Page 7 of Until Next Summer

My jaw drops. We opened registration aweekago. Usually it takes until the end of April to hit this milestone.

“That’s…that’s fantastic!”

“If things keep going this way, we might even turn a profit this year. Ironic, right? Finally making money and the camp is being sold.”

“I have some other good news: Antonio accepted the position as the camp chef. He’ll take over the hiring and management of the rest of the kitchen staff.”

“That’s wonderful,” Dot says. “I’ve been emailing with a young couple about running the lakefront. I’ll set up a call with them for an interview.”

“Great,” I say. They’ll need to be certified lifeguards with experience handling canoes, kayaks, and sailboats. We’ve never had a drowning death at Camp Chickawah, and even though this year’s campers will be adults, I’m not about to take chances.

“That just leaves the Arts and Crafts cabin,” I say, looking at the to-do list on my laptop. We’re planning on hiring a small staff for the summer—we don’t need counselors for adult campers, and we do need to save some money.

“We did get one applicant.” Dot pauses, then says, “Remember Hillary Goldberg?”

I blink, surprised. “I thought she had some fancy corporate job.”

“In finance, I think,” Dot says, nodding. “But she has a break this summer.”

Hillary, running our Arts and Crafts cabin? Why would she want to spend her summer working at camp? It’s exactly what shedidn’twant when we were eighteen.

“Now, I know you two had a falling-out—”

“That was years ago,” I say, waving a hand. “Ancient history. I’m not—”

Dot gives me a stern look. “I know how much it hurt you, Pippi.”

Dot usually calls me “boss,” but sometimes she slips up—usually when she’s thinking of my younger self, that long-ago, inexperienced counselor. In this case, she’s probably remembering how much I missed my best friend.

Who was supposed to be there with me.

I clear my throat. “That was a long time ago, and it’s fine now. Really.”

“If you want to tell yourself that, go right ahead,” Dot says. “But she’d do a good job.”

“If she’s been working in finance, how is she qualified?”

“She’ll figure it out—that girl spent hours in the Arts and Crafts cabin,” Dot says. She’s right. Hillary loved it all: pottery, painting, boondoggle, papier-mâché, tie-dye. “Besides, no one else has applied, because, let’s be honest, the pay is shit.”

“True,” I say, sighing. “I guess it’s fine, then.”

“You got it,” she says, and starts working on an email.

I return to my list, but my mind keeps drifting to the image of Hillary Goldberg returning to camp. My chest feels strangely hollow, and I rub it with my palm. Indigestion, maybe. Damn diner coffee.

“Did I tell ya about the reservation we got for the whole summer?” Dot asks, after a while.

I look up, confused. “The whole summer?”

She grins proudly. “Yeah! Someone emailed me about renting an entire cabin for all eight weeks!”

“Are they paying for all twelve spots?”

Dot’s smile falters. “Well, no. I figured he’d take the small staff cabin on the boys’ side that sleeps four. Sorry, boss.”

I give her a reassuring smile; she doesn’t know about my plan to maximize profits so I can give her and Mr. Billy a bonus at the end of the summer. “It’s okay. I’ll reach out and let them know there will be other people assigned to the cabin. Who is it?”

She looks at her laptop. “William Duncan.”

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