9

“Why doesn’t Hazel give you a quick tour before lunch since you’re both unpacked,” said Carly.

Carly’s voice was cheery, but her forehead was dotted with sweat from trying to maintain some teensy bit of order as everyone unpacked their belongings. She clearly thought fewer girls in the cabin would help. I followed Hazel outside into the sunshine.

We walked in silence past three cabins that looked just like Cabin Tranquility with name signs that read “Destiny,” “Serenity,” and “Harmony.” Beyond the cabins were a collection of wooden buildings called the Art Hut, the Music Studio, and the Zendom.

Hazel explained that they were where a lot of the daytime activities took place.

“What’s the Zendom?” I asked.

“Where Joe offers meditation classes. They’re optional, and no one really goes. You’re not allowed to wear shoes in there, and Joe’s feet are . . .” Hazel pinched her nose and swatted the air.

The movement blew some of the hair away from her face. As I suspected, Hazel was just as pretty as she was quiet. Not a boring quiet, though. The kind of quiet that made me want to lean in and listen. We continued on to the basketball court, the tennis courts, and a sandy circle that had a metal pole with a ball attached to a long string.

“Tetherball,” said Hazel. “Everyone was obsessed last year.”

I nodded. If everyone was obsessed, then I should definitely pretend to know what it was.

“I’ll show you my favorite place in all of camp,” said Hazel.

We headed toward a bench that faced the lake. I paused to take in the metal slide at the far end of the swim area. The wooden dock at its base bobbed gently in the water. Hazel must not have noticed me stop. She continued walking to the bench.

“Oh my gosh,” she said, bringing her hand to her chest as I sat down next to her. “You scared me.”

“Sorry?”

Had she forgotten about me? It had only been a few seconds.

“It’s okay,” said Hazel. “I just don’t like it when people come up behind me.”

That was understandable. I wasn’t sure what Hazel was famous for, but people probably ran up to her on the street and asked to take her picture all the time. Maybe she was an actor on one of the many TV shows that Quinn loved but Mom and Dad refused to let me watch?

I didn’t want to come right out and ask. So instead I said, “One time someone came up behind me while I was drinking milk at a restaurant. I was so startled that I snorted white bubbles out my nose.”

“Yikes,” said Hazel. “Did anyone catch it on camera?”

Hazel’s eyes were wide and concerned, as if maybe the video had gone viral and I was known all over the world as Snort Girl.

“Um, I don’t think so.”

Hazel exhaled. “Phew. That’s the last thing you want. I’m sure you’ve seen my turkey video?”

I shook my head, clueless as to what Hazel was talking about.

“My mom took the video when I was four years old,” said Hazel. “We’d learned this song about a turkey from Albuquerque in preschool and I was singing it for my family at the Thanksgiving table. Just as I finished, my dad walked out carrying a turkey on a platter, all roasted and shiny. I made the happy song/dead turkey connection and broke into tears.”

“Makes sense,” I said. “Dead turkeys are . . . dead turkeys. They’re super sad.”

Hazel smiled. “Exactly. But my mom got the whole thing on video and posted it on her blog. Next thing I knew, I was flying to New York City to be interviewed on all these talk shows.”

“Wow.”

“I know, right? The worst.”

I’d actually been thinking that being interviewed on TV sounded super cool. But I pressed my lips together and nodded.

“So you’re famous because of the turkey video?” I asked.

“I guess,” said Hazel. “I mean, that’s how it started. After that video my mom’s blog got more and more popular. Then she expanded to all the different social media channels. At first I didn’t even realize that my mom was posting pictures of me to her bazillions of followers online. I thought she just liked photography and fancy cameras. But now sharing my life is her job. The one that pays her money that we need to live. And I’m stuck.”

Hazel sighed. Even in her gloom she was so darn pretty. Her eyes dreamy. Her frown delicate. “But at least I get to come here,” she continued. “It always takes me a few days to remember that my mom’s not around to take my picture when I’m not looking. That for three weeks I’m totally free.”

Hazel wasn’t jumpy at the thought of adoring fans. She was jumpy at the thought of her own mom. “She really posts your picture without your permission?” I asked. “That’s so bad.”

“All day long. At home no one understands. Some kids treat me like I’m all snobby because I always have new trendy clothes or whatever. But here everyone gets it. They know that my mom doesn’t actually buy the clothes. Companies send them to her so she can take my picture and share it.” Hazel exhaled. “Thanks for listening.”

I nodded. I didn’t totally understand. But sitting next to Hazel, watching her twist the strings of her cutoff jean shorts into tight coils as she spoke, I could sense how trapped she felt.

“I get it,” I said, smiling. “Just like everyone else.”

A bell clanged from across the field.

“Time for lunch,” said Hazel. “Come on.”