Chapter Two

two

Jessie

September

It's been two weeks since the news from Jack and Mary Valentine, and I'm still reeling.

I've been going through our standard end-of-season tasks, so every day brings another reminder that this is the last time we'll do any of it. The last time Mr. Billy, our groundskeeper, will repair the shingles on the Arts and Crafts cabin; the last time Dot will inspect the watercraft; the last time I'll count how many bows and arrows survived the summer and how many I'll need to order for next year.

In a few weeks, Dot and I will move into our rented rooms in North Fork, Minnesota, the closest town, a forty-five-minute drive away. Mr. Billy goes to stay with his brother in Florida. Dot and I spend the winter months enrolling campers and hiring counselors and staff. We'll return to the property in April to start prepping for summer.

Our last summer.

Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I head down the path to the girls' area to check the cabins. On the way, I pass Mr. Billy, his angular frame stooped as he pushes a wheelbarrow full of trimmed branches. I wave, and he grunts. He's taken care of the camp for as long as I can remember—a huge responsibility, since we cover three hundred acres of land, with dozens of buildings and a thousand feet of lakefront—but I've never thought of him as old. In the past couple weeks, though, he's aged a decade. His typical vibe is one of mild annoyance, but now he seems almost fragile.

My boots crunch through fallen pine needles; they're dry and brittle, like my mood. When I pop my earbuds in, the revival of Sweeney Todd with Josh Groban starts playing. A musical about a man hell-bent on murderous revenge after everything he loves is taken from him…maybe not the wisest choice. I turn it off.

The first girls' cabin comes into view. It's over a hundred years old, with a big front porch and a peaked roof. During the summer, the porch railings of all the cabins are covered with a rainbow of drying towels and bathing suits, but today they're barren. I wonder if the future owner will save any of these buildings, or if they'll bulldoze everything, erasing a century of memories.

The thought makes me physically sick.

I climb the steps to the first cabin, open the door, and walk inside. My boots echo on the wood floor. The air smells like decay; the bare bunk beds remind me of skeletons. But I tell myself to stop being melodramatic and inspect the beds, the mattresses, the blinds, checking them off my list. Briskly, I move from cabin to cabin, trying to avoid the onslaught of memories.

Cabin Two, where I stayed as a nervous eight-year-old. Cabin Four, which I pranked as a feisty twelve-year-old, putting sand in the campers' sleeping bags. Cabin Six, where I was assigned my first summer as an enthusiastic new counselor.

And Cabin Ten: my home for eight summers, from ages nine through sixteen.

When I reach the bunk I always shared with Hillary Goldberg, a shimmering déjà vu comes over me. Standing on tiptoe, I push the top mattress to the side and there it is, carved into the wood: hillary and jessie bffaeae . Best friends forever and ever and ever.

It's been years since I've let myself think about Hillary—if she ever pops into my mind, I push her right out. But now it rushes back, the exhilaration of arriving on the property and spotting each other. That first big hug. Running to claim our bunk. Knowing we had eight glorious weeks stretching out in front of us.

It's strange to realize Hillary is an adult now. I still think of her as the round-faced girl with messy curls and wide brown eyes who'd always go along with my schemes—including our plan to be counselors together. Of course, that didn't happen. She took an internship with some big company. It was crushing at the time, but it taught me a crucial lesson: camp friends aren't forever friends. Camp life isn't real life. For most people, it's an escape from the real world.

Whereas for me? It's my entire world.

All my camp friends, all the counselors I've worked with over the years, have moved on, and I've stayed right here. I've always felt that this is where I belong, but once camp closes for good, where does that leave me?

Once all this is gone, will anything I've done matter at all?

—

When I get back to the office, Dot is there, scowling at her ancient PC.

My cabin is one of my favorite places in the world. In addition to the main office, there's a bedroom, a small bathroom, and a kitchen. It's cozy and quaint, filled with handmade wooden furniture that dates back to the original camp. It's also the only place on the property with Internet, and as I enter, my phone starts buzzing in my pocket.

I pull it out to see texts from my parents. Mom sent a picture of her and my stepdad Mitch with my half brothers, Milo and Colin, at the beach near their home in San Diego. Dad sent a picture of him and my stepmom Amanda with my twin half sisters, Amelia and Abigail, after they won their high school basketball game.

I tap out a quick text to each and promise I'll FaceTime later. My parents are good about keeping in touch, but sometimes their messages are a reminder that I don't fully belong to either of their families. The only place I've ever belonged is camp, and it won't be here much longer.

"What're you working on?" I ask Dot, hanging up my coat, hat, and scarf.

"Money's gonna be tight this year," Dot says, her brow furrowed. "We haven't gotten any early registrations yet."

I grimace; this has real financial consequences. Mary Valentine convinced Jack to agree that any profit we make next summer can be used as end-of-season bonuses for my staff. I haven't told Dot and Mr. Billy about this yet, not wanting to get their hopes up, but my plan is to split it between the two of them; I get one percent of the sale of the camp, but they won't have anything but their own savings and retirement.

"Maybe I shouldn't have told the parents that next summer will be our last," I say, worried.

Dot harrumphs. "Not your fault—you're not the one selling this place. Got an email from Jack Valentine that the property was officially listed."

My body stiffens. I knew this was coming, but it still hurts to hear the words.

"Those rat bastards," Dot says gruffly.

I stifle a laugh, thinking of Jack's squinty eyes. They are rather ratlike. "I'm not sure Mary should be included in that. It's thanks to her that they're delaying closing until next fall."

"She allows her rat bastard brother to walk all over her, which makes her a rat bastard enabler, which is just as bad." Dot clicks her fingers on the keyboard, punctuating each word. "Nat and Lola must be rolling in their graves. But Jack was never a camp person, not ever."

My eyebrows shoot up. This is the ultimate insult from Dot. In her mind, you're either a camp person…or not. And if you're not? You're pond scum.

My eyes drift to the huge bulletin board on the far wall, where we've stuck letters and cards from campers over the years. There's a crayon rendering of Cabin Eleven, signed in blocky letters RYAN AGE 9 ; a pencil sketch of the big tree near the archery area with to Nathaniel and Lola from Kat S written in careful cursive. There are countless wedding invitations from couples who met at camp—Lola always said that camp love is the best kind of love, and that was true for her and Nathaniel.

I used to dream of having a marriage like theirs, with someone who was as passionate about this place as I am. Running the camp together, raising our kids right here on the property.

But after my last failed relationship, I realized that's a silly fantasy. Even more so now that the camp is closing. So I turn my attention to the many handwritten thank-you notes from former campers, now adults.

Camp Chickawah will always be my favorite place in the world .

Thank you for making my childhood so magical .

All my most important life lessons were learned at camp.

Card after card expresses gratitude and appreciation. And something else, too, something I've never noticed before: yearning. An intense longing to return.

I wish I could come back to camp. I know that's ridiculous, but the place meant so much to me.

If only I could capture the magic of camp as an adult.

I'd give anything to experience just one day of camp again.

Goose bumps lift on my arms and legs as an idea sparks.

If we have to say goodbye to Camp Chickawah, I think I know the perfect way.