Andi
This will be the summer when everything changes, but when I set up on the archery range of Camp Artemis, it occurs to me that some things will always remain the same.
One, I’m here a full day before everyone else. Perks of my dad being camp director.
Two, the grass is unwieldy, the targets look ragged, and despite its shabby appearance, this range is where I feel most at home.
Three, this is and always will be, the best feeling in the world. These heartbeats, right before I release the arrow. When I find my anchor point. When my drawing hand rests lightly against my jawbone and the bowstring barely touches my lips. My back muscles tense, my stance relaxes, and I remind myself for the thousandth time to keep my elbow from turning inward. The wind plays across the grass and the target comes into focus and I can feel my aim steady. And I know, I know, that this is the perfect shot.
I relax my grip.
The string slips over the pads of my fingers.
The arrow speeds toward the target.
I know it will hit the moment my hand slips back past my cheek and my bow tips forward.
If you’ve ever seen an arrow fly in slow motion, you’ll know it ripples through the air. Its path is never entirely straight, and it’s almost like the shaft weaves its way toward the target. Rationally I know that, too. But I can’t see it. I can only see the direct path—the perfect path—to the center of the target.
The silence before it hits.
The oh-so-familiar thud.
When the arrow buries deep into the inner ring, I feel that rush of adrenaline. The rightness of my shot, of my being here. Without stopping to think, I nock the next arrow and repeat. With the third arrow, my hand trembles and the bow string swerves to the side, sending the arrow in a spin toward the next ring. Two tens and a seven.
Not good enough, a small voice in the back of my mind whispers. Not good enough. You need to be consistent. Maybe—
I scowl. After this week, no one will care how I shoot anymore, I remind my competitive self. So shut up.
Behind me, someone applauds, and when I turn and squint against the rising sun, my dad walks toward me, balancing a giant mug of coffee in one hand. “Your elbow is a bit high.”
My stomach drops, the calm from the quiet range evaporating. “Good morning to you, too.”
He opens his mouth, no doubt to repeat the same conversation we’ve had a thousand times already this summer, so I stall him by walking to the target to grab my arrows. The familiar pull and give eases my exasperation, but only a little.
Just enough to walk back to him, take a sip from his coffee, and tell him, as calmly as I can, “We’ve been over this. I’m not going to change my mind. Please let me enjoy this week, Dad. Okay?”
Maybe for once he’ll leave it at that. Realize that I’m not going back on my decision. But stubbornness runs in the family—and I inherited mine straight from him.
He squares his jaw. “Andi, you should see how confident you look with that bow in your hand. Like you were made to do this. To waste a talent like yours is criminal. It’s—”
“My choice,” I interrupt him with more force than I intended.
Dad flinches and I wince, too. I know how much this matters to him. It’s always been the two of us against the world, and it’s always been archery that connected us. From the first bow he ever got me, to the first local tournament we went to together, to our Junior Olympic Archery Development club, summer camp, and our Olympics watch parties. From the start, he’s been my coach and my biggest fan.
But I can’t keep competing just for him.
I want to be something different, I want to try something different.
I steal another sip of coffee and try to smile. Try to find that same peace I felt when I was facing my target. Try to explain. Somehow, it gets harder every time we have this conversation. “There are other things I want to do when I get to college, Dad. I still love archery, you know that. But I don’t want it to be my entire life. Isn’t college a time when you’re supposed to, like, figure out who you are? And try out new things and make mistakes and get no sleep and learn important life lessons? Only start your journalism assignments the night before they’re due? I want that. All of it. And I need you to stop telling me I can’t.”
I wait for him to reply, to argue, to say anything. To my surprise, he doesn’t.
He stands with his back to the camp buildings, one hand in his pocket, his eyes on the targets. The wind tousles his unruly hair. And he sighs.
So I do what I can: I take it as a tiny win. I collect my bow and gesture at the main building. “I’ll see you when the campers arrive, okay?”
Without waiting to see if he responds, I turn and walk away. It’s how all of our conversations have ended so far, with one of us strategically retreating. Maybe he’ll think about it now. Maybe he’ll come to understand me.
And once the campers arrive, I hope that my nemesis, my best archery rival, my best summer camp friend, will understand, too. Because archery also bound us together.
And if this is my final summer at Camp Artemis, I’m going to have to win the golden arrow one last time. No matter how hard she trained.
Rowan
I reach out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear—a nervous tic I’ve had for as long as I can remember—but instead of finding purchase in the long brown hair I used to have, my fingers brush a freshly shaved buzz cut. I mask the mistake by adjusting my glasses and pretending that was what I intended to do all along. The ridiculous thing is, the first time I buzzed my hair was eight months ago. But somehow being here, in a place so familiar I could walk this path with my eyes closed, the past year is rushing back to me, the past me is rushing back to me, and I’m trying to figure out how to handle it. Because while everything has stayed exactly the same here, I have changed. And everyone around me notices it. I can see it in their furtive glances. The whispers when they think I’m not paying attention.
“Is that—?”
“I’m not sure—”
“What happened?”
I cut my hair, genius. It’s really not that complicated.
Honestly, I know that for most of them, it’s curiosity or genuine concern, but I already dealt with the pointed stares and loud whispers at school and at my job. I don’t want to do this again.
I guess the only way is through, so I square my shoulders, raise my head, and stare them all down.
Deal with me or look away.
Until I see a pair of curious green eyes stare back at me, and my breath catches and my body tenses. All of a sudden my determination speeds away, like an arrow that misses its target. I don’t know what to do with my face. Should I be smiling at her or scowling or looking mysteriously changed?
She isn’t supposed to be here. Well, she’s supposed to be here, of course. She isn’t supposed to be standing there, right next to the entrance to the cabin we shared our very first summer together. I expected her to be next to her father, and I’ve been carefully avoiding eye contact with him so I could deal with the Andi problem later.
For some bizarre reason, she’s found a vantage point on the other side of the gates to Camp Artemis. She’s tugging at a perfectly curled strand of hair and her eyebrows are up near her hairline. Her mouth makes a perfect O, and then she smirks. Before I can say anything, she jumps between the other campers and makes her way toward me.
“Different, I like it.” I can hear the smile in her voice—and the challenge, too. It’s always been this way between us, ever since that first summer. Everyone here cares about archery, but most kids are also serious about downtime. Playing in the woods, singing songs around the campfire, telling scary stories at night. Not Andi. Not me. We spent extra hours at the range. We pored over videos of Olympic athletes and the Lotte Vogel documentary. We were serious about learning. Improving. We were the best. We are the best. And we’ve been vying for the camp trophy every single year.
Every single year—or at least, the last three, once the older cadet archers graduated to junior—Andi has won. She knows exactly how much that bothers me.
She hooks her thumbs around her belt. “I’m glad you’re here. I wasn’t sure you’d—”
“It’s Rowan now,” I cut her off. I can feel my cheeks heat when she stops mid-sentence. I’d planned to casually drop my name. Or at the very least, wait for a moment when she wasn’t in the middle of saying something. But it suddenly matters a great deal to me that she gets it right. That she knows it. That she knows me.
Andi closes her mouth. Considers. Then she nods. “Cool. Rowan. Nice to meet you. Pronouns?”
The ease with which she gets it takes me off guard. So I do the only thing I can. Cross my arms, let one shoulder drop, tilt my head, and play it cool. “She/her is fine for now. I’m still experimenting. If it changes, I’ll let you know.”
And she smiles for real, without trick or challenge. It’s as bright as the sunrise crawling over the trees. “I’m happy for you.”
“Thank you.” I am, too. My name didn’t fit anymore. The gendered words. The assumptions when people look at me. Cadet women. Junior women. The gender marker that hit me like a string slap at every competition. Every event. One step at a time, I may be able to leave that pain behind me.
But that’s the crux, isn’t it? Because archery is still a gendered sport and its binary options don’t include me. I’m supposed to join the archery team at my college. I have a few small-but-essential scholarships waiting for me. And it’s all for a person I’m not anymore. I don’t know if any of it will still be there for me if it turns out I can’t compete. This is everything I wanted once, and now I’m not sure if I can have it.
“Rowan?”
I start when Andi calls my name, and I realize too late that I zoned out completely, mulling over the same worries again and again. “Sorry, I was just…”
“Thinking about what it means to be back here?” Andi guesses. She glances in her father’s direction, and something like a shadow flashes across her face. Then she laughs. “I’m glad you’re here. Camp wouldn’t be the same without you. I made sure we’re in the same cabin again.”
With that, she winks at me, turns around, and stalks toward one of the new campers.
And while I valiantly try to remember what to do next or how to keep walking forward, I do know one thing. No matter what happens after this summer, I have one year left at Camp Artemis.
One year when it’s just me, my trusted bow, and all the nightly ghost stories we won’t tell.
This will be the summer where I finally beat Andi and win the golden arrow.
Andi
Once camp officially starts, two things happen.
First, briefly, everything that happens outside of the borders of the camp disappears to the background. I still think about what life will be like once I get out of here, when I won’t be practicing my form and cycling through arrows every weekend, but it feels different. Like when you’re traveling, and home and school and daily life seem so far away.
I’d like to do more of that, maybe. Travel. See the world. Not because I’m competing anywhere, just because I want to.
Especially now that Rowan’s here. I don’t know what it is exactly. Every year, it sneaks up on me how at ease I feel when she’s close. More than any of my friends back home, she challenges me and surprises me. Even if we haven’t had much time to talk yet, I’m better for having her here. And that’s especially true with this new sense of comfort and ease she exudes. I love this new Rowan—or maybe the Rowan she was all along, now here for the whole world to see.
Second, like it does every year, summer falls into a rhythm. We wake with the sun and watch the forest come to life around us, with the birds taking to the trees and serenading us with a morning cacophony, squirrels running around trying to steal our food, and deer coming to the edge of the lake to drink.
After breakfast, coaches take the campers out for different types of exercises. We have three coaches for three age groups—beginners, cadets, and juniors. Dad coaches whatever age group I’m in, and no one really makes a fuss about it. Occasionally people joke that I’m the only reason he started this place. They wouldn’t be wrong.
But it means that when Coach Amira takes the beginners out to the field for 3D target practice, and Coach Thiago takes the cadets out for a run, there are only three of us left at the range. Dad. Me. And Rowan.
Rowan doesn’t seem to notice the tension between Dad and me—or if she does, she’s careful not to comment on it. She left our cabin before sunrise to go for a run along the lakeshore, and she’s at the range bright and ready, her neon-blue recurve bow by her side, her new haircut as sharp as her arrows.
“Hey Coach Owen,” she greets my dad.
He nods at her. “Rowan Stevens. Good to have you back. I heard congratulations are in order?”
Rowan tilts her head and furrows her brow. With her hair so short, the angles of her face are harder. The lines across her forehead. The sharp cheekbones. And the hesitation that plays around her mouth when she nibbles her lip. Before she can ask what he meant, Dad continues.
“Your coach told me about your scholarships. College archery, isn’t it? You’re a talented archer, and I always knew you’d go far.”
I blink. Rowan hadn’t mentioned that yet, and when Dad does, she looks less than thrilled about it. She’s polite—she always is to coaches—but something of her untouchable confidence crumbles, and she pales. “Thanks, Coach.” Her voice sounds flatter, too.
Before I can ask, Dad continues, “I do wish my daughter had some of that same determination. Instead she’s just giving up.”
I gasp. The ground shifts beneath my feet. It’s one thing for us to be arguing about this, but for Dad to bring it up in front of Rowan, who’s gone from pale to bright red, is deeply unfair. To her. To both of us.
“I’m not giving up, and I’m not giving in, either,” I say. “And if you think that I would ever take the easy way out, that I wouldn’t have thought about this long and hard because it’s important to me, you really don’t know me at all.”
With that, I do something I’ve never done before.
I drop my bow. I unbuckle my quiver and let the arrows clatter to the ground.
And I walk off.
Rowan
Out of all the things I expected from my first days at camp, this was not a part of it. It explains why Andi and Coach Owen were keeping their distance from each other, but it’s like a disturbance in the Force. The two of them have always been one team. Everyone knows that.
But in some strange kind of way, Andi and I have always been, too.
I find her at the foot of an abandoned tree hut that overlooks the lake. The steps that lead up to the wooden platform are dangling off the side of the tree, and the structure itself doesn’t look any more stable. We used to climb in here when we were ten, when we came to camp the first time, and everything was still new and well maintained.
She sits with her back to the tree and doesn’t look up when I approach. She’s throwing small pebbles into the water, every movement jagged and frustrated.
I never quite know what to call her. We’ve known each other for seven years, but what we have is whatever the friendship equivalent of a summer fling is. We’re closer than anyone here. We snark at each other and tease each other and enjoy the sport together. And when camp is over we don’t text or call for the rest of the year. We don’t see each other, outside of unplanned meetings at the occasional tournament. She’s my favorite nemesis and the highlight of my summers, but I don’t know if she’s my friend, and I don’t know if she would call me friend, either.
I don’t really do friendship in general. Still, she’s one of the people who’s never judged me, and I know her well enough to see that she’s hurting.
Unfortunately for her, I also don’t really do subtlety. “So you’re giving up on archery?”
Andi tosses another pebble into the lake before she turns to me, and her eyes are lost and lonely. “I’ll never give up on archery, and if Dad would listen to me, he’d know that. I’m quitting shooting competitively.”
I plop down next to her and wait for the sudden rush of anger and annoyance to pass, because she’s so casually throwing away what I so desperately want, before I ask, “Why?”
She chuckles. “Do you know you’re the first person to ask me that?”
I’m aching to be able to continue to shoot, and she’s just giving it up? I can’t wrap my mind around it. “You’re so good at it. I don’t understand.” I wonder if she notices the tremble in my voice.
She glances at me sharply. “No one understands. I didn’t, either, at first. But I don’t enjoy it. Not anymore. I’ve always loved archery, and I love this weird world of ours.” She gestures at the space around her, and I know exactly what she means. It often felt like Camp Artemis was its own small universe, away from everything else. This summer, for the first time, I can’t stop thinking about everything beyond its borders, but for the other campers it must still feel the same. The beginners, who are walking around bright-eyed and with droopy smiles, as they fall in love with the very best sport of all. The cadets, who make lifelong friendships here, because some of them, at least, have the courage to keep up with each other outside of camp borders, bonding over superhero archers and video games and JOAD meets. I don’t understand how that works. How people blend friends from school with work and family business, or friends from camp with real life.
Andi picks a blade of grass and rolls it between her fingers. “I always want to keep this. I’m tired of tournaments. I know I’m a good archer, and I love it, but I don’t love that it’s all that I have. Every time we travel it’s because of events. Every bit of spare time, when I’m not in school or working at the pizza place, I’m training. Every birthday gift, every Christmas gift, it’s archery equipment. And I know it’s a luxury. So many kids come here on scholarships because their parents can’t afford to support them. I know I shouldn’t just squander my talent. But what if I’m losing myself in the process? What if I don’t love that it’s all that I am? Do you know that feeling?”
I don’t, at all. But before I can say anything, Andi continues. “That’s the problem, you see? I don’t know who I am without archery. It always used to be my anchor point, the thing that keeps me steady, but I’m worried that instead it’s becoming the anchor that drags me down. And I wish Dad would get that.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t know who I’d be—who we’d be—without archery, either. If we’d be anything at all, or—
Oh.
I tilt my head. “Maybe that holds true for your dad, too.”
Andi scoffs. “The anchor thing? I don’t—”
“No,” I interrupt her. “Maybe he doesn’t know who the both of you are without archery, either.”
Andi
Huh. I never thought of it that way. But with Rowan looking at me intently, something unspoken behind her piercing blue eyes, it makes sense. Archery was what first connected me and Dad after my mother walked out on us, and he was left trying to deal with a heartbroken and angry kid. It means as much to him as it does to me.
Except I don’t intend to take that away from us. I want him to trust me on that.
“Ugh.” I lean back against the tree. My head pounds.
“At least you’ll keep competing, though,” I mutter. “You can make him proud.”
Rowan gets to her feet and walks to the edge of the lake, staring out. “Yeah.”
Silence chills the air, and I swallow. It’s like the boundaries between Camp Artemis and the rest of the world keep breaking down further. “Rowan?”
She shrugs. Her voice wavers when she says, “It’s weird knowing this will be our last summer, isn’t it? Part of me assumed this place would always be here. I know it doesn’t work like that, of course, but…”
“We were so young and innocent once?”
Rowan snorts. “You were never innocent.” She wraps her arms around her waist. “And I like who I am better now.”
“I do, too,” I say, before I can stop myself. I immediately rush on. “We could come back as coaches. Find ways to influence these young and malleable brains with cool trick shots and fancy arrows, and still see each other every year. That would be a solution, wouldn’t it?”
The suggestion is equal parts jest and serious. It would solve a lot of problems.
Rowan’s shoulders tense. “I guess…”
She keeps staring out like the weight of the world is pressing on her, and despite the fact that she came here to make sure I’m okay, I desperately need to make sure she is, too. “If this is our last time here together, you know what that means, right?”
Rowan turns to me, and her eyes are red. When she raises an eyebrow, I plaster on a smirk. “You’ve always wanted to beat me.”
She scowls, but at least she relaxes. She recognizes the familiar pattern and follows the steps. “Don’t you dare let me win, Andi Owen.”
“Not in a million years.” I laugh, relieved. “You can pry the golden arrow from my cold dead hands.”
Andi
The campers gather around the fire on the third night. Tonight, our evening program consists of watching reruns of other sports, like Lotte Vogel’s French Open win or Pilar Abiodun’s World Cup victories. Of discussing sportsmanship and goals and dreams.
When Coach Amira hits Play on her tablet, and the campers gather around her to watch, I see Dad staring at me, but he doesn’t say a word. In fact, he hasn’t said a word throughout our training sessions, either. I genuinely don’t know what is worse. Fighting, or this.
Meanwhile, Rowan sits next to me, and I know there’s something she isn’t telling me. There are a lot of things I don’t always notice. Like, according to my friends back home, when a cute girl flirts with me. Or when an opponent tries to intimidate me. But I notice that she isn’t here fully, and I don’t know how to broach that subject.
So instead I sit next to her and she sits next to me and the rest of the camp happens around us.
In other years, we would have had our questions ready. Not everyone got why studying other sports could help, but we did. I convinced Dad to let me try out martial arts so I could learn to improve my concentration and focus. I spent some time at the local shooting range to find other ways to experiment with my aim. I even attempted fencing, because I thought it might help with my hand-eye coordination, but that didn’t last long. I prefer it when sharp and pointy things are not aimed at me.
Tonight, it’s a girl and a boy who just moved into the cadets group, a pair of twins, who take turns peppering the coaches with questions. Until the various fragments have been shown and discussed half a dozen times. Until everyone around them starts talking, quietly at first, then louder. Coach Thiago walks to the main cabin and comes back with huge bags of popcorn and marshmallows. All that time, the two cadets keep asking questions, just like Rowan and I used to do.
I stretch my legs, and softly elbow Rowan, nudging her attention in the direction of the teens. “Is this what growing old feels like?”
She blinks owlishly, but I can see my comment doesn’t register. I react before I can think the better of it. I grab her hand and drag her away from the fire, into the dark forest.
Rowan
In the shadows of the trees, Andi swings around and pins me with a stare. I can’t see the color of her eyes—moss green by daylight—but I can see the campfire reflected in them, like burning embers. “I know you’re struggling with something, too, and I want to know what it is. I want to know if I can help.”
I cross my arms again, like I always do when I’m caught off guard. “Why?”
“You know, the last time you asked me that question there was a bit less venom to it. But you helped me then, and I want to help you now. If you’ll let me. If you want that, I mean. I don’t want to impose or make it sound like you have to tell, but just … you know.” Andi trails off and even in the dim light, I can see that she’s gone bright red. But she squares her shoulders and adds, “I like to think that we’re friends, is all.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. “Are we?”
She looks chagrined and more than a little hurt. “You think I plan my summer camp weeks around the two of us just because you’re a good shot?”
I start to shrug, but when Andi’s face clouds over, I try to relax. “I wasn’t sure.”
“It’s been seven years, Rowan,” she says incredulously.
“And we never talked about it!” I shoot back.
She stares at me, and it makes me want to squirm. It’s like we’re ten years old all over again and meeting each other for the first time. I really don’t do friendship well. “I thought maybe we bonded over both being precocious brats.”
My words are followed by silence, broken only by the distant hooting of an owl and the rustling of undergrowth.
Then Andi laughs. She laughs so hard she doubles over, and it sounds like bells echoing against the trees. She wipes at her eyes and tries to speak, but she collapses again. “I love you, Rowan Stevens. You’re even more obtuse than I am, and that’s saying something.”
My face burns at those words, and there’s a quiet voice in the back of my mind that whispers to me, tells me to ask her what she meant by that. I clear my throat and reach for the nonexistent strand of hair again and say, “So friends, then?”
“Yes, friends,” Andi says, sobering. Her cheeks are pink and her eyes are overbright. “So tell me what’s up with you, and what I can do to help.”
“You won’t take no for an answer?”
She smirks. “No.”
So I turn away. I can’t look at her or I’ll never find the right words. I’ll trip over my tongue and I’ll get flustered, or I’ll clamp up completely. “Remember how we never told scary stories along with the other kids, because we decided it was important to get enough sleep and be focused on our shooting?”
Andi snorts. “We really were precocious brats.”
I nod. We were. But I guess this year we’re telling scary stories after all. “I only came out as nonbinary a few months ago, right before the end of senior year, and I haven’t gone to any official events since. I didn’t know how to register, and I didn’t want to ask. I was terrified of finding out I’m not welcome anymore.”
“Oh, Rowan…”
I push through, before I let Andi’s compassion get to me. “I didn’t have to gather more points for my ranking or my scholarships, either, so I just told my coach I was focused on graduation and surviving high school. But once I get to college, they’re counting on me being part of the team. Excellent grades and excellent athletic results. Those are the requirements of all three scholarships. They won’t pay for my entire education, but my grandparents set money aside as well, and between my own savings and this, it’s just enough to get me started. But only if they’ll have me.” Once I get to the end of it, my voice is barely more than a whisper, and I don’t know if Andi can still hear me. Hell, I don’t know if she’s still there at all. Or if she thinks I’m overreacting. Or. “I know I should ask, and maybe it won’t be so bad, but—” I thought my school would get it, too and they didn’t. “I read up on the rules a hundred times and it’s like people like me just don’t exist, you know? Those few articles I can find are all about people hating on trans athletes. Saying that we’re lying cheaters who should not be allowed to compete at all. And it’s not like there are archery tournaments with inclusive categories. Everything we do is gendered and I don’t think they get how much that hurts sometimes. I just want to be able to be myself and still compete. That shouldn’t be too much to ask.”
“I’m sorry,” Andi says, when I stop rambling. I brace myself for what comes next. Because I want her to understand. I think I need her to understand.
She walks up to stand next to me, and instead of trying to catch my eye, she simply joins me in staring out at the trees. “It shouldn’t be too much to ask, and I’m sorry that it is. I’m sorry that I never even considered it might be. Not just for you, but for others here. We should do better.” She breathes out hard. “But this is about you. When do classes start?”
I don’t even need to check my phone for that. “Three weeks. And two days.”
“And you haven’t been in touch with them yet?” She keeps her voice neutral, nonjudgmental.
I think about it constantly. Several times a day. Whenever I wake up in the middle of the night. Every time I chicken out. Because: “What if they say they don’t want me there?”
“Would you still want to go? If they didn’t?” Andi asks quietly.
That’s the hardest part. “I do. Bishop University has one of the best rehabilitation science programs in the country. I’ve wanted to be a physical therapist all my life. Should I go for the lesser option? Doesn’t that mean I will let them win?”
“Are you willing to fight for it?”
“Of course.” I don’t want fighting to be necessary. But what’s my alternative?
In my periphery, Andi hesitates before she places a hand on my shoulder. “Then you should at least email them to ask.”
I swallow hard. “I don’t…” I don’t know if I can. If I want to. If I shouldn’t just keep my head down and pretend for as long as I can, until archery is all that remains and there’ll be nothing left of me. Truth is, I understand Andi far better than she could possibly know.
She squeezes. “I’ll help. I’ll be with you. I won’t let you deal with this alone.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Or how to breathe.
But she leans in, and the pressure settles me. “Do you trust me?”
A small, scared part of me wants to say I don’t even know her. But I do. And she knows me, even though we only see each other a few weeks a year. She gets me better than any other friend I’ve ever had. “Yeah.”
I glance at her just in time to see her smile. “We’ll write the email together. Tell them you’re worried. Ask them what your options are. They may surprise you.”
“Okay.” I place my hand on top of hers, and squeeze, too, and another thought occurs to me. “But only if you try to talk to your dad before camp’s over, all right?”
I can feel Andi tense. “I’m not sure he’ll listen to me, but—”
“Andi,” I interrupt her. “This is important to me. But you and your dad, that is important to you.”
The forest around us darkens further. Another owl hoots, the sound fainter and lighter. The laughter and songs that are drifting in from the campfire fade, too, before she nods. “Okay.”
It makes everything feel a little bit more right again. The two of us together. The challenge. The smile.
The best.
Andi
It takes me another two days to pick up the courage to talk to Dad. In that time, Rowan has drafted a dozen emails to her future college counselor, and she’s deleted all of them, too. But last night, after she beat me in practice sets for the second time in a row, we finally settled on the right words.
So today, when we’re supposed to start the day with practice at the range again, Rowan is pretending to have cramps, and I’m cornering Dad. Because we have two days left at camp, and I don’t want to remember my last summer here as the worst one. I don’t think he wants that, either.
“Do you remember when we came here for the first time?” I start talking the moment he sets foot on the range, the same coffee mug in his hands as the first day. He frowns, and it’s like I see my own scowl reflected to me. Is that what he felt like the first time I was angry with him? Every time since? Like looking in a slightly distorted mirror and hurting because the other side is, too?
“You and the other coaches didn’t know if any of this would work. If it wouldn’t just be a galactic waste of money and time to try to make a summer camp happen. But you brought me here anyway because you wanted me to see it. And the very first thing I told you was—”
“Camp Artemis sounds like a portal to a magic world, and I don’t understand why it looks so much like every other forest,” Dad says, begrudgingly. “You were always reading those fantasy books and I think you had a very different idea of what camp would be.”
“I probably did,” I say softly. “But you told me, We can make our own magic here. We can make our own small world where everyone can learn archery, and everyone gets to play, and everyone gets to be a hero. And I knew right there and then that I would love it.” I clear my throat and press on. “But I don’t think I ever told you how true that turned out to be. It is what you, Amira, Thiago, and the past coaches created here, Dad. Every year, kids come here and fall in love with the sport—like Rowan and me. Like those twins in the cadet group. You know they’ll be shooting at Nationals before long. Dozens of campers came through here and made friendships for life, or discovered their confidence, or had camp as a safe space to get away from the rest of life. To all of them, to all of us, Camp Artemis is a magical world we got to visit for a while.”
Somewhere during that impromptu speech, Dad’s placed his mug on the ground, and his eyes are suspiciously shiny, but he’s shaking his head. “If this place is so special, then why are you so intent on leaving it behind?”
I sigh, but I don’t rise to the bait. “I’m not, Dad. I’ll keep coming back here as long as you’ll have me. That’s what I wanted to come here to tell you, so maybe you’ll understand. I’m giving up on competing. I’m not giving up on Camp Artemis, even though I’m too old to be a camper. I’m not giving up on archery. And I’m never giving up on you.”
When his shoulders drop and he unclenches his fists, I realize Rowan had a point. So obvious that I should’ve seen it.
“Going to events together is our thing,” Dad protests weakly.
“Then we’ll find another thing,” I suggest with a careful smile. “Have you ever considered crocheting? Base diving? Do you want to tag along when I go to frat parties?”
“You are not going to frat parties,” he shoots back immediately. Probably before he can think the better of it. But I know he means it when he adds, “You should probably rebel a little, though. If you want to learn those important life lessons.”
I bite my lip. “Did you really believe I’d give up on us?”
Dad has the decency to look ashamed. He steps closer to me and holds out his arms. “I’ve never raised a teen daughter before, Andi. I’m making it up as I go along.”
“Well, I’ve never grown up before, so I guess you’re in good company.” I let him pull me into a hug. “I know three things, though, Dad. Camp Artemis will always be here. Archery will always be important to us. And you and me? It will always be the two of us against the world.”
He pulls me closer still and ruffles my hair. “You’re a good kid, Andi. I’m proud of you.”
“I’m proud of you, too, Dad,” I mutter into his chest, though the words are muffled and my throat has closed up.
The feelings between us are so intense that I’m relieved when we hear a cough from the edge of the range.
A brown-haired girl—one of the youngest archers in the beginners’ group—clears her throat. “’Scuse me, Coach Owen? Coach Amira wants to know if you and the juniors can demonstrate some trick shot techniques for our group.” She has a bit of a lisp and a whole lot of determination.
“Does she now, Maddox?” Dad releases me and wipes surreptitiously at his eyes, while the girl pretends not to notice.
He glances my way. “What do you think, Miss Rebel? Are you up for some trick shots, even though you’re nearly too old to be a camper?”
I pat my bow and grin—and definitely don’t wipe at my eyes, either. “Sure, Coach. I can show the kids how it’s done one last time.”
Email from Bishop University
Dear Mx Stevens,
We haven’t formally met yet. My name is Anne Pierce, captain of Bishop University’s archery team. I understand that you have concerns about your eligibility to compete in archery events—and with that, your place on our team and here at Bishop University—on account of your gender. Please be assured that Bishop prides itself on being welcoming and LGBTQ+ friendly, and these values of inclusion and support hold true for its sports teams as well. While I can’t promise you that we won’t run into administrative red tape trying to place you for events, we are one team and we are committed to supporting you in this endeavor. Once classes start, I would like to meet with you and your counselor to discuss the best plan of attack. While I can’t speak to the details and requirements of your scholarships, please know that your place here at Bishop University and on our prize-winning archery team is safe, and we look forward to welcoming you.
Andi
On the morning of the last full day at camp, everyone gathers for the traditional shoot-off for the golden arrow. Excited voices echo outside our cabin. Feet stomping through dewy grass. Challenges ringing back and forth.
I read through Bishop University’s reply to Rowan’s email once more, while she waxes her bow to get ready for our sets. She looks so relieved, and I’m pretty sure it makes her all the more dangerous. I’m looking forward to it. For the first time in a while, I’m looking forward to all the rest that comes next for us. Even if neither of us knows exactly what that will look like yet.
“What will happen to us? After camp is over, I mean,” Rowan asks, as if she read my mind.
We’ve never asked that question before. Before there was always a next year.
“I wasn’t entirely serious when I suggested we come back here as coaches, but we can do that,” I say, tossing the phone back on her bed. I pick up my own bow to check the string and make sure all my arrows are in perfect condition. “Or we could plan to get drinks after your first event at Bishop. I’ll come cheer you on. It’s only like a seven-hour drive from me.” I laugh, and Rowan blushes.
“You’d do that for me?”
“I promised you I wouldn’t let you do this alone, didn’t I? Besides, I also promised Dad to rebel a little at college. So I’ll come to every one of your events until you get tired of me.”
“Somehow, I don’t think I will.” She places the bow next to her and picks up the arrows. She glances at me sideways. “It’s a date, then.”
When, an hour later, we step onto the archery range of Camp Artemis together, it occurs to me that some things will always remain the same.
One, time flies by, like an arrow speeding toward its target. I may not feel wiser or smarter than when I first came here seven years ago, but I do feel a bit more like me.
Two, the grass is unwieldy, the targets look ragged, but despite its shabby appearance, this range will always be where I first felt most at home. I can’t wait to see what other homes are out there for me.
Three, and finally, this is and always will be the best feeling in the world. These heartbeats, right before we start our set. The rush of excitement. The celebrating campers. My anchor points. Dad, cheering me on one last time. And Rowan, next to me, ready to fight for everything she deserves and more.
May the best of us win.