“1-0, Rach!” V yells.
“I wasn’t ready,” I say, standing back up.
“I said ‘ready’!” Rach yells again.
Damn you, too, Rach, I think. Color War Rachel is back.
She is tossing a dodgeball in the air, catching it, as if she’s juggling. She is in a tank top and short-shorts, and her body is lithe and muscled. I forgot just how striking she really is until I see her in front of me out of her heavy makeup and spokeswoman garb. Rach is beautiful. V is beautiful. I look down at myself: I am average on a good day.
Perhaps that’s why I wear what I do, I think. To overwhelm my averageness.
We have created our own dodgeball court by Birchwood Lake. I am standing against the metal wall of the storage shed. Rach is standing behind a line that has been drawn in the sand—ah, the irony!—a few yards in front of the water. She has five throws, and then I will get five throws.
“Ready?” Rach asks again, this time her voice dripping in sarcasm.
I nod, Rach pulls her arm back like a catapult in Game of Thrones, and she releases the dodgeball.
I can see it clearly this time.
Traveling at warp speed.
Directly toward my head.
I dip my body and rush to the right, but Rach has thrown a curveball. It’s as though the dodgeball has a homing device on my noggin, and it strikes me directly on the temple.
I stumble toward the wall and lean against it. When I lift my head, I see stars.
“Are you okay?” V asks.
“Shake it off,” Rach yells. “2-0.”
I put my hands against the shed and shake my head, which feels as if it’s filled with concrete. I stand and try to walk, stumbling a bit, and raise my hands.
“Good?” V asks.
I shake my head, unsure if I’m nodding or hemorrhaging.
“Ready?” Rach yells.
I stand lifeless. As she throws the ball, I simply fall to the ground. The ball whizzes over my head.
“Are you okay?” V says, rushing over.
“Strategy,” I lie.
“Okay then,” V says.
I try the same strategy, but Rach has already caught on. She whacks me two more times in the side. I miss her on all five attempts. Rach beats V in a close match, as I sit in a chair, happy to be a judge and cheerleader, and she takes a 1-0 lead in Color War. She races around the edge of the lake, whooping in victory.
V wins tug-of-war, despite Rach’s physical strength and my—shall we say—slightly more voluptuous body. V has a determination, and once she dug into the sand, neither of us could move her even one inch.
And although Rach and V are now tied 1-1, I feel confident going into cracker whistle because not only do I love to whistle, I love food as well. And I’ve made a living talking to clients over the phone while my mouth was full.
I’d forgotten how childishly simple and fun cracker whistle is: its only requirements are crackers and a mouth. Back in The Lodge, we set up stacks of saltines on napkins about 20 feet apart from each other on the newly cleaned floor. In camp, we played this as a team relay: one person would race forward, eat the cracker, whistle the song and return to tag the next in line. First team to finish won. Individually, we’ve decided to race against one another, but make the challenge a bit more challenging: at the first stop, we eat a cracker and recite the ABCs. At the second stop, we eat three saltines and whistle “On Top of Spaghetti.” At the final stop, we must cram five crackers into our mouth and whistle the chorus to “Karma Chameleon” by Culture Club.
I asked Billy to serve as judge—to ensure that our renditions of the songs are passable with our mouths full—but he was busy, so he sent the clueless Bieber boy counselor I met a few days ago. We had to play “Karma Chameleon” for him a half dozen times so he understood what the ’80s chorus sounded like. I’m still not certain he even knows what year it is.
“Um, yeah,” he says, after we play it for him the seventh time on a cell. “I, like, don’t get it. What’s a Carmen Million?”
“Kar-ma Ku-me-lee-un,” I over enunciate. “Do you know what Karma is?”
He shakes his head, his bangs covering his eyes.
And, obviously, his brain.
“Oh, wait,” he says, and I brighten. “There’s like a juice bar near where I live that’s Karma something.” He lifts his bangs and furrows his brow. “Like Karrot Karma or something weird.”
“Okay, good,” I say, trying like the dickens not to roll my eyes. “Do you know Boy George?”
“Who?”
He looks at me like I’m insane, and I realize I am trying yet again to explain to a young person who was famous from my generation.
“Are you ready?” I ask.
“Are you?” he asks.
We line up, and he yells, “Like, go!”
We sprint to the first cracker at the same time, shove it in our mouths and recite the ABCs. All of a sudden, the kid is totally into our insanity. He is standing directly in front of us, his head lowered, his hands cupped around his ears, listening intently. We all finish the alphabet at about the same time and head toward the second row. As Rachel and V shove three crackers into their mouths, I take just a second and fill my mouth with saliva to more easily dissolve the crackers. I put them in my mouth, make a sort of saltine chewing gum ball with my spit and begin to whistle “On Top of Old Smokey.” I look over, and dry chunks of cracker are flying out of V’s and Rach’s mouths. They are going slowly, both beginning to laugh. I finish, the kid gives me the okay to move on, and I dash toward the final row.
I used to get half a can of Pringles in my mouth, I think. This is nothing.
I cram the crackers into my mouth and begin to whistle “Karma Chameleon.” I see in my periphery Rach and V rush up to the final row, and I shut my eyes to block out their presence and all the pressure.
Karma karma karma karma karma cha-me-le-on, I whistle, crackers spewing from my mouth like a volcano.
I keep my eyes shut. This is my moment. I’m even sporting a hat like Boy George. I can feel his spirit cheering me on.
I finish and open my eyes, and the kid is waving his arms wildly, telling me I’m good, as if he wants me to win.
I glance to my right and left. Rach and V are still whistling. Well, sort of. Rach is choking on her crackers. It’s probably the most she’s eaten in weeks. V’s cheeks are puffed, and she’s out of breath.
I race to the finish line, a bench we’ve set up at the end of The Lodge.
“Winner, winner, chicken dinner!” I yell, crackers still falling from my mouth. “We’re all tied up, ladies!”
I hear a loud cheer. I turn, and Billy is clapping wildly, calling, “Way to go, Cracker Barrel!”
I jog over to meet him.
“Thisth isth a thurpristh,” I attempt to say.
He laughs. “I knew you could do it,” he says.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I didn’t want to freak you out with too much pressure. I couldn’t stay away, though.”
Out of the blue, Billy leans in and kisses me. It is the most romantic, unromantic moment of my life.
When he finally leans back, crackers are encased on his lips.
“You look like one of my grandma’s casseroles,” I say. “We have to try that again, okay?” I grab his hands. “But thank you. For that. For all of this.”
Billy squeezes my hands. “You are such a good person, Liz. Do you know that?”
I shake my head.
“But life is a contact sport, Liz. Life is a competition. Remember that.”
“You sound just like a camp counselor,” I say. “Which is totally hot.”
I lean in and kiss Billy full on the lips, nearly knocking him off his feet.
Behind me, I can hear V and Rach cheering.
> “This is, like, so gross, Mr. Collins,” the boy says. “On, like, every level.”
Billy and I start to laugh. We look at the kid.
“And, like, why would anyone want to win a chicken dinner? That is so lame. I’d, like, want tacos and tickets to see Drake.”
V and Rach bust a gut, and I shake my head, actually agreeing with him.
It’s not a chicken dinner I want to win, I think. I want to win Color War for once in my life.
PART NINE
Rope Burn
Summer 1986
Every summer on the drive to camp, Rachel’s mother would make her dad stop to collect birch wood. She could spot them, he used to joke, from miles away, like a hawk.
And she could.
She could see the white in the darkest of woods as easily as she could see lightning flash at night. Rachel’s father would always joke about it, but he didn’t mind doing it. He knew his wife thought the northern birch were more magical, even whiter, and finding the bark was like discovering buried treasure.
After Rachel’s father died, she asked her mom the next summer to stop on the way to camp to gather birch.
“Oh, Rachel,” she says. “What a beautiful way to honor his memory and our drives up here together.”
The two collect a trunk full.
Just before her mother drives all the way into camp, Rachel tells her to stop about a mile or so from the parking lot. Thinking it is an emergency, her mother pulls over.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
Rachel reaches over and pops the trunk.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s a surprise,” Rachel says, jumping out of the car. “I want to make something for you, but I don’t want the counselors to know. You know how they get when we try to sneak in contraband. Don’t spoil it!”
Rachel’s mother beams, hoping, believing that they are finally over their cold war since her husband’s death.
She watches Rachel build a little canopy over the birch, and her heart soars.
“We’ve raised a good girl,” she whispers to her husband.
When Rachel’s mom returns to pick her up at the end of camp, Rachel is wearing the medal she won for being one of the generals to lead the Green team to victory in Color War.
“I was the one who brought us to victory!” she tells her mother. “It all came down to the birch. It’s so easy to catch fire. Daddy taught me that.”
“Where is my gift?” her mom finally asks. “The one you were going to make me from all that birch you hid?”
Rachel’s face turns red. She hems and haws, forgetting the lie she told her mother before the start of camp.
“Rachel LeAnn,” her mom finally says, using her full name, which she only does when she is angry or disappointed. “How could you?”
Rachel’s mother refused to stop the next summer to collect birch, but when Rachel could finally drive to camp, she repeated her forest deception year after year and never lost rope burn again.
Until...
“I knew it!”
Rachel jumps and drops the armful of birch she is holding. Liz is standing a few feet away, watching her.
“You sneak!” Rachel yells.
“You’re a good person, Rach,” Liz says. “You don’t need to win this way.”
“Am I?” Rachel asks. “Am I a good person? I’m mean to my mother, and she still loves me. I’m mean to a lot of the new girls here. I’m mean to you. I’m not a good person, Liz. I’m not. The only way to get ahead in this world is to cheat, because life isn’t fair, and it never will be. Being a good person didn’t keep my dad from dying. Being a good person didn’t make me almost kill Em. Being a good person means nothing. When are you going to learn that? Nice gets you nowhere. You’re going to be a loser your whole life.”
“Not true,” Liz says, her voice shaking. “I will never believe that.”
“What are you going to do? Narc me out?”
Liz turns and walks back to camp.
She never says a word about Rachel cheating, and the one Color War Rachel tries to be a good person and not utilize her secret stash, she loses to V.
Summer 2021
Veronica
I am staring into the fire, waiting for my lunch—a hot dog on a stick—to cook.
In my early modeling days, I once starred in a Def Leppard video on MTV. Well, “starred” is a generous verb. I pretty much just strutted around a fire in high heels—which makes a ton of sense when camping, right?—and slid roasted marshmallows suggestively into band members’ mouths before disappearing into a tent.
I’m actually humiliated to this day that I did it. My agent told me it would get me a lot of attention, and it did. I booked a ton of jobs because of it. Not because of any talent I displayed but simply because a lot of people saw it and liked how I looked.
I think back to what Rach said to me decades ago—the last time I spoke to her, actually—after I tried to talk to her about the ramifications of her newfound political career.
“Spare me, V! You’re one to talk. A model who sold her body to hawk soda and potato chips to men. You set women back light-years. You’re such a hypocrite.”
She’s right. And that’s why I so desperately want to win our final challenge, rope burn, so badly. I am still burning to be in control of my own destiny. I want the chance to shape young women, not have young women shaped by men—their bodies, minds, ideas, decisions, careers.
I look around the fire. The Clover Girls are quiet, lost in thought.
Friends are forever, I think, but so are rivalries.
For years, Rach and I were generals during Color War. If there’s one thing that brought all the Birchwood girls together—and also pitted them against one another—it was rope burn.
I look at Liz and think of Em.
Like the Def Leppard video, I’m also embarrassed by how enraged Rach and I would get if Em or Liz wound up on our Green or White teams. They were incredible friends but terrible competitors. They were too nice, even when they needed to summon their most competitive nature. Most of the time, the two of them hunched over a notebook, writing down ideas and strategizing as if they were General MacArthur.
“I’m the general!” I screamed more than once at them, frustrated that they simply didn’t follow my orders, compete without thinking, fight to the death for their team. And they always seemed okay losing.
“That’s alright,” they’d coo to our teammates. “We’ll get ’em next time.”
I hated to lose. At anything. I think that’s why I’ve been so frustrated in my life. I’ve had a successful career. I raised a wonderful family. I have nothing to compete for anymore.
That’s not true.
My marriage.
Maybe we all need... I stop, stare into the fire and shake my head at my unintentional pun. ...a little fire in our bellies?
I look at Rach.
She was the best general I ever competed against. It’s no wonder she made it in Hollywood and then as a political consultant. She thrived in the two most cutthroat, competitive environments in the world. And she won.
Liz. Rach. V.
Here we are, all tied up, even after all these years.
I jump. “Burning Down the House” by Talking Heads suddenly plays on Liz’s cell.
“How appropriate,” I say.
“A little mood music,” Liz says.
She lifts the pad of paper she’s been writing on the last half hour and shakes it at us.
“I’ve set down the rules for rope burn.”
“We know the rules.” Rach rolls her eyes.
“Some of us don’t play by them though, right?” Liz says.
I look at both of them, confused.
Liz glares at Rachel, and I’ve never seen—again, pardon the obvious pun—such
fire in her eyes.
She wants to win this, I think. A small smile flickers on my face. Game on, Liz.
“None of us would be here if it hadn’t been for Em’s long-term planning,” Liz says, her eyes flaring, her face red. “Have you two ever considered you may not have won Color War without our strategizing? Yeah, Em and I know you both thought we were total Dexters, but take a red! I mean, V, who organized our game plan and end-arounds that won Capture the Flag every year? Wasn’t you. And, Rach, who pieced together all the clues so that we won hatchet hunt every year? Again, not you. Em and I may not have been the brawn but we were always the brains. And you never would have won without a head attached to that brawny body.”
My eyes widen, and I look at Rach. Liz is furious. She’s reverted to ’80s speak.
Rachel shoots me a look.
“So, if I can continue without the eye rolls and indignation,” Liz says, pushing forward, “I was thinking that after lunch we spend three hours gathering wood.” Liz again glares at Rachel. “Then we all rendezvous back here at four o’clock. That gives us two hours to cut our logs and strip the branches, an hour to think about our stack and an hour to build it. By that time, it will be nightfall. Billy supplied us with three big ropes from his camp, and I’ve asked him and a few of his campers to help us hang them when it’s time. But, before we do that, you know what we have to do?”
“Write up a detailed plan about how we place the rope into the lake to soak it thoroughly?” Rach asks.
I laugh.
“Bite me!” Liz says, standing so abruptly that the cell she’s holding tumbles onto the ground, Talking Heads suddenly quieted. The pad of paper on which she’s been writing falls into the fire, which bursts into flame.
“Both of you!” Liz continues. Her lips are trembling, and her cheeks are blotchy. She had the same reactions when she was a girl. I can tell she’s near tears.
“You both always win!” Liz says, her voice rising. “Have you ever thought I want to win?” She stops. “Have you ever considered I can win?”
The Clover Girls Page 24