“Okay, I’ll admit the whole girl empowerment thing was special. I wasn’t certain that I’d made the best decision to stay at Woodlands until the bitter end, but yeah, watching my daughters’ excitement was gratifying.”
Gilda asked, “So now that you’re within spitting distance of finishing an entire summer, are you signing up to rejoin the cult next year? Have you drunk the Kool-Aid?”
Part of me wanted to tell them that not only had I bought into the cult, I was in negotiations with Teddy to mix a whole new recipe for bug juice. I held up my cup. “You know I only drink gin.”
“Come on, you know what I mean.”
“I’ve drunk gallons of bug juice and become a Camp Woodlands disciple.” I held up my plastic cup. “Thank you for supporting me through all the nonsense, so I could make it to the other side. Cheers.”
Bethany grinned. “I’m looking forward to working with you next summer.”
Mindy held up her iced red wine. “Here’s to next summer and the best part of camp—Color War!”
After my morning walk in the drizzle, I stopped in the dance studio to stretch. In front of the full-length mirror was a disheveled woman wearing baggy sweatpants with the camp’s zip code plastered across her butt. I tilted my head, pulled my hair apart, and saw four different shades of disgusting. Brown and gray roots at the base, the middle was what was left of the auburn color I paid top dollar for every six weeks, the ends were strawberry blonde. I was almost forty and was walking around with a multicolored bush sprouting from the top of my head. On the one hand it was difficult to believe how unkempt I’d become but also liberating not worrying about how I’d looked for the past two months. But I’d book a hair appointment before I left camp.
What did Teddy see when he looked at me? If I asked him, he’d say something suave in his beautiful accent, like, “All I see is the beauty of your heart.”
Hooking my slicker on the ballet barre, I bent over and mussed my hair so it wasn’t matted against my scalp. I pulled my loosely hanging shirt back, tying a knot at the base of my spine. I’d lost at least ten pounds. I struck different poses trying to find the naïve woman who’d walked into Woodlands almost two months ago. The face staring back was set on a long neck and straight back with shoulders that seemed broader. I smiled looking at her, and in return I received a smirk of someone who had a self-assured air about her.
I strode into the arts & crafts studio and poured myself some dirty-water coffee. “I could really use a day at a salon. Doyou think Marilyn would mind if I took some time off? I’ll drive into town for a day of beauty and relaxation—a massage, dye job, and a mani-pedi. Wanna join me?”
“Desperately. I haven’t been this slovenly . . . ever,” Abby said.
“Come on, ladies, you can stand a few more days of looking like schlumps. Everyone knows by now that Abby’s not a natural blonde and Lori isn’t a real redhead,” Maggie said.
I fluffed my hair. “Auburn.”
Roger was scanning the day’s schedule. “Today’s big Color War event is the marathon relay.”
“Speaking of marathons, we’re at the end of ours. Even with all our bellyaching, it flew by.” Abby dunked a biscotti.
“It’s like having a baby . . . each day is an eternity and then, in a blink of an eye, they’re old enough to go to camp . . .”
Abby continued my thought, “With their mothers.”
We laughed.
The relay was the last of the Color War competitions. There were different legs of the race: kayaking, an egg toss, kicking a soccer goal, backflipping on a balance beam, jumping rope, and passing a water bucket to fill a tub. My personal favorite was chewing a piece of Bazooka and blowing a bubble. Intentionally, there was an activity that every camper could successfully accomplish, regardless of their skill set. The last leg of the relay was a two-mile race that started at the ski dock, continued up two steep hills, and ended at the campfire site, where all two hundred and fifty girls would gather, waiting. The first runner from each team to arrive tagged a person designated to start a fire. The flame had to burn through a rope that was strung three feet above the blaze.
Everyone’s reward for the afternoon’s efforts would be s’mores.
At breakfast that morning, Jordana, one of the two Color War captains, approached me as I scooped granola onto a yogurt parfait. “Lori, my team voted to have you as the DL starting our fire.”
“I’m flattered, but if you want to win you should pick someone else. I’ve never started a campfire.”
“Nope, we all agreed. We want you.” She beamed at me.
“I don’t want to disappoint you and the entire Green team.”
“You won’t. Besides, if you can’t get a flame going within ten minutes, someone is allowed to help you.”
“You’re sure about this?” I asked.
“Absolutely.”
Watching her walk away, I prayed for rain.
Mike was at the campfire site when I arrived. He was wearing a pair of wellies, hip-hugging ripped jeans, and a hoodie zipped up just enough not to keep you guessing what lay underneath. At his side was a fire extinguisher.
