I wander through the day wondering how I’m going to say it. During lunch, I trace my fingers along the words When the wind blows the water white and black. I’ve been through a lot of rough-blowing winds. I can probably do this. I eat my sandwich and close my eyes. Let the ocean rage.
When I get home, I put on Courtney Barnett and sing at the top of my lungs. I love being home by myself. I know that it’s supposed to be weird or maybe a little scary, but I love filling this empty house with noise. Mom comes home as I’m blaring my way through “Dead Fox.” She turns the music down, and I’m grateful for the little act of Mom-ness. She doesn’t think I’ll kill myself if she turns down my music. Normal.
“Hi, rock star,” she says.
“Hi!”
“You’re really into this stuff, huh?”
“Kind of, yeah.”
She shakes her head just a little, but she’s smiling. “Okay. How was your day?”
“It was all right. How was yours?”
“Long. You look like the cat that swallowed the canary. What’s going on?” Mom likes old-people expressions almost as much as Dr. Katz.
“Well … ” I bring the brochure out of my backpack, trying to smooth it out. “I think I want to go to camp.”
Mom turns her head to the side and looks at me with a half grin. “You. Camp. You can’t be serious.”
“I am, a little.”
“Where is this coming from, Sparrow? My Sparrow hates camp.”
“I know. And I might hate this one, but I think I have to find out. It was in a book that Mrs. Wexler gave me. It’s a camp to learn to play music and join a band and whatever.”
“Huh.” She sounds doubtful. “How long is it for?”
“One month.”
“Here in the city?”
“No, it’s upstate.”
“Sparrow, I can’t take you upstate every day. I have to work.”
“No, I know. It’s sleepaway.”
I can feel something in Mom stiffen. I’ve never had a sleepover, much less gone to sleepaway camp for a month, and we both know what happened the one time I did try and that was just for one night.
“I don’t know, Sparrow. You’re barely back to yourself. You’re barely passing eighth grade. What if you have an episode while you’re there?”
“By episode, do you mean flying?”
“I guess.”
“I’m not going to. Nothing would happen if I did, it’s not dangerous, but also, I can’t anymore. Not even if I want to. Not even when I want to. I can still talk to Dr. Katz if you want me to. Maybe on the phone or something? But I have to try this, Mom.”
“I just, Sparrow, I just got you back. I don’t want you to go.”
“I know. But I think I have to. I think I can’t just stay here with you all summer, even if I want to. Here’s the information. I have to get the application in pretty soon.”
She sits at the island, taking the brochure from my hand. “I’m proud of you, Sparrow. I know you’re scared.”
“I’m really scared.”
“Speaking of which, are you friends with the girl who played that song at the talent show?”
“Tanasia? No, not really.” I don’t say, Tanasia? I sit next to her every single day in English class and ignore her even though she’s obviously trying to be my friend and even though she’s probably the only person at school I have anything in common with. I don’t say, Tanasia? I haven’t said word one to her since the talent show. I don’t say, Tanasia? Every single day I tell myself that I’m going to say hi, that I’m going to write her a note back, and every single day I sit there and avoid eye contact.
“Well, maybe you should be.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Okay, let me take a look at all this.”
“Okay.”
I go upstairs and breathe a sigh of relief. I take out my math packet and try to finish it. I only have two weeks before grades close and there’s no way Mom will let me go if I don’t, well, graduate eighth grade.
“So, I talked to my mom about the program,” I tell Dr. Katz, the sunshine pouring through the windows, covering everything in her office with a hopeful gold.
“How did that go?”
“Not great, but I think she’s going to let me go.”
“Do you want to go?”
I take a second to think about this. I am scared out of my mind. I mean, really, who am I kidding? I was in a freaking mental hospital four and a half months ago—do we all really think it’s a good idea for me to go skipping off to summer camp? Also, there will be other people there, and we all know how awesome I am at that. But here’s this woman who knows exactly how crazy I am, and she doesn’t seem to think it’s a terrible idea.
When I imagine camp, it goes one of two ways. The first, it’s perfect; it’s like a version of Mrs. Wexler’s library but with music. I learn how to play bass. I am weirdly good at it. I don’t even need to practice, but I do. I practice all the time in a small room with big windows and hot afternoon light just like this one. Bass is the perfect instrument for me; you can barely hear it if you don’t know what you’re listening for, but the song wouldn’t be the same or even half as good without it. It’s the pulse. You’d think that was the drums, but it’s not. It’s the bass. And bassists are tall and skinny, like me. Well, except for the tall part. But in the summer-camp-library dream, I’m tall too. It’s perfect.
Then there’s the nightmare scenario. It’s the Y camp overnight, but I don’t get to go home. It’s the cafeteria, but worse, because I expected it to be better. And worse because it’s in the middle of nowhere and we have to camp and I didn’t even bring a tent or a sleeping bag. A counselor lends me a tent, but I don’t know how to set it up, and everyone already seems to know each other and they’re talking and laughing and going off for an activity while I’m still trying to put together my tent, it starts to rain, and I just crawl between the flaps on the ground and wait. And then I become the girl who couldn’t put her tent together, and at reunions in ten years, no one will remember my name, but they’ll remember coming back to the campsite and finding me in a little soaking wet pile on the ground. I play the tambourine. They make me lead singer. No one wants to be in my group. The counselors have to make the other kids be in a group with me because that’s what counselors do, but everyone knows the difference between wanting to be in a group with someone and being forced to be in a group with someone. They all hate me because they’re being forced to pretend to like me, and every day the teacher is like, “Louder, Sparrow. I can’t hear you singing,” and I have to sit with my tent neighbors at lunch, which is eight hundred times worse than sitting alone.
“Sparrow?”
“Hi.”
“Hi there. What’s going on?”
I explain my two scenarios; I start to fidget when I get to the part about sitting with the other kids at lunch, mostly so I can hide the fact that my hands are trembling.
“I see,” says Dr. Katz slowly, forcibly suppressing a smile. Is she seriously about to laugh at me right now?
“What’s so funny?” I ask, angry.
“It’s not that it’s funny, Sparrow. You just have a very vivid imagination. So, let’s start with this: There are no tents.”
“There aren’t?”
“No. It’s at a college campus upstate. You’re not wrong: There will be some nature, but you won’t be sleeping in it. You’ll be in a dorm.”
“That means roommates; that’s even worse!”
“There’s no getting around it, kid, summer camp definitely means other people. But it’s other stuff too—the chance to learn something new, to get good at something that you didn’t even know you could do a week before, to be exposed to new music and its history.”
When she talks about that stuff, the music part, my heart loosens. I don’t have to fidget anymore. Subtly, my fingers press down imaginary chords on an imaginary bass.
“I like that part.”
“Right. So, what you have to decide is whether it’s worth it to you or not, think about it.”
“I will.”
“But not for too long. If you’re going to apply, you have to do it before next week.”
It’s late, and I know I should be sleeping, but I can’t. I’m reading The Perks of Being a Wallflower, and Charlie is in the hospital. It’s different than when I was there, but it’s nice to think that another kid, even a fictional one, has seen the inside of one of those places. I let myself think for a split second that maybe there’ll be a girl version of Charlie at camp. Then I think of the muddy, rained-on tent. I wish I could sleep.
The next thing I know, it’s morning. I come downstairs and there’s a whole big breakfast waiting. Mom is not a pancake mom, but there are pancakes and bacon and eggs and warm syrup. Warm syrup? Who does that? Something is up.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Wrong? Nothing, girl, I made you breakfast. A little inspiration. A little sustenance. A little bravery.”
“Oh. Thanks.” I manage a smile.
“Eat.”
I do. I tear into the pancakes with the warm syrup, making sure to drip some on my eggs too. She puts a cup of tea down next to my plate.
“So, what do I need inspiration, sustenance, and bravery for?”
She raises her eyebrows at me like, Think about it. “The application, remember? We’re doing this.”
“Oh, that.”
“Yeah, that. Get the teacher recommendation and fill out your part of the form. Bring it to me this afternoon at the office.”
“I’m going to need another pancake.”
When I get to her office after school, I hand Mom the recommendation (Ms. Smith’s, of course) and my part of the application. She informs me of her plan. “Okay, Sparrow. You sit here with James until I’m done at six. You need to get math and science done tonight. Enough excuses. We’re not going for As here; we’re going for done. Got it? We’ll stop for sushi on the way home, and then you’re finishing social studies. Am I clear?”
“Yes,” James and I say in unison.
“Good. Get to work.”
James turns his speakers on quietly, but I can hear that he’s playing the Strokes, and I nod in appreciation of his efforts. “It’s go time, kiddo,” he says. We tear through as much of it as we can, James helping me with whatever math he remembers from eighth grade, tossing me peanut butter cups when I get a right answer. I am awful at science, but half of the packet is just filling in the periodic table.
“Let’s go,” Mom says, with one hand on her hip, her briefcase in the other.
“Thanks, James,” I call over my shoulder as I throw my stuff into my backpack.
“Good luck, kid; eighth grade’s a killer.”
Mom orders sushi as we’re headed to the train; it’ll be at the house five minutes after we get there. It’s nice to have Mom be Mom—everything scheduled down to the minute. On the train she says, “Get out your social studies.”
“Mom, it’s a ten-minute train ride.” She cocks her head to the side, that infamous eyebrow raised.
“People with 4.0 GPAs can argue. People who are barely managing to pass eighth grade and who are begging to go to summer camp and not summer school take their work out of their backpacks the second their mothers tell them to.” Fair point. I work until we get to our stop. If Mom had her way, I’d probably write and walk at the same time.
“Go sit at the island,” she says as we get into the house. “This is a working dinner.” There is no point in arguing. After dinner, I may beg for some music but that’s about as far as I’m willing to push it and I need some time to perfect my strategy.
She puts out the dishes and I can feel her peering over my shoulder to make sure that I’m still going. “I promise, Mom, I’m working!”
“I want my child to pass the eighth grade; she acts like I’m a prison warden,” she says to no one in particular. After dinner, she checks my work from the afternoon while I try to finish my Gatsby reading for the next day.
Around ten, I’m having trouble keeping my eyes open. “Mom, I’m tired. Can I put some music on to keep me up?”
She looks at me askance, trying to tell if I’m trying to get away with something or if I’m for real. “Okay, but go easy on me. No angsty white boys.”
“You’re the one who listens to NPR all day, home of angsty white boys.”
“I like them for news.”
“Here, try this.” I put on Alabama Shakes. “A black lady indie rocker, and only a little angsty.”
“Not bad,” she says, tapping her manicured nails on the countertop. I get back to work. My head is too heavy to carry by twelve thirty. It’s rolling around on my shoulders.
“I guess we could call it a night.”
“I think I’ll pass,” I say.
She turns her chair toward me. She cups my face in her hands. “This is the last time, Sparrow. We’re not doing this again. We’re not doing hoping for Cs. We’re not doing rooftops. We’re not doing hospitals.”
“I know,” I say, lids half-closed.
“You want to go to camp? That’s fine. But you need to be able to stay there, just like you need to be able to go to high school in the fall. And if Dr. Katz isn’t helping you do that, we need to find you someone who will.”
“She’s helping, I promise,” I say, wanting to talk about anything other than this.
“She better be. Sparrow, I’m serious. If you’re going to camp, you’re staying there. You’ve got to figure out how to beat this thing. I can’t bail you out. Got it?” I pretend to be asleep, as my heart starts kicking quietly against my ribs.