Summer at Meadow Wood

by Amy Rebecca Tan

  “Thank God,” I muttered quietly.

  The side of Earl’s mouth twitched up in a quick grin, which let me know I was louder than I’d meant to be.

  “We’re happy to have your help, Bella. I was just about to show Vic here what to do. Follow me.”

  I noticed Bella check me out as we walked behind Earl, although there wasn’t much to look at, since I was dressed for farmwork. Her gaze moved from my worn sneakers to my blue athletic shorts and Snoopy T-shirt, over my no-makeup face all the way to my ponytail, my hair frizzing out in every direction even though there wasn’t a drop of humidity in the air. She lifted her hands to each of her braids then, patted them in place from top to bottom, and smiled to herself.

  Earl was far enough away now for me to ask, “You signed up for farm?”

  Bella rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Because during sign-ups I was stuck in the office getting a lecture from Brenda about sneaking my cell phone into camp. I swear she called me in exactly then so I’d get last pick.” Bella glared to the side as if Brenda were standing right there. “There’s no reception up here anyway, so I don’t know why she even cares.”

  “That’s two today for Brenda.”

  “What?”

  “She found Jordana’s iPod this morning,” I explained.

  I though Bella might ask what I was doing at farm, if I signed up or just got stuck with it like her, but she didn’t. She just kept walking after Earl, lifting her feet high as she stepped through the dusty rows, probably trying to keep any dirt from landing on her polished toenails.

  Earl stopped at the back of the field, right by a long row of bushes that stood as tall as my chest. They were boring-looking bushes, as wide as they were tall, with small, dull green leaves. As I got closer, I spotted thick clumps of berries pulling on the branches. The blueberries were plump and round, some of them such a deep blue they were almost black.

  “Blueberries are a nutrient-dense food. They’re high in antioxidants and, luckily for us, in season the first several weeks of camp. Steven has already served them up in pancakes and muffins.”

  “Those muffins were so good.” Bella licked her lips. “Can he bake them again?”

  “If we grow ’em, he’ll bake ’em. That’s the point of the program—organic food grown right here by us, for us. Skills for you to take with you once you leave camp. This is our first year trying it out, which makes some of you senior campers our guinea pigs.”

  “I’ll be a guinea pig. Guinea pigs are cute,” Bella said.

  I peered more closely at the blueberry bushes. They looked more interesting to me now, important even, but still not as much fun as being on a volleyball court with Carly.

  “There are two jobs,” Earl explained. “First we gotta pick the ripe ones. All of them. Then we gotta cover the bushes with that.” He pointed to a cardboard box on the ground full of pale white netting. “The birds got to pick for a few days, but I’m shutting the buffet down now. We gotta cover up every bit so they can’t take any more.”

  “How do you know if they’re ripe?” Bella asked. I saw a flash of pink in her mouth as she spoke. It was one thing to chew gum in your cabin at rest hour when no one was watching, but to chew it out in the open, and while you were working with one of the actual camp directors, was a whole new level of bold.

  Earl looked at her with the patience of a saint.

  “You like to eat blueberries, right?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Of course,” Bella answered, the piece of gum moving from the right side of her mouth to the left.

  “Well, if it looks like a berry you’d like to eat, it’s ripe. Pick it, and drop it in here.” He handed each of us a metal pail. There was a white line painted horizontally around the inside of the bucket. “Don’t go past this line, or they’ll start to crush themselves.”

  I took the pail and peered inside at the line. Bella took the pail, held it up high in front of her face, and squinted to catch her reflection in it.

  “I’ll start you on opposite ends so you have room to work. Vic, you stay here. Bella, come with me down this way.”

  I stood there, my ponytail sagging onto my neck, studying that very full blueberry bush like it might be an enemy. But then my mind jumped to my real enemy—my mom—because she was the reason I was stuck on a plot of mini-farm behind Brenda and Earl’s cabin in New Hampshire with a metal pail in my hand like some kid from the Little House on the Prairie series.

  “There’s no starting bugle, dear,” Earl called out from the other end of the bushes. “Just begin.”

  I stepped closer to the first bush and leaned into it, searching for berries that looked perfect enough to mix into pancake batter or toss on a bowl of ice cream. There were a ton of them, and I filled the bucket before I made it even halfway through the first bush. I turned to look for Earl, but he was already headed my way, holding a tray in front of him stacked with those green cardboard berry containers you always see at roadside stands.

  “Next we’ll fill these.” He leveled the tray of containers on top of the box of netting and started to work on the bush next to mine. “These are gonna be the ones we sell,” he explained before I had the chance to ask him.

  “Sell?”

  “There’s a farmers’ market in town every Saturday at eight a.m. Got enough berries here to turn all you campers blue, which I doubt your folks would appreciate, so I sell some. Already been to the market three Saturdays, got a tent and the same space reserved for the whole summer.”

  Selling blueberries out of a tent at eight o’clock on a Saturday morning sounded even worse than the bugle and flag morning routine I was already stuck with until the end of August.

  I glanced at Bella at the far end of the field. She was sitting next to the last blueberry bush, her half-full pail tipped over on the ground beside her while she picked dirt out from under her fingernails. Earl followed my gaze, sighed, then looked back at me.

  “It’s my first summer at the market. A lot of work for one person, but I enjoy it.”

  He had to be kidding.

  “I can’t handle mornings,” I admitted, “so that sounds like sheer torture to me.”

  “Well, you never know. . . .” Earl’s words trailed off.

  “You never know what?”

  “You never know what you can handle until you try to handle it.”

  “Right,” I said as nicely as I could. My back and neck were getting sore from bending over, and my fingers were aching from the repetition.

  The loudspeaker coughed itself on then and the bugle rang out, calling the end of the period. For the first time in my life, that bugle sounded as sweet as the ice cream truck jingle that played its way up my street back home. I stood up all the way and stretched backward, pushing out my chest to undo the bent position I had held for too long.

  I emptied my pail into one of the green containers on the tray and rubbed my hands together to get some blood flow back into them. I saw that there was a tint of blue stained onto me like a new skin.

  “All right,” I said with great relief. “It was a real pleasure, Earl. I’m off.” I headed toward the path that would lead me around the cabin and away from the farm.

  “It’s Wednesday,” Earl called after me.

  “I know it’s Wednesday,” I answered right away.

  “It’s double elective on Wednesday.” He said this without looking up, the rhythm of his hand swinging from bush to basket and back again like a dance he could do in his sleep. “Always has been.”

  An urge to yell rose in my throat so suddenly that I almost choked on it. I pictured Jordana sitting in the back of the speedboat, feet up, wind in her hair, soaking up the sun. I pictured Carly on the volleyball court, laughing at how many hits in a row she could miss, trying to convince the counselor that they should play a game where you hit the ball under the net instead of over. And I pictured my mom at her computer, writing betrayal after betrayal an
d hitting send, loving the freedom of an empty house while her kids were shipped away and her husband was at work.

  And then I saw me. Standing here with achy muscles and dirty hands, surrounded by plants and bugs and soil and buckets and an oldish guy and a fashion-obsessed Aster. Earl seemed to read the misery my face couldn’t hide and gave me some space, moving farther down the row of blueberry bushes.

  “Why do they even use the bugle if the period’s not over?” I asked. “It’s actually rude.”

  “Rude, Vic?” Earl shook his head. “Maybe a little misleading. And for you and Bella today, perhaps a bit disappointing. But the bugle recording is preset. Maybe try not to take it so personally.”

  I headed back to my spot, grabbed the pail, and continued picking and dropping, trying to calm my mind and stomach.

  About ten minutes later, I heard Bella shout, “Thank God!” She was sitting under the same bush, the berries in her pail now way past the painted line inside, holding a big cup of water against her cheek.

  “You can just call me Earl,” Earl responded with a chuckle, then added, “You’re welcome.” He walked over to me next with a cup of ice water in each hand.

  “Here you go,” he said, and thrust one at me.

  I took it and chugged the whole thing in one go. The cold perked me up immediately and I thought of Brenda again, telling Chieko at our first breakfast how hydration was the very best stimulant. She definitely knew what she was talking about.

  “Thanks,” I said, handing the cup back to Earl. All three cups had the New Hampshire state seal printed on them. I looked at the big boat in the middle of the design with its red flags flapping in the wind and wished I were on it so I could sail away from my mom, her email, and all these backbreaking blueberry bushes.

  But I couldn’t sail anywhere, so I went back to picking.

  Day 5—Wednesday Evening

  Meadow Wood didn’t have signs or fences to show where their property ended and the neighbors’ began. The woods were the property line. Woods so thick you couldn’t see through them.

  Brenda claimed the woods provided “the most natural and beautiful property line possible.”

  And we were not permitted to step one foot over the line.

  Aside from the parade of deer ticks the nurses promised would latch onto us if we stepped into the thick of trees, we would also get attacked by poison ivy, poison oak, poison sumac, or if we were really lucky, a combination of all three.

  Plus, there were wild animals.

  And maybe even Bigfoot.

  Seriously, they warned us about Bigfoot so we wouldn’t stray off the property.

  It didn’t work on me, though. Not even when I was nine. I strayed.

  I had been straying every summer, always to the exact same spot. As a moody Violet who had learned to avoid her camp sister after the tooth incident, I found myself sneaking into the woods at the edge of junior camp one night after dinner to stew in my sadness. After a minute of weaving between tree trunks and stepping over fallen limbs, I reached a boulder the size of a small car. It stuck out of the ground all bulky and gray with a gritty texture that reminded me of elephant skin. It practically begged me to climb it. So I did. And sitting there, alone on my rock, I felt better.

  I kept going back whenever I could sneak away. I never showed anyone my discovery, not even Carly, and I never told anyone about it, either, not even Jamie back home. That secret place was mine alone, and I needed it this summer more than ever.

  The sky was just beginning to dim and the air was cool enough to raise bumps on my bare arms. I sat on the hard rock and felt a surge of anger flare up in me again at the big fat lie that poured out of my mom’s mouth—that sending me to camp would save me from the bad influence of Jamie.

  Jamie never would have broken the rules and left camp property. That was all me.

  One hundred percent Vic.

  I could hear campers through the curtain of trees, yelling and waving the papers they were recording on. Evening activity was the same treasure hunt they made us do the first week of every summer. We had to run all over the grounds to find answers to questions like How many chairs are in the dining hall? and What color are the canoes docked on the beachfront? and What does the sign beside the clinic door say? As seniors, we were allowed to go without counselors, which made it easy for me to slip away to my rock.

  It was my very first chance to be alone, and I needed to be alone.

  I needed to think about what I saw.

  I’ll tell him, I promise, once the kids are gone.

  Those words played through my mind like a stuck song lyric. They showed up every time I closed my eyes against the rising sun at flag and every time I closed my eyes to fall asleep on my creaky cot at night.

  We’ll be together, just wait.

  At first I thought it was some romantic gesture between my mom and dad, which would have shocked me and also seriously grossed me out.

  But it wasn’t.

  I knew because my eyes moved up to the top of the screen and I saw that the email was addressed to Darrin. Which was a monumental problem, since my dad’s name was Ross.

  That was why.

  Darrin was why.

  He was why my mom sent me away. And why she sent Freddy away, too, on a different bus, the one headed to Lake Forest. Freddy was only eight, but she pushed him onto that bus with a kiss so quick it half broke my heart to see it happen.

  Because she’d rather be with Darrin.

  When she put me on the bus that morning, she thought I didn’t know, but I did.

  I just didn’t know what I was going to do about it.

  The taps bugle for lights-out was about to sound, so we gathered in the counselor room for another round of “forced bunk bonding.”

  “My rose”—Jordana went first, still twisting her hair into the style she always wore to sleep—“was kicking butt in the treasure hunt tonight. Simone and Bella and I came in first place.”

  “Who are Simone and Bella?” Chieko asked. “Sounds like the name of a bad wedding band.”

  “They’re both in Aster,” Jaida C said.

  “They’re lifers, in the oldest bunk.” Jordana was in complete brag mode. “And my thorn was that we didn’t get a trophy for winning.”

  “They never give trophies!” Carly sputtered at her.

  “Well, they should,” Jordana countered.

  “They should not. It’s just an evening activity,” Carly answered.

  “You’re just jealous,” Jordana said.

  “You’re just a butt-butt!” Carly said.

  “Butt-butt?” Chieko repeated. “Well said.”

  “Can someone sane go?” Jaida A asked. “Vic?”

  “Sure. My thorn is getting stuck with farm for elective this week. Obviously,” I said.

  “Obviously,” Carly echoed in support.

  “And my rose is”—I had to think for a second—“my rose is having canteen tomorrow. I’m dying for a Kit Kat.”

  And then everyone was talking at once about the junk food they couldn’t wait to get.

  Once Chieko got us all quiet again, Carly spoke up.

  “My rose was getting to canter on Rowdy today,” she said, gushing.

  Not everyone at Meadow Wood did horseback riding. It was an activity you had to pay extra for, and then the riders all got their own separate schedules each week of when they could go to the stables for their lessons. Carly got to skip our bunk activity several times every week to practice riding instead.

  “I was talking to Eliza,” Jaida C piped up. “She’s also in Aster and she’s a really good rider, and she said you did great today. And she said that horse really likes you.”

  “Yes, it would be a horse that really likes Carly,” Jordana ribbed.

  “Jordana, stop,” Jaida A and Jaida C said at the same time, then looked at each other and said, “Jinx.”

  “I’m just kidding, gosh.” Jordana leaned back a bit out of the circle.

  “M
y thorn is I don’t get to ride again until Friday,” Carly finished, then turned to Jaida A and said, “You’re up.”

  “My rose is that I put six letters in the mail today to SeaWorld,” Jaida A reported, “and my thorn is that right now there are still people buying stupid tickets to go to stupid SeaWorld.”

  Jaida C’s rose was getting a letter from her favorite cousin, and her thorn was swallowing a mouthful of lake water at swim when someone cannonballed right next to her.

  “Your turn,” Carly said, nudging Chieko. “You never go.”

  Chieko closed her eyes and said, with the seriousness of a heart surgeon, “My rose is that Eleanor Roosevelt recorded her wisdom in books so I can feed off her brilliance when there is nothing else to sustain me.”

  “Who’s Eleanor Roosevelt again?” Jordana asked.

  “Seriously?” Carly called out.

  “Shut up, smarty-pants,” Jordana snapped. Then she put on her Annie face and recited, “I grew up a poor orphan, forced to skip school and clean all day.”

  She sat up on her knees, straightened her posture, and started to belt out the song “Tomorrow,” adding hand gestures that had us all laughing by the third verse.

  When she finished her performance and the room got quiet again, Chieko continued. “My thorn today is twofold. My thorn is one”—and she held up her pointer finger—“the individual who invented the bugle, and two”—she raised another finger—“the sinister individual who installed the god-awful loudspeaker system at this camp.”

  Jordana sat up on her knees again and tried to imitate the screechy sound the loudspeaker made every time it was switched on.

  “You sound like a dying dinosaur trying to sing opera,” Jaida A said.

  And then we all cracked up again.

  Every single one of us.

  Day 6—Thursday

  When I reached the field behind Brenda and Earl’s cabin the next afternoon, Earl was already squatted over a row of greens, his back hunched, his arms shifting in a pull-and-drop motion. I could hear Brenda inside the cabin, the murmur of her voice on the phone, then the sound of the front door closing as she left to make her rounds.