Pre-Camp
I can’t believe I came back here.
The wooden bridge, the leafy trees, the white sign that says Camp Blue Springs in chipped blue paint.
Last time I was here was eight years ago. I was eleven. Eleven! I had braces and had never kissed a boy, despite my nickname.
Oh, wow, that nickname.
I was tortured, humiliated by my nickname on these very grounds. And yet, I am here again. Willingly. I must be some kind of masochist.
There’s a small green building, the camp office, to my left, and a gate blocking the road in. A guy—skinny, seventeen, maybe eighteen, spiky dark hair—steps off the porch and meanders over to my car.
“Heeeeeeeey,” he says, scratching his goatee. “Are you staff?”
“Yup,” I say. “Checking in. Samantha Rosenspan.”
“I’m Eric. Would you like to park in the lot just after the gate, mayyyybe?” He draws out his words, sounding slightly confused.
“I would love to park in the lot just after the gate, Eric,” I say.
“Fannnnnntastic! You’re going to Bunk”—he looks at his clipboard—“Six?”
No way. That was my cabin last time. I’m in the same bunk! “Six for the win,” I tell him.
“Let me grab your bags for you,” he offers.
“Thanks.” I pop the trunk of my dad’s twenty-year-old Honda Civic, which lives in my parents’ driveway, and which I am borrowing for the summer. My dad can’t drive anymore anyway.
The late afternoon sun warms my cheeks and I take a deep breath of the fresh pine air. It really does smell good up here.
Eric pulls one of my black duffel bags onto his shoulder, and I take the other. “Let’s just leave them by the stairs,” he says. “The Tank will drive them to your bunk.”
I don’t know if the Tank is a machine or a person, but I like that it/he will handle my heavy lifting. “Thanks. Do I just walk to Bunk Six after I park?”
“Yep.”
I wonder if it’s still in the same spot as it was eight years ago. “Near the flagpole? Lower Field?”
“Sounds right. I’m new.”
I get back in the car. He opens the gate with his sandaled foot, and I drive through. There are about fifteen other cars in the parking area. The clock on my dad’s dashboard says 5:05. The rest of the staff got here yesterday afternoon, but I told them I had an exam and couldn’t drive up until today, which was only a half lie. I did have an exam, but it was last week. My boyfriend, Eli, is leaving for Europe tonight. Since he’s going to be traveling for five weeks, we wanted to spend as much time together as possible. I basically moved into his parents’ basement in Greenwich for the last week. He slept upstairs officially, but crept downstairs as soon as his parents fell asleep.
We met my second week at NYU. I was trying to get into my room, jamming my key in over and over, holding a plastic bag. He opened the door. Turned out I was on the wrong floor. His dorm room—the one I was unwittingly trying to break into—was directly below mine. He asked me if I had anything good in the bag. He’d been studying and wishing he had cupcakes, so he wondered if I was the cupcake fairy. Regrettably, all I had in the bag was a new bottle of shampoo, since mine had somehow exploded all over my shower bucket.
I apologized and went back upstairs.
But since I was trying hard to be Brave College Sam, I went back the next day holding another bag. I knocked on the door. “Cupcake fairy!” I said.
With the exception of a few family holidays, we’ve been glued together for ten straight months.
Until today.
Eli’s cousin Yosef just got out of the Israeli army—and wanted Eli to travel with him.
I get it. I do.
A summer of traveling in Europe is objectively awesome. I told Eli he should go.
So then Eli suddenly had summer plans, and I realized I had no idea what I was going to do. Stay in New York on my own, in the dorm? Get an apartment? A job? Go back to Rhode Island? My besties from high school wouldn’t be in Providence over the summer. And my friends from NYU, Lauren and Emily, weren’t staying in the city. I tried to find an education-related summer job, but had no luck. I could maybe get a restaurant or retail job, but rent was so expensive, I wouldn’t save anything. The prospects seemed bleak.
Then in March, I saw Danish on the subway. I hadn’t seen her in years, since she’d been my counselor in training at Blue Springs a million years ago.
We bumped into each other. Literally. We were on the 6 train, and it was crowded. We were both standing and she smacked me in the arm with her bag before recognizing me.
“Sam! Is that you?”
It took me a few seconds to place her. She used to wear her hair short and striped with blue, but now it was all brown and down to her waist.
“It’s me! Daniella Morganstein! Oh wow, it’s been years!”
“Danish?” I said. That had been her nickname. I have no idea why. Did she speak Danish? Or eat Danish?
I hadn’t seen anyone from camp for years. On purpose.
She nodded, her head bouncing like a bobblehead. “Yes! It’s me! Do you live in the city now?”
“Just moved in September. NYU. You?”
“I’m at the New School. But my girlfriend is a senior at Tisch! What are you studying?”
“I’m majoring in education,” I said.
“What are you doing this summer?”
“I’m not sure, actually.”
“Really? Oh, oh, oh! Come back to camp! I’m unit head for the little kids! The juniors! They’re so cute! I need another counselor for the eight-year-olds! Staffing for these kids is impossible! Please be my counselor for the eight-year-olds! You would be perfect!”
“I would?”
“Yes! You were one of the good ones. Nice. And sporty! Didn’t you play softball? And you want to be a teacher!”
“Yeah, but . . .” I hesitated. “I mean, I didn’t have the best time there.”
She slapped her hand over her forehead. “Shit. I just remembered. Zoe Buckman. She was in your bunk, right?”
“Yes,” I said, my cheeks flaming.
Zoe Buckman. My absolute nemesis.
First Zoe had glockshmeared me—that’s when someone pours bug juice on you when you’re sleeping and covers you in baby powder.
Then she found my diary and read it to everyone in the bunk.
Then she stole my white bra and hung it on the flagpole.
And then came the shower incident. Which led to the nickname.
And then came the overnight. Where I got my period. For the first time. Before anyone else in my bunk.
“Zoe was horrible,” Danish groaned. “Your whole bunk was the worst, actually.”
“It was?” I felt oddly gratified. I hadn’t been “too sensitive.” It wasn’t “in my head,” like my mom said.
“Yes! But! None of the girls your age from that year came back. None of them!”
“None? Ever?”
“Well, they came back as campers, but none of them were asked back as staff. Some of the guys, but none of the girls. Botts is head of inters. He’s your age, right?”
Seniors were the oldest campers—twelve- to fourteen-year-olds. Inters were ten- and eleven-year-olds. Juniors were seven- to nine-year-olds.
I nodded. I remembered Botts, aka Daniel Bottsman. Botts was short, funny, red-haired, and freckled. He had played on the twelve-and-under softball team with me. I’d hung out with him a lot that summer, actually. We’d been friends. The girls in my bunk had been horrible, Danish was right about that. So I’d spent a lot of time with the softball team. Botts included.
“He’s exactly the same. Still a sweetie. He’s our youngest head staff member, but he’s great with the kids and started going when he was six. You’ll actually know a lot of people. Priya Singh is head of seniors; you remember her, don’t you? She was a year ahead of you. Josh Gold is head counselor. Jill Wiseman is head of CITs. They met at camp and now they’re married! Marissa Levkoff, who happens to be my ex, is head of waterfront. Don’t worry, it’s not awkward. Anyway, you would be so perfect. Consider this an official job offer. You’ll make about two grand, which I know is less than you’d make working in the city, but it includes all food and lodging! And it’s only six and a half weeks including pre-camp! And we’ll have a great time. Camp as a counselor is way more fun than camp as a camper, promise. So will you come? Say yes! This is my stop.”
I held on to the pole. Should I? If I didn’t take it, I would probably have to go home for the summer. And I was not looking forward to listening to my parents’ constant bickering.
And I may have been a loser as a camper, but I knew I could be a good counselor. No, a great counselor. I could make sure the kids in my bunk had an incredible summer. The summer of their dreams! No one would call my campers horrible nicknames.
And I hadn’t hated everything about Blue Springs.
I loved the lake, the endless stars, color war.
I just hated Zoe Buckman and her minions. I had nightmares about them occasionally, even as a college student, which was ridiculous since so much time had passed. Why couldn’t I get over it already?
But Zoe was gone. Gone and not coming back.
I could return to camp and like it. Maybe I could even love it! I could erase the bad memories! And it would even look good on my résumé to have hands-on experience with kids.
What else was I going to do all summer?
How often did a job bump into you on the 6 train? If this wasn’t serendipity, I didn’t know what was.
The train pulled to a halt. We both lunged forward and then back. “Well?” she asked.
I smiled at her. “I’m in.”
Tiny rocks crunch under my feet as I walk down the road into camp.
Two girls, teenagers, are huddled together talking. Both are wearing shorts and T-shirts. I’m wearing a black cotton dress and my J.Crew ballet flats. I can see that ballet flats were a mistake. They are mesh, and the holes are already filled with camp dust.
The girls smile at me, and I smile back, feeling out of sorts. I’m not sure if I should introduce myself or not, so I don’t.
I’m off to a flying start.
I take out my cell phone to text Eli and tell him I arrived. He was worried I’d get lost, but I knew Google Maps would do its job.
I type: Made it! Have only been attacked by three bears so far, but otherwise all good.
I wait for the text to send. When nothing happens, I study the bars. No service. Dead zone. Super. I was told that counselors, unlike campers, are allowed to have phones, as long as we don’t use them in front of the kids. I assumed that meant that using them would be an option.
“Rosenspan!” I hear. My head snaps up.
It’s Botts! Softball team Botts! Botts who is now head of the inter section.
“Hey, stranger,” I say, smiling. He’d always called me by my last name. Never by my terrible nickname. He’s walking with another guy who looks familiar.
Botts looks older. His shoulders have filled out. But I’m looking into the same eyes I did when I was eleven. “So the rumors are true!” he says, light brown eyes shining. “You’re back! You missed us, didn’t you?”
“Only you,” I say. “Did you ever leave, or have you been here since the last time I saw you?”
“I haven’t moved. I’ve been standing in this exact spot for eight years.”
“It’s good to see you,” I say, and I mean it.
He pulls me into a hug. “I wondered what happened to you. It’s great you’re back.” He squeezes my shoulders. “And you’re all grown up.”
I am all grown up. I am no longer the awkward eleven-year-old I used to be, trying to hide my hips, boobs, and braces. I am now happy to have these boobs and hips—and my perfect teeth, thank you very much. And I’m not just a hick from Rhode Island anymore. I live in New York City. In the Village! I get my haircut in Soho. I am glamorous. I am cool. I am freaking awesome, so go to hell, Zoe Buckman.
“You know Gav, right?” Botts asks.
“I’m not sure,” I say. No, wait. I do know him. I definitely know him. Gav is Gavin Lawblau.
No way.
Tall, lean, clear skin. Dark hair. Black T-shirt, blue board shorts. He’s wearing dark sunglasses. He was the cool guy when we were eleven, and it seems like he’s still the cool guy now.
“I think I remember you,” I lie, but my cheeks flush. I hope he doesn’t remember me.
“You look kind of familiar, too,” he says, a lazy smile on his face. “What section are you in?”
“Juniors.”
“Me too,” he says. “But I’m a specialist. I sleep in Bunk Five with the Junior boys, but I teach sailing.”
“The most psychotic kids at camp,” Botts says.
“They are totally psychotic. Last year I found one sleeping on the roof. And another shit into a taco.”
“Oh my God! That is disgusting,” I say, laughing. “Please tell me no one ate it.”
Now he laughs. “No, the smell gave it away.”
I make a face, hoping that it’s still a cute face.
“I believe you’re Bunk Six, and your co-counselor is Talia?” Botts asks.
“I guess. Was she here when I was here?” I ask quickly. I hope not. The fewer old faces the better. Less people who might remember my nickname.
“No, she started as a senior. And Janelle is new this year. But Lis was here when you were.”
Lis. I search my brain for a flutter of recognition. Nothing. “Um, great?”
“Can’t wait to catch up later, but we’re heading to the office. Do you remember where you’re going?” Botts asks.
“I do,” I say, adjusting my backpack. “I guess they switched Bunk Six from inters to juniors?”
He nods. “We did. Helps to have the little kids closer to the flagpole.”
A loud voice comes over the loudspeaker. It’s Eric the office guy. “Attention, all counselors. Attention, all counselors. It is now the beginning of Dinner Washup. Please go . . . um . . . please go . . . please go . . . wash up? Thanks.” Then we hear a loud crash. And then, “Oops.”
Botts looks up at the sky. “Am I imagining it, or does Eric sound high?”
Gavin nods. “He definitely sounds confused. He sleeps in my bunk, and I’m pretty sure I heard him wandering around the cabin in the middle of the night.”
Botts rolls his eyes. “He better not be high. Last year we found a huge duffel bag of amphetamines under the office girl’s bed. I do not have the strength to deal with that again.”
“You did?” I say, shocked.
“It wasn’t a duffel bag,” Gavin says.
“Okay, fine, it was more of a carry-on size. But still. It was a headache. I’m going to give Eric a warning just in case. See you later, Rosenspan. Glad you’re back.”
I smile as I keep walking up the hill. Botts is exactly the same. Everything here is exactly the same. It looks the same, it smells the same. The pool that I pass on my right is the same. It’s an indoor pool, surrounded by glass, with a green lawn outside. I can practically smell the chlorine.
Everything is exactly the same, except me.
To my left is Upper Field. It’s a big clearing with a gaga court, a Newcomb ball court, which is actually the same as a volleyball court, and a baseball diamond. I played on the softball team and got my first home run on that field. It went right over Bunk 10.
Now I’m walking down the hill. There’s a cabin to my right. Bunk 9. I can see that the tennis courts are still behind it, with the plexiglass-walled athletic center called the Skydome behind that.
Next is the Rec Hall, where we sang songs on Friday nights. Counselors played guitar and piano, and the lyrics were displayed on a screen. It was one of my favorite parts of camp.
I keep walking. To the left is the walkway to the lake. Below I see the sandy beach and a bunch of staff members setting up sailboats and Windsurfers.
The road turns into another hill.
“You made it!” Danish calls out from underneath a leafy tree. “I am so thrilled.”
“I made it,” I say. “Sorry I’m late.”
She’s wearing Teva sandals, blue sweat shorts, a gray tank top, and she’s holding both a walkie-talkie and a clipboard. “Oh, it’s fine,” she says. “I’m just glad you’re here. You’re such a great addition to my section.” She looks at her clipboard. “Do you want me to introduce you to your co? I’m sure you guys will get along.” She glances at her watch. “I need to be at the Arts and Crafts in like minus five minutes, but I can run.”
“I can introduce myself,” I say, although I’m suddenly nervous. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Yeah? Great. There’s some issue with the paints. I’ll see you at dinner, ’kay? You know where you’re going?”
“As long as you didn’t move Bunk Six.” I want her to think I know what I’m doing. I want her to have total confidence in me. I can manage finding my bunk! I can manage a bunch of kids! I’m going to be a teacher! So of course I’m going to be a great counselor!
Hopefully.
“Ha! Okay, bye!”
I keep walking. There is so much dirt in my ballet flats. I really need to put on my sneakers. What was I thinking wearing these? I spot the flagpole next, which also marks the beginning of Lower Field, where the majority of the cabins are. There are six to my right, all in a line. There are four bunks to my left. Straight ahead is another baseball diamond and a basketball court. There’s a path behind the basketball court that leads to the CIT village, but I never spent much time there since I was only here for one year and I wasn’t a counselor in training.
Bunk 6. Right here.
There are two pretty girls my age standing on the porch. One looks familiar—I bet she’s Lis, the one who was here when I was a camper, too. She’s Asian American, with light smooth skin, and she’s wearing her straight black hair in a low ponytail. The other girl is shorter, tan, super thin, and has spiral curls in a loose bun on top of her head. They’re wearing tank tops and ripped jean shorts. They both look sweaty. They study me as I step up the stairs.
“Hi,” I say, trying to make my voice sound extra cheerful and not at all nervous. “I’m Sam.”
“I’m Talia,” says the curly-haired one. “Your co-counselor.” I can feel her looking me up and down, glaring.
Why is she looking at me like that? Does she know about my nickname? Do they all know? Do they not like me already? Get it together, Rosenspan.
I cross my arms tightly and then try to force myself to relax. “Nice to meet you,” I say. I push my sunglasses to the top of my head. I feel a bit like I’m standing in front of them in my underwear. The back of my neck feels tight.
“I’m Alissa,” the familiar-looking girl says. “But call me Lis. You’ve been here before, yeah?”
“I was here for one year as a camper,” I say quietly. Hopefully she doesn’t remember me.
I study the porch. There are already four brightly colored towels hanging over the railing. There’s a poster on the left side that says “Welcome, 6A!” in bubble letters and glitter. Then it says “Counselors: Talia and Sam” and lists a bunch of girls’ names. “Francie. Shira. Emma C. Emma F. Lily. Prague. ...
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