THREE HOURS IS A very long time not to speak to somebody when you and that person are alone together in a car. That was why the ride to Camp Arrowhead seemed to take more like three days.
Everybody in our house, even Baby Boy, had gotten up at five-thirty that morning. Nobody complained. If I had been speaking I might have complained, but I was not speaking. To anybody.
Except Simon. He understood. He had spent Saturday night with me, his little body all curled up by my neck. When Simon is that near my ear, his purr is quite loud. Louder than you’d think a ten-week-old kitten could possibly purr. I talked to Simon and told him my feelings about camp. He smiled a cat smile, which meant he understood.
Kate cooked a huge breakfast for us—orange juice, bacon, eggs (any way you wanted—I didn’t get any since I wouldn’t say what I wanted), and danish or toast.
Muffin wanted to know why she’d been waked up. “Why are we up so early, Mommy?” she kept asking. Kate tried to explain about camp. (For a smart kid, Muffin was sure acting slow. Nobody had talked about anything except camp for a solid week). But all Kate succeeded in doing was scaring her. “Am I going, too?” Muffin asked. She looked like she might cry. Again.
At that point I considered opening my mouth to say, “Why, yes, Muffin, of course you’re going. You’re going to another camp. Camp Blockhead. You’re going to stay there for three or four months. Without your mother.”
I was really torn, but in the end I decided it was more important to keep up the silent treatment.
At seven-thirty Dad and the footlocker and I got in our station wagon.
Kate stood on the front porch of our house burping Baby Boy. Muffin stood beside her in a yellow nightgown and her pink bunny slippers, solemnly holding Rose-up. They waved and called out, “Good-bye, Kammy! Good-bye! Have a great time.”
I stared straight ahead of me. I did not move a muscle.
We started driving and Dad tried small talk for about six minutes. Then he resorted to the radio. He pushed the button for classical music. I pushed the button for WORM. Dad kept on driving. We listened to WORM all the way to Camp Arrowhead.
The first thing I saw at camp was people. A whole fleet of them. Their cars were parked in a big parking lot. All across it and in this grassy area next to it were mothers and fathers and children and babies and counselors. There were about eighty-five other station wagons and footlockers. I was glad Kate had painted my name on my footlocker.
“Oh, my Go—,” I started to say. I was saying it under my breath, but as it was the first thing I’d said in about twenty-four hours, my father heard it.
“Kamilla,” he warned.
“Well, I’m sorry,” I said, “but look at all these people.”
“It is sort of a mob scene,” he agreed. I think he was glad I was talking again.
Before we had extricated ourselves from the car, a counselor greeted us. I assumed she was a counselor anyway. She was wearing a CAMP ARROWHEAD T-shirt and had a whistle around her neck. Also, she was carrying a clipboard.
“Hi,” she said. She was perky. I wasn’t sure how I felt about a perky person. Perky is almost as bad as cute.
“Hello,” said my father, sticking out his hand. “This is Kamilla Whitlock, and I’m her father, Robert Whitlock.”
“I’m Susan,” said the girl. “Nice to meet both of you.” She checked her clipboard. “Kamilla Whitlock. O.K., your counselor this summer will be Nancy. Nancy Hirsch. She’s over there wearing the yellow shirt. Just leave your trunk by your car and we’ll see that it gets to your cabin. Nancy will help you with everything else.”
“Thank you,” said Dad. He heaved the trunk out of the back and stood it on its end, out of everyone’s way.
Then we started across the lot for Nancy. I had butterflies in my stomach. I thought I might even throw up. But I took a few deep breaths and calmed down.
“Hi,” said Nancy as we stepped up to her. “You must be either Kamilla Whitlock or Emily Marshall. Everyone else has checked in already.” She smiled. It was a nice smile.
“I’m Kamilla,” I said, and hesitated, not knowing whether to tell her about my name. But she solved that problem for me.
“Kamilla. That’s a pretty name,” she said. “Is that what you like to be called, or do you have a nickname?”
I like people who give you choices and listen to you. She didn’t ask me what I’m called. She asked me what I like to be called. I could have said Tulip Bernice Vanessa and it would have been all right with her, as long as it was all right with me. “Everyone calls me Kammy.”
Suddenly I remembered Dad. “And this is my father,” I said awkwardly. I am not very good at introductions.
“Nice to meet you,” said Nancy, smiling her nice smile again.
Nancy started explaining what we were supposed to do next. It wasn’t too hard. Just go over to the lawn by the mess hall, where there seemed to be some sort of ongoing picnic lunch, eat, and wait for Nancy. Dad could leave whenever he felt like it.
I watched Nancy as she talked. Her best feature was her lack of cuteness. She was attractive, but not cute. No button nose, no dimples, and a few interestingly crooked teeth; short, dark hair that fell to her shoulders, and no barrettes or headbands or pink ribbons. So far so good.
Dad and I left her and walked off in the direction she had pointed out. We followed a gravel path through a little woodsy area. A few signs directed you to the mess hall, the cabins, the lake, and the stables. All the signs were the brown wood kind with the letters carved in and painted yellow. They stood on short stakes. Very rustic.
Dad and I followed a bunch of other campers and their families along the path. I wanted to talk to Dad, but I didn’t quite know how, after all those hours of silence.
“Dad, look out!” I called as he approached a tree root. It was about an inch tall. Perfect tripping height. “You don’t want to break another toe,” I said. He hadn’t broken a toe since Thanksgiving.
Dad stepped gingerly over the root, looked down at me, and flashed me a rueful grin. He reached for my hand. But I wasn’t quite ready for that. I drew back.
We emerged into the sunshine. A big building stood before us. It was built out of the same brown wood as the signs. And it was carefully labeled MESS HALL (just so nobody would mistake it for the lake or the stables). Beyond the mess hall was a herd of people.
Dad and I walked over to where four long tables loaded with food were set up. I saw sandwiches and hamburgers and hot dogs and potato salad and watermelon and cupcakes and lemonade. I was not the least bit hungry.
Dad took a plate and filled it. Piled it, to be exact. Sometimes I am amazed at his appetite. I dragged along behind him with an empty plate.
“Come on, Kams,” he coaxed. “Eat up. You may never see the likes of this again. It even beats our barbecues.”
“I’ll eat later,” I said.
“You’ll probably have to wait until dinner.”
“That’s O.K.” I felt numb. “Dad, how are we ever going to find Nancy in all this?”
“Don’t worry, pumpkin. She said she’d find you.” Dad stood with his plate of food and looked around for a space big enough for the two of us to sit down. We finally found a tiny patch of grass and wedged ourselves between a fat family and a family with six children.
I watched everyone eat. It was sort of gross.
Suddenly a bell rang. It went off like an Oriental gong. They probably heard it in North Dakota.
It was quite effective. All the voices died down, and I saw a sea of faces turn toward the mess hall.
A woman was standing on a stool. “Welcome to Camp Arrowhead,” she announced. I was expecting a booming voice to go along with the bionic gong, but she had a pleasant sort of shout.
“I am Mrs. Wright, the director. I’m very pleased to see all of you here today.” She went on for a while about how this was the twenty-third year the camp had been in session and how many activities it had now and stuff. Then she said some things that were supposed to reassure the parents, like how all the counselors had taken Red Cross first aid and knew lifesaving, and how the nurse was a trained RN (I never heard of an untrained one), and how a local doctor was on call twenty-four hours a day.
Finally she announced that in about half an hour, when we’d had time to finish eating and clean up (hint, hint), each counselor would call out the names of her campers and we’d all go to our cabins and unpack.
Everyone clapped for Mrs. Wright. I looked around and saw a lot of parents leaving. Dad had finished eating.
“Well, I guess you might as well go now,” I said.
Dad looked a little uncertain. “All right…”
We both stood up and looked at each other. Finally I stuck out my hand. “See you,” I said.
“Oh, Kammy.” Dad didn’t take my hand. His voice was husky. “Kammy, I wish you’d give just a little. I can’t figure you out. I thought you needed to be apart from the family. Now I don’t know whether you’d be more miserable here or at home. Look, I’ll leave it up to you. If you want to come home now, that’s fine. Really.”
“No, no,” I said stiffly. “We have a compromise, right? I have to hold up my end of the bargain.” I crossed my arms and looked him straight in the eye.
“O.K.,” said Dad. He sounded tired. We’ll call you soon. The pamphlet says parents can call between seven and eight-thirty any night.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “O.K.”
“Good-bye, pumpkin,” said Dad.
“Bye.”
“Kate put stamps in your trunk. We’d love to get a letter.”
“O.K.”
“We’ll talk soon.”
“O.K.”
Finally he turned and joined the stream of parents who were walking back to the parking lot. I watched him stride away, head down, hands jammed in his pockets.
I sat down. I didn’t have the vaguest idea what to do with myself. I checked my watch. Twenty more minutes before the counselors were going to round us up.
I looked around. With the parents and families leaving, the crowd had thinned out considerably. I saw a lot of other kids sitting alone. Even so, I felt uncomfortable. Especially because there were several chatty groups of kids who already knew each other. They laughed and joked and did not pay attention to anyone but themselves. They had probably been born at Camp Arrowhead.
I kept my eye on the nearest group of girls until the gong sounded again.
One by one the counselors stood on Mrs. Wright’s stool and called out six names.
Nancy was the eighth counselor up.
“Jan Aronson,” she called out.
I watched a girl close to the mess hall stand up and trot over to Nancy.
“Susan Benson,” Nancy shouted. “Emily Marshall. Angela Phillips. Mary Rhodes. Kammy Whitlock.”
I am used to being last.
I joined Nancy and the other girls, and she shooed us off to a quiet spot. She ran through the names again. I knew I would forget them all by the time we reached the cabin. My memory is not always great, particularly with names.
Nancy led us along another gravel path. This one went up a small hill away from the front of the mess hall. As soon as our path started heading uphill, the woods began and the gravel ended. We passed a sign that said UPPER GIRLS.
Upper girls’ what? I wondered. I would have asked Nancy, but she was talking to a thin, curly-headed girl. Every piece of the girl’s clothing, including (no joke) her socks, had an alligator on it. I couldn’t remember her name. Emily? Susie? Ruth? Did we have a Ruth? The girl talked to Nancy like they were old friends. She was probably one of those campers who had grown up here.
The rest of us didn’t say much. At one point I heard a funny noise behind me. I turned around. The girl in back of me was sniffing and rubbing her eyes and trying to look like she wasn’t crying.
“Hey,” I said. I’m a sucker for tears. Unless they’re Muffin’s. “Hey, what’s the ma—?”
I stopped. The girl behind the girl who was crying was waving her arms and pointing at her eyes and shaking her head.
What? What did that mean? The crying girl had an eye problem? The crying girl was crazy?
“What’s your name?” I asked instead. “I’m really bad at names. I’ve already forgotten everyone’s. Mine’s Kammy.” When I am nervous, I babble.
“Mary,” said the girl. Her voice shook. “Mary Rhodes.”
“I’ve never been to camp before,” I said.
“Neither have I,” whispered Mary.
“This is my fourth summer here,” said the girl who had waved her arms. “A lot of new kids are here this year. Don’t worry,” she added. “You’ll have fun. You’ll make friends fast.”
I could not remember her name either. I decided I would not embarrass myself by asking again.
Ahead of us Nancy had stopped. She was opening the door to a cabin off the right side of the path. A sign over the door said MISTY MOUNTAINS. Cute.
“Home sweet home,” Nancy announced, grinning.
We all walked in. It was rustic and woodsy. It looked uncomfortable.
I have never been partial to bunks. But there they were. Three sets of them, built into the walls. Our trunks had been placed by them.
The room was L-shaped. The end part had a cot and a bureau and a chair and could be closed off with a curtain. Nancy’s room probably.
The girl who had waved her arms turned out to be Emily. And she and I ended up as bunkies. This was because after a lot of whispering between Nancy and the curly-headed alligator girl (Susie), Susie asked Mary to be her bunkie. I think Nancy wanted Mary paired up with an old-timer. Then Jan and Angela immediately chose each other. They were friends from last year. So that left Emily and me.
The first thing we were supposed to do was get organized. I got organized in a hurry. I hate getting organized.
I sat on my bed and dangled my legs over the side. I had the top bunk. Emily said we should switch after four weeks.
Emily got organized pretty fast herself. She climbed up the ladder to my bed and sat down next to me.
“Here,” she said. She pulled a pack of Juicy Fruit out of her shorts pocket and handed me a piece.
“Thanks.”
“Have you ever been away from home before?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“Do you think you’ll be homesick?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to come here. My father and stepmother sent me here. To get me out of the way.”
“Oh.”
Emily’s solemn brown eyes were studying me carefully.
“They just got married,” I added. “And Kate has these two little kids and they moved into our house and I didn’t fit in with them.”
“I just have my parents and one big brother,” said Emily. “My brother is sixteen. His name is Mason. He eats like a horse.”
I giggled.
“How come you let your parents make you come here?” she asked.
“It’s sort of a long story,” I said. “Actually, after we’d gotten here, Dad said I could come home. But I didn’t want him to think I’m a chicken, so I said no.”
Emily nodded thoughtfully.
I decided to leave out the part about how I might go home in two weeks.
“Hey,” I said, lowering my voice. I checked around to make sure no one was listening to us. Nancy was behind the curtain, and the other four were still getting organized. (Susie was getting the most organized of all. There must be some camp tricks I do not know about. She had been rearranging her trunk for fifteen minutes.)
“What?” whispered Emily.
“What were you trying to tell me when I started to talk to Mary before?”
“I just didn’t want you to say anything about crying. You should have seen her when her parents left. I was right next to them. Mary was crying so hard she couldn’t stop. It took her forever to get calmed down. I didn’t want her to start up again. I hope she’s going to be all right this summer.”
“She’s here for the whole summer?”
“Mm-hm. I asked her.”
“What about Susie?” I whispered after awhile. “Do you know her from before?”
“Yes, and she is one huge pest. This is about her sixth summer here. She thinks she knows everything. She is Little Miss Perfect—in good with all the counselors and Mrs. Wright, never makes a mistake, and does things like regularly volunteering for trash detail. You will grow to hate her.”
“Yuck,” I said.
“Definitely,” agreed Emily.
“And what about Jan and Angela?”
“They’re O.K. They’re best friends from last summer. I bet their parents had to sign them up in January to get them in the same cabin. Sometimes they act like there’s no one at camp except themselves. Jan can be really nice, though. She’s a good rider and she’ll help you with the horses if you ever need it. And Angela is good at arts and crafts. If she paid as much attention to her projects as she does to her nails, she’d do terrific work.”
I checked Angela’s nails. They were fuchsia.
The curtain across Nancy’s part of the room was suddenly flung over to one side.
“O.K., girls,” said Nancy. “It’s a free-for-all this afternoon. You can do whatever you want: swim, ride the horses, play softball, take the canoes out. It will give you a chance to find out where everything is—or to refresh your memory,” she added hastily, glancing at Susie, who had been about to protest. “Just be at the mess hall at six o’clock.”
I sighed. I did not want to leave the cabin. I do not like lakes or boats or softball. I wanted to read. And I did not want to be a leech on Emily.
“Come on,” said Emily, scrambling down the ladder. “Time for the fun to begin.”
I wanted to crawl into my sleeping bag and zipper myself in.
I cleared my throat. “I am really not too good at any of those things,” I said. I could feel tears starting. I hoped I wouldn’t embarrass myself by crying.
“It doesn’t matter,” smiled Emily. “I’ll just show you around, then. You might be surprised.”
“O.K.” I took a Kleenex out of my pocket, quickly swiped at my eyes, and stuffed it away again. I climbed down the ladder, and Emily and I walked out of the cabin together.