Mother-Daughter Book Camp

  “Sounds like a blast!” she tells me. “I haven’t been over to Hairbrush yet this summer.”

  A few minutes later we’re all gathered at the Gazebo with our campers, who are barely able to contain their excited giggles.

  “We’re going to wade over single-file,” Cassidy explains. “I’ll be in front, Jess will bring up the rear, and Becca and Megan will be in the middle. Everybody hold hands, and be super quiet because people are sleeping.”

  We set off across the sandbar. The night air is cool and the water feels warm by comparison.

  “I might have to accidentally fall in,” Becca whispers to me.

  “I know, right?” I reply.

  The lake is perfectly still, and the reflection of the moon is as beautiful as it was last night. I start humming “I See the Moon” again to myself. Becca was right; this was exactly what I needed. I can feel the grudges and disappointments of the day washing away.

  Once on Hairbrush Island, Cassidy quickly builds a fire on the beach. We sit around it with our girls, eating s’mores and telling stories. Cassidy tells our campers about the time she put stinky cheese in Savannah Sinclair’s suitcase to get even for Savannah putting taffy in her hair. Then Emma tells how she and Jess put a live chicken in a box and gave it to Emma’s mother as a joke Christmas present. We’re having so much fun that Becca has to keep shushing everybody.

  Kate Kwan scoots over next to me. “What if Pinewood sees our campfire and comes over in their canoes?” she whispers.

  “Then we’ll get caught!” I whisper back, and she lets out a little squeal and scurries away to share this exciting news with her friends.

  Becca and I exchange a glance and smile. Gwen is right; memory-makers are best when spiced with the prospect of getting caught.

  Suddenly, a voice calls over to us from the Point.

  “Cassidy? Cassidy Sloane?” It’s Sergeant Marge.

  “What did I do now?” mutters Cassidy. “We got permission from Gwen!” she calls back.

  “Your mother’s on the phone, sport!”

  Becca and I exchange a glance. This can’t be good. Late-night phone calls usually mean something important. Or something awful.

  “I hope everything’s okay,” Becca whispers to me as Cassidy splashes back across the sandbar.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  We hang out with Jess and all of our campers for a little while longer, then decide to call it a night. Worrying about Cassidy has kind of taken the shine off our memory-maker.

  We’re all in the Gazebo drying off when Cassidy returns. At first I think it’s just the reflection of the full moon that’s making her look paler than usual.

  “Are you all right?” Jess asks, and she shakes her head.

  Even in the dark, I can see that she’s been crying. She swipes angrily at her eyes, and it takes some effort for her to get the words out:

  “My sister eloped.”

  Becca

  “It was fun to teach, lots of fun!”

  —Understood Betsy

  “Shhhhh! I’m under here!”

  Megan lifts up a corner of the sail and pokes her head underneath. Spotting me crouched in the bottom of the boat, she squeezes in beside me and we lie there like a pair of silent sardines.

  It’s Counselor Hunt Night, an elaborate form of hide-and-seek that has the entire camp swarming the grounds, looking for hidden counselors. When the girls find us, we become the property of whichever team they belong to—Emerald, Ruby, Sapphire or Amethyst—and then the real fun begins as the teams choose captured counselors to compete in a series of challenges.

  Too bad Cassidy isn’t here, I think. She’d totally love this.

  As we lie there listening to the excited shrieks from the girls running past the boathouse, I feel Megan start to shake. She’s trying not to laugh.

  “Shhhh!” I scold her again. “They’re right outside!”

  The boathouse door creaks open and we freeze.

  “Check the war canoe!” says a familiar voice. It’s Jennie Norris, one of the CITs. “Somebody always hides in the war canoe!”

  At the sound of footsteps scurrying toward the far end of the boathouse, Megan starts shaking again. I elbow her sharply.

  “I can’t help it,” she whispers in protest.

  “Hey, wait—did you guys hear something?” The footsteps come pounding back, and suddenly the sail that covers us is ripped away. “Found you!” cries Jennie in triumph.

  We’re dragged laughing from our hiding spot and marched to Lower Lodge, where a handful of other captured counselors are gathered. Sergeant Marge writes our names on her clipboard under the Sapphire column. Megan and I join Jess, who’s sitting outside on the steps, as our captors go running off to rejoin the hunt.

  “Too bad Cassidy isn’t here for this,” she says.

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” I tell her.

  It’s Cassidy’s night off. Her mother drove up from Concord to see her, and the two of them are probably commiserating over dinner in Pumpkin Falls right now. Poor Cassidy’s been beside herself ever since she got the news about Courtney. Personally, I think running away to get married is totally romantic, but Cassidy is mad as heck about it.

  “I thought you didn’t like weddings and poufy dresses and all that stuff,” Megan had said as we were walking back to our cabins after our outing to Hairbrush Island.

  “I don’t!” Cassidy had replied. “It’s just that Courtney is my sister and I was supposed to be there for her on her big day, and now, well, now that she’s eloped, all I get to do is go to some lame reception at Thanksgiving.”

  There was some confusion in Nest about what had happened to Courtney, apparently. Emma couldn’t wait to tell us about the conversation she’d overheard.

  “Why is Cassidy sad about her sister and the cantaloupe?” Meri had asked her cabinmates, mystified.

  Tara was quick to correct her. “Not cantaloupe, silly!” she’d scoffed. “Antelope.”

  Emma’s desperate to put this exchange in her “Overheard” column in the final issue of the Birch Bark, of course.

  Half an hour later, all the counselors’ hiding spots have been discovered, and it’s time for the challenges. I don’t get picked for the first round, which is yodeling (Felicia wins that one handily, which is no big surprise—of course she knows how to yodel). And I don’t get picked for the balancing-a-spoon-on-the-nose challenge or the hands-free banana cream pie eating challenge. Instead, I get picked for the final round, which is the balance-a-full-glass-of-water-on-your-head challenge.

  “I can already tell how this one is going to end,” I remark to Megan when my name is called.

  Predictably, I end up drenched and sputtering, just like everybody else. Somehow I manage to pick up another point for our team, though, as I balance my glass a split second longer than the other counselors.

  “Sapphires win!” Gwen announces when the points are tallied. “But there’s a prize for everybody—ice cream sandwiches on the beach in ten minutes!”

  I dash back to my cubie to change out of my wet clothes. While I’m toweling my hair, I hear whispering out in the hallway.

  “What if she hates it and gets mad at us? You know how she can be sometimes.”

  I frown. Something’s up. Something that sounds suspiciously like mean-girl stuff. I stick my head out into the hallway to find out, but all I see are the backs of several campers in navy blue hoodies heading out the door.

  “Hey!” I call, but either they don’t hear me or they don’t want to hear me, because nobody turns around.

  Now I’m worried. Which “she” were they talking about? Somebody’s plotting something, that’s for sure. I finish getting changed and head back down to the water ski beach to loop Megan in.

  It’s growing dark, and everybody’s either sprawled on the sand or milling around the fire pit with their ice cream sandwiches. It takes me a while to find her.

  “Hey, Megs,” I begin, but what I have to tell h
er will have to wait, as the CITs are already starting the singalong.

  The Cannibal King with a big nose ring

  Fell in love with a sweet young maid

  And every night by the pale moonlight

  Over the lake he came . . .

  Megan gives me a quizzical look as I plop down on the sand between Amy and Harper. Later, I mouth, slinging my arms around my campers. They look up at me and smile. As we reach the tempo change, the three of us sway along to the music, laughing.

  We’ll build a bungalow big enough for two

  Big enough for two, my darling, big enough for two

  And when we’re married, happy we’ll be

  Under the bamboo, under the bamboo tree!

  Feeling fiercely protective all of a sudden, I give both girls a squeeze. If anybody’s plotting something involving either of them, they’re going to have to deal with me first.

  Later, on the way back to Balsam, I tell Megan what I overhead in Cubbyhole.

  “Uh-oh, sounds like we’d better keep our radar on,” she says when I’m done. “Especially after the fiasco with Queen for a Day.”

  “Exactly what I’m thinking.”

  My radar goes off again a few minutes later, when I hear whispering from the two top bunks at the back of our cabin. When I go over to investigate, I find Grace and Mia staring back at me innocently.

  “What’s going on?” I ask them. Besides a whole new repertoire of songs, the other thing I’m taking away with me to college from camp is a suspicious mind. Especially where girls and whispering are concerned.

  “Nothing,” says Grace sweetly.

  A little too sweetly, perhaps? I regard her thoughtfully. “Just make sure it stays nothing,” I tell her before heading back to my own bed. I pause for a moment by Megan’s. “Seriously, how did our mothers do it?”

  She smiles at me. “Don’t worry so much. They’re probably just keyed up about Peanut Week.”

  Maybe she’s right. Peanut Week has been a hot topic at camp ever since Gwen announced that we’d be choosing our peanuts at the next Council Fire.

  “This would be a good time to get busy with those crafts, girls,” she’d said. “Nothing makes a better gift than something homemade.”

  Gwen and Mrs. Wong sound like kindred spirits. Megan’s mom loathes commercialism and is always trying to get the book club to make homemade gifts.

  The following afternoon, I’m at the Art Studio as usual with my quilters during free period when Grace comes in.

  “Hey, Grace, what’s up?”

  “I need a glue gun,” she replies.

  My eyebrows shoot up. Grace is more of a tennis and rock-climbing and whatever-else-she-can-throw-herself-into-physically kind of girl. In fact, this is the first time I’ve seen her at the Art Studio all summer.

  “Making something for your peanut?”

  She fidgets. “Um, it’s kind of a surprise.”

  I’ve been hearing this all week. “Come on in and I’ll get you set up.”

  Mia is with her, and so, surprisingly, is Brooklyn Alvarez, who is carrying a canvas bag filled with pinecones. I make space for them at one of the tables and dig out a glue gun.

  “Need anything else?”

  The girls look at each other. “Maybe some paint?” says Brooklyn.

  “No problem.” I fish out the additional supplies, then turn my attention back to my quilters.

  Amy’s wall hanging is almost finished, and I’m sure she’ll have it done by the time she heads home. I’m not so sure whether I’ll finish my own project in time. I’ve tackled a quilt for Theo, for his dorm-room bed. It’s maroon and gold, the University of Minnesota colors, and it has a picture of Goldy Gopher in the middle, and a motif of snakes around the border. Gold snakes, of course.

  It’s a little unconventional, but I think he’ll like it. He’d better—it’s taken me all summer to make it.

  “This is my favorite part of camp,” Amy pipes up suddenly.

  I smile back at her. “I’m so glad to hear it!”

  “I wish summer didn’t have to end.”

  My eyebrows shoot up again. This is something, coming from the little camper that Megan and I despaired of ever recovering from the homesickness plague. Gwen was right, though, I guess—the girls always recover, it’s just finding the right cure. Which for Amy was quilting. With maybe a little book club thrown in.

  I can’t wait to tell Megan.

  I bend my head to my quilt again, feeling so pleased I could burst. Is this the way Cassidy feels about coaching?

  My thoughts drift back to the conversation I had earlier in the summer with my mother. Maybe she’s right, maybe I should sign up for some education classes. I don’t know, though; wrangling a classroom full of students is probably a lot different than dealing with a handful of campers. But I could at least explore the option, couldn’t I, whether or not I decide that teaching’s for me?

  What was it my mother said? That I have a rich four years ahead of me. That’s probably a better way to look at it than being worried all the time. Maybe I don’t need to know right now what I’m going to be—an architect, a businesswoman, a teacher, or something else entirely.

  I’m still pondering this when the bell rings, signaling the end of free period. Megan wanders over as I’m putting away the quilting supplies.

  “The weirdest thing happened a few minutes ago,” she tells me.

  “What?”

  “You know Brooklyn, from Twin Pines?”

  “Duh! Of course.”

  Megan smiles. “She asked me for a bunch of fabric. Brooklyn! Who’s never sewn a stitch in her life!”

  “That is kind of weird,” I agree.

  “Something’s up.”

  “It’s probably just Peanut Week stuff, remember?”

  By Sunday night, Peanut Week anticipation has reached fever pitch. The campers can barely contain their excitement through the first part of Council Fire, and by the time beads are being given out, they’re literally bouncing on the benches.

  “Ready for our closing song?” says Gwen, teasing them.

  There’s a collective groan. “Gwen!”

  “What?!” she says, grinning. “Oh, that’s right. I seem to have forgotten something.” She beckons to Marge, who emerges from the shadows carrying a large papier-mâché peanut. Megan and I labored over what’s inside—dozens and dozens of real peanuts, each with the contents removed, a name on a slip of paper tucked inside, and the shell glued back together again and spray-painted gold. “Let’s start with Nest, shall we? Come on up, girls.”

  Tara, Meri, and Pippa file obediently over, flushed with the importance of being first. One by one, they reach in and select their peanuts. Emma and Felicia each pick one too.

  “Don’t look inside until you get back to your cubies,” Gwen tells the girls, who obediently grip their peanuts tightly in their fists. “And remember, it’s a secret!” She holds her finger to her lips.

  We’re next, then Twin Pines, and on through all the cabins until every peanut has been accounted for. It’s nearly impossible to maintain silence on the walk back down the trail to camp. Excited giggles keep escaping from the girls, like popcorn bursting from a bunch of kernels.

  “I can’t wait to see who I have!” whispers Harper.

  “Shhhhhh!” Megan whispers back.

  To be honest, I can’t wait either. I’ve been hoarding things all summer to give to my peanut. Silly things, mostly—a tiny snow globe I got at the General Store with the covered bridge from Pumpkin Falls inside; a rock I painted to look like a ladybug; some candy, that sort of stuff. If the person whose name is inside the peanut in my pocket is an older staffer, I have a really pretty quilted shoulder bag that I made, and if she’s into fashion, I have all sorts of beauty products. It’s going to be fun.

  The minute we emerge from the woods, campers explode in all directions, racing for their cubies to crack open their peanuts and get the party started. Megan and I quicken our pace a
little too.

  “I just hope I didn’t pick Felicia,” Megan says glumly. Jess’s cousin still gets under her skin sometimes.

  “Tell you what,” I say. “If you do, we can swap, okay?”

  She brightens. “Really?”

  “Sure, why not?” I smile at her. “What are best friends for?”

  “Even if I wouldn’t do the same for you?”

  We both laugh.

  Fortunately, Megan doesn’t get Felicia, and neither do I. She chooses someone she only identifies as “a staffer,” and I have one of the campers from the Hill.

  By the time I brush my teeth and change into my pajamas, my “shell” has already struck.

  “Hey, what’s this?” I say, surprised to find a mint on my pillow, along with a postcard of a loon. On the back is written, “Sweet dreams! Love, Your Shell.” I look around at my campers, who are already in their bunks. “You guys know who it is, don’t you?”

  “We’ll never tell!” says Amy, her dark eyes shining with excitement.

  I can see why Peanut Week is one of the highlights of the summer.

  The tradition has its downside, though, as I quickly discover. Two days later, Kate Kwan comes slumping into my cubie.

  “What’s up?” I ask her.

  “Nothing,” she replies.

  Judging by the expression on her face, this is a big fat lie. “Define ‘nothing.’ ”

  “My shell hasn’t given me anything,” she says, and bursts into tears.

  Gwen warned us that this might happen.

  “Every year, there are a few girls who for whatever reason don’t get into the spirit of Peanut Week, or who get off to a slow start,” she told us. “Since there’s no way of keeping track of who the peanuts and shells are, the simplest solution is just to bridge the gap yourself.”

  Which is exactly what I do. Within the hour, there’s candy on the dressing table in Kate’s cubie, and Megan and I keep it up for a couple of days, until her shell finally gets her act together.

  “I still can’t believe this is the last week of camp!” Megan says as we’re lounging on the Art Studio deck between our afternoon crafts workshops.