When it was my dad and Gavin’s turn to change, Betsy smiled at me some more and said, “If you step outside, you’ll find some kids running around. They’re probably getting ready for the picnic. Introduce yourself!”
“Um… okay,” I said, although I had no intention of introducing myself to anyone while I was dressed up like Strawberry Shortcake. “Can you tell me where I can find a bathroom?” I asked.
Betsy flung open the front door and pointed.
Now, I’d known what the bathroom was going to be. I’d read the word “outhouse” in the brochure. And yet I hadn’t completely believed it. I’d thought, okay, there will be a secret, real bathroom—maybe just a small one—inside the house. Like the kind they have in old gas stations where they tell you they don’t have a bathroom but if you look nice and helpless they’ll let you in. Employees Only. For Emergencies. For me.
But no. Betsy was pointing toward the woods, where I could see a shape I recognized from TV shows and Road Runner cartoons—a tall shack with a narrow door and a crescent moon carved out under the roofline. “It’s not as bad as it looks. You’ll get used to it,” Betsy said.
I didn’t see how I could get used to that. Or any of this. Have I mentioned that I could barely breathe in what I was wearing? Betsy had explained that, for health and liability reasons, wearing corsets was optional, and both my mom and I had said no, but even without one, the dress felt like a straitjacket. Especially now that I had to pee.
Stepping out of the door, I ran.
But not toward the outhouse. I didn’t have to pee that badly. I headed to the barn and then went around the back of it and into the edge of the woods. I was conscious of people in the yard, but I ignored them, and once I was alone, I stopped. I pulled the box of Clearasil from my pocket, unstuck the lid where I’d glued it shut the night before, pulled out the actual Clearasil tube, and dug through some cotton balls to find my new phone.
Here’s the thing: after my mom and dad had gone to bed the night before, I’d snuck down to the kitchen and taken the phone from where my mom had left it on the counter. I’d only wanted to look at it, but when I saw that the box was sealed with nothing but a clear sticker I could easily peel away with my fingernail, I got the phone out, thinking, “No one will ever know.”
I swear I just wanted to turn it on and check it out. But after I charged the battery and changed the wallpaper and set it up with my name, returning it to the box for the summer seemed like such a waste. I tried to convince myself I shouldn’t sneak it in my suitcase. The battery wouldn’t last for very long, I argued. I wouldn’t have privacy, and it’s not like I’d be able to get calls. I mean—I’d waited for a cell phone my whole life. I could wait two and a half more months. If I got caught with it at Camp Frontier, I’d probably never see it again. Bringing it made no sense.
But obviously, I hadn’t listened to myself. And now—here it was! And I was glad. Just the feel of the cool plastic helped me to remember that there was a world out there where people dressed in normal, comfortable clothes, and could pee in sanitary, indoor bathrooms. Without really thinking about what I was doing, I turned the phone on. I watched the picture of a sunset morph into a sailboat. I checked the service signal, and almost couldn’t believe my luck. There were three bars. I thought about making a call, but I didn’t want anyone to hear. Who knew how close we were to the other people? I had to be very careful. So I texted Ashley and Kristin—the only numbers I’d programmed into the phone the night before.
Week 1 – Sunday
2:27 pm
Help! I’m dressed up like an American Girl Doll minus the fashion sense. My sleeves are so tight I can’t lift my arms above my head. Is this the new me?
I pressed send.
Watching the envelope icon spin as the text went zipping out into the world, I felt like someone who has just tossed a message in a bottle into the ocean.