Chapter Nine

nine

Hillary

Camp is officially on! Or it will be as soon as the first bus arrives.

Our welcoming committee—Dot, Jessie, Zoey, and me—is buzzing with energy as we wait outside the dining hall, which looks festive with an arch of green and white balloons.

"Any minute now," Jessie says, looking at her watch. She's been pacing for the last fifteen minutes. While she's been tense around me since I arrived, this is somehow worse. I wonder if she's like this before every first day of camp, or if my being here has gotten her out of sorts.

Dot seems anxious, too, organizing the already organized welcome folders. Only Zoey seems unaffected.

Suddenly, Jessie stops. She lifts and tilts her head in a catlike motion before turning to us. "You guys ready to welcome our first campers?"

"Eek!" Zoey shouts and gets into place beside Jessie. I stand next to Zoey, and Dot makes one final micro-adjustment of the alphabetized folders.

We hold our collective breath, releasing it when we hear the crunch of the gravel and see the fifty-seat charter bus coming around the corner. I'm practically bouncing out of my shoes by the time it stops in front of us.

The hydraulic doors hiss open, and we all scream, "Chicka-welcome!!" as campers file off the bus, hooting and hollering. It's pure chaos, and I love every second of it, watching these grown men and women step back into a memory. What a gift Jessie is giving us all this summer.

I watch her now, looking genuinely happy as she corrals the campers into a line for check-in. Dot hands them each a folder and their limited-edition Adult Camp Chickawah T-shirts before passing them off to be escorted to their cabins.

Zoey takes the first two, lawyers from St. Louis, to Cabin Six, while Mr. Billy loads their luggage into his four-wheeler—which certainly would have come in handy last week!

I'm up next, showing a couple from Cleveland to their separate cabins. They're giddy on the walk over, telling me how they met here at camp and are now married with two kids. Looks like Lola was right when she said there's no love quite like camp love.

Soon, all fifty campers are settled in. But there's no time for rest—the second bus is already rolling down the path. "Chicka-welcome!" we all scream, somehow with even more enthusiasm.

Four hours and six buses later, my feet are aching and my cheeks are sore from smiling. I just escorted the last two campers, Michelle and Katie from Pittsburgh, to Cabin Ten. Now, instead of heading back to the dining hall, I'm sneaking a quick break at the Lodge. I need a second to catch my breath—all this people-ing has worn me out.

My plan for peace and quiet is short-lived, however. The newlyweds are also back, taking a "break" in their room, which is next to mine. These walls are thin, and Zoey is not shy about vocalizing her pleasure. From the volume—and frequency—of the moans I keep hearing, Zac is extremely skilled between the sheets.

A high-pitched shriek pierces the air, followed by the rhythmic pounding of the headboard against the wall. I blush and put in my AirPods, pulling up one of the podcast episodes I downloaded in preparation for the lack of Internet. It's a show that highlights successful businesses that have reinvented themselves. The host is talking to Lou, a woman at the helm of an empire committed to helping people crush their comfort zones.

It makes me think of Jessie, whose comfort zone is clearly this camp. If she was able to think a little differently about things—like she's started to do with this whole adult camp idea—I wonder if she'd be able to turn a bigger profit. Maybe even keep the camp from closing down.

I close my eyes and smile, relaxing into my own comfort zone: solving other people's problems.

Until Zoey moans again, loud enough that it breaks through my noise-canceling headphones. Have I been having sex wrong my whole life? Because I have never, ever made a noise like that.

—

The dinner bell rings just after six. My social battery has recharged, but my stomach is running on empty. I can't wait to see what feast Cooper has cooked up. With almost three hundred adults packed into the space, the decibel level inside the dining hall is off the charts. I find myself missing the quiet of last week, when it was just the eight of us for dinner.

I scan the room; every table is full. Back in the day, we used to sit by cabin—but the tables that could easily seat twelve kids only comfortably fit eight adults. And Jessie rightly knew that while couples and friends would be okay sleeping in separate cabins, they'd want to be together for meals. Which is great for them—but for me? I prefer the structure of knowing where I belong. Tomorrow, I'll get here earlier so I can claim an empty table.

Tonight's menu, according to the chalkboard sign by the door, is rustic chicken with oil-cured olives, roasted baby potatoes, and sautéed spinach. There's a roasted cauliflower steak option for vegetarians, and an apple galette with vanilla bean ice cream for dessert. The wine pairing—Jessie's idea—is pinot noir. Each table gets two bottles, and from the looks of it, several people brought more for themselves.

Which gives me an idea.

I wonder if Jessie would be open to suggestions; she could sell additional bottles of wine at a premium to make more of a profit this summer. Three hundred campers six nights a week for seven weeks could be a substantial gain.

"Excuse me?" A timid voice interrupts my thoughts, and I turn to see a first-time camper who's here with her boyfriend. "Do you know if the chicken is gluten free?" she asks, sounding nervous. "I'm also sensitive to xanthan gum."

I don't know the answer, but I do know who to ask.

Cooper's in the kitchen, standing close to an attractive blonde, one of the campers here on a girls' trip. He quickly steps back when he sees me, a guilty smirk on his face.

Flustered, I ask him about the gluten and xanthan gum, then head back to the dining hall, leaving them to whatever clandestine thing they were about to do. It shouldn't surprise me he's already breaking the rules, given how cavalier he was during our run-in after my shower.

Over the next hour, I keep myself busy finding the wine opener for a thirsty bunch, getting more bread for one table, more butter for another, and refilling water pitchers. Then, as the campers are finishing their dessert and I'm about to make a plate for myself, Jessie walks up to the front and uses a triangle dinner bell to call everyone's attention for evening announcements the way Nathaniel and Lola used to do.

"Hello, campers!" she calls out. "For those I haven't had the chance to meet yet, my name is Jessie Pederson, and I'm the camp director here at Camp Chickawah!"

Applause spreads through the room like a wave, and I swell with pride for my old friend.

"This summer is bittersweet for me, since it's the last one we'll have here together," Jessie says. "But it warms my heart to have you all back for one Chicka-wonderful week! We've got a lot of nostalgic events planned, but if you want to participate in any of the water activities, you need to report to the docks tomorrow at nine a.m. sharp for your swimming test."

A collective groan rises from the crowd.

"Don't be a sissy," Zac says. The insult isn't PC, but delivered in his Australian accent, it's almost forgivable. "If you're too weak to tread water for ten minutes, you can spend the week at Arts and Crafts."

"No offense, Hill!" Zoey calls.

"As I was saying," Jessie says, trying to get things back on track. "We're in tick country here, so—"

"CHECK YOUR CREVICES!" several campers shout, a catchphrase from when we were kids.

Jessie nods. "Yep, and—"

"How do we get Wi-Fi?" a man calls out.

"Like we mentioned in the registration email, you won't get any service here," Jessie says. "But you can survive a week off the grid. In case of emergencies, we have Internet in the main office—but it's slow."

"Does needing to watch porn count as an emergency?" another man shouts.

Based on the way the room erupts with laughter, you'd think Jessie was talking to a group of teenagers, not adults in their early thirties.

"All right, people," Jessie says. "Let's focus. Breakfast is self-service from seven to nine a.m. The daily schedule will be posted outside the dining hall each morning. For any type As out there, the schedule for the week—subject to change—is posted at the Lodge and the canteen. Speaking of the canteen, it's open every day from eleven a.m. to four p.m., and you can buy stamps and batteries, chips and candy."

"What about weed?" a woman calls out.

"You're on your own for that," Jessie says, and there's another smattering of laughter. "Last but not least, I'm excited to announce tonight's special activity—in keeping with the Camp Chickawah tradition…"

"Campfire!" half the room calls out. So I'm not the only one who's been looking forward to this evening. It doesn't get more iconic than sitting around a roaring fire, singing songs and roasting marshmallows.

"See you all at the firepit at eight o'clock!"

Applause and cheers fill the room, and I wonder how it must feel to get such sincere and audible appreciation for doing your job. The most gratitude I've ever gotten is a firm handshake and a box of Bartlett pears.

Not that I'm looking for any recognition; I just want to earn Jessie's trust. That's the first step in my plan to get her friendship back. Really back, not in the friendly-but-distant way she's been this past week.

I turn to see her walking toward me, and I smile, hoping she'll ask me to save her a seat by the campfire.

"Do you mind grabbing the marshmallows from Coop?" she asks.

I deflate but keep a smile on my face. "You got it, boss!"

And with that, my former best friend is off to take care of the many things I never realized went into making a summer camp run.

—

Once I get the marshmallows from Cooper—ten bags!—I head to the firepit. It's not dark yet, but I learned my lesson from showing up late to dinner.

Mr. Billy is the only one here, prepping the fire with wood and kindling, so I nab a spot on a log in the second row of the concentric circles surrounding the firepit.

Usually, I use downtime to do something productive, but out here without service, my phone has turned into a very expensive camera. It's made me realize how addicted I am to technology, the urge to always be doing something. Anything but nothing.

I force myself to be still, to breathe and be present. Taking in the golden hour as the sky turns to dusk and the trees surrounding the camp fade into shadows.

The moment is short-lived, as eager campers arrive to claim their spots. Even the sun seems to know we're in a hurry to get the night started. Before long, it's the kind of pitch-black you only get out in the middle of nowhere—so dark I can't see whoever is walking toward the pit, strumming a guitar. The simple melody, combined with the crackling of the flames, gives me goose bumps. All chatter ceases, and we sit together in a moment that feels almost spiritual. It's transcendent.

At last, I make out Jessie walking toward the fire, her face glowing in the flickering light. Next to her is Cooper. And his guitar. I suck in a breath at the sight of him—be still, my teenage heart.

I exhale slowly, watching all the women around the fire watching Cooper, too. The blonde from the kitchen is staring at him like she's marooned on a desert and he's a tall drink of water. I try not to roll my eyes.

Jessie is scanning the circle, looking for a spot to sit. I try to catch her eye, but she passes right over me. I look away, grateful for the dark, which hides my hurt.

Someone to my left passes me a flask. I hesitate, then remember Aaron chiding me about my lack of fun-ness and take a sip. The whiskey tastes like Red Hots and burns going down my throat.

"What does everyone want to hear?" Cooper asks, strumming as he talks.

A cacophony of requests blends together, and Cooper laughs before starting to play "Cat's in the Cradle." Another bottle gets passed my way, and I almost choke on the sweet peanut butter flavor as Cooper starts to sing. His voice is like graveled honey and it does something to me. Or maybe it's the combination of his voice, the whiskey, and the fact that I've been listening to my horny neighbors getting it on at least once a day, every day. Either way, I start to sing along, wishing I hadn't waited so long to come back to camp.

—

The next morning, my tongue has the texture of sandpaper and it feels like someone's tightened a vise around my head. I'm pretty sure I'm still wearing— yep —the uniform I wore all day yesterday. It reeks, a pungent blend of campfire smoke, booze, and sweat.

Sitting up, I take a greedy sip from the cup of water beside my bed. I can't remember coming back to the Lodge, and I hope I didn't say or do anything unprofessional. That's what I get for drinking on an empty stomach. It's not like me to be so careless, to get that drunk and lose control.

But there's no time to dwell on what might have happened. Today is the first full day of camp, and I've got a job to do!

It's just past nine, and the first activity in the Arts and Crafts cabin doesn't start until ten thirty (we're making God's eyes with yarn and popsicle sticks). I tame my increasingly wayward curls into a high ponytail, grab clean khaki shorts and a new Camp Chickawah polo, and head out in search of coffee and food.

There's a chill to the air, and judging by the yelping coming from the lake, the water is freezing. I walk toward the dock, where a group of campers are treading water.

"No touching the dock, mates!" Zac shouts in his delicious accent. "Or each other!"

"My arms are going to fall off!" one camper exclaims.

"My balls are going to fall off!" another calls out.

"Your balls and your arms will be fine!" Zoey says. "Three minutes down, seven to go!"

A collective groan sounds, and I laugh, grateful the water test is one experience I don't have to relive.

In the dining hall, I'm disappointed by the picked-over selection of breakfast pastries, granola, and yogurt. Hardly the greasy food I need to quell my stomach. I glance toward the kitchen, wondering if there are any leftovers from dinner.

According to my dad, I got my love of leftovers from my mom. It's strange to be like someone in a way you never knew she was. Nearly everything I know about my mom is secondhand. My dad doesn't talk about her much—it makes him too sad—but growing up, I'd always look forward to marking her yahrzeit , when we'd lay a rock on her headstone and he'd tell me stories until his voice got scratchy and his eyes grew misty.

There's a light on in the kitchen, but I still pause at the door. It's not exactly off-limits—I'm staff—but it feels illicit as I slip inside and head toward the two industrial-sized refrigerators.

The first one is filled with fruit and vegetables—too healthy. The second contains rows of eggs, dozens of chicken breasts marinating in glass bowls, and… yes! Two beautiful containers filled with leftovers. My mouth waters as I reach for the container of roasted baby potatoes I was too busy to taste last night.

No sooner do I lift it than I hear someone clearing their throat behind me.

Shit! I turn to see Cooper, his arms folded across his broad chest. The chest I ran into a few days ago while wearing almost nothing. Today he's wearing a cat-themed apron that reads it's meow or never and that same Red Sox cap. I wonder if he's a really big fan or trying to cover a bald spot.

"Can I help you?" he asks, a playful grin on his face. I wonder if he's remembering the one-third of a nipple he saw.

"I'm so sorry," I tell him. "I was just…"

"Snooping through my fridge?"

My cheeks flush. "Technically, it's the camp's fridge."

"Touché," Cooper says. "Here, let me."

He takes the container from my hands, and I follow him toward the prep area—a metallic island on wheels, parked in the middle of the room.

"I really am sorry," I say.

"It's all good," he says, popping the lid off. "We might have to rethink this whole continental breakfast thing. It doesn't do the trick for hangovers."

"I…" I stammer, not wanting to fess up to my current state. But Cooper quirks an eyebrow, and I know it's silly to pretend otherwise. "I may have been overserved last night."

"It was fun, though, wasn't it?" He turns back to the fridge, grabbing five fresh eggs.

"What I can remember of it," I admit.

He chuckles, and I curse my poor alcohol tolerance.

"I didn't do anything stupid, did I?" I ask. The last time I let myself lose control like that, I ended up passed out on top of a pile of coats at a party with Aaron's friends.

"Not at all," he says. "You were just really, really happy. Except for when I suggested it was time to head back to the Lodge. I believe you called me a party pooper."

"Oh, god," I say, burying my head in my hands. "So unprofessional."

"We're allowed to have fun, too," he says, cracking eggs into a metallic bowl.

It's only then that I realize he's cooking. For me.

"You don't have to," I say, motioning to what looks like the makings of an omelet. "I actually love cold leftovers."

Cooper looks at me with mock horror. "Not in my kitchen. But if you don't like what I make after you try it, then you can help yourself to all the cold leftovers you want."

"If you insist," I say with a sigh. "And I assume you won't let me help?"

"You assume right," he says, and I take a seat on the opposite side of the counter, watching as he moves around the kitchen with precision and confidence, biting his lip in concentration as he adds a dash of this, a pinch of that. It's impressive. He's impressive.

Cooper looks up from the bowl where he's whisking eggs, the muscles in his forearms pulsing with each rotation. "Fun being back here, huh?"

"Yeah," I say. "But I'm starting to wonder if I should've come. Jessie and I…we had a falling-out, a pretty bad one. And it seems she hasn't forgiven me yet."

"Well, if there's one place to rekindle an old flame, it's camp," Cooper says. His eyebrows dance, and I wonder if he's talking about me and Jessie, or me and him.

But that would be crazy. Cooper would never be interested in someone boring like me when every week will bring a new batch of eligible lady campers, like his blonde friend.

Before I can ask about her, he turns back to the stovetop. My mouth waters as the eggs hit the sizzling pan, letting out a satisfying hiss. Next thing I know, Cooper's sliding an omelet filled with cream cheese, roasted potatoes, and chives onto a plate.

"Bon appétit," he says, handing me a fork.

The explosion of flavors catches me off guard. I let out a moan—not unlike the noises I heard coming from Zac and Zoey's room this morning—and look up, mortified.

"Still want those cold leftovers?" he asks, a smug look on his face.

I'm about to say, "No, thank you," when the door swings open and in walks Jessie, looking fresh as a daisy in her crisp uniform and signature braids.

Her smile falters at the sight of me.

"First activity starts in fifteen minutes," she announces.

"Then you've got enough time for food," Cooper says. "Sit."

Jessie hesitates for a half second before walking over and taking the stool next to mine.

Cooper plates the second omelet, the one meant for him, and sets it in front of Jessie.

Her reaction to the first bite is similar to mine. "If we'd had a chef like you before, maybe we'd have turned a profit," she says. "Then the Valentines wouldn't be closing us down."

Her voice is full of melancholy, and I feel a sudden urge to help her in the best way I know how.

"If you're looking for ways to make the camp more profitable," I say, "that's pretty much what I do. Help failing"—Jessie flinches and I pivot—"er, struggling businesses. I actually had an idea the other day about selling wine at dinner. There are other things you could upcharge for, too. I was thinking…"

Jessie stiffens, her soft edges turning hard, and I instantly realize my mistake. She's losing so much with the sale of the camp—not just her job, but her family and her home. Her identity. And here I come, pointing out all the ways she could've done better. No one wants to be friends with that girl. I don't want to be friends with that girl. She's worse than un-fun. She's a buzzkill.

I take one last bite of my omelet, but it doesn't mix with the sour feeling in my stomach. One week here, and I already have Jessie questioning why she bothered to give me a second chance.