Page 34 of The Wild Zone

The class was even more popular than Blacksmithing. A lot of kids had brought their sleeping bags and pillows. Our instructor, a nymph named Ambrosia, walked among us in her glowing silvery dress, telling us constellation myths and occasionally waking up snoring campers with a nudge of her foot.

About halfway through the activity, Zuri joined us. She spotted me and, to my surprise, navigated her way through the sprawl of kids to lie down on the carpet next to me.

She eyed my new scythe. “Wow, you really pivoted away from the bow and arrow, huh?”

“Yep.” I stared at the Cygnus constellation on the ceiling. “I haven’t learned to swing it while in a backbend, though.”

Zuri chuckled. “That was to cheer up my cabinmate Will. Cute kid, but he’s getting bullied by some walking Ares turd named Elam. No offense.”

I shook my head. “None taken. Elam’s a toilet-clogger.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Also, I guess I wanted Elam to know that if he comes after Will again, he’s going to get an arrow in his butt.”

“I’d pay to see that.” I turned my head toward Zuri. “But you don’t have to prove anything to him or anyone else.”

She blinked at me. “Neither do you, Katie. You’re not your mom, you know.”

“Oh, believe me, I know.”

Zuri clicked her tongue. “I mean you’re your own person. You shouldn’t be expected to be a mini version of your mom.”

My cheeks flushed. I hadn’t imagined Zuri could be so supportive. It made me feel guilty that I’d thought of her as a perfect substitute daughter for the Kim family—someone who might actually meet my mom’s expectations.

I wondered what Zuri’s story was with her own family, but I didn’t think I knew her well enough to ask. I also didn’t want to get an arrow in the butt.

“Well,” I said, “I’m actually a foot taller than my mom.”

Zuri elbowed me in the ribs.

I laughed. “Thanks for the pep talk, but it’s been forced on me since birth that I should be like her. It’s kind of hard to lose that belief.”

“Here’s what you do,” Zuri whispered. “You take that belief to the forest, tell it you’ll be right back, and then let the harpies eat it!”

We both snickered until Ambrosia appeared next to us.

“Quiet, please,” said the nymph, her voice calm and soothing. “Now, let’s see if we can find Orion’s belt….”

For the rest of the lesson, Ambrosia told us stories about the hunter Orion, his dog, Sirius, and the Pleiades sisters Orion had chased (infatuated much?).

My last activity of the afternoon turned out to be my favorite: Hora Hour. It was run by a woman named Irene who wore a sundress despite the chilly autumn air and encouraged us to release our anxieties and fears into objects she’d positioned around the arts-and-crafts room.

Some campers chose to smash colorful plates; others chose to make mosaics from the pieces of those plates. Some chose to make splatter art; some chose to punch dough for the next day’s bread. Me? I sculpted a humanoid figurine from clay and pounded it flat. Repeatedly.

Irene was right. It did feel good to release my rage.

“Katie?” said a familiar voice.

I looked up. Standing over me was a satyr with bright red hair and horns that curled around his ears so he looked like he was wearing headphones.

“Silas!” I jumped to my feet and gave him a hug, forgetting about my sticky hands.

“Ack!” he yelped. “My ribs. I need them.”

“Sorry, sorry.” I hadn’t meant to crush him, but I was just so glad to see him. “Where have you been?”

He glanced at my flattened clay man and gave me a pained expression. Apparently, he understood what I’d been doing.

“We should talk.” He motioned for me to follow him outside.