“Some of you may remember that we started this summer with a tragedy,” Mellie says, her voice gentle. “I want to remind you that this isnotsomething we have publicized. Your discretion is appreciated.” Heads nod around the room and there’s a murmur of agreement. I glance at Ava and she stiffens beside me, her head jolted upright.
“As always, please put on your best faces, your cleanest staff shirts, and your biggest smiles,” Mellie continues. “All good?”
Counselors around me reply, “All good!”
But my throat is like chalk. I look over to Mellie, who’s standing in the corner of the room, clutching a clipboard to her chest. Stu and Mellie do their best to protect this camp from the outside world. They work tirelessly to create a bubble, impenetrable and sturdy, but what if Levin was right? What if Heller’s death has made us vulnerable and open?
What if Ava is the reason why?
---
“Don’t forget to brush your teeth!” Meg bellows the next morning. “Can’t let your folks think we’re turning you into gremlins!”
We’re only a few hours from parental arrivals and the cabin is frenetic. The girls tumble into the bathroom, nearly tripping over themselves to get a spot at the sink. The conversation once again turns to snacks and food and whose family makes the best cookies.
“Remember, girls, we’ll have a big party tonight to share all those treats, so no talking bad about anyone else’s mama!” Meg says.
The girls laugh but Meg wrinkles her nose as she ducks back into the counselor room. “They act like we don’t feed them,” she whispers with disgust, pulling on her striped senior staff shirt. “They get ice cream every day and cookie patrol before bed. Plus three full meals. With dessert at two of them!”
I cluck my tongue in recognition and lace up my sneakers.
“You were never like that,” she says.
I snap my head up. I’ve never heard her say anything like this, or even reference the fact that there is, distinctly, anusversusthem—thembeing the lifers who pay full price and stay here until they go off to internships and law degrees. Andus, the staffers trying to escape something, the local girl who’s granted free tuition thanks to her parents’ jobs.
Sure, there are a few in-betweeners like Levin, but there’s no denying the fissure of tension spoken only among those who know spoiled, ungrateful children when they see them. Straddling the line between being the invited and the hired has always been a game of survival.
Meg and I make our way into the camper room and most of the girls are already waiting on the lawn, but Bianca and Jordie are huddled on their bed, unmoving. “I got this,” I whisper to Meg.
Jordie’s bedspring squeaks with my weight as I sink down onto it. “Everything okay?” I ask.
They look at each other, as if they’re having a silent conversation meant only for sisters. But then Jordie clears her throat. “Fran said all the parents bring gifts on visiting day.”
“Sometimes,” I say.
“We didn’t tell Mom to bring anything,” Bianca says. “What if she doesn’t? What if everyone thinks she doesn’t love us?”
My heart nearly breaks for these two little girls who could have anything they want but still think love is given with heaping piles of crap. I want to tell them these dumb visiting day packages mean nothing, that they don’t indicate anything about how much their parents love them. But nothing I say will teach them that. Not now.
That old song “Wagon Wheel” blares on the loudspeakers, and I know that’s the cue.
“Your parents love you very much,” I say. “So, so, so much. Whether they come with piles of stuff or not.”
They look at each other like they don’t believe me, but I paste on a smile and hold out my hands. They take them, and I lead them out of the cabin, up toward the rest of the girls. They all look well taken care of with combed hair and clean shirts. They look shiny and healthy and safe.
Jordie and Bianca catch up with their bunkmates and stand at the wooden fences near the traffic circles. It’s the same place where I waited for the buses to pull in, for Ava and Imogen to come home to me.
All the kids line up, pressed up against the fences, excitement and nerves crackling in the air. The parents are here.
It always starts the same way. Stu and Mellie ride down the hill first in a golf cart with music blasting from the speakers. Soda cansdrag behind them like they’re newlyweds. Then come the cars. Hundreds of minivans and SUVs and convertibles carrying parents and their care packages. They’re all decorated with signs painted with kids’ names and funny slogans. Every year, Mrs. Graves from Tenafly, New Jersey, with her bright blonde hair and diamond earrings, runs down alongside the cars like she’s carrying the Olympic torch. She’s tradition, too, and has had kids attend Alpine Lake for fifteen years in a row. Her youngest is a super senior now, so it’ll be her last visiting day.
When each kid sees their parents, they scream and run toward the lawn, which turns into a parking lot for the day. There, they’re greeted with tight hugs and sloppy kisses and watery eyes that askare they taking care of you?
I watch from the back, as kids howl upon recognition and skip off toward their families. This is the hopeful part of the day. The hour when all the kids with complicated parental arrangements can dream that maybe things will be easy for one day. Maybe their parents will keep their shit together. Maybe all the hoopla, the celebration, the sugar will make all the other problems disappear.
Ava clucks her tongue. “I hope the stepbitch doesn’t expect me to talk to her. She won’t, right? She couldn’t.”
I try to detect worry in her voice but I only hear annoyance. Her dad’s new wife lives in some sort of bubble, flying around Ava’s world like a lazy mosquito. She’s always a threat, a nuisance, but rarely lands on flesh to suck blood.
