CASSIDY

“Your Uncle Henry is just daft on being read aloud to . . .”

—Understood Betsy

When I was a little kid, the Fourth of July ranked right up there with Christmas and Halloween as one of my favorite holidays.

We lived in California back then. My dad loved boats, and we had a small ketch that we’d sail over to the Old Glory Boat Parade in Newport Beach. Afterward, we’d hang out with friends until it was time for fireworks.

It was magical.

And then my father died, and we left California and moved across the country, and things were pretty bleak for a while. But life has a way of surprising you, and some of my surprises have included a stepfather I’ve grown to love and a baby sister I adore. Not to mention the mother-daughter book club, which I hated at first, but which I can’t imagine not being a part of now.

A person could get kind of choked up thinking about this kind of stuff, if a person was the type to get choked up.

Which I’m not.

I finish stretching and turn to face the nearly two dozen campers and counselors milling around behind me. “ARE YOU READY, CAMP LOVEJOY?” I holler at them.

“READY!” they all holler back, and I punch my fist into the air and let out a whoop. We’re at the starting line of the Pumpkin Falls Four on the Fourth road race with what feels like half of New Hampshire. The excitement in the air is electric.

I scoped out the route yesterday on my early-morning run. It’s a 4K loop that heads out of town through the covered bridge, follows the river for half a mile or so, crosses another bridge and doubles back through the tiny downtown, then goes straight up Hill Street. That’s the toughest part, especially toward the top, where it gets really steep. From there, though, it’s all downhill—literally—as the route cuts over to the main road and back through the covered bridge again to the finish line.

Even though it’s mostly a “just for fun” kind of race (the prizes are gift certificates for ice cream cones at the General Store, and everyone who finishes gets one), I can still feel the adrenaline kicking in as we approach the start time.

“Hey, Camp Lovejoy!” someone calls. I look over to see a group of guys nearby, watching us. The tallest one, who looks to be about my age, is wearing a neon green T-shirt. He turns his back to us and points to the words CAMP PINEWOOD STAFF printed across it. “Hope you like the view, because that’s what you’re going to see all the way to the finish line!”

“In your dreams!” I shout back at him.

Now my adrenaline is really pumping. I can’t help it; I was born competitive.

Scanning the crowd, I spot my friends and the rest of the campers gathered at the edge of the village green, near the church with the big steeple. They came on the buses from camp and will be waiting for us there at the finish line. They’ve all tied red bandannas around their necks, and together with camp’s regulation white polos and navy shorts, they’re a patriotic-looking bunch. Jess spots me, and there’s a flutter of American flags as she and the rest of our cabin wave them at me. I wave back.

A moment later, a voice over the loudspeaker tells us to take our places.

The other counselors and I coordinated ahead of time as to who would be placed where, and I’m on tap to keep pace with the three fastest campers. Melissa Yee volunteered to run sweep with the slowest ones, and Brianna is keeping an eye on the middle of the pack. No campers from Nest or Balsam are running, but Brooklyn Alvarez runs regularly with her mother back home, so we gave her permission to sign up. She may only be nine, but she’s strong and she’s fast.

At the crack of the starting pistol, we’re off.

It’s a gorgeous morning, sunny and clear with a bit of a breeze. Our thundering herd makes a racket pounding across the wooden floor of the covered bridge. I look over at Brooklyn and cover my ears, grinning. She grins back.

Once we reach the other side of the bridge, the herd starts to thin out. The group from Camp Pinewood, including neon T-shirt guy, are ahead of us. For now, anyway. If it’s up to me, things won’t stay that way.

“Wanna see if we can catch them?” I ask Brooklyn and the other two campers in my care. They nod enthusiastically. “Let’s kick it up a notch then, ladies!”

Our group closes in on the Pinewood runners as we approach Main Street. The sidewalks are packed with cheering onlookers, and we wave and smile at them. I haven’t run a road race in a while, and I’ve forgotten how much fun they are. The four of us fall back a bit as we begin heading up the big hill. I wasn’t planning on being in it to win it this morning—not with campers to keep an eye on—but when neon T-shirt guy looks back over his shoulder at us and smirks, something inside me uncorks and the competitive genie pops out.

Like I said, I can’t help it.

I start to speed up, then hesitate as I realize that my campers aren’t speeding up with me.

“Go for it!” calls Brooklyn. “We’ll be right behind you.”

“Are you sure?”

She and the other two campers nod.

I’m not a particularly fast runner, but I am an athlete, and my training pays off. As we reach the top of the hill and make the turn onto the downhill stretch, I dig deep and am rewarded with a burst of energy. I can practically reach out and touch the neon-green T-shirt now. I pour it on, legs and arms pumping as I fly down the road. As we enter the covered bridge, I pull up even with the Pinewood pack, then whoosh past them and on across the finish line.

Neon T-shirt guy and one of his friends come over to me, panting. “Nice race,” he says. “I knew if I gave you a hard time it would light a fire under you.”

“As if,” I retort.

He grins and extends his hand. “I’m Jake.”

I shake it. “Cassidy.”

“This is Chase,” he says, pointing to his friend. “We’re working at Pinewood this summer.”

“So I gathered.” I’m not giving either of them any encouragement.

“I guess we’ll see you at the beach party later?”

I nod politely, and they head off toward the Pinewood buses.

Sergeant Marge marches over, brandishing her clipboard. “Where are your campers?” she demands. “You’re supposed to be with them at all times.”

Over her shoulder, I see my trio trot across the finish line together. “Do you mean these ones?” I ask innocently, slapping them each a high five. “Way to go, ladies!”

Sergeant Marge shoots me a look as she checks off their names. “Nobody likes a smart aleck, sport.”

After the rest of our teammates cross the finish line, we all head over to the General Store to collect our hard-earned ice cream cones. The bus ride back to camp nearly deafens me, thanks to the boisterous, nonstop songs. What is it with Camp Lovejoy and singing?

Back at camp, I hit the showers, then head to the Dining Hall.

“I’m starving,” I tell Jess, who’s on the porch steps handing out bag lunches. I grab one and peer inside. Ethel and Thelma must have their hands full getting ready for the big barbecue later today, because the contents are pretty low-tech: PB&J, an apple, and an oatmeal cookie.

“You’re always starving,” Jess replies, sneaking me a second bag. “Bug juice is down at the water ski beach.”

“Bug juice” is camp’s all-purpose term for drinks: fruit juice, punch, soda, and lemonade.

I saunter down to the lake, where I find Jess and our campers sitting on beach towels with Megan and Becca and the girls from Balsam.

“Nice race,” says Becca.

“Thanks! It was fun.”

There’s a burst of hilarity from the towels over near the kayaks. We all look over to see a group of older campers laughing hysterically about something. With Camp Pinewood due here shortly, the giggles and whispers that started a few days ago have reached a crescendo. I suspect that some contraband mirrors are floating around too, because the girls on the Hill are looking a lot spiffier than usual, and there have been some lip gloss and mascara sightings.

Boys can do that to you.

It even happens to me now and then. Not very often, though, because in my opinion there are very few guys worth busting out the lip gloss for. Neon T-shirt guy, for example, is not lip gloss–worthy.

“So do you still think you’ll be able to stop by the bookstore tomorrow on your day off?” asks Jess, handing Freddie a wet wipe. Freddie is our messy camper. She ends up with food on her somewhere after every meal. Today it’s peanut butter on her nose.

“Yep,” I reply. “No problem.”

When Jess rounded us up the other night, all excited about a homesickness cure, it didn’t take long for the mother-daughter book club to get on board. We know a great plan when we hear one.

The only fly in the ointment is Felicia, who’s dead set against the whole thing.

“A camper-counselor book club? That’s a stupid idea,” she’d said when we invited her to join us.

Jess thinks it’s because Felicia was never in a book club herself, and she’s always been a little jealous of ours and how close we are because of it. Emma says it’s because Felicia thinks the books we read are beneath her mighty intellect. “If we were reading Dostoevsky or something,” she told us afterward, “she’d be all over it.”

Whatever Felicia’s reasons, we decided we’re going to go ahead with our plan anyway.

“Do you think we should invite some of the other cabins?” Emma wanted to know.

Jess shook her head vigorously. “Nope. Let’s just keep it to Nest, Balsam, and Twin Pines. It’s more special that way, plus our cabins are the ones most in need of a homesickness cure.”

This made sense, and we all agreed to keep the book club a secret from our campers until the first meeting. Our next step was picking something to read. Emma said she knew the perfect book, of course—she’s read just about every book on the planet—and the next day she called the local bookstore to place our order. We’re all chipping in to pay for them, as a gift to our campers.

“Attention please!” It’s Sergeant Marge, marching up and down the beach, armed with her bullhorn once again. “Finish up and clean up, ladies! The buses from Pinewood will be arriving here approximately one hour from now.”

Judging by the squeals from the older campers, you’d think she just announced that we’d be eating nothing but dessert for the rest of the summer. Of course, the youngest campers start to squeal too, even though they don’t quite get the whole boy thing yet. They worship the girls on the Hill, though, and follow them around camp like puppies.

Rest hour is impossible. Jess and I try to get our girls to settle down, but they’re way too excited. Not that I don’t feel a little excited myself—not about the soon-to-be arriving boys, but about the fireworks. Who doesn’t like a good old-fashioned Fourth of July?

Which starts with a song, of course:

You’re a grand old flag, you’re a high-flying flag

And forever in peace may you wave.

You’re the emblem of the land I love.

The home of the free and the brave.

Jess’s Camp Chorale greets the Pinewood buses as they arrive, bursting into song on cue as the boys clamber off. I sidle up next to Becca as they reach the finale:

Ev’ry heart beats true ’neath the Red, White and Blue,

Where there’s never a boast or brag.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

Keep your eye on the grand old flag.

“Hey, Old Glory!” I whisper slyly, slipping my arm around her shoulders.

She shrugs it off. “Don’t start with me!” she warns, but she’s smiling.

I love to push Becca’s buttons. Years ago, way back when we were in seventh grade, the mother-daughter book club put on a fashion show to help raise money for the taxes on Jess’s family farm. Becca was in her snotty stage back then, and we teased her mercilessly about this one red, white, and blue outfit she had to model. Just to give her a taste of her own medicine, of course.

As soon as the boys are off the buses, Sergeant Marge and the head counselor from Pinewood hustle us all up the road to Upper Meadow, where they have a whole lineup of games planned. We cheer our campers on for the sack race, and the egg-on-a-spoon race, and the tug-of-war. The best one is the cracker whistling contest, which is hilarious because the littlest campers are so serious, stuffing their mouths full of salty crackers and then puckering up all determined to win, and of course they can’t keep their faces straight because we’re all hooting and hollering, trying to distract them and make them laugh. Tara Lindgren, who cries at the drop of a hat, is so frustrated she bursts into tears right on cue. Emma is ready with a tissue, though. She’s gone through a lot of tissues since camp started, comforting her campers.

Finally, it’s time for the three-legged race, which is a free-for-all for everyone in both camps, including the cabin counselors, who are teamed up in pairs.

“On your marks!” calls the head counselor, and Jess and I hop over to join the other counselors at the starting line. The two of us are so poorly matched it’s ridiculous—Jess is just a whisker over five feet tall, and I tower over her at six feet—and we get to laughing so hard as the race starts that we fall down after just a couple of ungainly steps.

“Nice form, Cassidy!” calls a male voice, and I turn to see neon T-shirt guy—what was his name? Jack? Jake?—trot by in perfect sync with another Pinewood counselor. He’s not wearing his neon T-shirt anymore, of course. He’s in a regulation gray Pinewood polo. He gives me a brisk salute as he passes us.

Pretty much everybody else passes us too as I struggle to scramble to my feet and drag a still-laughing Jess across the finish line.

After the games are finished, we all head back down the hill to the lake for open swim, and then it’s time for the barbecue.

“One of each, please,” I tell Artie, who’s manning the grill, and he obligingly serves me up a hamburger and a hot dog.

“Growing girls need food to grow on,” he replies with a wink.

I really like Gwen’s husband.

I pile a huge helping of Ethel and Thelma’s homemade potato salad onto my plate, add an ear of corn, a piece of watermelon, some baked beans, and top it all off with a bag of chips. Grabbing some bug juice, I go to look for a seat.

“Over here!”

It’s neon T-shirt guy again.

I ignore him, and shading my eyes I search for Jess and our girls. They’re crammed in around one of the picnic tables, and Jess waves me away with an I’ve got it covered gesture. I shrug, heading reluctantly to the Pinewood table instead.

“Hey, guys,” I say, taking a seat on the bench.

“Hey, Cassidy,” Jake—or is it Jack?—replies. I feel kind of bad for forgetting his name, since he clearly remembers mine. “Chase and I would like to introduce you to our campers.”

Like Emma and Felicia, the two of them have the youngest cabin.

“You took a lot of food,” pipes up one little boy in glasses at the far end. He’s staring at my heaped-up plate.

“Yes I did,” I reply, keeping a straight face. “Growing girls need good food to grow on.”

He looks at me suspiciously. “You’re not still growing.”

Across the table, Jack/Jake is grinning at me again.

“You don’t think so?” I raise my eyebrows. “I was your height just a couple of months ago.”

He stares at me, and so do the rest of the little boys at the table, trying to figure out if I’m teasing them or not. They look so puzzled I finally have to laugh. “You’re right, I do eat a lot of food, but then I have to,” I explain. “Athletes need to keep their strength up. I’m playing hockey at Boston University this fall.”

“You don’t want to tangle with a Terrier, Jake,” says Chase, nudging his friend as he looks at me with new respect.

Jake. I file his name away for future reference.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Jake replies, smiling.

After dinner, I join my cabin again, and we loll around the waterfront, playing horseshoes and sand volleyball with Nest and Balsam and the younger campers from Pinewood while we wait for the fireworks.

Which is when I get even for the three-legged race.

I time it perfectly, too, waiting until everyone’s attention is riveted on the bursts of color in the sky. Then I grab the cooler full of slushy leftover ice and sneak up behind Jake and Chase.

“HAPPY FOURTH!” I bellow, sloshing the cooler’s contents over their heads.

They both let out gratifyingly high-pitched squeals of rage, and I sprint for cover. I barely manage to get away, and then only because I know the terrain and they don’t. I stay hidden behind the boathouse until the fireworks are over and it’s time for Pinewood to leave. Once the two of them are safely on one of the buses, I emerge to join the throng of girls waving good-bye.

“You’d better watch your back!” yells Jake, sticking his head out the window when he spots me.

I just laugh.

“We’ll even the score when you least expect it!” Chase promises.

I’m still laughing as the buses chug up the hill.

The next morning I’m awake early, excited about my day off. First, though, I swim over to Cherry Island and back with the Polar Bear Club—the campers and counselors who get up at 5:30 a.m. every Tuesday and Thursday to make the one-mile round-trip swim. It’s a good way to vary my workouts.

After breakfast, I sign out at the office, where I’m given my cell phone back for the day; then I hop in the minivan and head for Pumpkin Falls. The bookstore isn’t open yet, so I grab a couple of doughnuts from Lou’s Diner (completely canceling the benefits of my workout, but hey, it’s my day off), and wander over to hang out on one of the rocking chairs on the porch of the General Store. I have a zillion text messages waiting for me, and it takes me a while to sort through them. My heart skips a beat when I see that there’s one from Tristan.

IN CHICAGO. TIME 2 TALK?

Unfortunately, his message is from three days ago.

SORRY, I text back. JUST GOT THIS NOW. STILL IN U.S.?

I wait a bit, but there’s no reply. I try calling, but it goes straight to voice mail. He must either be on the ice or traveling. I can’t keep track of his competition schedule.

I think about calling my sister Courtney, but then I remember it’s, like, six a.m. in L.A., so I call my mother instead.

“Sweetie!” she cries when she hears my voice.

I smile. “Hey, Mom!”

We talk for a while—she’s wrapped up in wedding plans, of course, and fills me in on every little detail—and then I ask to say hi to my little sister.

“Miss me, Monkey Face?” I ask when she gets on the phone.

“I heard that!” says my mother in the background. She hates it when I call Chloe “Monkey Face.” Which is why I do it, of course.

“When are you coming home?” Chloe demands.

“Four more weeks,” I tell her. “Ask mom to show you on the calendar. But I’ll see you soon for Parents’ Weekend.”

I hear barking in the background, and then heavy panting on the phone, which Chloe is clearly holding up for our dog.

“Murphy wanted to say hi too,” my little sister says when she gets back on. “Do you miss him?”

“Not as much as I miss you,” I tell her.

“Do you want to talk to Murphy again?”

“I’d rather talk to you.” Chloe ignores me, of course. I hear more panting, so I try to coax a bark out of Murphy, which alarms an older gentleman sitting near me. He gets up and moves to a rocking chair farther down the porch. Despite my efforts, Murphy doesn’t bark back. He’s pretty ancient now, and almost completely deaf.

It’s close to ten by the time I get off the phone, so I head down Main Street to Lovejoy’s Books. The bell over the door rings as I enter, and a golden retriever who’s napping on a dog bed in front of the sales counter raises its head and glances over at me with idle curiosity.

“Hey, boy,” I say, squatting down to give him a pat. Despite what I told my sister, I really do miss Murphy.

“She’s a girl, actually,” says a voice from the other side of the counter. “Her name is Miss Marple.”

“Miss Marple like in the Agatha Christie mysteries?”

“Got it in one,” the voice replies, and I straighten up to see a tall woman—as tall as me if not a little taller, in fact—smiling at me.

“My stepfather is a big Agatha Christie fan,” I tell her, smiling back.

I try not to stare as she steps out from behind the counter. She’s dressed kind of like a cross between Mrs. Wong and Mrs. Chadwick back in her “it’s a whole new me” phase. A few years ago, Becca’s mother had a midlife crisis and underwent a transformation, egged on by Megan’s friend Wolfgang, the fashion editor of Flash magazine. Mrs. Chadwick cut her hair in this spiky style and started wearing bizarre clothing in superbright colors and loud animal prints. Becca was mortified, of course, but the rest of us thought it was hilarious.

The bookstore lady is decked out in orange leggings, earthy-crunchy sandals, orange-and-white striped socks, and a loose, flowing white top and beads. Lots of beads.

“How can I help you?” she asks.

“I’m here to pick up an order for Emma Hawthorne,” I tell her.

Her eyebrows shoot up. “So you’re the one who ordered two dozen copies of Understood Betsy?”

“Sort of. Emma’s actually the one who ordered them—I’m just her friend. We’re counselors together at Camp Lovejoy.”

The woman’s face lights up. “That’s where my nieces are spending the summer! Do you know Lauren and Pippa Lovejoy?”

“Sure. Pippa’s in Nest—she’s one of Emma’s campers.”

“Well then, you’re practically family! And seeing how that’s the case,” she continues briskly, going back behind the counter, “I’m prepared to offer you the special family discount.” She rings up our order, which ends up being almost twenty dollars less than we’d calculated.

“Hey, thanks,” I tell her as she slides a box of books across the counter.

“Why so many copies, may I ask?”

I explain about our mother-daughter book club at home, the plague of homesickness at camp, and Jess’s brainstorm about starting a book club with our campers to try to tame it.

“Splendid idea!” says the bookseller when I’m done. “Nothing beats bibliotherapy.” Seeing my puzzled expression, she adds, “Book therapy.”

“Right.”

“I’m sure the girls will love reading Understood Betsy—it was one of my favorites when I was growing up. Have you read it?”

I shake my head.

“You’re in for a treat. Speaking of which, how would you like to take yesterday’s leftover pumpkin whoopie pies back to your campers?”

“I never turn down food.”

She laughs. “A girl after my own heart. Hang on a sec while I get them.”

She disappears into the back office, reappearing shortly with a second box. “Here you go,” she says, stacking it on top of the first one. “They’re our signature treat.”

“Wow, thanks!”

“You’re welcome.” She sticks out her hand. “True Lovejoy.”

I shake it. “Cassidy Sloane.”

“Hope to see you in here again, Cassidy Sloane.”

“If you bake whoopie pies every day, you definitely will,” I promise her.

The rest of my day off passes swiftly. I meet up with a couple of other Camp Lovejoy counselors for lunch and a hike, and afterward we hang out at one of the lake’s public beaches, swimming and lazing in the sun.

“We ran into some guys from Pinewood at the General Store this morning,” Brianna tells me. “They have the day off too, and they invited us to meet them at the drive-in tonight. Want to come?”

I feel a pang of nostalgia. We used to have a drive-in theater back in California when I was little, and my dad took me and my sister Courtney to the movies there often. “Wish I could, but I have other plans,” I tell them. “Maybe another time.”

Jess and Emma are eager to get started with the book club. Plus, it’s Felicia’s night off tonight, so the timing is perfect.

“You’re back early,” says Sergeant Marge as I sign in at the office. She holds out her hand for my cell phone.

“Yeah,” I tell her, turning it over reluctantly. I still haven’t had any luck reaching Tristan. “I’m going to call it a night. I’m still kind of tired from yesterday’s run.”

I leave quickly, before she can call me “sport” again, and head back to Twin Pines. It’s in an uproar.

“I had to let them in on the secret, since we’re hosting,” Jess explains. “They’ve been pinging off the walls since dinner.”

“Girls!” I say severely, doing my best imitation of my mother in displeased Queen Clementine mode. The cabin instantly quiets down. “The whole camp is going to know something’s up if you don’t settle down,” I continue in a whisper.

“When will everyone be here?” Carter whispers back.

“Soon,” I reply. “Now you two get on up there,” I tell her and Brooklyn, pointing to Brooklyn’s top bunk at the rear of the cabin. “And Freddie and Nica, you two double up on Freddie’s bunk underneath. We need to make room for everyone.”

Balsam is the first to arrive, scuttling over to join us as soon as the on-duty counselor finishes her first patrol around Lower Camp. I hold the door open as the girls dash inside. Megan brings up the rear, arms piled high with extra blankets and comforters.

“Good idea,” I murmur.

She nods. “Gotta keep everyone cozy.”

As Jess sorts the campers onto bunks, another tap on the door signals that Nest has arrived. Emma’s girls cluster around her like ducklings, staring at the rest of us with round eyes. Tara is clutching Jess’s teddy bear. Jess has pretty much given up on trying to get it back.

“Ith it a party?” asks Pippa.

“Kind of,” Emma tells her. “You’ll see.”

Jess leads the little trio over to the last empty bunk, and they take their places on it obediently while Emma tucks some of the extra blankets around them.

“Snug as bugs in a rug,” she tells them. Giggling, their feet bounce under the blankets in excitement.

“So,” Jess announces, as Megan and Becca sit down on my bed and Emma perches at the foot of Jess’s, “we’re going to start a book club!”

Meri’s dark ponytail swings back and forth as she looks from me to the other counselors. “What’s a book club?”

“It means we’re all going to read the same book at the same time,” Jess explains, holding up a copy of Understood Betsy. “This one. And then we’ll get together once a week and talk about it.”

“I thought this was going to be something fun!” groans Grace Friedman.

“Reading together sounds like school,” says her friend Mia, and Kate Kwan nods too. Tara is looking as if she might cry. But then, she always does.

“There will be snacks,” I assure them, and the campers perk up at this. All except Amy, whose forehead puckers in concern.

“But we’re not allowed to have food in the cabins,” she whispers. “It says so in the rule book.”

“So don’t tell anybody, okay?” I hold my finger to my lips.

“We’re all in a book club back home, and we always have snacks,” Megan explains. “At our kickoff meetings, we usually go out for ice cream.”

“Ice cream!” squeals Meri, and Emma shushes her.

“Okay, enough about the snacks, it’s time to talk about the book,” says Jess. “Your counselors are going to take turns reading it aloud to you during rest hour, and then, when we have our book club meetings, we’ll all talk about it together.”

“And have snacks, right?” Meri sounds anxious.

Emma looks over at Megan and Becca and me and bugs her eyes at us in mock exasperation. “Yes, and have snacks.”

“During rest hour?” Tara asks.

“No, just at our meetings,” Emma tells her.

“Can we have our thnacks now?” asks Pippa.

Emma sighs. Becca and Jess are biting their lips, trying not to laugh. Megan shakes her head in disbelief. I just grin. None of them have little sisters. This is totally the way Chloe thinks. She has a one-track mind, especially when treats are involved.

“Why not?” I say, getting up and pulling the box with the pumpkin whoopie pies out from under my bed. “No time like the present. And speaking of presents, Pippa’s aunt sent along our snacks for tonight.”

“My aunt True? I love her!” cries Pippa, and Meri clamps a hand over her cabinmate’s mouth to shush her.

While I’m passing around the whoopie pies, Emma hands out pieces of paper. “This is a Fun Fact sheet,” she tells the girls. “We do this in our book club back at home, too. It’s so you girls can learn a little something about the author.”

“Emma is turning into her mother right before our eyes,” I whisper to my friends.

FUN FACTS ABOUT DOROTHY

1) Dorothy Canfield Fisher was born Dorothea Frances Canfield on February 17, 1879, in Lawrence, Kansas.

2) She was named for a character in a novel: Dorothea Brooke in George Eliot’s Middlemarch. Her family called her “Dolly” when she was growing up.

3) Her father was a professor and her mother was an artist and writer.

4) Dorothy spent summers at her grandparents’ home in Arlington, Vermont, and would later move there permanently with her husband.

5) When she was ten, she moved to Paris for a year with her mother, who was pursuing her art studies.

6) Dorothy took fencing and boxing in high school, as well as swimming and diving.

“Sounds like a kindred spirit,” I say approvingly when I read this.

7) She flatly refused to wear a corset.

“Definitely a kindred spirit,” I add.

8) Dorothy once said: “A mother is not a person to lean on, but a person to make leaning unnecessary.”

“Great quote,” I tell Emma. “It sounds like something my mom would say.”

“Yeah,” she replies. “Mine too.”

“I love it that she was named after a character in a novel,” says Jess. “Just like you and Darcy, Emma.”

Emma’s mother is a Jane Austen nut, and she named Emma and her brother after characters from a couple of Jane Austen’s books.

“Everybody ready for me to start the story?” Jess asks, and our campers all nod. “Okay, here we go then: Understood Betsy, by Dorothy Canfield Fisher.”

“When this story begins, Elizabeth Ann, who is the heroine of it, was a little girl of nine, who lived with her Great-aunt Harriet in a medium-sized city in a medium-sized State in the middle of the country; and that’s all you need to know about the place, for it’s not the important thing in the story; and anyhow you know all about it because it was probably very much like the place you live in yourself.”

I lean back against the cabin wall and close my eyes. I actually really like being read aloud to. I always have. My dad used to read to me when I was little, and sometimes now when my mother is putting Chloe to bed, I go in and sit on the floor and listen while she reads to her. My little sister loves bedtime stories. She’s especially crazy about the silly ones that Stanley makes up for her—especially the dorky ongoing adventures of this character he calls “the fastest little weasel in the forest.”

All of a sudden our cabin door flies open with a loud bang.

I jump, startled, and our campers all shriek and clutch one another.

Felicia is standing in the doorway. Sergeant Marge is right behind her.

“I came back early from my night off, and I couldn’t find you!” Felicia says accusingly to Emma. “I was worried, so I went and got Marge.”

“What’s going on in here?” the head counselor demands.

“We’re, uh, reading,” says Jess.

“Doesn’t look like that’s all you’re doing.” Sergeant Marge’s eyes narrow as she spots the whoopie pie box. “Is that food?”

“Um,” I say, sliding the evidence under the bed with my big toe. “Maybe?”

She glowers at me, an expression I’m beginning to know all too well. “You know the rules. No food in the cabins, no exceptions.”

Tara starts to cry. Amy Osborne quickly follows suit, and one look at Freddie and Nica tells me they’re on the verge.

“I want to go home!” Meri whimpers.

So much for the homesickness cure, and so much for getting our counselor-camper book club off to a good start.

Final score? Sergeant Marge and Felicia: one. Cassidy? That would be another big fat zero, sport.