15

After all the cards were thrown into the flame, the edges curling in on themselves as they charred, the spirit of campfire shifted. Joe led us in funny songs. The counselors told stories about knights, dragons, and pesky rabbits. We opened bags of marshmallows and roasted as many as we wanted, our mouths sticky with gooey sweetness.

By the time we returned to Cabin Tranquility, once again following Joe’s lit torch, the only tingling I felt was from our fizzy energy. The late hour and the cool chill of night combined to make it bubblier than ever.

Every step of our nighttime routine was more hilarious than any other night so far. Bells placed both feet into one leg of her pajama pants and hopped around the cabin like a rabbit from the campfire story. Shira sang the ABC’s as she gurgled mouthwash, almost choking and spewing it all over the sink. Willa started spinning pirouettes in the center of the cabin. Hazel jumped into my bed and I jumped into her bed.

And Carly? She stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, shaking her head and trying hard not to laugh.

When we finally got into our beds (the correct beds), it was hard to stop wiggling and jiggling. Bells started a whisper chain so that once Carly fell asleep we could keep talking. The sooner we quieted down, the sooner Carly would pull her pink satin sleep mask over her eyes and fall asleep.

Carly’s counselor bed was in a corner nook tucked behind a half wall. Willa was the only one who could see into Carly’s space from her own bed. When Willa gave a thumbs-up signal, we all crept over to Bells’s bed.

We’d never formally decided that Bells’s bed would be the gathering place. When there were things to be discussed, like whether Cameron Craze was aware that he was constantly jerking his body around or if his elbow jabs were unconscious dance moves that everyone in the world would soon be copying, we discussed them on Bells’s bed.

I usually sat right beside Bells, my back against her pillow. But after what happened at the campfire, I paused to make sure she wanted me there. When Bells patted the spot beside her, I snuggled in with relief. Bells’s bed smelled like lavender and bug spray. I brushed my hand against her super-soft cashmere blanket and smiled.

“I love camp,” said Shira. “I never want it to end.”

“Me neither,” said Bells. “Let’s mount a rebellion and refuse to leave. I could live like this forever.”

“We can’t live like this forever,” said Willa. “Those stupid notecards made me remember all those other people.”

In the past week, Willa had cut down on her dance exercises against the bathroom sink, and she hadn’t mentioned the movie script since the day we arrived. Now she waved her graceful hands in the air, giving the impression of a large crowd waiting just outside the cabin door.

If I never left camp, my parents would miss me. So would Grandma. Ms. McIntyre would send a nice check-in letter, but the kids at school would forget about me pretty darn fast.

Except everyone else seemed to agree with Willa.

“People,” repeated Hazel. “I hate people. I hate how they think they know everything about me just because they read what my mom writes. You guys are the only ones who really know me.”

“Same,” said Bells. “I’m dreading that look. You know, the one where someone meets you and at first they’re really excited. But then you can tell that they’re also disappointed. Like they expected you to be prettier.”

“Or smarter,” said Shira.

“Or more outgoing,” said Hazel.

“The famous version of you,” said Bells.

Again, everyone agreed. I twisted the corner of Bells’s blanket between my fingers.

“At least when I’m dancing, I’m the real me,” said Willa. “I’m probably the most me, if that makes sense.”

Yes, I thought. Finally something I could relate to. “That’s how I feel when I’m writing,” I said.

Willa smiled. “We’re lucky, I guess. We’re famous for doing what we love.”

Just like at the campfire, my words were true. When I wrote in my notebook, I was the most me. The outside world lifted from my shoulders, and my thoughts untangled without any worry of what others would think, or say, or do.

But what my words implied was false. My cabinmates assumed I was referring to all my famous books.

“Do you ever write about romance?” asked Bells, shaking her shoulders. “Like kissing and stuff?”

Did the fake famous me write about kissing? How could I? I’d never been close to kissing anyone in a romantic way.

“Come on, Abby,” pressed Bells. “Tell us. You spend every rest hour writing, but you never talk about your books. We don’t even know what they’re about.”

Bells assumed I was writing stories during rest hour. What would she think if she knew I was just writing about my thoughts and feelings?

“Yeah,” said Willa. “You’re so secretive, Abby. You never tell us anything.”

“I’m not allowed to,” I said. “It’s, like, against the rules.”

Shira rolled her eyes and blew air out of the side of her mouth. “You mean because you signed a contract? That legal stuff doesn’t matter. It’s just us.”

I looked around at my friend’s faces, lit up by a single flashlight. They all seemed to agree that legal stuff—whatever that meant—didn’t matter.

Or maybe they were all agreeing that I was being secretive. Since the minute I’d made my decision on the airplane, I had been keeping a secret. A big secret.

I had to tell them something.

“Sometimes I write about crushes and stuff,” I lied. “But only kissing. Nothing else.”

“Like, what do you write?” asked Bells. “Do you describe it?” Bells tilted her head and puckered her lips.

“I mean . . . yeah . . . I just sort of write that my characters kissed and that they felt happy. That kind of thing.”

“Happy?” said Willa. “Don’t you mean that their hearts exploded?”

“And then they kissed again,” added Hazel. “And again and again and again.”

“Oooh,” said Shira, wrapping her arms around herself and wiggling. “Romantic.”

I grabbed one of Bells’s pillows and threw it at Shira. Hazel did the same. Shira rolled off the bed and landed on the wood floor with a thump.

“I’m dead,” said Shira as she threw her hand across her forehead and pretended to gasp for air. “And I haven’t even had my first kiss.”

We all laughed, which is why we missed the creak of Carly’s bed frame.

“Girls,” said Carly, sitting up and lifting her pink satin eye mask. “Get back in your own beds and go to sleep. Or else.”

We scattered back to our own beds.

I pulled my sheets to my chin as stray giggles echoed around the cabin. I’d survived their questions about my writing, but just barely.

Normally I never wanted our nighttime conversations to end. But that night I was grateful when the giggles stopped.

For the first time since arriving at Camp Famous, I preferred silence to talking.