Not a Happy Camper

by Mindy Schneider

  The boys’ kickboard relay produced an even more startling result. You’d think someone had made a horrible mistake telling twelve-year-old Mikey Schreiber to get ready to jump into the lake. A member of the Hurra team, Mikey would be swimming the final leg of the boys’ kickboard relay even though Mikey himself had only one leg.

  Mikey was in this situation because Saul did more appalling things than promise golf courses and hydroplanes that didn’t exist. P.T. Barnum himself couldn’t have done a better job of assuring the parents of prospective campers that Kin-A-Hurra had special facilities for children with special needs, when in actuality we had hardly anything for anyone. Saul referred to these kids as “special campers,” but really, they were pretty common around here and what I’d suspected was motivated by little more than pure greed inadvertently paved the way for an avant-garde political correctness.

  Mikey stood clutching a blue Styrofoam kickboard with one hand, and a teammate, for balance, with the other. Tagged on the foot by a boy in the water, Mikey jumped in, swimming and kicking crookedly toward the rope. “At least the Hurras are way behind,” I observed. “Mikey can’t be blamed for the loss.” And he wasn’t. Because Mikey reached the rope first, turned around, swam back—and won. Counselors from both teams lifted him out of the water and carried him in the air, back to the beach where his other leg (the one made out of molded plastic) was lying in the sand, waiting to be strapped back on. Camp owner Saul Rattner was on the beach, too, pipe in hand, a faint smile and an “I-told-you-so” look on his face.

  I think some people viewed Saul as the ultimate con man, the lying, scheming owner of a broken-down, worthless mosquito-infested camp who cheated unwitting parents out of their money. Others, meanwhile, saw him as a dedicated and exceptional social worker, a man with the capacity to gather up a campful of outcasts with nowhere else to go and make them all feel like winners, a man who so believed in his own lies, he somehow turned them into reality. And some people, me included now, saw him as a little bit of both.

  A friend of mine once described NBA basketball this way: “Give each team a hundred points, put two minutes on the clock—go!” Kin & Hurra was far from over. At the end of the second day, the score was once again tied. It all came down to the last event, the War Canoe Race. Here, the twelve oldest and strongest campers from each team, the ones besides Kenny and Eric who’d survived the Allagash, paddled out slowly to the middle of the lake in the two big old war canoes reserved for this contest. The rest of us—the whole camp—stood on the shore, waiting, until chef Walter Henderson fired off a cap gun and the race began.

  “Win Kin! Win Kin!”

  “Nothing rhymes with Hurra, hey!”

  I had my Instamatic out, snapping photos as the two teams paddled back furiously. It was a close race, both war canoes appearing to hit the beach simultaneously. We would have to wait for the judges (Chef Walter, the camp doctor and Rhonda Shafter from the theater) to announce the winner over a megaphone.

  Five minutes later, it was all over. I can still recall the chills that went through me as the winner of the War Canoe Race, and all of Kin & Hurra, was announced, but I cannot for the life of me remember which team it was. What I do remember is that as soon as it was over, everyone on both teams, screaming and hugging, ran into the lake with their clothes on to sing the camp reunification theme, Chock Full ’O Nuts is That Heavenly Coffee. Everyone but me again.

  I had tried all summer to be like everyone else and what had it gotten me? Kenny? No. Philip? No. Any boyfriend? It had gotten me wet and muddy and embarrassed and sorry I’d tried to change.

  Although Camp Kin-A-Hurra’s mailing address was Canaan, Maine, a large portion of the camp actually sat within the boundaries of the next town, Skowhegan, a Native American word meaning “A Place to Watch.” This was where I stood now, where I had been all summer long.

  My plan was to stay back on the beach, taking pictures, from a distance. That was my plan until my bunkmates saw me, ran out of the water and chased me down the shore. I figured there was no chance they’d catch me. Autumn Evening was the fastest, having been a Greek decathlete in a former life, but that was a long time ago. We must have looked like we were having fun because other campers began running out of the lake and joining in the race. Ten or so at first and then a couple dozen. “Get her! She’s dry!” I heard them yell.

  I knew I was in trouble. I was fast but not that fast. Sure, I’d won the President’s award, but I was only eighty-sixth percentile in the 400–yard walk-run. I needed an adrenaline rush, like the one in that article I’d read about the grandmother who lifted a car when her grandson got run over on his tricycle. Otherwise someone was going to catch me and then they’d throw me in the lake. With my clothes on. And it’d ruin my camera and my parents would be mad at me and never send me back to camp again. Which might be good, because then I wouldn’t have to worry about stuff like this.

  No adrenaline rush kicked in and someone had my ankle. And someone else had my other ankle. And when I hit the ground, my camera flew out of my hands as two people grabbed my wrists. The trip back down to the lake was swift, kind of scary and kind of fun and kind of like an amusement park ride—the kind you look forward to getting off of. I closed my eyes and held my breath when I knew I was going in, going in with a bigger splat than the big old watermelon I’d hurled a while earlier. From beneath the surface, I could hear the cheers from above.

  Everyone was looking at me as I came up for air. It was a moment I knew I’d want to forget but never would because Philip was standing there, right in front of me, snapping a photo—with my camera.

  Camping Out

  by Mindy Schneider, age 13

  Oh I love to go a-camping in the great outdoors

  Where air is fresh and life is so real.

  I love getting up at five in the morning.

  I love the disgusting, groggy way that I feel.

  I love having four people in a two-man tent

  Where you’re lucky to sleep for an hour

  I love getting up and putting on fresh clothes

  When it’s been six days since I’ve taken a shower.

  I love the campfire.

  The smoke repeatedly stings my eyes.

  I love how just when we start the cooking,

  Rain pours down from the skies.

  I love how we vote to bring the chicken inside the tent.

  (I turn out to be the only negative voter.)

  I love how hours after there are bones wherever I step

  And a wonderful burnt chicken-y odor.

  I love the way the clothes are kept.

  So neatly—in a clump.

  I love baked beans one day, the day after and the next.

  I love the oatmeal’s every lump.

  I love cleaning oatmeal and baked beans off prehistoric mess kits.

  It’s by far and wide my very favorite chore.

  Yes, you can surely tell I’m a great camper.

  So adventurous, inventive and so anxious for more.

  I love the people who talked me into this camping out caper.

  Especially the one who forgot the toilet paper.

  But the next time I go camping out,

  I’ll have everything I need.

  I’ve figured out what it’s all about.

  I’ve found a way that’s just my speed.

  Oh sure, I’ll work up to roughing it,

  But I’ve got an easier place where I’ll begin.

  The next time I go camping out,

  It’ll be at the closest Holiday Inn.

  15

  WE WERE NEARING THE END OF THE CAMP SEASON, TIME FOR THE Banquet Social, the big dress-up event on the second-to-last night of camp. In previous years, Boys’ Side and Girls’ Side had held the banquet part separately, meeting up afterwards for the social. This year, Saul’s plan was to hold the banquet over on Boys’ Side, everyone together, claiming it would promote solidarity, but we suspected it had more to do with a slow week i
n train wrecks and a shortage of meat.

  “How are we all going to fit into the dining hall?” Betty asked. “It was awful during Kin & Hurra. Shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow, all squished together.”

  “That’s what was fun about it,” said Dana.

  “No one will be able to move in their good clothes,” Betty argued. “No one will be able to eat.”

  “Which is exactly what Saul wants,” I suggested.

  “You’re finally getting it,” Dana congratulated me. “But we’re not going to let that happen.”

  Dana and Autumn Evening concocted a plan that would not only solve the problem, but would also give us an excuse for one last middle-of-the-night raid on Boys’ Side.

  “Rise and shine, everybody,” Dana announced at one AM. “We’re going to dine al fresco.”

  “Sounds good,” I said, rolling down my itchy green blanket. “What is it?”

  “It’s French,” said Betty. “Don’t you know anything?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m taking French in school.”

  Which was true, but I’d only learned to conjugate a few irregular verbs so far and I hadn’t learned anything useful like “a la carte” or even “ooh-la-la.” We just kept reading in our primer about Mademoiselle Simone and her friend Bebe, “l’elephant qui parle”. If I ever went to Paris and met up with a talking baby elephant, I’d know just what to say. Otherwise, I was kind of screwed.

  “Al fresco is Italian,” Autumn Evening said. “I lived in Italy for a year.”

  “In one of your past lives?” I asked.

  “No, when I was seven. My father taught at a university. I do have a present life, y’know. I’m going to be famous. The dead soul from one of my future lives came back and told me.”

  “Canoes or walking?” Dana asked.

  “I’ll take you,” Maddy called out, groggy.

  “Oops, sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you,” I apologized. “We almost made it through the whole summer.”

  “Are you joking?” she asked. “You woke me every night you went out. I never bothered to say anything.”

  “You’re not going to make us jog there, are you?” asked Betty.

  “I’ve been jogging for eight weeks,” groaned Maddy. “It’s enough already. Let’s take the Valiant.”

  And so it was under a full moon on a crisp August night that we spent three hours removing every single table and bench from the boys’ dining hall, and then recreating the exact floor plan in front of the flagpole on the boys’ softball field.

  “Voila,” said Dana, as the last moldy old wooden bench was placed under an even moldier old table. “‘Voila’, by the way, is French. It means we’re done.”

  “We’re done with what?” asked Betty, looking around in astonishment. “What am I doing on Boys’ Side? How did we get here?”

  “Oh my God, were you asleep this whole time?” Maddy asked.

  The rest of us didn’t know what to say.

  Betty cracked a smile. “You guys are so gullible.”

  “So you really were awake?” Hallie questioned.

  “Duh!”

  “Or maybe she was awake before and now she’s asleep,” I added.

  “Betty, pinch yourself and show us you’re awake,” Hallie said. “Or we’ll never know for sure.”

  “Unless we’re all dead and Betty is dreaming about us,” Autumn Evening suggested. “And then if she wakes up, we’ll be gone.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Don’t pinch yourself.

  “I don’t have to pinch myself,” Betty insisted. “I’m awake. I’m awake and it’s raining.”

  Which it was.

  We ducked under the tables to keep dry, but the rain came right in between the wooden boards.

  “Why don’t you go hang out with the Foxes?” our counselor suggested.

  We waited for the rain to let up a bit first. When it didn’t, we made a run for it, through the tables and benches, past the Giant Tee-pee and the cracked, weed-infested tennis courts. We lost our counselor at the Boys’ Side office.

  “I’ll wait in here,” she said.

  “Don’t you want to come with us?” Hallie asked.

  “No. It’s okay. I don’t want to intrude. Have fun.”

  Hallie turned to me. “She has the dullest life of anyone I’ve ever met.”

  “You think so?” I said. “I’ll betcha she’s engaged before we all go home.”

  “Engaged?” shrieked Hallie. “To who? She’s not even going out with anyone.”

  We didn’t see Maddy for the rest of the night.

  Meanwhile, I was on a mission. If I was going to ask Philip to be my date for the Banquet Social, I was going to have to do it now. I could still change after all. I could become—a girl with a date! Of course, the whole notion of having a date was completely stupid. Everyone was going to the Social, whether they wanted to or not. It was understood that this was the one night of the summer you couldn’t stay back at the bunk and the one night you could get away with not having a date. So it really didn’t matter what he said, and God I hoped he’d say yes.

  I thought the idea was to sneak into their bunk, but upon opening the door, Dana shouted out, “Ta-dah!”

  “Whaddaya want?” Kenny whined, in a tone I now recognized as his usual cranky self.

  “We came to warn you it’s raining,” Dana yelled above the din pounding the tin roof.

  “Yeah, that’s news. Tell us when it isn’t.”

  He rolled over and went back to sleep without even acknowledging my presence. And I liked it that way.

  Everyone knew Dana would be going to the Banquet Social with Aaron Klafter. Autumn Evening was something of a mystery.

  “So, like, who ya going with?” Chip Fink asked in a tone that was at once both nonchalant and despairing.

  He was taken aback when Autumn Evening answered quickly, “Michael Dushevsky.”

  The name sounded familiar. I’d seen it painted on a wall somewhere.

  “I don’t think he’s here this summer,” I said.

  “Of course not,” Autumn Evening replied. “He was here for five years, from 1949 to 1953, then he died in an avalanche on a skiing trip in Gstaad. Michael was fifteen. His ghost comes up to camp every summer. I’m going with him.”

  Everyone stared.

  I broke the silence. “There’s a place called Gstaad?”

  “It’s in Switzerland,” Autumn Evening explained for the unenlightened. “Some people don’t pronounce the ‘G’, but I find that pretentious.”

  Philip got up and crossed the room, heading for the door. I needed to stop him, to tell him how sorry I was for backing out of breakfast with his parents, for embarrassing him. I’d never wanted to hurt his feelings. I only wanted to do what I thought would make me feel better. He just got caught in the middle of it. I followed him outside, to the bunk porch.

  “Hey, um...” I started.

  He stopped and turned. “Yeah?”

  “You know, I didn’t... That thing a few days ago... I mean...”

  “Uh-huh,” he said.

  “Cuz, y’know... I didn’t mean to...”

  “Sure.”

  “Yeah, well anyway... I’m really... y’know...”

  “Okay.”

  “So you’re...?”

  “Yeah.”

  I was glad he understood.

  “You going to the Banquet Social?” Philip inquired.

  Was it that simple? After all this, was he asking me to be his date? I needed to let him know I was still available.

  “I guess. You?”

  “I guess.”

  So had I made my point? Had he asked me to the Social? Did I have my first date?

  “Um, I really have to go,” Philip added, then turned and ran up the hill toward the bathroom shack.

  The rain ended shortly before the wake-up bell and breakfast. We followed the boys down to the flagpole to see the whole camp’s reaction to our work.

  “Unbelievable.”


  “It’s incredible.”

  “Never seen anything like it!”

  “Everything is so—so clean!”

  The waiters toweled off the shiny tables and benches and we dined al fresco.

  The break in the rain didn’t last long, putting me in a bit of a quandary when it came time to dress for that evening’s Banquet. I wanted to be like everyone else, to wear my good Bat Mitzvah dress, purple crushed velvet with scratchy but elegant white lacey trim on the collar and cuffs, but I worried it might get wet. I didn’t know what could happen to wet velvet, but I knew what my mother would say: “Why did you have to wear it? Now it’s ruined.” And even if it wasn’t raining, what if I’d gained weight and it was too small on me? If only I hadn’t eaten quite so much in the 1960s. I’d be so much thinner now. Why did I never plan ahead?

  I went to the back of the closet where no one could watch me and removed the dress from the good plastic hanger my mother had labeled with my name. It slipped on over my head with no ripping sounds, my arms still fit into the sleeves and the elasticized waist still had some give. For once I was glad I hadn’t changed and then I looked down. My ankle-length dress had gotten shorter. Or I had gotten longer.

  Peeking through the hangers full of bellbottoms, hot pants, embroidered denim work shirts and faux Greek peasant blouses, I looked to see who might be available to help me.

  “Dana!” I whispered. “Dana!”

  She didn’t hear me, but Betty did.

  “Dana! Mindy is yelling to you from the closet!”

  Everyone came charging in to see what was up. It was obvious. Unless I was going for my younger brother’s we-can’t-afford-clothing-that-fits-right flood pants look, this dress was a disaster.