Everyone Dies Famous in a Small Town

by Bonnie-Sue Hitchcock

  At orientation the counselors were told to watch the younger swimmers closely and throw them into the sauna to warm up when they start turning blue. She can see that a couple of boys are butt naked, waggling their rear ends at each other and then diving into the freezing lake. Whoever is supposed to be watching them is nowhere around.

  A little girl is sitting alone near the water, animatedly clapping and smiling, but not at the boys. She seems to be in her own little world. Every once in a while she jumps up, arms in the air, like a cheerleader. Fiona shields her eyes from the sun, trying to see better. The lake is glassy calm; there’s nothing out there. Yet the girl springs into the air again, erupting in applause.

  Kids are so weird sometimes.

  A quarter mile down the trail, Fiona smells cigarette smoke. Smoking is prohibited in camp, and there’s a burn ban in effect. She knows one person who smokes when she’s stressed.

  “Amy?”

  Amy’s frizzy blond mop pops up immediately to Fiona’s left.

  “Oh no. You smelled it?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Our campers are having a boating lesson, not that you asked,” says Amy. “I needed a break. And I did bring my water bottle to put it out with. I’m not a total idiot.”

  Finn has been making everyone fire aware by updating them every day about the wildfire burning near his hometown in Colorado. Fiona was hoping maybe he’d leave early if he was so worried about it. But she figures the updates are a chance for him to hear himself speak, more than anything. Wildfire is one thing he didn’t need to brief them on. Alaskans are well versed on the subject. Amy and Fiona are more afraid of fires than they are of bears.

  Amy is perched on a rotten log riddled with ants, hidden by fireweed and pushki (which the other counselors call cow parsnip). Things must be serious if Amy is sitting on ants. Fiona squeezes on next to her, trying not to get pushki sap on her skin. (Also worse than bears are blisters from pushki.)

  “I miss the mall,” says Amy. “Mostly Payless Shoes. I just want to go sniff all that fake leather, put on the little nylon footies, and try on some pumps that I can’t afford.”

  “I know,” says Fiona. Even though Amy’s just talking about shoes, she’s starting to sound a little less edgy.

  “I want to tell you something before you do anything to ruin it,” she says.

  Okay, that was edgy.

  “I have a crush on Finn.”

  Ew, gross.

  “What would I do to ruin it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Fiona. Act like he’s not good enough for me, as if you’re just being a good friend?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “When are you going to admit how you lost us our jobs?”

  “I reported a guy who jumped out of the walk-in cooler, spraying you with whipped cream through a foot-long hot dog. Did you forget?”

  “You weren’t even there, Fiona, remember? You called in sick?”

  “Yeah, but I was sticking up for you, Amy. I reported it when you told me it happened.”

  “It was just a stupid prank. Who cares?”

  “He’s a pervert. He was always doing shit like that. You also don’t think it’s weird that we lost our jobs and he didn’t?”

  “His brother was the manager. Of course he wasn’t going to lose his job.”

  Fiona can’t believe Amy is shooting the messenger like this.

  “You called in sick when you weren’t sick, so yes, you should have lost your job,” Amy says. “And I lost mine because I covered for your lie. And not for the first time,” she adds.

  She lights another cigarette.

  “Shhh…,” says Fiona.

  “Oh, right. Don’t talk, Amy, just let it roll off like you always do,” she says sarcastically.

  “No, I mean, do you hear that?”

  The thump of many pairs of hiking boots is suddenly very close. And then they hear Maggie saying, “Okay, everyone ready? A one and a two and a…”

  Ten campers begin to chant, “MAKE CAMP FANTASTIC, DON’T WASTE PLASTIC!” over and over and over and over.

  They must be done writing their letters to the razor companies.

  Now Maggie’s group has transformed into a litter brigade. Cleaning up the trails, picking up wrappers and plastic bags, waving signs as they merrily march along. “Don’t waste plastic” slogans are painted onto greasy pizza boxes taped to willow branches, bobbing in the air.

  Maggie’s nose suddenly wrinkles and she holds up a hand, silencing her campers. They halt, so close Fiona could reach out and touch the toe of Maggie’s purple sandal.

  Amy is holding a soggy cigarette butt as if it’s a murder weapon and she’s been framed.

  Maggie’s face appears between the pushki, like a disembodied head.

  “Howdy,” says Fiona. She’s never used that word before, but that’s what happens when you’re hiding on a log like a fugitive. You just don’t sound like yourself.

  “What are you two doing in there?”

  “We heard your, um, campaign, is it? And we were looking for litter,” says Fiona. “Because our campers are out boating right now and we had some free time.”

  Maggie looks suspicious, but also pleased that maybe she’s getting through to them.

  “And we found this!”

  Fiona grabs the cigarette butt out of Amy’s hand and jams it into Maggie’s face.

  “I know. Can you believe it?” she says as Maggie recoils. “We need to have an all-camp meeting and make sure nobody is smoking. For their safety and the safety of everyone here.”

  Amy stares at Fiona as if she’s grown a horn.

  “Totally,” says Maggie. “Can you imagine if someone started a wildfire?”

  “I shudder to even think,” says Fiona, trying to keep a straight face.

  Evan, who seems to want to make up for hunting rabbits, jumps in with another witty slogan:

  “DON’T SMOKE, IT’S NO JOKE. DON’T SMOKE, IT’S NO JOKE.”

  His fellow campers join him.

  “We should go collect our kids from their boating lesson,” says Amy. She tugs Fiona’s arm.

  Her fingernails are digging into Fiona’s skin a little harder than necessary.

  “That right there is what I’m talking about,” says Amy, once they are far enough away that she can whisper-yell in Fiona’s face. “You’re a professional liar.”

  “What? I just saved your ass, in case you didn’t notice.”

  “Oh, this again! You’re delusional if you think you’re the savior, Fiona.”

  “Why are you so mad? I already said I was sorry that you vouched for me.”

  “Where were you when you called in sick?”

  “I was…”

  “You went to the movies with Mason Hawk.”

  “How did you…know that?”

  “Does it matter? You knew I liked him, Fiona. I cover for you and you pay me back by sneaking off behind my back.”

  “I didn’t tell you because he asked me not to.”

  Amy’s cheeks are the shade of ripe plums.

  “I’m so tired of this.”

  “What? Wait. Let me talk.”

  But Amy walks off toward the lake mumbling about how much she hates this place and how she is never, ever going to have kids, not in a million years.

  Three little girls in pink frilly swimsuits see her at just that moment and screech, “Amyyyyyy! We picked you these flowers!”

  They run to her with bouquets of invasive weeds and she throws her arms around them, exclaiming wildly, “These are so beautiful! Let’s see if we can find something for a vase. You three have made my day.”

  Fiona watches thoughtfully for a few minutes as her friend who hates children swoons over the bouquet. It was so out of character for Amy to yel
l at her like that. But maybe Amy doesn’t want to be the duck that always lets all the water roll off her back. Fiona should have noticed sooner, because the only person who has ever trusted her doesn’t seem to trust her anymore.

  Oh shit, where are Nick’s pants? She can’t remember where she last had them.

  The little girl who was cheerleading for nobody is still sitting on a rock by the water, but now she’s talking to herself, holding her towel off to the side and having a conversation with the empty space beside her.

  Fiona goes over and kneels down in front of her.

  “Hey there,” she says.

  “Hi,” says the girl. She stops talking but is looking to her left, smiling at the empty air.

  “Whatcha doin’?”

  “Helping Elizabeth dry off.”

  “Oh. Who’s Elizabeth?”

  “She’s my friend. She’s a mermaid. She just got out of the water.”

  “Were you cheering her on while she swam?”

  The girl looks Fiona in the eye. Is that relief on her face?

  “Uh-huh. Can you see her too?”

  “Um, sure. Hi, Elizabeth.” Fiona pretends to shake hands with absolutely nothing.

  The girl giggles.

  “You’re just moving her tail up and down.”

  “Well, that’s because I thought that’s how mermaids say hello.”

  “She has hands, silly!”

  “Of course. Sorry, Elizabeth. Let’s shake hands.”

  Apparently she does it right the second time, because the girl looks pleased.

  “I’m Fiona.” She holds out her hand again.

  “I’m Poppy.” Poppy takes Fiona’s fingers and gives them a shake.

  “Where’s the rest of your group, Poppy?”

  But chatty Poppy suddenly turns quiet and shy.

  “Hey, you okay? Did you lose your group?”

  Poppy shakes her head.

  “Do you know who your counselor is?”

  Poppy nods.

  Wow. Why the abrupt change?

  Finn comes out of the sauna, his tanned arms and legs very visible in a pair of baggy swim trunks. His elbows are propped high on the door as he leans over someone standing against it. He bends down to whisper something into her ear, and Fiona sees that it’s Amy, holding the invasive weeds against her chest, tilting her ear up to hear.

  “That’s him,” says Poppy. “That’s my counselor.”

  “Poppy, are you scared of him?”

  She shakes her head but whispers, “Elizabeth is, though.”

  More of Amy and Fiona’s campers are swarming the beach, wet from their boating lesson.

  “Fiona,” says a nasal voice near her elbow, “I already have a backpack, so I don’t need to borrow gear for the campout.”

  She looks into Andrew’s round, pudgy face. His nostrils are coated in crusted snot that looks a lot like dried glue. How does he breathe?

  “You have a way to carry your sleeping bag and parts of the tent? You’re sure?”

  “Yes, I brought my own backpack from home.”

  “Okay, because you guys have to all share the weight between the four of you in your group.”

  He rolls his eyes. “I know, I know, Fiona. I’m staying here longer than anyone. My mom told me what to bring.”

  She remembers that Andrew is here for a month, even though a week is too long for most of the campers his age. Fiona thinks the money would have been better spent on his adenoids, but then she remembers Cook telling her she’s too young to have opinions: “When you’re a parent you can have an opinion.”

  Yeah, that’s not happening, she thinks.

  “Okay, Andrew, you don’t have to come to gear checkout. Go have fun with your, uh, friends.”

  Does Andrew have any friends?

  When she turns back around, Poppy and Elizabeth are gone.

  Later, at the gear shed, Amy is still barely talking to Fiona, but there’s no time anyway. It’s total chaos trying to sort gear for twenty kids. They dole out internal frame packs, tents, and sleeping bags as if they know exactly what they’re doing. For their group, it’s mostly symbolic: they are going to walk less than five hundred feet from their cabins and pitch tents on top of a grassy hill they could practically reach with a long stick.

  For six-year-olds it’s just a chance to work as a group and get the idea of hiking and sleeping out. Amy and Fiona have never camped in their lives, but since no one asked, they pretend they were born doing this.

  Amy has a clipboard with everyone’s names on it. They are pulling out tent poles and rainflies, and she tells them to split all the pieces up and see if they can carry them in their packs. Eventually, and after a great deal of confusion, they are surrounded by kids who look like they’ve been impaled by tent poles sticking out at all angles. Now they just need to walk up that hill, easy peasy.

  “Hey, Franky, when Andrew gets here with his pack, give him part of the tent to carry. And a sleeping bag, okay?”

  “He’s sleeping in our tent? But he snores like a snow machine!”

  “Be nice,” says Fiona. “I’m going to the mess hall to get the s’mores and hot dogs and stuff. I’ll be right back.”

  “That’s what you said last time,” says Amy, but she’s busy trying to get her girls to stop using the rainfly as a parachute. “Okay, everybody out,” she says as she trips and falls into the middle of it.

  “A big fat fly!” cries one of the girls.

  “Let’s eat her for lunch!” Six other very dirty spiders in wet pink bathing suits fall on top of Amy.

  Fiona slips away.

  But she has one quick stop before the mess hall.

  “This is a pretty serious accusation,” the director says when Fiona tells her her concerns. “Do you have any proof?”

  “I’m not saying Finn did anything. I’m just saying that little girl Poppy seemed genuinely scared of him.”

  “You don’t seem to be making a lot of friends among the counselors, Fiona.”

  “I swear this isn’t about me.”

  “Well, I think Finn deserves to know what he’s being accused of,” she says. “And don’t you have campers you should be attending to right now?”

  Why does everyone shoot the messenger?

  “Can I just look at Poppy’s intake sheet? The one her parents filled out?”

  “Why? Usually just the camper’s counselor gets to do that.”

  “We do sometimes have to help out other people’s campers. If there’s something in there we should all know so we don’t do the wrong thing, I’d like to read it.”

  “Since you seem so concerned about this girl, fine. You can look at her sheet.”

  “Great.”

  “After your campout. You have a job to do right now.”

  “Can I at least bring a copy to read once my kids are asleep?”

  She can tell the director doesn’t like her. It’s not as if Fiona fell off the turnip truck yesterday, as her father used to say. He was usually three sheets to the wind when he said it, though.

  The director hands her Poppy’s intake sheet. “Get back to your campers.”

  “Thank you for caring SO MUCH about children,” Fiona says, but only inside her head.

  Back at the gear shed, Andrew is holding a tiny Snoopy backpack in front of his face, fending off three other boys who are crowding around him, waving tent poles as if they are billy clubs. His backpack is big enough to hold maybe half a peanut butter sandwich and an apple.

  “Andrew, is that the backpack you told me you brought from home?”

  “Fiona, the others have already made him aware that it’s too small,” Amy says, a note of warning in her voice.

  “Jesus Christ,” says Fiona, “I said over and over that he had to car
ry a tent and a sleeping bag and he kept saying he had it covered. A tiny Snoopy backpack is his idea of having it covered?”

  “Why is everyone here so mean?” yells Andrew, throwing Snoopy down and crashing off into the bushes like a baby moose.

  “Way to go,” Amy says.

  “Do you want to go after him?”

  “No, it’s better if you make it right,” she says, “even though I’m beginning to wonder if this was your plan all along, always leaving me with ninety percent of our group.”

  “I’ll bring him right back. Ten minutes, tops. I promise.”

  But Fiona cannot find Andrew. After the ten minutes are up, there’s still no Andrew. Has any counselor in the history of Camp Wildwood ever lost a camper before?

  “Andrewwww. Come out. You’re missing s’moooorrrres.”

  She’s about to call it quits and head back to admit to the director that it isn’t Finn they should be worried about, but her. She is the worst possible person to be put in charge of children. She’ll turn herself in.

  But then a flash of red curled up under a scrubby spruce tree catches her eye.

  By the time she reaches him, her arms and cheeks are scraped from squeezing through dead, clawing branches. Fiona scrunches up her arms and legs, trying not to touch him.

  She says nothing, tired of words, tired of always doing the wrong thing, even when she tries so hard to do the right thing, whatever the hell that is.

  They each sit hunched in a round ball of silence, except for Andrew’s sporadic sobbing and adenoidal wheezing. From the corner of her eye she sees dead mosquitoes in his hair, blood and bites on his cheek. How will he survive till the end of camp? How will she?

  “I’m so sorry,” Fiona says. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

  She is thinking about Amy. How coming from a family that buys you nice tights and cuts your sandwiches into cute shapes and remembers to pick you up from preschool is such a simple, beautiful thing.

  It does not prepare a person for how scary the world really is.

  But Fiona knows. And Andrew knows. And Poppy seems to know, or at least, her invisible friend, Elizabeth, does.

  “Why did you have to go and make such a big deal about my tiny backpack in front of everyone?” says Andrew.