Page 26 of Until Next Summer

“Eek!” Zoey shouts and gets into place beside Jessie. I stand next to Zoey, and Dot makes one final micro-adjustment of the alphabetized folders.

We hold our collective breath, releasing it when we hear the crunch of the gravel and see the fifty-seat charter buscoming around the corner. I’m practically bouncing out of my shoes by the time it stops in front of us.

The hydraulic doors hiss open, and we all scream, “Chicka-welcome!!” as campers file off the bus, hooting and hollering. It’s pure chaos, and I love every second of it, watching these grown men and women step back into a memory. What a gift Jessie is giving us all this summer.

I watch her now, looking genuinely happy as she corrals the campers into a line for check-in. Dot hands them each a folder and their limited-edition Adult Camp Chickawah T-shirts before passing them off to be escorted to their cabins.

Zoey takes the first two, lawyers from St. Louis, to Cabin Six, while Mr. Billy loads their luggage into his four-wheeler—which certainly would have come in handy last week!

I’m up next, showing a couple from Cleveland to their separate cabins. They’re giddy on the walk over, telling me how they met here at camp and are now married with two kids. Looks like Lola was right when she said there’s no love quite like camp love.

Soon, all fifty campers are settled in. But there’s no time for rest—the second bus is already rolling down the path. “Chicka-welcome!” we all scream, somehow with even more enthusiasm.

Four hours and six buses later, my feet are aching and my cheeks are sore from smiling. I just escorted the last two campers, Michelle and Katie from Pittsburgh, to Cabin Ten. Now, instead of heading back to the dining hall, I’m sneaking a quick break at the Lodge. I need a second to catch my breath—all this people-ing has worn me out.

My plan for peace and quiet is short-lived, however. The newlyweds are also back, taking a “break” in their room,which is next to mine. These walls are thin, and Zoey is not shy about vocalizing her pleasure. From the volume—and frequency—of the moans I keep hearing, Zac is extremely skilled between the sheets.

A high-pitched shriek pierces the air, followed by the rhythmic pounding of the headboard against the wall. I blush and put in my AirPods, pulling up one of the podcast episodes I downloaded in preparation for the lack of Internet. It’s a show that highlights successful businesses that have reinvented themselves. The host is talking to Lou, a woman at the helm of an empire committed to helping people crush their comfort zones.

It makes me think of Jessie, whose comfort zone is clearly this camp. If she was able to think a little differently about things—like she’s started to do with this whole adult camp idea—I wonder if she’d be able to turn a bigger profit. Maybe even keep the camp from closing down.

I close my eyes and smile, relaxing into my own comfort zone: solving other people’s problems.

Until Zoey moans again, loud enough that it breaks through my noise-canceling headphones. Have I been having sex wrong my whole life? Because I have never, ever made a noise like that.

—

The dinner bell rings just after six. My social battery has recharged, but my stomach is running on empty. I can’t wait to see what feast Cooper has cooked up. With almost three hundred adults packed into the space, the decibel level inside the dining hall is off the charts. I find myself missing the quiet of last week, when it was just the eight of us for dinner.

I scan the room; every table is full. Back in the day, we used to sit by cabin—but the tables that could easily seat twelve kids only comfortably fit eight adults. And Jessie rightly knew that while couples and friends would be okay sleeping in separate cabins, they’d want to be together for meals. Which is great for them—but for me? I prefer the structure of knowing where I belong. Tomorrow, I’ll get here earlier so I can claim an empty table.

Tonight’s menu, according to the chalkboard sign by the door, is rustic chicken with oil-cured olives, roasted baby potatoes, and sautéed spinach. There’s a roasted cauliflower steak option for vegetarians, and an apple galette with vanilla bean ice cream for dessert. The wine pairing—Jessie’s idea—is pinot noir. Each table gets two bottles, and from the looks of it, several people brought more for themselves.

Which gives me an idea.

I wonder if Jessie would be open to suggestions; she could sell additional bottles of wine at a premium to make more of a profit this summer. Three hundred campers six nights a week for seven weeks could be a substantial gain.

“Excuse me?” A timid voice interrupts my thoughts, and I turn to see a first-time camper who’s here with her boyfriend. “Do you know if the chicken is gluten free?” she asks, sounding nervous. “I’m also sensitive to xanthan gum.”

I don’t know the answer, but I do know who to ask.

Cooper’s in the kitchen, standing close to an attractive blonde, one of the campers here on a girls’ trip. He quickly steps back when he sees me, a guilty smirk on his face.

Flustered, I ask him about the gluten and xanthan gum, then head back to the dining hall, leaving them to whatever clandestine thing they were about to do. It shouldn’t surpriseme he’s already breaking the rules, given how cavalier he was during our run-in after my shower.

Over the next hour, I keep myself busy finding the wine opener for a thirsty bunch, getting more bread for one table, more butter for another, and refilling water pitchers. Then, as the campers are finishing their dessert and I’m about to make a plate for myself, Jessie walks up to the front and uses a triangle dinner bell to call everyone’s attention for evening announcements the way Nathaniel and Lola used to do.

“Hello, campers!” she calls out. “For those I haven’t had the chance to meet yet, my name is Jessie Pederson, and I’m the camp director here at Camp Chickawah!”

Applause spreads through the room like a wave, and I swell with pride for my old friend.

“This summer is bittersweet for me, since it’s the last one we’ll have here together,” Jessie says. “But it warms my heart to have you all back for one Chicka-wonderful week! We’ve got a lot of nostalgic events planned, but if you want to participate in any of the water activities, you need to report to the docks tomorrow at nine a.m. sharp for your swimming test.”

A collective groan rises from the crowd.

“Don’t be a sissy,” Zac says. The insult isn’t PC, but delivered in his Australian accent, it’s almost forgivable. “If you’re too weak to tread water for ten minutes, you can spend the week at Arts and Crafts.”

“No offense, Hill!” Zoey calls.

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