A Summer of Chances

by Roxanne Tully

  I looked around. I was usually pretty good at thinking on my feet. I spotted a tape measure in her kit and reached for it. “How long is this sign?” I asked while measuring the width of it while it was folded.

  “Twenty-two feet,” she answered, tilting her head and narrowing her eyes at me.

  I turned to the driveway of where I imagined the buses would arrive. There stood two trees approximately that distance apart.

  “Have you considered wrapping them around those trees over there? It’s probably the same distance, and just as visible when you drive up.”

  She considered it for a moment. “The beach club manager offered to add a ‘Welcome Campers’ to their digital LED display board.” She half smiled as if she was starting to consider it.

  I laughed. “That was his solution? He’s never been to a real camp, has he?”

  “That’s what I said!” she exclaimed. “I only need it up until the campers get here tomorrow morning.” She looked at the trees for a moment and seemed to picture it. “What’ll we need?”

  “Let’s see,” I started, eyeing the distance between the two trees and the folded-up banner. “A pair of scissors, some thick twine, and a ladder.”

  “Have you done this before?” she asked flatly.

  “Nope.”

  “Okay, let’s give it a go.” She clapped once, lifted her supply box, and with a quick nod of her head, marched toward the trees.

  It took a little effort, but the banner was up, and even with the light wind, it held nicely. As long as a hurricane didn’t hit in the next eighteen hours, we should be set.

  “Done,” I said triumphantly after I’d put down the ladder and looked up at our work.

  “Huh!” she simply said.

  I looked over at her and smiled, pleased to be leaving on a good note. “Glad I could help, Ms. Thornton.” I turned back toward Bays House to get my things.

  “Aren’t you leaving that folder?”

  I’d forgotten that she’d asked me to leave it for her for next summer. Not that I knew where I’d be or what I’d be doing. I handed it to her, hoping that maybe she might catch me before I got too far out of town.

  She opened the folder and looked through its contents. “You haven’t killed anyone, have you?”

  “Is that a joke?” It took me a second to realize a background check was probably where she was going with this. “Oh!” I quickly straightened my posture. “No…I definitely have not.”

  She smirked and looked up at me from the folder. “Okay, I just need an hour to confirm that and look through the rest of this. Don’t unpack just yet. I’ve already posted the schedule for this week, but I’ll recirculate it to the staff later tonight if all this checks out.” She held up the folder.

  “Oh, Ms. Thornton, thank you so much! You will not regret this. I promise.”

  “Sarah!”

  “Uh…Amy, actually.”

  She rolled her eyes. “No, call me Sarah. Jeez, you’re making me sound as old as Ruth.”

  “Thanks, Sarah. I’ll see you tomorrow…first thing!”

  “First thing,” she called back.

  CHAPTER 4

  The next morning, I was up at 5:30. I threw on my navy khakis and a white tank, grabbed a sweater, and made my way out. I quickly looked over at Rachel, who was still sound asleep. I doubted an earthquake would have woken her. I always envied people who could sleep like that. But there was an upside to being an early bird.

  Like watching the sunrise.

  I took the last step off the deck and headed toward the beach. My timing was perfect, I saw the slightest hint of pink and yellow in the distance of the ocean. As I walked down the sands of the beach, I took in a deep breath, inhaling the salty smell. For the last few days, I’d felt nothing but nervous, rushed, irritated, and scared. But as I slipped off my thongs and dipped my toes into the warm, smooth sand, I felt at complete ease. This summer was going to be different for me.

  I found a spot near a cluster of beach rocks, far enough away from the water that it was dry, but close enough to get as much of the ocean in my view of the sunrise as possible. The sun came up slowly, spreading its rays evenly, finally waking the dull, gray waters. It was a brilliant orange with streaks of pink and yellow. I sat and looked around the empty beach, wondering how no one else ever seemed to want to witness these daily wonders. Then again, it was Monday morning. Maybe this was more of a Saturday thing for folks around here.

  I found myself wondering what it’d be like to watch the sunrise with someone. Don’t get me wrong, it’s something I’ve always enjoyed and preferred doing on my own; it’s when I do my best thinking. But for a reason I couldn’t explain, the thought of another person sitting next to me seemed…okay. I’d have to stop listening to Rachel so much. Emily was never really an all-guys-all-the-time talker.

  As quickly as I let my thoughts take over, daylight hit, and I smiled that my ritual hadn’t disappointed.

  I stood and walked in the opposite direction of Bays House and the camp. I had a few spare minutes before I needed to head back and change for the first day. The beach was still pretty empty, but a handful of people started to make their way down with their lounge chairs and umbrel-las. I walked past the building crowd and onward toward some beautiful cliffs I’d noticed from my tour of the town on Sunday afternoon, after Sarah had given me the official green light.

  I didn’t have time to get close enough to see the details of how deep it went in, but I did see what looked like an eagle falling from the top and diving into the water. I shook my head lightly and squinted. That was no bird—it was a human. I kept walking forward and saw her head pop up from the water and her arms fly up in excitement. There was laughter and screaming from the top, as another body dropped from the cliff.

  I stood and watched as the group of friends, who seemed to be in their early twenties, reveled in their freedom. I imagine the logic behind engaging in such a dangerous and probably illegal activity this early in the morning, was the scarcity of life guards, officials, and the concerned general public.

  Two hours later, campers ranging from ages five to fourteen were spilling off the buses like water from a broken fire hydrant, all of them running to the gathering of folding tables, clipboards, and the uneven line of counselors and lifeguards.

  After Sarah’s welcome speech in the gym, the lifeguards—Rachel and a guy named Peter—went up on the stands and made their pool safety announcements. I noticed Sarah handing out schedules to the rest of the counselors. She finally approached me.

  “Amy, you’ve got seven in your first class,” she stated, handing me a list. I attached it to my clipboard, where I kept my site notes and map of the town.

  “Okay, my nature art class, please line up in front of me when I call out your name,” I called out over the group of eight-to-ten-year-old campers, who, according to the revised schedule, were my first class.

  Once we were all set, I gave them a quick rundown of what we would be doing and was invigorated to see their excitement.

  “Nature art, huh?” a familiar voice behind me said.

  I swung around and was convinced this was the guy I’d bumped into yesterday outside the staff lounge. I hadn’t gotten a glimpse of his face since I’d run off almost immediately after crashing into him. But I could tell it was him by the width of his broad shoulders, his voice, and my fuzzy memory of his hair. Seeing it more clearly now, I noticed it was soft brown and wavy, where the front fell just below the eye and the rest spring out in random directions. He smiled at me and I sighed silently with relief that he hadn’t recognized me. Maybe I’d run off faster than I thought.

  “Hi. I’m Amy Kragen. Yeah, I’m taking them out to the river today behind the camp, just off the grounds. We’re going to find something in nature to inspire our art,” I said casually.

  He nodded, looking at the kids. Then he turned his head to me. “Rick Foster,” he said, stretching out his hand.

  “Are you a first year here?” I
asked after a light shake of his hand.

  “Rick! Rick!” yelled out one of my overly excited campers I remembered as Dillon.

  “Dillon—hey, buddy, good to see you!” he acknowledged with equal excitement. He turned back to me with a little less enthusiasm.

  “Third year,” he said flatly.

  I smiled politely but said nothing. Instead, I turned to my group and asked them to each pick up an art travel clipboard I had set aside in a cart, at the other end of the gym.

  I turned back to my notes to check the first site. Extremely aware of Rick still standing next to me, I looked back up at him.

  “Good meeting you, Amy. Good luck on your first outing.” He said walking toward the center of the gym to meet his class. A few steps away, he turned back and added, “Oh, and try not to knock any of ’em over on your hike through the woods.” He winked and turned back to his set of eight kids. “Okay, guys. Drop your bags over at the benches and meet me back here for warm-up.”

  Great, I thought. Well, here was my chance for a quick and painless apology to avoid getting off to a bad start with any of the staff. “Rick!” I called after him and walked the few steps over. “Look, I’m sorry. I was…”

  “In a rush. I know, I heard you,” he said with a grin.

  “Yeah, but I probably should have—”

  “What, stopped and helped me dry off my shirt?” he interrupted again with a smirk. “Appreciate it, but I’m not interested.” He turned away, facing his campers.

  I felt myself getting heated at that last comment. What did he have against me anyway? It’s not like I bumped into him on purpose. I collected myself with a single silent breath. “In what—my apology or helping dry your shirt off?” I joked, hoping it would ease the growing tension.

  “In either,” he snapped.

  Stunned at his sudden tone, I looked at him blankly and hesitated. He took this moment to turn back to his group as they were gathering for their warm-up. The rest of the classes had headed out of the gym to start their activities as Sarah and Ruth gathered the forms and folders and headed to their air-conditioned office.

  I tried hard, but I couldn’t just leave it like this. I had to figure out what this guy’s problem was.

  I watched my class approach me with their packed art supplies and decided to stall for a minute. “You know what? We’re going to be taking a bit of a hike to our first site. Maybe you guys should take five minutes to stretch.” I watched them absently for a minute as they all went about their personal choice of stretching and took the moment to think. Finally, I walked over to Rick, who was helping some of the kids reach their max stretch points. He looked past me, noticing my troop in their exercises.

  “An art class that requires a physical warm-up,” he said mockingly, nodding in the direction of my group. “You wouldn’t want them pulling a hamstring when they’re painting a tree.”

  Although annoyed at his sarcasm, I was begrudgingly amused. “Look, I really wasn’t trying to be rude the other morning.”

  “And inconsiderate,” he added.

  I continued, ignoring his comment. “I just hadn’t really settled in yet and didn’t know anybody. I’d barely even got the job here before yesterday afternoon,” I admitted.

  “Ah, so you weren’t even on staff here before you went off being rude and inconsiderate to random people you ran into.”

  I shrugged. “You just assume that I’m being rude to everyone here.”

  “How would I know? I’m just calling it like I see it,” he said with the same critical inflection I’d said to the Bum who’d saved me from lunging into the pool. He glared at me as if I’d been a long-time rival. Suddenly, I felt a flood of heat rise from my neck, turning my face, as I was sure of it, a brilliant red.

  “You’re the guy from the pool,” I muttered, staring back at him. Everything I said and thought about him prejudging me came crashing back at me like the surf. He watched me as it all sank in.

  “That’s not even the funny part,” he said finally, “What’s ironic is that you were kicking me out of a place where I had more authority to be at than you did.”

  I opened my mouth to say something, but between his aggressive tone and the sheer embarrassment, I was at a loss for words.

  “Was really great meeting you,” he finished, with a wide smile and then turned back to his group.

  My crew of seven trailed behind me as we approached our first nature site. After my call with Sarah, where she had told me my background and application cleared and had confirmed my lifeguard license was valid, I asked her for the allowed distance off camp grounds that we could trail. She gave me the breakdown per age group, and I had spent the rest of Sunday afternoon walking around town and taking notes. Exhausted by Sunday night, I emailed Sarah my list, and, except for two sites, they were all approved. She’d become excited about the new activity for the campers and had already updated the camp website, with a special introduction to their “adventurous new camp counselor, artist, and nature enthusiast from Colorado.” I smiled as I read the words on my screen.

  The two sites that weren’t approved were mainly due to distance. One was a small farm I’d found just along the other side of the lake. This lake was just a few miles south of the beach and was fairly small compared to other nearby bodies of water. Sarah explained that was where they held the camp’s kayaking class. They had even rented a small cabin there every summer, which they used for equipment storage and changing. The hike from the cabin to the farm was just over two miles, and because you’d have to go around the lake, it took thirty-three minutes just to get there. That wouldn’t leave much time for art, considering they’d still need time to find an inspirational focus point. So that was out. And, since I wasn’t authorized for any water sports, I couldn’t take them kayaking across to save us time, either.

  We arrived at the spot I had reserved for this group. It was a small river just under a mile from the camp. The sun hadn’t made its way to this part of the area yet. Its strong, beaming rays wouldn’t be a distraction, and I wouldn’t risk anyone getting overheated. I asked them to take a few moments to observe their surroundings before starting. The campers, each carrying clipboards, found a spot and settled in.

  The clipboards, which I must say were the best invention since the pencil box, were made of frosty-white plastic. They measured approximately fifteen inches on all sides and opened to a compartment containing all the essential art supplies. There was a section for plain, colored, and charcoal pencils, a small box with a set of ten nontoxic paint tubes and brushes, and finally, a large clip holding a thick sketch pad.

  “Nature is a messy art, guys, so don’t worry too much about straight lines,” I advised after noticing one kid use a ruler to draw a tree branch.

  I scanned my group and noticed the slender, dark-haired boy, Kevin, was looking around at all the other kids. He seemed to notice that the rest of the group had found their inspiration point and had started sketching and brushing away. He looked down at his own blank and blindingly white sheet and just stared at it.

  I spotted a seat next to him and did my best nonchalant stride toward him, picking out a clean sheet of paper from my clipboard. Without looking in his direction, I sat about a foot away from him. I had my pencil positioned on the paper and looked out into the river for a long moment.

  “Aren’t you going to draw something?” Kevin asked.

  I glanced at him, then back to the river. “You know, I’m not sure I’ve decided what I want to draw yet. Sometimes I can just sit here for twenty minutes and forget that I’m trying to draw anything.”

  I wasn’t sure if I was making any sense to him, but at least it was honest. I’d learned a long time ago that kids will never remember any of the crap you tell them. But honesty stays with them, even if they don’t understand it when they hear it.

  “Yeah, I’m not sure where to start either…” His eyes drifted back to his blank paper.

  “What you do usually like to draw?�
��

  “Well, it’s nothing specific. I just like to draw different shapes and patterns and mix them all together. It actually ends up looking pretty good.” I saw a hint of pride in the way he’d described his art.

  “Oh, that’s called abstract art,” I said. “You know, if you prefer to use abstract, you can just use the colors that you see around you in your patterns. It doesn’t have to be a picture or the scenery. Everything you see around you is meant to inspire you to do something.”

  “Really?” His face registered surprise. “But then I’m not drawing about nature.”

  “Sure you are,” I said. “A big part of nature is color. Your art can just be nature colors, like the dark gray river, or the green trees,” I said, pointing,

  “What would you draw if you were doing something different from everyone else?”

  His question took me by surprise. But I answered honestly. “Probably a cartoon of some kind.” I focused on the horizon, trying to find a way to bring the focus back to his work. “What about the sky? What color would you use for that?”

  CHAPTER 5

  I was pleased with my first class. My second group was just as rewarding. The five and six year olds were adorable and drew flowers in the beach-club garden.

  I walked the group over to swimming, where I’d be dropping them off in Rachel’s care—well, and that of her co-lifeguard Peter, with whom she was getting well acquainted. Rachel was the model flirt. She was wearing her red, one-piece bathing suit, talking to Peter, laughing with an occasional spritz of her sunblock. She spotted me and cheerfully waved me over.

  “How’s it going?” she called.

  “Oh, we had a great time today. I even got them to talk about what inspired them in their outdoor surroundings.” Rachel was eagerly listening and nodding. Too eagerly, in fact. I caught her shoot a glance over at Peter and that’s when I realized that I could have been reciting my literature paper on War and Peace; she wouldn’t have known the difference. I wrapped up my story and turned my head in the direction of the kids.