The Clover Girls

by Viola Shipman

  I take a breath and continue. “I came to Birchwood with no self-confidence. I was a freckled, red-haired girl who didn’t fit into the standard norms of beauty. I have a long-term vision of turning Birchwood into a girls’ summer camp again, but with a different focus: a focus on body positivity, self-acceptance and self-confidence, so that girls can love themselves—no matter how they look—because that will change their lives forever. I want to run a camp with a theme of ‘Don’t Be a Super Model, Be a Role Model.’”

  I look at Rach and Liz, who both look at each other. They squeeze their coffee mugs between their knees and begin to applaud. I blush. “Thank you,” I say. “That means a lot.” I look at Rach. “Next.”

  Rach takes a deep breath and plucks her coffee mug from between her knees. I can see that her hands are shaking slightly, but I can’t tell if it’s the hangover or nerves. When she begins to speak, her voice quavers—perhaps a first in Rach’s lifetime—and I now know she is genuinely nervous.

  “I want to help young women get into politics...”

  Liz groans.

  “Hear me out!” Rach says. “Please!”

  “Sorry,” Liz says. “Go on.”

  “I want to teach them how to volunteer, get involved in local politics, become politically active, teach them how to change the laws and how much their voice and vote matter. I want to nurture the young women of tomorrow to run for office...” Rach stops and begins to cry. “I screwed up. For too long. I need to make amends. I need to effect change. I have only a short time to make up for a lifetime of mistakes. I’ve harmed us... I’ve hurt women...our cause, our lives, our rights, and I need to make good on all of that.”

  I set my coffee down, stand up and walk over to hug Rach. She stands and holds on to me so tightly that I don’t know if she’ll ever let go. When she does, Liz reaches out her hand, and Rach grips it tightly.

  “Last but not least,” I say, sitting down again. “Liz?”

  “I want to create a creativity camp,” Liz says. “A camp that encourages the arts. Kids are never encouraged to see the arts as a viable career, and I’d like to change that. Kids have the most creative spirits in the world. What happens to that spark? Adults snuff it before it can turn into a flame because we believe we must be ‘serious,’ we must make money, we must ‘act’ like grown-ups. I want girls to channel their creative souls. I want to teach design. Rach and V, you could teach about the world of entertainment. Just look at someone like Reese Witherspoon: women need to be creating content and entertainment by women for women. This could start here at the earliest of ages.”

  Rach and I nod enthusiastically. “Great idea. I love it,” I say. “In fact, I love all of them.”

  “All of these ideas are viable,” Rachel says. “And there is no doubt girls would benefit from the power of attending such a camp. But as businesswomen, we all know this is going to take a great deal of time—and money—to make it a reality. We need to do our due diligence when it comes to the specifics of the camp—the financials, the business plan, the business structure, the remodel. Moreover, we’re all in the midst of rather large...” Rachel clears her throat. “...ahem, life changes and decisions. We need more than another day or two to decide all of that.”

  “You’re a hundred percent right,” I say. “I don’t know if I’ll be married in a year.”

  “I don’t know if my mom will be here in a month,” Liz says.

  “I don’t know if I’ll have a job next week,” Rachel says. “What should we do?”

  “I think we need to decide if we’re actually going to keep the camp,” I say. “We start there and then move forward. Or not.” I stop. “As Em said, it will require us all to be here together for a few more days. Even more than that, it will mean committing to something long-term together: not just this camp, but each other. And that won’t be easy. It will take patience and understanding and money and respect. It will require finally forgiving one another fully so we can start a new chapter. It will mean that we’ll never be over The Clovers.”

  Rachel and Liz laugh, immediately getting my reference from the past.

  I continue. “I mean, this has all been an emotional roller coaster. I think it’s clarified a lot of things for each of us, and also muddied the waters even more in some ways. Our futures all seem a bit uncertain. But we can at least clarify one thing right now.” I start to sing the old punk anthem. “Should we stay or should we go?”

  Liz grabs her phone and starts to play the Clash’s song. We all sing.

  When it is over, another song comes on Pandora, and we all look at one another as if Em were one step ahead of us, as if she wasn’t just directing the soundtrack of our lives from beyond but also every move.

  “99 Luftballons.”

  “This is war!” Nena sings.

  “Color War!” I yell.

  Rachel and Liz look at one another and then me.

  “Totally brilliant and ironic,” Liz says. “It’s the only way to decide if we want to make a go of this. And each other.”

  She puts her hand out, and we put them atop one another’s as if we were one going into battle against our rival.

  Which could be each other.

  It does seem too ironic to imagine: three friends competing against one another in Color War as we used to do as teams in camp. This will either solidify our friendship or prove that all of this—even staying an extra few days—just isn’t going to work. Color War always has.

  Has our time here together truly been real or just an imaginary high from our lives and our grief? Can we survive, not only a Color War but also each other’s pasts?

  And will we stand up for one another like we once did? Or will we turn on one another like we have done? Are we one team? Or divided individuals?

  It’s as if every moment has led up to this.

  As if Em always knew that if she got us together it would come down to one final test.

  I look at my friends.

  I’m as equally hopeful and pessimistic about the outcome as I am about my own marriage.

  Rachel

  For the last hour, we have been seated at our old spot in The Lodge, middle seats at the table closest to the big windows overlooking the bunkhouses. We have been singing and talking and trying to avoid the obvious: Are we the same girls who left here, or have the years and bad blood changed us?

  I look out at the camp. Everything still glistens in the morning dew, the sun not high enough yet to burn off the moisture, and water drips off the bunkhouse roofs and trails over logs before evaporating into the chinking. The fire is dying.

  Though there aren’t countless girls rushing to and fro, the three of us have already managed to recreate the spokes in the dirt that used to run from the bunkhouses in every direction. I smile and look at The Lodge in the morning light. Dust motes float, and the old wood floor is covered in a layer of dirt. I sniff the air and swear I can still smell Love’s Baby Soft.

  Memories, I think.

  Though I tend to remember all the positive things about camp, I also know my experience at Birchwood made me—as my mom and dad used to say—ornery.

  When I got to be a senior counselor, I used to make the newbies put lime in the latrines. I would put lotion in girls’ shampoo bottles and baby oil in their conditioner. I’d eat all the hidden contraband they tried to sneak in—Chips Ahoy!, Oreos, Pop-Tarts, Tab—and tell them someone must have stolen it when they were ready to leave.

  Did I become a Birch? Or was I just having good, clean camp fun? What does power do to us?

  I was most ornery during Color War.

  I look at V and Liz chatting in the light. Liz—ever the fashion designer and real estate agent—has a pad of paper at the ready in front of her, pen in hand, ready to jot down what Color War games we will play, what the rules will be, and how the points will be tallied.

  L
iz is no match for me. Nor is V. Not after all these years in politics. I know how to take an opponent down.

  During Color War, Birchwood had two teams: Green and White.

  And every summer, no matter how it was arranged, Color War was, quite literally, a war.

  When The Clover Girls first arrived at camp, The Nighs and the counselors divided cabins into Green and White. We were Green from the get-go. However, this caused each team and each cabin to sabotage one another.

  Warring teams put everything from whipped cream to spiders in girls’ bunks, causing them to lose sleep. Food was stolen, so Green might go a day without much sustenance. Lines were drawn, quite literally, in the sand: Cross it, and you will pay dearly.

  Eventually, the Nighs divided teams randomly. When a camper arrived at camp, she picked a card: Green or White.

  That only made the war worse, however.

  Friends were pitted against one another, making girls sworn enemies and throwing bunkhouses into utter turmoil. Green girls refused to sleep in cabins with their competitors, and some counselors even tried to keep opposing team members awake all night so they would be sleep-deprived for competitions. At Taneycomo, the boys often got into fistfights.

  Color War was the defining moment of camp. Electricity built in the air from week to week. It seemed as if the entire summer—no, the entire year—built up to those few days of competition. During Color War, tears were shed. Knees—and egos—were bruised. Hearts were broken. Legends were made.

  And girls looked forward to it more than anything.

  Especially me.

  In the speech that kicked off Color War every year, the Nighs would tell us that life was often a contact sport, a competition, and that Color War was a microcosm of life. We needed to learn not only how to fight and win but also how to work together as a team as well as lose with grace and dignity.

  Will we remember that now?

  But after my father died, I felt lost, adrift, as if I had to prove my worth to him—and the world—every single day. So I became the ultra-competitor. I lived to win. At any cost. Especially during Color War.

  How many times did my team win Color War?

  I shut my eyes and search my memory banks.

  Every year but one.

  I look at V and shake my head.

  Our last year at Birchwood. She outmaneuvered me during the rope burn, the final event of Color War. I will never forget it.

  “Earth to Rach,” Liz says, knocking me from my thoughts. “Do you need a chill pill?”

  “Sorry,” I say. “Hangover. Feel grossed out.”

  “Like, totally,” V says, and we all laugh.

  “Okay,” Liz says, pen in the air. “Here is the list of traditional Color War games we played our last years here: hatchet hunt, dodgeball, tug-of-war, cracker whistle, sing night, and, of course, rope burn.”

  V and I nod.

  “How do we play if there are just three of us?” V asks.

  “And how do we score them?” I ask.

  “So, I was thinking,” Liz says, “that instead of a color, we’re each a letter, just like you said when we first met at camp, Rach. Remember?”

  “I do,” I say.

  “So,” Liz continues, “it’ll be E versus V versus R. Make sense?”

  We nod.

  Almost forever, I think.

  “Maybe we focus on some of the games that make sense for the three of us to play, like dodgeball, tug of war, rope burn and cracker whistle? We’ve already done a talent night, and hatchet hunt requires too much effort.”

  We nod again.

  “Some of the games, like tug of war and dodgeball, will require us to play each other round robin, like in a tennis tournament, to decide who will play each other in the final,” Liz says. “For instance, me versus V in the first round. Winner moves on. Rach, then you’d play me...” Liz stops, waiting for her joke to register.

  “Hey!” V says.

  “...with the round robin winners playing each other at the end,” Liz continues. “And we’ll score every game based on difficulty.” She stops and turns the list toward us so we can peruse what she’s written.

  “Maybe,” V starts, “one point for the easier competitions, like the cracker whistle, dodgeball and tug-of-war, and three points for the hardest one of all, rope burn. That way, if someone wins a couple—or all—of the earlier rounds, someone still has a chance at the end.”

  “What if it’s a tie?” I ask just for effect, knowing it won’t be.

  “We’ll figure that out,” Liz says. “Agree on everything else?”

  I nod, and she writes it all down on her pad of paper, as if it’s the queen’s edict.

  Dodgeball = 1 Point

  Tug-of-War = 1 Point

  Cracker Whistle = 1 Point

  Rope Burn = 3 Points

  “So,” I say, “since we’re getting all of the rules down on paper, I want to get the biggest one of all clear: this is winner-take-all. Whoever wins Color War is considered the greatest Color War champion of all.” I think of my dad and smile. “My dad used to do this at family reunions. When we’d play badminton, the winner would be crowned ‘The Greatest Great Lakes Champion of All Time!’”

  The girls laugh.

  “May I suggest one more thing?” Liz says.

  I look at V. We nod.

  “That the idea of the Color War winner also gets the first and most serious consideration for how Camp Birchwood will be reinvented and relaunched.”

  Silly Liz, I think. That means it will come down to me and V.

  “Agreed,” I say quickly.

  “Okay,” V says.

  “And may I suggest one final—and probably most important—thing?” V asks, her tone serious. “That no matter who wins Color War, we finish our time here at camp like Em wanted out of respect for her and our friendship? Let’s promise not to resort to the behavior that drove us apart in the first place. Agreed?”

  We look at one another. “Agreed.”

  “We’re in this together,” I say. “Even though someone wins, it’s still The Clover Girls FOUR-ever!” I lift four fingers and then hold out my hand into the middle of the table.

  Liz looks at V.

  V looks at me.

  We all look at each other.

  And then V puts her hand on mine. Liz places hers on top. We raise and lift our hands once again as if we’re going into war.

  “Clover Girls FOUR-ever!” we say.

  I look at them and smile.

  As the old saying goes, Nothing’s fair in love and war. And although I may love these girls like sisters, this is just like an election: war.

  And I will win.

  Because I always win.

  And always will.

  Liz

  My heart is pounding, and I feel exactly like I did as a girl during Color War: overwhelmed, klutzy, unathletic.

  I was better behind the scenes, like Em: I preferred to make our team’s shirts and pins. Em enjoyed cheering the other girls on from the sidelines. We both liked to strategize on paper.

  Em and I were wonderful fans.

  But we were reluctant competitors.

  Every Color War, all of the campers were divided into two teams. But the Green and White team generals subdivided the girls on those teams as well.

  Who was a great athlete? Who could run fastest, swim the farthest, throw the hardest? Who was the strongest? Who could gather the most wood, lift the heaviest limbs, cut the biggest branches? Who could get tackled, take a hit, get back up and fight on?

  I was never a part of that group.

  As a kid or an adult.

  Standing here, ready to play dodgeball, I am instantly reminded that being a kid in the ’80s was not as nostalgic as I too often make it. And being a semi-unathletic girl at
a girls’ summer camp was often downright mean.

  And being a camper during Color War was, well, war.

  I can’t tell you how many times I cried, how many times I stormed off the field, how many times I told my counselors, parents and comrades I hated them, how many times I wanted to give up.

  Kids are mean. Girls are downright awful. Especially to each other. Why? I’m still trying to come to grips with that.

  We would often hear the tales of the Taneycomo boys who would fight over the stupidest of stuff: a prank; stealing a Twinkie; ribbing someone over his girlfriend; too hard of a hit playing football; or even two guys wearing Cubs and Cardinals T-shirts.

  But boys let you know where you stood.

  Girls? Oh, we play dirty.

  Boys may hurt one another physically, but those bruises you can see. They’re visible to the eye. And they heal quickly.

  Girls hurt one another where it lasts the longest: inside. We bruise one another’s fragile egos and self-confidence, and that never heals.

  That is mirrored to us in society, and we repeat the cycle. There will always be a hierarchy. And even though I was part of the in-group here, I lived on the periphery.

  And still do.

  I look at Rach standing on the sand, stretching. It’s difficult for me to forgive how she often behaved during Color War. It’s nearly impossible for me to forgive her for what she’s done to women during her career in politics. But part of me admires her competitiveness and drive. She always forced herself into the hierarchy. She always set the rules. She always won.

  I... I stop. I too often took the easy way out, the path of least resistance, be it men, career, parenting, Color War.

  Why didn’t I fight harder?

  “Ready?” Rach yells.

  I am not.

  A hard red dodgeball hits me squarely in the belly.

  Oooofff!

  I lean over and groan.

  Damn you, Billy.

  We borrowed most of the Color War toys, tools and accessories from him and Taneycomo, and he promised me that today’s dodgeballs were softer and more friendly than the cannonballs I remember being directed at my head and midsection. They are not.