I take a sip of my drink. “This time at Birchwood has reminded me that family is comprised of more than those who are related by blood. Family should consist of those who know you, inside and out. And who is that?” I look over at V and Rach. Rach catches my eye and lifts her drink. “Friends. Friends are family. And I forgot that. You know, I found who I was supposed to be at camp a long time ago, and I think I’m rediscovering that all over again here. I spent much of my adult life worried about what everyone thought: my husband, my kids, my parents, my neighbors, my coworkers, my friends. And I spent my life giving every second to someone else, because I felt it was selfish to focus on myself. Mostly, I realize, I felt I wasn’t worth it. I think that Bloody Mary well changes now.”
I raise my drink. Billy clinks it. I can hear the ring tone of my cell over the din of the restaurant. “Mind if I check?” I ask Billy. He shakes his head, and I grab my cell from my bag. I take a deep breath as I look, thinking it is about my mother, but instead I see it’s for my Etsy store. I click on it, and I have over a hundred new orders since I’ve been gone.
One hundred!
I scan the orders, from jewelry to blouses to bandanas. From women sixteen to sixty.
“Is everything okay?” Billy asks.
“I think it just might be,” I say. “I think it just might be.”
All of a sudden, the lights dim, and an elderly man in a pilled tuxedo jacket walks to a piano in the corner of the room. A shaky spotlight hits him as he sits.
“It’s 9:00 p.m., which means it’s time for the nightly sing-along!” he says, his gray mustache twitching. “I’m Frank DeMuth, and I have been for eighty-nine years.”
The diners cheer.
“They still do this?” I whisper to Billy.
“They do,” he says.
“And is that the same Frank?”
“It is.” Billy laughs.
“He hasn’t changed,” I say.
“Every song we sing here at The Smilin’ Smelt is sung in the round. This side of the room starts,” Frank says, pointing toward the right side of the restaurant, “and then this side of the room sings,” he says, pointing toward the left side and the bar. “We’re a team. And if you can’t sing, don’t worry. Neither can I.” The diners laugh. He tickles the ivories and smiles.
“I mean, nothing has changed,” I whisper to Billy, “down to the act.”
“Isn’t it great?”
“And we already have a request,” Frank says. “Ladies, where are you?”
The spotlight dances around The Smilin’ Smelt. I look around the restaurant. V and Rach stand and walk, very wobbly, toward the piano, holding on tightly to one another. The crowd whoops and hollers, calling out Rach’s name, and then V’s.
“You know famous people,” Billy says.
“Infamous people, you mean,” I say.
There is a screeching noise. I look up to see V holding the mic much too close to her face. “Hello, Smelt!” she yells too loudly. The mic squeals again, and people put their hands over their ears. Rach grabs the mic. Some in the audience cheer as the spotlight illuminates her face even more; some boo. “I get that reaction all the time,” Rach says to laughter. She continues, undeterred. “My best friend here and I want all of you to join us in singing a special song to one of our best friends. Liz, will you stand up?”
My face flushes immediately.
“Stand up,” Billy urges, clapping.
I stand reluctantly, wave my hand, and sit.
“The song we’re going to sing is inspired by one we heard Liz sing to her mother this morning. It’s also inspired by our love of all things ’80s. We’re Birchwood girls forever!”
V shoots up four fingers into the air and yells, “The Clover Girls! Best friends forever!”
She is beyond buzzed, I think. As in feeling no pain.
Some older folks in the crowd applaud, remembering the camp.
V grabs the mic from Rach and takes a seat on the piano bench next to Frank, sidling up closely and sliding an arm around his back. “You know something we don’t, don’cha, Frank?” V asks, her words slurred.
“Do I?” Frank asks with a wink.
“You do,” V continues. “You know that life is like these silly songs you sing here. These sing-alongs...” She stops, searching for her words. Someone hands her a glass of wine, and she chugs a good part of the glass.
Oh, this is not good, I think.
Rach grabs the mic back.
“I think what my friend is trying to say is that these sing-alongs are a part of history that shouldn’t be forgotten. They’re like life—a continuum—that constantly goes in a round. We all act like life is a straight line but it’s not...it’s a circle. We start and end our lives the same way...as people who need boundless love and care.”
I put my hand to my mouth.
“What makes all the pain and hurt worthwhile is the love and connections we create along the way. What makes it all worth the ride is friends...” Rach stops and leans toward V, putting the mic in front of both of their mouths.
“And sunshine,” they say together. “Frank?”
Frank begins to play the piano, and I know the song immediately. In fact, I could name that Katrina and the Waves tune in two notes.
When we get to the chorus, the left side of the room is singing, “I’m walkin’ on sunshine” and the right side is singing, “Woah-ooooah!” and I’m crying and laughing so hard my mascara is running down my face.
Rach and V walk over and grab my hands. We stand and begin to jump up and down, not as much dancing together as sharing a communal hug.
As we leap and spin and sing and sway, I think of my mom, of sunshine, and how a simple song can have such a profound impact on your life.
What is the mark I want to leave on this world? I think.
I feel another set of arms around me. I look over, and Billy is jumping with us, the spotlight on the four of us.
A four-leaf clover once again, Em!
I jump and laugh and cry.
And, for the first time in a long time, I feel as if I am, finally, walking on sunshine.
PART EIGHT
Color War!
Summer 1985
Emily looks right and then left. She hesitates and stops abruptly when she sees them, her milk carton tumbling off her tray. Liz, right behind, nearly runs into the back of her. Her sneakers release an ear-shattering squeak, and her green Jell-O slides to the edge of her tray.
“What are you doing?” Liz asks.
That’s when Liz sees them.
“The Birches,” Emily whispers without moving a muscle of her body. She indicates the girls occupying both ends of the table at the far end of The Lodge.
The camp elders, the “legends” from every clique—the Athletes, the Leaders, the Artists, the City Girls—would sit at the ends of all the long dining tables, and then greet campers who would stand before them, trays in hands, to pay their respects.
But the Birches claimed the long table by the windows overlooking the camp. It was where they could keep an eye on their minions. The table was also by the tray return and huge freezer stuffed with frozen treats, a place they could torture newbies.
Emily had already felt their wrath the very first day when she went to retrieve an ice cream sandwich and was stopped before she could return to her seat at the table.
“Pay your toll,” one of the Birches said.
“What do you mean?” Emily asked.
She held out her hand. Emily paid with her ice cream.
When she returned empty-handed, sweet ol’ Em actually coined the term “Birches” because she was too nice to say what she meant: those girls were bitches. They thought they were the prettiest, the coolest, Courtney Cox yanked onto the stage by Bruce Springsteen to dance with him in his “Dancing in the Dark”
video cool. But they were really just mean.
“That burns my butt,” V had said.
“They need to pay,” Rachel added.
We had taken seats at the center of the end table because we didn’t know any better. We didn’t realize that “The Birches” occupied both ends.
“What do I do?” Em whispers to Liz.
“Just walk,” Liz whispers. “Be confident. And don’t give them your food!”
Em walks toward The Birches. Liz can see the tray shaking in her new friend’s hands. One of the girls acts as if she’s going to stand—like a basketball player trying to fake out a defender—but remains seated.
Liz sighs as Em passes. She moves quickly, keeping her head high.
The next thing Liz knows is that she is airborne.
One of The Birches extended her leg at the last minute into the middle of the aisle to trip her. Liz’s tray flies out of her hands and bounces off the window. She hits the floor, hard, scraping her knees and nearly knocking out a tooth on a chair. When she looks up, a blob of Jell-O is trailing down the window like an alien.
“You’re such a klutz,” one of The Birches says.
“Yeah,” says another. “We should start calling you Grace.”
“A round of applause for Grace,” a Birch yells across The Lodge, clapping with faux enthusiasm.
Liz sits up just in time to see Mrs. Nigh beelining across The Lodge, wagging a finger, already asking for an explanation.
But before she reaches the table, V and Rachel are standing in front of Liz, before The Birches.
“Look, it’s Blair and Jo!” one of The Birches taunts.
Rach grabs the girl, lifts her from her chair and holds the front of her T-shirt. V nabs my Jell-O from the floor and drops it down her shirt.
“Our names are V and Rachel, got it? And that’s Emily and Liz. You don’t mess with them, and you don’t mess with us.”
Another Birch stands, ready to fight, but V scoops up another blob of green Jell-O and rubs it across her shirt.
“Remember our names, and remember our color. We are The Clover Girls.”
The Lodge breaks into thunderous cheers.
The Clover Girls refuse to move from the center of the table. Everyone readies themselves for a camp war, but it never materializes. The Birches eventually find another table, knowing they—and their ways—are no longer in control. And that changes the culture of the camp: as The Birches and the other cliques leave camp, The Clover Girls remain firmly entrenched in the middle—not only at their table in The Lodge but in the entire camp—welcoming girls from every group to sit with them.
Other cliques try to rise up. One group starts the “I’m Over the Clovers” movement, but it doesn’t stick: no one messes with Rach and V.
And green Jell-O.
Summer 2021
Veronica
“Work, V!”
I position my body in an impossible angle, much like my moniker “V,” and lift my chin. Wind machines are blowing my hair back from my face, and a half dozen assistants are holding reflectors at varied positions all around me.
“The only thing hotter than me are these!” I say. I pop a Flamin’ Hot Cheeto into my mouth, then suddenly pop into my famed tiger pose and roar.
“Cut!” the director yells. “Excellent work, V!”
Nena’s “99 Luftballons” suddenly blares in the studio, and a team of people rush up to retouch my makeup. I close my eyes as mascara is applied to my lashes. When I open them, I flinch. A raccoon, not a woman, is holding a tube of mascara. I shut my eyes again as gloss is applied to my lips. When I open them again, a raccoon is brushing my lips with a shimmery pink applicator.
I scream.
Scritch. Scratch. Scritch.
99 Luftballons...
I try to open an eye, but it is sealed shut. I manage to pop open the other eye. Light blares directly into it. My head pounds and my stomach lurches.
On a scale of one to ten, my hangover is more along the lines of Studio 54.
I hear music and what sounds like a TV playing an animated cartoon. I tilt my head on the mattress—as much effort as I can make at the moment—and narrow my one working eye around the bunkhouse.
I scream, sit up, my other eye popping open, finally breaking through its mascaraed prison.
The door to the cabin is wide open. Two raccoons are going through our purses, which we’ve left—along with a trail of chip bags, junk food wrappers and our clothes—scattered across the floor. 99 Luftballons is playing on a cell, and I wonder if a raccoon somehow turned on a phone—I vaguely recall us dancing to ’80s music when we got back to Birchwood—or if we left it playing all night long.
One raccoon is leisurely eating chips from a bag, smacking its lips and chattering away in ecstasy, while the other is going through my bag like a purse snatcher, much like one had done with Rach’s when we arrived.
Are you the same bandit who loves junk food and makeup? I wonder. Em in disguise?
The raccoon pulls my lip gloss from my bag, opens it, tastes it, squeals in horror, and tosses the wand over its shoulder. It reaches for my good mascara.
“Stop!” I scream. “Don’t touch that! Get out!”
I can feel the bunk shake.
“Wha’?” Liz asks sleepily.
“I’ve got a gun!” Rach yells.
The raccoons scamper off as if Rach’s threat has done the trick. I dangle my head over the bunk, defying the spinning of the room, and look at Rach.
“Really?”
“I don’t,” she says, rubbing her eyes. “But I’m used to saying it at political rallies. Something about a woman with a gun that gets folks all—pardon the pun—fired up. I’ve also had to say it to more than one of the men I represent.”
“I can’t imagine,” I say.
“I can’t either, anymore,” she says.
I try to nod at her, but the room spins.
“You look like a raccoon,” Rach says. “A really hungover raccoon that used to model.”
“You don’t look much better, sister,” I say. “Or should I say, Twisted Sister.”
Liz groans, and I can’t tell if it’s from my joke or her hangover.
It finally dawns on me none of us are in our regular bunks. I’m in a top bunk, Rach is in Em’s old bunk, and Liz is somewhere down below.
Was I the most sober one last night? The only one who could actually crawl into a top bunk? That’s a frightening thought.
“Shut the door,” I say to her. “You’re closest. And I’m cold. And dizzy. And I don’t want to get my makeup done by raccoons.”
“Too late.” Rach laughs.
“Oh, my gosh!” Liz says.
I lean over the bunk and look at Rach again, a puzzled look on my face.
Liz is murmuring now, her voice muffled by the bunk above her.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“Is your mom okay?” Rach asks, her voice slightly panicked.
“Oh, yes, yes. No, it’s not her. It’s... Just listen. I got this text from Em’s attorney. She must have given him my number, since I was the last to stay in touch with her.”
Liz begins to read:
“‘Dear Ms. Anderson: I am Raymond Wilcox, the attorney representing your friend Emily’s estate. It has been nearly one week since you should have arrived at Camp Birchwood. Per the instructions detailed in her trust, and as noted to you, in order to inherit Camp Birchwood, you, Ms. Ives and Mrs. Berzini were required to spend a week there together. The only stipulation was that by the end of the week the three of you must have committed to the camp together. If any of you have chosen to leave or walk away, then the camp and its endowment will be turned over to the State of Michigan for future generations to enjoy. Emily asked that I arrive a
t some unannounced point within the week to assess whether you are still together and have met her requirements. If you, Ms. Ives and Mrs. Berzini have already departed, please let me know as soon as possible so I can begin the transfer of assets to the State. Should you have questions you may reach me at the number below. In advance, thank you for your time. Best, Raymond Wilcox.’”
For the longest time, there is silence.
“Has it already been nearly a week?” Rach finally asks. “I can’t believe it.”
“I feel like we just got here,” Liz says.
More silence.
“Is someone capable of making coffee?” I finally ask. “I think we need to talk.”
A half hour later, the three of us are huddled at our old spot in the center of the table by the window, holding on to our mugs of coffee as if they were life rafts. Rachel has started a campfire outside, and I watch the logs crackle. I think of my days at camp, of my childhood, my career, my marriage and my children, of Em and how quickly time fades, just like the smoke into the quickly warming Michigan morning. I stare at the fire, the warmth of the coffee making me feel just good enough not to die, the caffeine emboldening me just enough to say, “I think I want to keep Birchwood.”
Rach looks at me, and Liz jerks upright, her coffee splashing out of her mug.
“Really?” Liz asks. “I mean, for real, real?”
I nod.
“Me, too,” Liz says.
“Me, three,” Rachel says.
“And I have an idea about what to do with it,” I say. “More than just having it be a memory. How to bring it to life. How to bring myself back to life.”
“Me, too,” Liz repeats.
“Me, three,” Rachel says.
We all stare at each other, mascara-smeared eyes wide.
“I’ll go first then,” I say. “I can’t even believe what I’m about to say. I didn’t even know if I’d come back here when I got Em’s letter. I didn’t know if I would stay. I didn’t know if we would even talk to one another again. I don’t even know if I’ll have a marriage when I get home. But I came for Emily. I came because I remembered what this place—and all of you—meant to me. And that has changed me, no matter what. So...here goes.”
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