One S'more Summer

by Beth Merlin

  First Published by Ink Monster, LLC in 2017

  Ink Monster, LLC

  4470 W Sunset Blvd

  Suite 145

  Los Angeles, CA 90027

  www.inkmonster.net

  ISBN 9781943858200

  Copyright © 2017 by Ink Monster LLC

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Also by Beth Merlin

  The Campfire Series

  One S’more Summer

  S’more to Lose – Coming December 5, 2017!

  For M & H

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Standing at the stop, waiting for the camp bus, I was amazed by just how little had changed in the almost fifteen years since I was a camper. To my left were the kids who couldn’t stop crying. To my right, the ones far too cool to stand anywhere near their parents. Then, the most recognizable group of all—the teenage girls who stood sizing each other up to determine who would be their fiercest competition for male attention over the summer. I took a deep breath and pulled out the clipboard listing the campers who would be on my bus. I put the whistle I’d been given at orientation around my neck and pushed my way through the crowd of duffle bags, trunks, and families. I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and found myself face-to-face with a girl younger than me, but definitely older than the surrounding campers.

  “Are you the bus counselor?” she asked.

  I nodded and extended my hand, which she didn’t shake.

  “I’m Tara, your CIT,” she said coolly.

  “CIT? Oh, right, my Counselor in Training. I’m Gigi, head counselor of the Cedar girls.”

  “You look young to be head counselor. How old are you?”

  I looked down at my outfit of jeans, Converse sneakers, and a Camp Chinooka T-shirt. No wonder she thought I looked young. I couldn’t remember the last time I wasn’t in stiletto heels.

  “I’m twenty-seven,” I answered.

  “Wow, you’re actually old,” she said, completely unaware of how rude she was being.

  “Excuse me. I’m going to go start rallying the troops now,” I said.

  I climbed onto one of the trunks and blew my whistle. “My name’s Gigi Goldstein. I’m head counselor for the Cedar girls, so hi all,” I said, giving a little wave. “We’re going to start boarding the buses in just a few minutes, so I need everyone to make sure their bags have been loaded on. If you have any special medications you need for the bus ride, keep those separate, and make sure a parent hands them to me before we leave. I’ll be right here checking off names, so start making a line.”

  The older kids rushed to the front of the line, anxious to board and get their first taste of summer independence. I couldn’t believe how much older thirteen looked now than when I was that age. The girls looked like mini versions of my twenty-something friends, decked out in trendy clothes and talking about which boys they were going to hook up with over the summer. When the campers had finished filling the bus, I spotted Tara still on her phone.

  “Hey, Tara, we’re gonna get going,” I said, motioning for her to hang up.

  “One sec,” she called back to me from the curb. “I’m saying goodbye to my boyfriend. We get, like, no reception up at camp. I don’t know when I’ll speak to him again.”

  Though I knew how important that last phone call was to a seventeen-year-old who thought being apart for the summer meant the same thing as being apart forever, I snickered at the dramatics of it. Forever was knowing the one man you’d ever loved was getting married to your best friend in just two months. Now that was worth some dramatics.

  When Tara finally climbed on the bus and mouthed the words ‘thank you’ to me, I knew I’d just made an ally, if only for the three-hour trip we had in front of us. I settled into my seat closed my eyes and thought back to my very first summer at Camp Chinooka.

  I was nine years old and had never been away from home before. My mother had dropped me off at the bus stop but left soon after to make it to her standing weekly facial appointment. Seeing me alone and upset, a girl wearing a faded Camp Chinooka T-shirt and a pair of cutoff Levi jean shorts had come over and introduced herself. Alicia Scheinman had shiny blonde hair, piercing green eyes, and a small smattering of freckles across her nose so perfectly placed you’d swear each one was individually applied with a tweezer. Based on the number of arriving campers who’d stopped to say hello to her, I could tell immediately she was one of the popular girls and I was grateful she’d decided to take me under her wing. By the time the bus came, I knew I’d made a good friend. By the time that first summer was over, I knew I’d made a lifelong one.

  A few hours later and somewhere in the middle of the twenty-fifth round of ‘99 Bottles of Beer,’ we finally passed the sign for the road to Camp Chinooka. Tara, who’d sulked most of the trip, perked up a bit and offered her assistance picking up the trash off the seats. When the last camper was off, I made my way out of the bus and was able to take a good look around.

  Camp Chinooka had opened in the early 1900s and it still retained much of its original rustic quality. There were a few sports fields, a swimming pool that had been added about ten years ago, and several different cabins that housed activities like arts and crafts and woodworking. Down a large hill nestled the camp’s namesake, Lake Chinooka. It was my favorite place at camp—maybe the whole world. I used to love sitting on the dock right as the sun was going down and the only sounds were the crickets in the trees and the wind hitting the sails of the docked boats. My whole childhood had been spent in New York City, and until I got to Camp Chinooka, I’d never known that kind of quiet even existed.

  On the far side of the camp, past the amphitheater was The Canteen. The Canteen was an old barn that had been converted into a recreational center. On the outside was a window where campers would line up to buy snacks and treats out of their summer allowance. On the inside, was a jukebox, old couches, and a crude bar that had been made by the head woodshop counselor sometime in the 1970s. It was a popular nighttime hangout for the counselors, who made good use of the bar…and the couches.

  Some of the bunks had fresh coats of paint on them, and everything seemed just a little bit smaller. Really, though, so little had changed that I could have been stepping off the bus fifteen years ago. As I continued to take in the surroundings, a man with the sexiest English accent I’d ever heard called out my name. I assumed he was part of the Camp America program, an organization that provided international staff to summer camps. The foreign counselors usually spent eight weeks at camp, earning money so they could travel around the US when the summer session ended. When I was a camper all the girls developed huge crushes on the British counselors, who were always far more interesting and exotic than their American counterparts. Looking around at how all the girls were gazing at this guy, I could tell little had changed.

  “I
’m Georgica Goldstein,” I answered, trying to raise my voice above the noise. I pushed my way through the crowd toward a twenty-something guy in khaki shorts wearing his Camp Chinooka T-shirt over a long-sleeved shirt. He had dark, curly hair being held back with a bandana and some of the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen. Across his face was the perfect amount of stubble, making me wonder if he was trying to look cool or just couldn’t be bothered to shave.

  “I’m Perry Gillman,” he said, juggling several things in his hand. “Head counselor for the Birch boys. Figured I should introduce myself.”

  “Great,” I said, staring into his big brown eyes. “I’m Georgica, which I guess you already know. Everyone calls me Gigi.”

  “Nice to meet you,” he replied, looking completely unruffled.

  “I’m gonna start organizing the Cedar girls into bunks. I guess I’ll see you around?”

  “Without a doubt,” he replied coolly.

  As I walked away, I tripped over a pile of trunks and duffle, wiping out on the gravel in front of everyone.

  Perry reached down to help me up. I stood up and brushed the dirt off my knees.

  “Might want to pay closer attention to where you’re going,” he said.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I muttered.

  I hadn’t handled the first introduction to my male equivalent for the summer particularly well. I was caught off guard by his looks and being back at camp, not to mention the number of adolescent girls gathering under the Cedar sign.

  “Hi, everyone,” I said, making my way toward them. “My name’s Gigi. I’ll be your head counselor this summer.”

  A few of the girls rolled their eyes and snickered. I tried not to focus on them, but I couldn’t stop my hands from shaking. “I have your bunking assignments on this clipboard. Please listen carefully.”

  I heard one girl in the back of the group say, “Listen carefully,” mimicking the sound of my voice. I wiped the sweat from my palms and swallowed hard. During my interview, the camp director had explained that head counselors were required to live in the bunk with the campers. I’d have a co-counselor and a CIT to handle some of the day-to-day stuff, but would be living right there with them, as a way to interact more with the girls.

  I read off from the huge list of names organizing the campers, counselors and CIT’s into different cabin assignments.

  “Okay, last but not least, my bunk, Bunk Fourteen,” I said, trying to rev up the remaining girls. “Your counselor is Jordana Singer. “I looked back down at the clipboard and realized that Tara was the only CIT not yet assigned.

  “Lucky us, Tara Mann’s our CIT,” I said, smiling at her. “I need the following campers front and center: Emily Barnes, Hannah Davidson, Madison Gertstein, Alana Griffin, Jessica Jacoby, Lexie Simon, Rachel Stauber, Abby Wexel, and Emily Zegantz.”

  The girls settled themselves into a line and waited for their next set of instructions.

  “Dinner’s at six. Go to your bunks, get unpacked, and we’ll meet in the Cedar horseshoe for roll call.”

  The girls took off running to make their claims for the bottom bunks and the best cubbies. I followed behind them with Jordana, who introduced herself as we walked. She was eighteen and going to be a freshman at Brown University in the fall. She’d been a camper at Chinooka and thought it would be fun to work as a counselor before going off to college. She had fair skin and really pretty straight red hair that was held back with a tortoiseshell headband. I could tell immediately we would get along.

  “What’s your story? Where do you go to school?” she asked as we walked toward the bunk.

  “I’m not in college. I’m twenty-seven, actually,” I answered.

  She repeated the number, understandably a little puzzled by it.

  “I know, a little old to be working here,” I said.

  “Are you a teacher or something, with the summer off?”

  “No, I worked as a designer for Diane von Furstenberg up until a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Wow,” she said.

  “Don’t be too impressed. I was downsized.”

  It was a lie. I hadn’t been downsized. I’d been fired. In fact, the minute Human Resource’s number had flashed on my desk phone’s caller ID, I knew what was coming. I’d been anticipating the moment for months, and when it finally happened, I had to admit I’d felt relieved.

  I remember how I’d trudged down the long hallway to HR, and saw my boss waiting for me in one of the large glass-enclosed offices. I’d offered him a weak smile as I sat down, so he’d know none of this was his fault. The HR rep had sat across from us and poured me a glass of water. She slid a box of tissues toward me and placed a manila folder containing what I was sure was my termination paperwork on the table. My boss spoke first, reciting a well-rehearsed speech about how painful the decision to let me go was. Then, the HR rep had launched into her part, rattling off information about COBRA coverage, applying for unemployment, and rolling over my 401K into a personal IRA. I didn’t hear any of it. The voice in my head telling me I was a total failure had completely drowned her out.

  Two years ago, I’d done something totally out of character and tried out for a new reality show, Top Designer, where fourteen contestants competed for a chance to show their collections during New York Fashion Week. Although I had no formal training, I was convinced I could take the fashion world by storm. While there were certainly far more talented people on the show, I believed I had something special—a sense of style that set my work and me apart. The judges had obviously agreed because I made it all the way to the finale. Although I wasn’t the ultimate victor, I did win some money to start my own line and more importantly, Diane von Furstenberg had invited me to join their creative team.

  I’d broken the news of my decision to be on Top Designer to my parents while we were sitting at Georgica Beach over Memorial Day weekend. Embarrassingly enough, I was actually named for that particular Hamptons beach. I like to tell people I was conceived during a particularly hot summer following a particularly dull display of Fourth of July fireworks. The unfortunate truth was that my yuppie parents had hoped they’d one day be able to afford a piece of property in the East Hamptons and thought the name would prove inspiring. My grandfather had never approved of me being named after a Long Island beach (can you blame him?) and immediately started calling me “Gigi.” Fortunately, like any good nickname, it had stuck. Thank God I didn’t have siblings, or one might have had the misfortune of being named Martha’s Vineyard, another of my parents’ favorite summer vacation spots.

  As predicted, my parents hadn’t taken the news of my reality show stardom well. Although they’d offered to pay the entire cost of a law school education, they’d made it very clear they were not at all interested in contributing to what they saw as a “self-indulgent waste of time.” So, I did what any headstrong twenty-something does when faced with what they believe is their own do-or-die moment. I moved out of my parents’ apartment and in with my best friend, Alicia. I used every scrap of savings I had to cover my expenses while I was on the show and prayed that all of it would prove worthwhile. The day Diane von Furstenberg offered me a position, it seemed as though I was on my way. And the day they fired me, everything had changed.

  Thankfully, Jordana knew enough not to ask any follow-up questions relating to my former employer, but her next question was even worse.

  “Boyfriend?”

  “No,” I answered, without even the smallest inflection. “You?”

  “I broke up with him a few weeks ago. I didn’t want to be tied down this summer. Good thing—there are some really cute counselors this year. Have you met Perry?”

  “I just met him a few minutes ago—seems nice,” I answered.

  “Not my taste, but definitely cute. Some girl will scoop him up.”

  Before we even walked into the bunk I could already hear the girls arguing over who got what bed and which cubby. Tara’s voice was louder than all of them. I looked at Jordana and said,
“Here we go.” She nodded and pushed her way into the bunk, no easy task with clothes and trunks covering most of the floor. Finally inside, Jordana immediately went to open up some windows, while I took a good look around.

  Five bunk beds lined the far wall with stacks of cubbies between each bed. On the opposite side were the two single beds meant for Jordana and me. I threw my bags down on the bed that had my name on it. I turned on the bathroom light and saw two sinks, two stalls, and another row of cubbies for toiletries and sheets. I’d forgotten there were no showers in the bunks. It was nice to see the camp retained some its original rustic qualities, but walking across the lawn, with nothing between the world and my bare behind but a towel... I shuddered at the thought.

  Tara had the bottom bunk right across from us and was complaining about not getting a single to anyone who would listen. While the rest of the girls were settling in, making their beds, and hanging posters, I put my own things away.

  First, I made up my bed, then turned the top of the cubby into an improvised nightstand. I set up an alarm clock, small lamp, and took out a framed picture of Alicia and me as campers at about the same age as the girls I was now in charge of. I stared at the two of us standing on the porch of the bunk, our hair pulled back with white bandanas, smiles from ear to ear. When one of the campers interrupted my trip down memory lane, I wiped the tears from my eyes.

  “I’m Madison—Maddy,” she said. She was a slightly overweight girl in shorts and a T-shirt that were both a little too small on her.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked.

  “I don’t have enough room to put away all of my things,” she answered.

  “Did you see the cubbies in the bathroom?” I said, pointing to the back of the bunk. “There should be two assigned to you.”

  She crossed her arms and spread her legs apart. “I already filled them.”

  “Well, how much more do you have to unpack? Maybe you can just refold some of it a little smaller?” I suggested.

  She pointed toward her bed, which was covered in piles of clothes.