Page 27 of Until Next Summer

“As I was saying,” Jessie says, trying to get things back on track. “We’re in tick country here, so—”

“CHECK YOUR CREVICES!” several campers shout, a catchphrase from when we were kids.

Jessie nods. “Yep, and—”

“How do we get Wi-Fi?” a man calls out.

“Like we mentioned in the registration email, you won’t get any service here,” Jessie says. “But you can survive a week off the grid. In case of emergencies, we have Internet in the main office—but it’s slow.”

“Does needing to watch porn count as an emergency?” another man shouts.

Based on the way the room erupts with laughter, you’d think Jessie was talking to a group of teenagers, not adults in their early thirties.

“All right, people,” Jessie says. “Let’s focus. Breakfast is self-service from seven to nine a.m. The daily schedule will be posted outside the dining hall each morning. For any type As out there, the schedule for the week—subject to change—is posted at the Lodge and the canteen. Speaking of the canteen, it’s open every day from eleven a.m. to four p.m., and you can buy stamps and batteries, chips and candy.”

“What about weed?” a woman calls out.

“You’re on your own for that,” Jessie says, and there’s another smattering of laughter. “Last but not least, I’m excited to announce tonight’s special activity—in keeping with the Camp Chickawah tradition…”

“Campfire!” half the room calls out. So I’m not the only one who’s been looking forward to this evening. It doesn’t get more iconic than sitting around a roaring fire, singing songs and roasting marshmallows.

“See you all at the firepit at eight o’clock!”

Applause and cheers fill the room, and I wonder how it must feel to get such sincere and audible appreciation for doing your job. The most gratitude I’ve ever gotten is a firm handshake and a box of Bartlett pears.

Not that I’m looking for any recognition; I just want to earn Jessie’s trust. That’s the first step in my plan to get her friendship back. Really back, not in the friendly-but-distant way she’s been this past week.

I turn to see her walking toward me, and I smile, hoping she’ll ask me to save her a seat by the campfire.

“Do you mind grabbing the marshmallows from Coop?” she asks.

I deflate but keep a smile on my face. “You got it, boss!”

And with that, my former best friend is off to take care of the many things I never realized went into making a summer camp run.

—

Once I get the marshmallows from Cooper—ten bags!—I head to the firepit. It’s not dark yet, but I learned my lesson from showing up late to dinner.

Mr. Billy is the only one here, prepping the fire with wood and kindling, so I nab a spot on a log in the second row of the concentric circles surrounding the firepit.

Usually, I use downtime to do something productive, but out here without service, my phone has turned into a very expensive camera. It’s made me realize how addicted I am to technology, the urge to always be doing something. Anything but nothing.

I force myself to be still, to breathe and be present. Taking in the golden hour as the sky turns to dusk and the trees surrounding the camp fade into shadows.

The moment is short-lived, as eager campers arrive to claim their spots. Even the sun seems to know we’re in a hurry to get the night started. Before long, it’s the kind ofpitch-black you only get out in the middle of nowhere—so dark I can’t see whoever is walking toward the pit, strumming a guitar. The simple melody, combined with the crackling of the flames, gives me goose bumps. All chatter ceases, and we sit together in a moment that feels almost spiritual. It’s transcendent.

At last, I make out Jessie walking toward the fire, her face glowing in the flickering light. Next to her is Cooper. And his guitar. I suck in a breath at the sight of him—be still, my teenage heart.

I exhale slowly, watching all the women around the fire watching Cooper, too. The blonde from the kitchen is staring at him like she’s marooned on a desert and he’s a tall drink of water. I try not to roll my eyes.

Jessie is scanning the circle, looking for a spot to sit. I try to catch her eye, but she passes right over me. I look away, grateful for the dark, which hides my hurt.

Someone to my left passes me a flask. I hesitate, then remember Aaron chiding me about my lack of fun-ness and take a sip. The whiskey tastes like Red Hots and burns going down my throat.

“What does everyone want to hear?” Cooper asks, strumming as he talks.

A cacophony of requests blends together, and Cooper laughs before starting to play “Cat’s in the Cradle.” Another bottle gets passed my way, and I almost choke on the sweet peanut butter flavor as Cooper starts to sing. His voice is like graveled honey and it does something to me. Or maybe it’s the combination of his voice, the whiskey, and the fact that I’ve been listening to my horny neighbors getting it on atleast once a day, every day. Either way, I start to sing along, wishing I hadn’t waited so long to come back to camp.

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