“I’ll tell you what just happened,” I said to Olive as she stood there holding a tube of toothpaste. “I basically guaranteed I will never, ever have another guy friend so long as I live.”
“All this while we were in the bathroom?” Olive asked.
Rachelle heard us chatting and came in from the bathroom to see what the fuss was about. I told them what had gone down with the Alvin situation, including my ridiculous catchphrase. Rachelle tried, unsuccessfully, to hold in laughter. Olive blinked as she listened to my response. “ ‘Right back atcha?’ That’s the worst thing you could have said to him!”
“Well, I didn’t know what to say!” I said, pulling the blanket from my bed over my head for dramatic effect. “I was still scared thinking about stupid Left-Eye Louie, and then Alvin drops that news. I wasn’t ready!”
The girls were cracking up over my brutal honesty. This was why I’d usually been too afraid to share my feelings about deep things before. Ridicule, mockery. But as they laughed, I began to laugh, too. I mean, it was so corny that it was funny. And it wasn’t like I’d been mean to him or cruel or anything. I’d just put my foot in my mouth!
Olive and Blake sat next to me on the bed and looked at me like I was an adorable puppy that had just accidentally chewed on their favorite shoes.
“I get you,” Olive said. “I probably would have done the same thing. You’re looking around to make sure some one-eyed ghost isn’t trying to get you, and he’s trying to confess his feelings. I’d have been shook, too.”
“What do I do now?” I asked.
“Next time you see him, tell him how you feel,” Blake said. “Do you know how you feel?”
“Um, maybe, kinda, sorta?”
“Then that’s what you say,” Blake said. “I maybe, kinda, sorta like you.”
“That sounds worse than ‘right back atcha,’ ” I replied.
We stayed up figuring out how best to explain to Alvin what I was feeling (“Rap it! ‘I have feelings of feelings, but I don’t know how to reveal what I’m feeling!’ ” Olive joked while Rachelle beatboxed to the words.) Laughs were had until the real Ms. Johnston—I didn’t see any fairy dust, so I knew it was her—came around and told us it was lights-out. I went to sleep feeling reconnected with friends just like old times, pre–blog leak. My truth-telling fail was exactly what I’d needed.
Dear Journal,
No one’s coming for my head quite yet. Ms. West did try to freak everybody out with that story about Left-Eye Louie, but Alvin calmed me down and had a good reason for why Left-Eye Louie doesn’t exist. I believe him over Ms. West. Alvin also told me he liked me on the way back to the cabin, and I, like a fool, told him “right back atcha.” Might as well have complimented him on his ankles. He probably won’t speak to me for the rest of this trip. I mean, I wouldn’t speak to me, either.
Speaking of speaking, I have to start apologizing to people. No chickening out—just do it. Be brave, be sorry, and move on! #endthespell #thetruthwillsetyoufree
Sunday morning, everyone woke up in one piece. We all said silent prayers of gratitude that no one had been visited in the middle of the night by Left-Eye Louie. We had a full day’s schedule of games and activities, like learning to compost trash. After breakfast, there was a fishing outing. (Alvin had been right to bring his fishing pole, but the camp also provided poles for us.) I had fished before, a bunch of times up here with Lee. I missed those days. He’d put the worm on my hook for me because I was too grossed out and felt too guilty hurting the worm. I looked around for him as we got separated into groups to take various positions on the docks overlooking the lake. Lee was in a different group, on a dock farthest to the left. Sigh.
I stood with Olive and Blake on our dock with my fishing pole, bopping my hook into the water as I hoped for the big catch. The lake was quite soothing, even with a few dozen students standing on the dock. The water rippled as our hooks broke the surface. The lush sounds of birds singing and leaves blowing in the breeze calmed my nerves. I looked around at the other kids and saw a collective sense of both concentration and curiosity. School—its existence, its homework, and its drama, including my disastrous blog scandal—was a zillion miles away.
I made it through the morning activities without a panic attack, without someone throwing me into the water, and without falling off the dock into the lake. I even caught a fish. (Okay, it was a guppy. It was basically someone else’s minnow. But it nibbled on my hook, and I pulled it out of the water. I threw it back immediately, since Ms. West said we shouldn’t harm the delicate lake ecosystem by taking the fish.)
It really seemed like people had forgotten about that horrible blog. Or at least they were focused on more peaceful things in our rural surroundings. I figured lunchtime would be a great time to start my apology tour—it was when people would probably be most calm. I started with Marcus. Since he had helped me cross the bridge yesterday, I thought he might be the least mad at me still. I spotted him in the line for soup. “Hey,” I said, getting his attention. “So I, um, just wanted to say, uh…that I was sorry, you know…about that blog thing.” I clenched my teeth. The moment of truth. Would my apology work?
He looked at me, confused. “Okay,” he said. And nothing more.
I said more. “Really. I am. Truly. Sorry.”
“Okay,” he said, unbothered. “You getting soup?”
It was a non-reaction to my apology. That was good. Right? “Um, yeah yeah yeah…” He scooted over so I could reach for a small cup of soup, then slid down the line to grab crackers. Nothing more was said.
Not so bad, I thought. Who’s next?
As I walked up to the beverage station, I saw Carmen Evans. I had said some petty things about her messing up the dance steps in rehearsals for The Wiz, even though she still did a great job in the actual show. I noticed the plaid hiking boots she had on. Those could help me break the ice. “I like your boots,” I told her.
“Thanks,” she said. “Love that jacket.”
“Yeah, thank you!”
Ice broken. Here goes.
“Carmen, I’m sorry for what I said about you in my blog. It was harsh, and you did an amazing job in The Wiz. I just wanted you to know that. From me personally.”
She looked at me and pursed her lips. “Okay, June. Apology accepted.”
I exhaled. “I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she said, crossing her arms. “I said some bad stuff about you when I read that blog. So let’s just call it even.”
I’d take that. “Even.”
“And tell me where you got that jacket, ’cause I might wanna buy one.”
I laughed. We chatted camping fashion for a few minutes before taking seats with our lunch. I was two for two in the game of personal apologies! I was more at ease, my stomach felt more settled than it had in days, and I didn’t have any tension behind my eyes.
Next up was Kevin Thomas, another costar in The Wiz. I had said he was super stiff as Tinman—like, stiff-like-my-dead-grandfather stiff. I found him by the drinks station and walked up to him.
“June Motormouth Jackson,” he said. “Got something else to say?”
“I deserve that,” I responded. “I’m just here to say I’m sorry. Again.”
“Why should I accept your apology?” he said, looking displeased.
My face fell as I tried to come up with a good reason. I’d insulted his dance moves and his acting ability. Maybe he would never try out for another school play because he’d been hurt by what I said. Maybe I’d ended the career of another great Black male lead because I made fun of him and killed his hopes and dreams. I was truly the worst person in the world. I wouldn’t forgive me, either. I started to walk away.
“A’ight, June, whatever,” he called after me.
I whipped around. “Whatever?”
“Yeah, like, whatever. Apology accepted or whatever.”
I felt like I had to keep talking so that he’d have to listen to my apology and really feel that I meant it. “I’m really sorry, Kevin, I feel really, really horrible about what I said, and, like, you’re a really great actor and you should totally keep acting!”
“Girl, I get it!” he said, frustrated. “You’re sorry. A’ight. I’m still going to call you Motormouth. Because you do run your mouth too much.”
I thought that was a fair trade. “Okay, Kevin.”
“Motormouth.”
“Yes, I am,” I said. “Thanks.”
I looked around the room at the sixth-grade class and thought maybe there was hope for my future at Featherstone Creek. I got lost in a daydream, thinking about how my life post-leak and post-apology could improve. Then I saw a woman standing at the side of the room by herself, smiling at me. Giving me a thumbs-up. It was my chaperone—no, wait, that hair, that smile…That was…of course…
“June!” I heard Olive call out. “Over here!”
I shook the daydream from my head and walked toward Olive. I looked back to that same corner of the room for my chaperone, or Victoria, or any woman. No one was standing there after all.
Dear Journal,
My apology tour seems to be going well. I started at lunch and approached as many people as I could. Carmen accepted, as did Stacey Blackstone. Jermaine Hill teased me about looking like a Stranger Things cast member in my flannel shirt and Converse while fishing, but he accepted my apology. Kenya Barrett told me I shouldn’t be allowed to have internet access after what I’d done. I didn’t argue. She eventually shared her trail mix with me.
I apologized to Natalie Cross and Eustice Parker when I saw them at the cooking class, while we learned to cook a basic meal over a fire. A risk, but I did it. No one threw hot grits at me.
There are a few people I still need to apologize to, but I’m making good progress. Only one more night left. And then I can be free of this blessed spell. Free of Victoria. Free of having someone watching my every move. Listening to my every word! I can actually say what I want to say again! Like, I can express my feelings—good, bad, true, not so true…. OMG, can I lie again? Can I go back to my old ways of just saying what people want to hear so I don’t have to worry about exposing my feelings again? There’s no way Victoria would let that happen, right? And I can’t say that behavior ever got me anywhere. Sigh…
It was right before dinner when I noticed that a bunch of kids on the newspaper staff were sitting around the fire, debating something of interest. I went over to the group, curious. Quincy was talking fast.
“I think I’ve cracked it,” he said. “It’s something about how the founders of Featherstone Creek aren’t who everyone thinks they are.”
“What do you mean?” Rachelle asked.
“No, like, I feel like in the papers, the story is always how Featherstone Creek was founded by former slaves who’d earned their freedom. Then they founded the town and its businesses and bought the land with the money they earned. Generations later, that’s still the story. But that’s not how it actually went down.”
I sat down next to Quincy. “How can you prove it?” I asked.
“Well, you know old Sam LeSalle? The guy who used to run the music store in town? He was willing to talk to me and say it on the record.”
My cheeks felt warm. “But one personal opinion isn’t enough, right?” I asked. “Do we have records? Deeds to homes? Any sort of historical documents?”
“Not right now,” he said. “But maybe he can tell me where to get them.”
I started to shift in my seat. Ms. West walked up behind Quincy and stood over us. “What’s going on?” she asked.
Quincy explained his findings so far to Ms. West, who looked both entertained and impressed. As I listened to him retell the story, I felt a pang of jealousy and fear. I wished I had been the one to announce the latest scoop on the story. I wished I had juicy details to spill and could impress Ms. West and be that much closer to getting a front-page story in the newspaper. But I was also nervous about finding out the truth—my family’s history was interwoven with the town’s history. What if the secret involved my own family? I bit my lip and, for my own selfish reasons, hoped that ol’ Sam LeSalle might change his mind and not say anything to Quincy. Maybe he’d talk to me instead. Or better yet, talk to no one and let sleeping secrets lie.