I’m going for the pussy badge. It’s my last one left. I got the midnight-rendezvous-by-tire-swing-over-water badge; the getting-caught-running-through-girls’-cabin-withunderwear-on-head; the sneak-a-beer-on-roof-of-messhall. All I need is the pussy badge. And you know what? I’m going to get it.
We are allowed personal calls on Sundays. Mostly I call Steven to check in on the restaurant, and my wife to get an update on the kids. When I call, I talk like a thirteen-year-old (required for the “full experience”). I say: “Hey, Susie, how’s it going? (Then I pause like I don’t care), and then say: “Yeah, yeah, I love you, too, Sue. Gotta run.” And then I hang up the phone and run to hang out with my new best friends on the dock. When I run, I run like a thirteen-year-old over to the pond (legs flailing out at the sides, almost a skip). I was taught in orientation to jump from time to time for no particular reason, like the spontaneity of being a new teen. I got the running-like-a-carefree-kid badge real early on here.
At the dock, they’re all wearing swim trunks circa late ’80s, and the girls (women) have their hair in that era’s style, too. Scooter (Dr. Phillips) hasn’t done well in completing badge missions, so he’s still working on push-new-best-friend-into-water badge. Me, I’ve got my eyes on Betsy (Professor Stevenson from the small college in the city). She’s going to give me my pussy badge, and I’m going to give her her penis badge. I shove her in the water, tell her she’s an idiot, and then ask her to meet me back here after lights out. She giggles and says, “Eww gross,” and, “No way.” I know she’ll be there.
It’s a catch-22, in a way. When you get all the badges, you’re done. So, you can’t stay. But until you get all the badges, you haven’t fulfilled your lost childhood. So, you see? I have mixed feelings as I skip whimsically (for the full experience) in the shadows down to the water. I know that I have to get the pussy badge, and Betsy needs the penis, but then it will all be over.
I remove my sandals and throw away my gum and dip my feet, up to my knees, in the cool pond water, making ripples in the moon’s line of white on the black satin. Luckily, no one is around when I break character and remove my oversized baseball cap and rub my bald head. I catch myself and put the oversized cap back on (askew of course). My camp-issued T-shirt, bearing the logo of my favorite sports team (a team I’ve never heard of) hangs over my nylon shorts, covering my gut (supposedly making me look like a fat kid, not an overweight restaurant manager). I wait, trying to think about capture-the-flag and shaving cream on my best friends’ hands, and warm water to make them piss—but I keep thinking about where I will go tomorrow, after I get Betsy’s pussy badge. Sue, the kids, my job, bills, all the dreams I gave up. And the thought of a wife, kids, a job (my wife, my kids, my job), it hurts. So, I continue to think about batting for the baseball team on my shirt, hitting home runs and playing for the rest of my life, having wishes. I think about building giant Lincoln Log cabins, snow forts, tree houses, and living in them with my best friends forever and ever. I skip a stone, picture ladybugs, and sharply dream of catching fireflies, blocking it all out for just one more night. Then, I hear someone step onto the dock behind me.
She doesn’t say a word. She won’t meet my eyes, awkward, looking all around, glancing behind her, appearing nervous about getting caught (she’s good at this). I try to try looking cool (in the frame of mind of a thirteen-year-old) and don’t say anything either. Betsy sits down next to me, leaving a foot of space on the dock in between our wrinkled bodies and youthful personas. She knows it, and I know it: I’m getting in her pants, and she’s getting into mine. But I don’t want to leave this camp. I want to fail this mission. But I can’t tell if she does.
“You got some gum?” I ask, looking at the water.
“Yeah, here you go.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out nothing, mimes removing gum from a pack, then hands it to me (she’s really good).
“Thanks.”
“No problem.” She laughs a little, then sighs and swings her legs, skimming the top of the black pond with her toes. I like the look of her thigh all of a sudden and reach around her waist and kiss her on the mouth, pull back, remove the gum, throw it, and then push my hand up her shirt and feel my face heat up. She takes her shirt off, and I am awed. I’ve never seen boobs before. I reach down her frayed jean shorts, undoing the button and pulling on the zipper. This is so new, so scary. What is down there, under her shorts? How will it feel? What should I do? Then I touch it—it feels so unclear—and before I even realize that I have finally graduated, I remove the badge from her shorts. I lean back, catching my breath, allowing her to pull down my nylon shorts. She reaches down and removes the penis badge, and we hug. We sit there, still, a little proud, a little foolish. We realize we have to leave this place, and we hug. Hug and cry, and get scared for the future.