office.
Five minutes later, a strange feeling of coming home settles over me, as I stop at the end of the path and my gaze sweeps over the campsite. Just like in my memory, there are the three log cabins, housing up to eight girls each, fronts turned toward the picnic table situated in the middle. The birch tree next to the hut with a tiger painted over the door has grown a few feet since I last saw it, but everything else still looks like no time has passed at all.
The girls who stormed past me on the way here sit on the picnic table like they own the place and excitedly discuss into which cabin they might be going to move. More memories rise up at the view. Memories of playing games, forming new friendships, and living with an odd flutter in my stomach the whole summer.
A smile turns up the edges of my mouth. I shake it away and head on to the main office, which is some eighty feet to the right. The office isn’t a log cabin but a tiny house with yellow plaster and a red-shingle roof. Several people linger in the doorway, mostly parents waiting for their turn to get their kids registered.
Leaving my suitcase outside, I squeeze past them and find the person in charge. The ginger-haired woman behind the desk is bent over a list, obviously trying to find a particular name by running the end of her pen from bottom to top.
“Excuse me,” I say and lean down toward her until she lifts her head and makes eye contact. “My name’s Chloe. I’m supposed to meet with the other counselors somewhere around this place.”
Offering me a welcoming smile, she brushes her bangs out of her face. “Wonderful! The others are already waiting for you. Just walk to the back of the building. That’s where the—”
“Sickroom is, I know,” I cut her off, remembering how I once got my elbow scraped and had to have it tended to there.
She gives me a knowing look. “You’ve been here before?”
“Not as a counselor, but as a camper. A long time ago.”
“That’s great. You’ll find that nothing has changed over time.” She hands me a sheet of paper that she drew from a pink folder. “Please fill this out and turn it in later today. For now, just go meet your colleagues in the sickroom. My assistant will be with you in a few minutes and explain everything.”
“Okay.” I fold the paper and stuff it in my purse, then I fight my way through the crowded room toward the back. Just before I reach the door, a shiver runs through me, as if someone tossed ice water on me, making the small hairs on my arms stand on end. Unease crawls up my body, from my toes to the back of my neck.
I whirl about, but there are only strange faces. Rubbing away the chill that is totally out of place on a scorching-hot July day, I make my way out of and around the building. The sickroom has its own entrance at the back, facing the path down to the lake. Outside, leaning against the wall with one leg angled, the sole of his sneaker placed against the plaster, stands a tall guy with flattened brown hair and a plaid shirt tied around his waist. He’s puffing out the last lungful of smoke from his cigarette, then he drops it to the ground and kills it by rubbing it into the dirt with his toe.
“Seriously?” I say, lifting my brows at him. I know I’m not a big role model to the kids myself, and I’m not even trying to be, but smoking in a camp with a bunch of twelve-year-olds? Even I know not to do that—if I were a smoker, anyway.
He offers me a sheepish grin that moves the acne spots on his cheeks closer together. “Sorry.” Shoving dirt over the stub with his foot, he makes an effort to bury it. “That was my last, I swear.”
For the sake of his flawed skin, I pray that he’s right. “Trying to stop?”
“For the sixth time this year, yes.”
Now, I actually feel sorry for the thug, who’s probably about my age. “Good luck with that.”
“Thanks.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Greyson, by the way.”
“Chloe.”
His long fingers wrap around mine, squeezing with too much nervousness. Either it’s the detox he’s afraid of, or this is his first time in a summer camp. Of course, it’s my first time as a counselor, too, but I can’t say that I’m antsy like him. Then again, I don’t intend to do much over the next two weeks but get a nice tan down by the pond. The other three watchful counselors can deal with the kids.
Greyson follows me into the sunny, clean room that holds a few cupboards and a dark-green bed with a layer of thin white paper on top. A girl sits on the backless swivel stool and spins around, her shoulder-length dark hair woven into two tight braids. The eyesore topping her cutoffs—a garishly yellow T-shirt—is probably a magnet for bees and bugs. Note to self: keep a distance outside.
Her smile when she spots me is scary. She jumps to her feet and skips over, shaking my hand without me even reaching out. “Hi!
You must be Chloe,” she chirps.
And you must be Snow White’s happy sister. I bite back the remark and just nod.
“We’ve been waiting for you. I’m Julie Reed. You’ve met Greyson already, right?”
I nod again.
“I’m so glad you look young and nice,” she blabbers on, and I can only tilt my eyebrows in response. Quickly, she corrects herself. “Oh, I mean friendly. Last time I was at camp, we had a counselor who must have been 105.” She rolls her eyes dramatically. “It wouldn’t be fun to run a camp with a hag like her. But you look like someone who knows how to have fun. We’ll have a great time entertaining the youngsters with games, food fights, and what not! Don’t you think?”
Yeah…no. I don’t think I want to play tug of war with the kids. And pizza in my hair? Absolutely not.
Freeing myself from her hand, I walk over to the bed and sit on the edge. “So, where’s number four? I was told there wouldn’t be a camp with only three of us.”
“He popped in and said hi a few minutes ago but had to get a few things from the office. Apparently, he’s the camp director’s right hand.”
“The redhead’s assistant?”
“Yes. And boy…” Julie makes dreamy eyes and leans closer. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she checks if Greyson is out of earshot. He took a seat behind the narrow desk and is now playing with a pen-like flash light as a cigarette substitute, so we’re safe and she squeaks under her breath, “He’s hawt.”
“Number Four? Really?” I whisper back, feeling a small amount of anticipation for the first time since I was forced to come here.
Her short braids flail as she bobs her head.
Good to know, because pimple-faced Greyson isn’t actually dating material. And spending the days at the lake with some eye candy to check out sounds like just the right distraction to get me through the next couple of weeks.
