I took a fast shower after farm.
Then,
still wearing my bathrobe,
and with my hair still dripping wet,
I sat on my bed
and chewed on a pen
and tried to think.
Because I had to write my two pieces
for the Wall of Feelings.
The camp director had told me to describe
how I’d felt about camp
the night of the Esmeralda letter.
And how I felt about it now.
and recalled the Esmeralda night,
when I’d just skinned my hands and knees and chin
and failed my swim test
and then woken, terrified, from a rat nightmare—
in the middle of the night, in a strange room
and a strange bed,
with no chance of seeing my parents.
I could remember exactly
how that felt.
So I opened my eyes
and started writing.
I wrote:
I hate camp.
I just hate it.
But I do.
Being here is worse than
bug juice on a burger.
Or homework on Thanksgiving.
Or water seeping into my shoes.
I want to go home right now.
I really do.
I drew a picture next.
Because the camp director
had told me to.
I’d just finished when Joplin rushed over,
startling me.
“Come on!” she said.
“Dinner starts in three minutes!”
I gasped
and threw on some clothes.
Because of this camp rule:
Any camper late for a meal
must sing a crazy song about a chigger
to the whole dining hall.
We’d already seen one poor Cicada do it,
and two Dragonflies,
at breakfast that morning.
After I’d pulled on my shoes,
Joplin and I both sprinted from our cabin.
She was cheetah-fast,
with her ridiculously long legs.
I huffed and puffed behind her,
thinking,
I will not sing that chigger song
all by myself.
I pushed myself harder than I ever had before.
And reached the dining hall,
sweaty and exhausted,
five seconds behind Joplin.
And just barely in time.
