“Ilovethecastof characters this week,” Nat announced to no one in particular, as if this were a TV show.
We were having drinks as we lackadaisically passed around profiles of our incoming cohort. Photos were attached to a questionnaire each person had filled out. They answered questions like “What is your favorite way to relax and showself-care?” to logistical questions like “What’s your preference for sleeping arrangements? A. in the quieter cabins. B. with the night owls. C. I’ll roll the dice.”
They talked about their dietary restrictions, why they were taking this trip, and whether they wanted to attend activities such as “All Day Book Club” or “Wet and Wild Water Skiing.”
It was in-depth, and most campers were willing to answer everything, some going as far as to attach extra pages because we were catering an experience to their needs as best we could. That and the fact that this year’s waitlist was miles long, and they may have wanted to edge out the competition. Not that that was the way we worked. We were a first come, first served resort, but many didn’t know that.
Camp Starlight was a unique adventure the likes of which didn’t exist anywhere else in the country. People loved the idea of going back to their roots while also attending a resort.
“Hey, Leo, do they ever say their fave way to practice self-care is jacking it, or do they all just answer like grownups?” Fellow counselor and resident horndog Felicia was emphatic. “No one is ever immature like I’m hoping.”
Leo tipped his beer bottle toward her as he answered. “It has happened once, and it was you.” The whole room burst into laughter. “Zel, do you remember anyone answering like that?” he asked seriously. Five years meant a couple of hundred campers and even more profiles.
“Not that I can think of, but I’ll keep my eyes peeled for you.”
“Go through them again if you have to, Hazel,” Leo implored with mock seriousness. “You’re the only person we trust to get to the bottom of this.”
She didn’t look up from her clipboard. “Forget about all the intake I’ve yet to do. This will be my top priority.”
“I’m serious about Cheryl and Terry getting together,” Nat interjected, as though she needed validation. “Look, they bothhave huskies, they both put down ‘hiking with my dog’ as their favorite pastime,andthey signed up for sunrise yoga. They’re perfect for each other,” she said defiantly. “And more importantly, they listed themselves as ‘single’ and ‘bisexual.’”
I looked over their files and perused the forty-three-year-old with a passion for “humbling the fifth graders I dunk on at basketball during my lunch period.” The man could have just left it at teacher, but he really painted a picture, and I appreciated that. We were great at attracting the wackiest people. It made this place that much more magical. Cheryl was a geologist with a penchant for drinking wine and reading in her free time.
“Look at that,” Nat added. “She even reads. See? Teacher… Books… Teachers use books. This is practically a Hallmark movie.”
“Oh my god, she is gorgeous.” Nat handed me a packet featuring a stunning blue-eyed bombshell. “She loves crocheting and crafting—yay, Autumn—playing the ukulele, and smashing the patriarchy. Says she’s interested in anyone and everyone, looking to meet adults with ‘a vocabulary broader than the men I bartend for.’”
I nodded as I looked over another packet, this one for Kelli, an environmental scientist from Portland with a penchant for cats and karaoke.
They continued, and I pondered my options. I hadn’t had the time to pick my contenders for this year, but I had every intention of helping them find their way to each other. I had the magic touch and a twelve percent success rate, which was relatively high for shooting fish in a barrel. I liked to wait until day one of camp before even looking at the profiles, which wasn’t against the rules. These idiots chose to go in half-cocked by making decisions before meeting people and then walk away losers. I loved them so much.
I looked up to find side conversations all around me as my coworkers learned about the new campers. It was a fun ritual that never got old.
“Check this out.” Jack pushed a profile into my hands and pointed at the question. “If you could do anything in this life or the next, what would it be? His answer: sleep.”
“It does not say that.”
He turned the sheet to me and smiled. “This Ren person sounds perfect for you. I’m going to draft the save-the-dates tonight. Oh, or this guy, James. Not super outdoorsy, but he’s open to new things. He’s a lawyer. Not really your bag, but he—”
“What about this one?” our adrenaline-junkie counselor Lamar offered. “She loves to eat junk food. Ahem, makes a mean chili. You love chili. And she’s traveled to Japan, and you love sushi, so…”
“Naw,” Leo interjected, “she hates flying. What she needs is someone who will cuddle her but also give her space. Like this guy—”
“When did this turn into the Autumn dating show?” I snatched the paper away from him. “Remember, we don’t set staffers up with campers? Isn’t this in the employee handbook?”
“You should know, you wrote the thing,” Hazel teased.
There wasn’t an official rule against dating campers, but it wasn’t encouraged. My friends of course knew about my dry spell, which I was willing to rectify when the time saw fit, but not with the help of a bunch of know-it-alls who chose to discuss it as if our paper profiles were a part of some dating app.
I lived in an unusual community, a mishmash of personalities coming together with one goal in mind: to make people feel welcomed and joyful the moment they strolled through the Camp Starlight archway.
Camp Starlight was part of the small ski resort town of Wildwood, which definitely had its own personality, but ourcamp was a special village within that boasted its own quirks. Several of us lived on property year-round, while the remaining counselors called it home from early May to the end of September. That meant we’d seen each other at our best and worst throughout the summer months, and it also meant that we were always in each other’s business. I never knew how, but word traveled faster than you could say “prying busybodies,” and I was reluctant to say that I was one of them, but I was. I was absolutely one of them.
Everyone moved on and had conversations about god knew what, which had me happy to be under the radar again. Too bad a serious-looking Jack didn’t get the memo.
“You’re in need. It’s been, what, a year since Chris?” Jack asked, clearly already knowing the answer. Chris was a local I’d met during ski season, but that was mostly a no-strings-attached hookup that went south when he called me by the wrong name one too many times. “You and I are together all the time. I know you aren’t getting away to bone.”
“Which means you aren’t either, dummy.”
