Mother-Daughter Book Camp

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  Madison, Wisconsin, is just too far away from Concord, Massachusetts. I figured if I went to school there, I’d hardly see Chloe at all for four years. She’d be practically grown up by the time I graduated! Boston, on the other hand, is just next door to Concord. My family will be able to come to all of my home games, and I can jump on a train and be at our house on Hubbard Street in nothing flat, anytime I want. So I signed with BU, and I’m a Terrier instead of a Badger, which suits me just fine.

  “Cassidy!” calls Jess. “Hurry up!”

  “Coming!” I holler back. I hesitate, wondering if I should bring my whistle. It could come in handy if we’re doing kayak relays, which is what I suspect they have planned for us this afternoon. I don’t want to risk the wrath of Sergeant Marge, though, so I leave the whistle where it is, hanging over a corner of my minuscule mirror.

  There are hardly any mirrors at Camp Lovejoy. It’s another one of their traditions.

  “This is one place where girls can just be themselves all summer, without having to worry about what they look like,” Gwen explained to us that first night in the Dining Hall during orientation.

  Only counselors are allowed to have them in their cubies, and there aren’t any in the cabins or over the bathroom sinks. Becca and Megan squawked at this—they’re both totally into fashion—but I’m fine with it. I spend as little time as possible looking in the mirror anyway, even at home. As long as I’m reasonably clean and my hair is brushed, I figure I’m good to go. It’s not that I don’t like what I see. I may not be a stunning beauty like my mother, who used to be a supermodel, or my sister Courtney, who looks just like my mother, but I’m happy with myself just the way I am: red hair and gray eyes like my dad, tall like my mother, plus I’m strong. I rarely have time to fuss over how I look. I’ve got more important things to do. Like play hockey.

  I pull my hair back in a ponytail and thread it through the back of my baseball cap, then head outside. My friends and the rest of the counselors are already gathered in the grove by the flagpole, and I hustle on up the path to join them.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Emma inching away from Felicia. The two of them aren’t getting along very well so far. Emma hasn’t tried to hide the fact that she’s disappointed with the cabin assignments, which couldn’t help but hurt Felicia’s feelings. Felicia, on the other hand, isn’t helping matters much. She’s not exactly trying to fit in. She has this wardrobe of short capes, for instance, that she pins to her T-shirts, and today she’s crisscrossed her braids on top of her head in preparation for whatever it is we’re about to do. She looks like an advertisement for Swiss cocoa or something. Felicia has a thing for complicated hairstyles. Emma jokes that she probably studies medieval tapestries the way Megan and Becca study fashion magazines.

  “This better be fun,” Emma grumbles. “I was right in the middle of a chapter.”

  So far, her favorite part of camp is rest hour. It’s the only time she gets to read during the day, she tells us, because at night she’s too tired. And reading is at the top of Emma Hawthorne’s to-do list. She loves books the way I love sports. I’ve seen her cubie, and I seriously think she brought along more books this summer than clothes. I guess she was worried she might run out.

  “Listen up, ladies!” bellows Sergeant Marge. The woman is a human megaphone. They can probably hear her all the way across the lake.

  Felicia suddenly springs to life, rushing across the grove to join her.

  “Teacher’s pet,” I whisper. Emma dissolves in giggles. Jess glares at me. She gets irritated when we make fun of her cousin, but I’m right—Felicia sticks to Marge like tape on a hockey stick.

  “Hustle on down to the water ski beach, grab a life vest, and line up with your teams,” the head counselor instructs us. “It’s Dreamboat Relay Day!”

  Judging from the enthusiasm that greets this announcement, I’m guessing this is a popular activity. I have no idea what a dreamboat is.

  My friends and I follow the surge of counselors down the pine-needle-carpeted path to the water’s edge. I frown as I spot a quartet of kayaks lined up on the beach. Are kayaks called dreamboats at Camp Lovejoy? Did I miss something? Maybe there was a song about it at dinner last night—there’s a song for everything at Camp Lovejoy.

  Jess heads over to join the Amethysts, who are gathered around the purple kayak, naturally. I line up with the other Sapphires by the blue boat. Becca and Megan trot over to the Rubies, who are clustered by the red one, and Emma makes a face and trudges reluctantly over to the green kayak, and the Emeralds.

  Emma is not exactly a bundle of enthusiasm when it comes to sports.

  She tries, though, she really does. She’s light years ahead of where she was when I first met her back in sixth grade. So much so that she was my first choice to help me with Chicks with Sticks. That’s the after-school hockey club for girls I coach back in Concord. I started it to help promote the sport, and it’s taken off big-time. It’s had exactly the ripple effect I was hoping for, too. Because of the demand from my skaters, there’s a middle school girl’s hockey team now—there wasn’t one when we first moved to Concord, and I had to play with the boys—and the high school program has never been stronger.

  Thanks to our work with the Chicks, Emma and I are probably the most prepared of all our book club friends for this particular summer job. Jess is a close second, since she’s used to dealing with two younger twin brothers. None of the campers will be able to get anything past her. Becca and Megan, though? Becca babysits now and then and Megan’s always talked about wanting a sibling, but I have a feeling their heads are going to be spinning twenty-four hours from now once the campers arrive.

  “Sapphires? Got your lineup ready?”

  Sergeant Marge is standing in front of me with her clipboard. I look over at my teammates, who are all looking back at me expectantly.

  “Uh, I guess I’ll anchor if nobody else wants to,” I volunteer.

  Sergeant Marge jots this down on her clipboard. “Good luck, sport,” she says. I can’t tell if she means it or not.

  “There it is!” cries someone farther down the beach, and I turn to see The Lady of the Lake, Camp Lovejoy’s water ski boat, heading our way. It’s towing something large behind it.

  The other counselors all go nuts, screaming “Dreamboat!” at the top of their lungs.

  My eyebrows shoot up. That’s the dreamboat? It doesn’t look like any kind of boat I’ve ever seen before. In fact, it looks like a cabin. A floating cabin.

  “What the heck is that?” I ask Melissa Yee, the counselor from Meadow.

  “A floating cabin,” she says. “It’s, like, the best thing ever here at camp. Each cabin gets to take a turn having a sleepover in it.”

  The ski boat draws closer. Dreamboat is painted bright blue, with white trim around the doors and windows. There’s a white picket fence around the front “porch”—sort of an extended deck in front—and red geraniums spilling from a pair of window boxes to match the red door. A sign above the door says DREAMBOAT.

  “Cool, right?” says Melissa.

  I nod. I definitely need to take a picture of it to send to my mother. She’ll love it. In fact, she’ll probably want to put it on her TV show, Cooking with Clementine. Which isn’t just about cooking anymore, but has evolved into what she calls a “lifestyle” show. The producers are thinking about changing its name to At Home with Clementine, and there’s even talk of a magazine.

  “Okay, girls!” Sergeant Marge has moved out to the end of the H dock, and her bullhorn voice floats back to us across the water. “You know the drill. For the relay, each team member will paddle around Dreamboat, take a tennis ball from the bucket on the porch, paddle here to the H dock and drop the tennis ball in the bucket at my feet, then head back to shore. The kayak must touch the beach before the next person can climb in. First team to complete the relay wins coupons for ice cream cones at the Pumpkin Falls General Store.”

  Gwen is standing on the b
each behind us with her husband, Artie, a grandfatherly type whose cheerful attitude reminds me a little bit of Eva Bergson. Well, if Mrs. Bergson had been an African-American retiree who looked like a former football linebacker. Artie waves a fistful of coupons in the air.

  “Got it?” hollers Sergeant Marge.

  “Got it!” everyone hollers back.

  “Good. On your marks!”

  Brianna scrambles into the blue kayak, and we quickly surround her, poised to launch her from shore.

  “Get set!”

  “C’mon, Sapphires!” I shout, and Sergeant Marge frowns at me. Hey, what does she expect? There’s ice cream at stake.

  “Go!”

  Four kayaks, one from each team, rocket out onto the lake. The rest of us all scramble back onto the beach, screaming encouragement to our teammates. Grabbing a tennis ball from a bucket isn’t as easy as it sounds, and the first few kayaks to circle around Dreamboat promptly flip over as their occupants reach for the prize. While they’re scrambling to right themselves, Brianna zips into place and, using her paddle as a counterbalance, neatly scoops up a tennis ball.

  “Go, Sapphires!” I shout again. No frown from the head counselor this time—everybody’s shouting by now.

  By the time Brianna drops the ball in Marge’s bucket and returns to the beach, we’re in first place. We hold on to it for four more circuits, then lose ground in the fifth and sixth after double dunkings by the porch. Finally, it’s my turn. We’ve dropped to third place by now, which is a tough but hardly hopeless position. I’m pretty sure I can make up the time.

  “Let’s go, let’s go!” I holler, leaping forward as the blue kayak crunches up onto the sand. I practically yank its occupant out of the seat, snatching the paddle from her as I’m simultaneously climbing in. My teammates give me a mighty shove, and I’m off.

  I dig into the water, grateful for all the weights I lift and the pushups I do day in, day out as part of my hockey conditioning. There’s nothing like upper body strength when it comes to canoeing and kayaking. I’ve almost caught up with the red kayak by the time I circle Dreamboat. Team Ruby’s anchor is only inches ahead of me, and by paddling furiously I manage to close in. I reach right over her as I snap up a tennis ball. Sometimes it pays to be six feet tall.

  I’m in the homestretch now, and I pour it on as I head for the H dock. I pass the green kayak and am gaining quickly on the purple one.

  “Sapphires! Sapphires!” scream my teammates. Music to my ears. I can practically taste the ice cream.

  I’m neck and neck with Team Amethyst on the final approach to the H dock. Two quick power strokes and I pull forward, passing my competitor, but in my eagerness to do so I come in too fast. I shoot past the purple kayak without enough room to angle up horizontally next to the dock. Instead, I ram it nearly head-on.

  The dock gives a mighty lurch. Sergeant Marge rocks back on her heels, teeters for a moment, then topples backward into the lake.

  She comes up spluttering. “Sloane!” she hollers.

  “Sorry,” I reply weakly, dropping my tennis ball in the bucket.

  Felicia rushes down the dock and reaches into the water to help haul Marge out. The head counselor shoots me a look I’ve seen all too often in my eighteen years—the evil-witch-mother eye of death. “I’ll see you back onshore,” she snaps.

  As I start to paddle away, a tennis ball comes flying over my shoulder and lands in the bucket. There’s a flash of purple as the anchor for Team Amethyst sweeps past me and sprints triumphantly for the finish line at the beach.

  Great.

  Not only did I just dunk Sergeant Marge, I also just lost the Sapphires the relay race.

  Final score? Sergeant Marge, one. Cassidy? That would be a big fat zero, sport.

  Becca

  “Elizabeth Ann sat on the wooden chair . . . looking about her with miserable, homesick eyes.”

  —Understood Betsy

  “Hi, I’m Becca! Welcome to Camp Lovejoy!” I crank up the enthusiasm as I step forward to greet the family climbing out of a large green SUV.

  “I’m Priyanka Osborne, and this is my daughter, Amy,” announces a woman in a long orange sari.

  A small, slender girl with dark hair and large dark eyes like her mother’s peeks out from behind the bright swirl of fabric. As Mrs. Osborne steps forward to shake my hand, the sari’s intricate pattern of gold leaves and vines shimmers in the sunlight. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Megan, who’s chatting with another camper’s parents, glancing over at it. She’s probably itching to sketch it. A beautiful piece of clothing always does that to Megan.

  Mr. Osborne, who is tall and thin and dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, greets me and shakes my hand too.

  “My daughter needs to practice an hour a day,” Amy’s mother continues, holding out a violin case.

  “Um, okay.” I take it from her and set it carefully in the wheelbarrow where we’ll be piling the rest of Amy’s luggage.

  “The camp director assured me that there would be competent staff supervising the music program.” Mrs. Osborne’s voice is soft but steely. It kind of reminds me of Cassidy’s mother when she’s in full Queen Clementine mode. We call her that behind her back. She used to be a supermodel, the kind with just one name, and she can get kind of icy and regal when she means business.

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s correct.” I glance across the grove at Jess, who’s holding hands with one of her new campers and chatting with her parents. I can’t think of anyone more competent than Jess. “See that girl over there with the long blond braid? She’s helping out with the music program, and she’s going to Juilliard this fall.”

  Mrs. Osborne’s dark eyebrows wing upward. “Impressive.”

  “Jess has an amazing voice,” I continue. I wink at Amy, who’s still hanging back shyly behind her mother. “And she’s really nice.”

  “Amy enjoys singing—”

  “Great!” I gush. “We do a lot of that here at camp.” This is the understatement of the century. Camp Lovejoy has a song for just about everything.

  “—however, it’s really her instrumental progress I’m most concerned about,” her mother finishes.

  I chew my lip, contemplating a red-faced, sweaty Felicia trundling past us with an overloaded wheelbarrow. “We, uh, have just the counselor to help with that, too.”

  “Is she nice like Jess?” Amy’s head pops out again from behind the sari. Her whisper is barely audible.

  I hesitate for just a fraction of a second before nodding. Felicia’s nice enough, but it’s not the first word that comes to mind when I think of her.

  “Sackbut” is.

  I still can’t believe there’s an actual instrument called a sackbut. There is, though, and Felicia brought hers along to camp. Which pretty much sums up Jess’s cousin.

  “Felicia plays multiple instruments,” I assure Mrs. Osborne. I don’t tell her that most of them are these weird medieval things nobody’s ever heard of, like the sackbut. I know tough customers from my waitressing experience, and I can tell that Mrs. Osborne is a tough customer.

  She nods, satisfied for the moment. “Good.”

  I help load Amy’s trunk and the rest of her gear into the wheelbarrow, then steer it down the sloped path leading from the grove to the cubie houses and our cabin.

  “Lovely setting,” says Mr. Osborne, who’s barely said a word so far. “Amy, I think you’ll be very happy here.”

  Amy, who has finally fully emerged from behind her mother, doesn’t look convinced. In fact, she looks terrified. I’m beginning to recognize this look. I’ve been up close and personal with it several times today. There are a lot of first-time campers at Camp Lovejoy this summer.

  “We’re going to have so much fun!” I tell the little girl with more confidence than I feel. “Just wait and see.”

  We stop by Balsam first, where I let Amy pick out a bunk—not that she has much choice, really, as there are only two left: a bottom one toward the front of the
cabin, near my bed, and a top one in the rear corner.

  Not surprisingly, she goes for the one nearest to me.

  “I’ll help you make it up later, okay?” I tell her, placing her bedding on it. “You should set up your cubie while your mom is still here.”

  She trails along behind me as I lead the way across the path to Cubbyhole. Inside, we carry her trunk and other things to the little dressing room with her name on the door.

  Mrs. Osborne looks around the cubie’s bare wooden walls with distaste. “Rather more primitive than I thought it would be.”

  “Simple,” says Mr. Osborne. “Uncluttered. I like it.”

  Amy’s mother frowns. “Where’s the mirror?”

  I hear Gwen’s words pop out of my mouth. “Camp Lovejoy is a place where girls can be themselves all summer, without having to worry about what they look like.”

  “Ridiculous,” Mrs. Osborne retorts. “Everyone needs a mirror.”

  Secretly, I agree. But I don’t say so.

  “I think it’s a wonderful policy,” says Mr. Osborne, giving his daughter a reassuring squeeze. I’m beginning to like Amy’s father.

  Mrs. Osborne scrutinizes the daily schedule that’s thumbtacked to the bulletin board on the back of the door. I’ve already got it memorized. Reveille is at 7:00 (courtesy of Felicia and her sackbut), followed by a quick staff meeting in the grove. Flag raising is at 7:30; breakfast starts at 7:35. Cabin cleanup is after that, along with the morning meeting, when the day’s activities are announced. First period kicks off at 9:30, second period follows, lunch starts at 12:15. Rest hour is from 1:00 to 2:00; then comes third and fourth period, and free period. Dinner’s at 5:45, followed by a flag lowering. Then comes evening activity at 7:00, showers, and finally “Taps” (Felicia again) at 9:00. It’s a full schedule.

  “What kinds of stuff do you like to do?” I ask Amy.

  She shrugs, staring down at her sandals.

  “Do you like to swim?”

  Another shrug.

  “I’ll bet you get really good at it this summer,” I tell her. “One of my best friends is going to be teaching swimming lessons.”