One S'more Summer

by Beth Merlin

  Oh to be thirteen and have this be your biggest problem. “Don’t throw up. Go wait where the list will be posted. I’ll meet you out there.”

  When I got to the office, I fought my way through the crowd of campers anxiously gathered in front of Gordy’s door and over to Hannah, who was pacing back and forth in her spot. A few minutes later Gordy forced his way through and tacked the list onto the door. The kids swarmed it and then backed away just as quickly, most of them disappointed with the outcome.

  Hannah bit her nails and waited until most of the campers had cleared out. I stood back and waited to see her expression. A huge smile crept across her face, and I knew she’d won the role. She ran over and gave me a hug.

  She was grinning from ear to ear. “I did it. I got it!”

  “I knew you would. Congratulations.”

  “Your name is on the list, too,” she said.

  I didn’t understand how my name could have found its way onto a cast list for a show I hadn’t tried out for. I went over to the bulletin board and ran my finger down the list. I saw Hannah’s name next to Hodel and a few other girls from my group listed as part of the chorus. As I got farther down the list, I saw Alex Shane’s name next to the part of Perchick, the “bad boy” character of Fiddler on the Roof. He was the idealistic, revolutionary student, and Hodel’s love interest. In every production, the boy who played Perchick was the object of affection for most of the female cast. Joshua had played that part at least twice when we were campers.

  I scanned farther down the cast list and was surprised to see Perry’s name next to the part of the fiddler, and then, even farther down the list, my name was next to the words Costume Design. When I’d made the costume suggestions to Jackie and Davis, I was trying to be helpful. I hadn’t been offering up my services. There’d obviously been a huge miscommunication.

  “I wouldn’t have guessed you were someone who could sew a button, let alone a whole rack of costumes,” Perry said from behind me.

  “Wonders never cease,” I replied.

  “You realize costume design actually means designing and sewing the costumes, right? It’s not just an excuse to go shopping.”

  “How ‘bout you? Trying to score more Gordy points by volunteering yourself for the show?”

  “I’m a concert level violinist,” he answered.

  “Really?”

  “Why do you seem surprised?”

  “I guess I shouldn’t be. It kind of goes with your whole shtick.”

  “Shtick?”

  “Your whole I’m British and artsy and can get any girl I want shtick,” I said, mocking his accent.

  “This is getting exhausting. Let’s agree not to speak again until you have to measure me for my costume, all right? How does that suit you?” Perry said.

  “Suits me just fine. I don’t think I’ll be the one measuring you anyway. I have to find Jackie and decline the position.”

  He grunted.

  “What? You don’t approve, I take it?”

  “No, I’m just not entirely surprised, that’s all.”

  “I could do it. I do have the technical skills to do it.”

  He snorted.

  “I was named Most Talented Upcoming Designer by New York Magazine,” I said.

  “So then get off your high horse and make the bloody costumes,” he shouted at me before walking away.

  It was much easier said than done. It had been almost a year since I stumbled into my creative block. During the last several months of working at Diane von Furstenberg, I’d sat staring at blank sketchbooks, hoping the ideas would begin to flow, but nothing came. I missed deadline after deadline, and when I couldn’t come up with one more excuse as to why I should be given another chance, I was fired. The irony was that just prior to the block, I had the most imaginative and inspired period of my whole career. I had an unlimited supply of ideas, some of which I was able to incorporate into my designs at work, and some of which went completely against their aesthetic. I had this burning desire to create. So the designs that weren’t right for the label, I made at home.

  I’d set up a studio in my living room, lined the walls with bolts of unusual and colorful fabrics, and sewed some of the more avant-garde pieces whenever I had spare time. Within a few months, I had about half of my very own collection completed, while I was simultaneously helping to design the fall line. It was as if my relationship with Joshua had breathed new life into my work. I wasn’t sure if it was because my feelings for him had spilled into every other aspect of my life, or if maybe (even though I hated to admit it) the exhilaration of behaving in a way that was so outside of myself had changed me.

  I was a different person when I was with him, and so my work became different too. I was freer, more passionate, and more spontaneous than I’d ever been before, and it reflected in my designs. It wasn’t long before my bosses began to take notice and reward me for my achievements. I was promoted to Senior Designer. Instead of being lumped in under the main label, I actually got individual name recognition for my creations. A few of my pieces were featured in Vogue with an article written about me entitled Avant Un-Guarded. There was even insider talk about me starting my own line.

  Then, Alicia had returned from London and everything ended with Joshua. After that, I’d slipped into a kind of depression. The guilt of lying to Alicia combined with the pain of no longer having Joshua had been almost more than I could bear. The shame had all but consumed me, crushing whatever creative vision I had. It was all I could think about, all I could focus on, and those feelings had eventually taken over.

  I was terrified that picking up a sketchpad again would unearth all of the inadequacy and guilt I’d worked so hard to bury. I knew if I was ever going to revive my career, I had to start somewhere—I’d have to face it.

  I just wasn’t sure if I was ready.

  Chapter Nine

  The rainy weather made the rest of the day difficult. Instead of instructional swim, the lifeguards taught CPR at the Lakeside Rec, and instead of athletics, the counselors organized games in the dining hall. Of course, my girls wanted no part in any of it. I spent most of the day running around in the rain, unearthing them from their hiding spots. They would’ve done just about anything to be able to stay in the cabins reading their Us Weeklys and listening to music.

  If I wasn’t in charge, that was exactly what I’d be doing. But I was in charge, and battling against my hangover instead of snuggling up in bed was a pulsating reminder of that fact.

  It was raining so hard later in the day that Gordy did an uncharacteristic thing. He canceled all afternoon activities and arranged for movies to be shown around camp. He dismissed the other groups and announced that Cedar and Birch would be watching Titanic in the Lakeside Rec. Though lately, I wasn’t a fan of any movie that dealt with star-crossed lovers, clocking in at over three hours, Titanic was just long enough that I could probably sneak in a much-needed nap. The campers loaded into the rec hall and carefully chose their seats. The opportunity to sit next to someone of the opposite sex for three hours in the dark was a rare occurrence at Chinooka.

  When the kids quieted down, Perry walked around and offered them a choice of chips or candy from The Canteen, and then took a seat next to Michelle. Tara almost fell out of her chair trying to get a better view of them. Almost immediately after the opening credits of the movie, my eyelids got heavy, and I had to fight to keep them open. Within minutes, I fell into a deep sleep and didn’t wake up until I heard the ill-fated words, “Iceberg right ahead!”

  Lifting my head off of my chest, I noticed a small drool stain on the collar of my shirt. My neck was stiff, and I struggled to even lift it. I moved from side to side to stretch and saw that most of the campers were watching the movie, although a few had also nodded off. Then, I spotted Alex Shane and Madison in a full-fledged make-out session in a dark corner. I jumped out of my seat and headed over to them. I pried them apart before pulling them outside. Perry heard the commotion and followed
right behind us.

  “What the hell were the two of you doing?” I asked.

  “Need me to draw you a diagram?” Alex answered, and Madison laughed.

  “No, I don’t need you to draw me a diagram. I need for you not to behave like a prepubescent maniac,” I responded.

  “What’s going on?” Perry asked, addressing the three of us.

  “While you were cozying up to Michelle, these two were circling second base.”

  Perry jerked his head back. “What?”

  Clearly, he was unfamiliar with the baseball to sex analogy that I was using to describe how far they’d gone during the movie. “I mean, I can’t be sure it was second base, but there was something going on,” I replied.

  “That’s not what I meant, Gigi. I’m just wondering how you can stand there all self-righteous, telling me I wasn’t doing my job when you just woke up from a two-hour nap.”

  “I did not,” I contested.

  His gaze scanned down my T-shirt and stopped right at the drool stain.

  “Fine, maybe I dozed for a couple of minutes,” I conceded.

  “You were snoring. Loudly.”

  “I was not. I don’t snore.”

  “You were and you do. You snored last night, too. I had to turn on my telly to drown you out,” he said, trying to prove his point. Except he’d also just inadvertently let Madison and Alex know I spent the night with him.

  “Gigi slept in your cabin last night?” Alex said, catching Perry’s misspeak. “Good one.” He raised his hand to offer Perry a high five.

  “Not so fast, killer. It’s not what you think,” Perry chided.

  “No, it’s probably better,” Alex answered.

  “Nice,” I said, giving Alex a sideways glance. “Perry helped me home after we went out last night.”

  “Alex, drop it,” Perry warned.

  “I’ll drop it if you both drop it,” Alex said.

  “You two, keep your hands to yourselves and finish watching the movie. Don’t make me repeat this conversation. Now, go inside,” Perry said in a tone so firm it took all three of us by surprise. “Now, you,” he said, turning his full attention to me, “where do you think you are? Club Med? This is a job, and you’re responsible twenty-four seven. Whether you care or not, those girls look up to you. You’re the counselor, not the camper. So, whether your head’s turned for a second and ten of them go sneaking off into the woods in the middle of the night, or you decide to take a nap while Madison and Alex circle home base, what happens to them is on you. Whatever your reasons for coming here, that’s your business. But now that you are here, be here.” He slammed the screen door behind him as he went back inside.

  Perry’s harsh words still ringing in my ears, I thought about my counselors when I was a camper at Chinooka. There was Deborah from Australia who’d introduced us to everything from Vegemite to how to stuff our training bras. Evie from Manchester, who spoke with the coolest cockney accent, had taught us how to apply eyeliner and shave our legs. Meredith, who dated at least ten different counselors over the summer, had shown us how to write the perfect breakup notes and encouraged my first foray into design by wearing a “Gigi Original” to the camp social.

  Each and every one of them had a huge influence on my adolescence—the big sisters I’d never had but always wanted. It was funny. I’d come to Chinooka looking for an escape from everything in my life, giving no thought whatsoever to the fact that I’d be in the position to influence anyone else’s. But, Perry was right. I had to do better. I owed it to those fifty girls to do better. So, as old Rose foolishly tossed the diamond necklace into the ocean, I promised myself I would.

  Later that night, I took the girls who’d been cast in Fiddler on the Roof to the Lakeside Amphitheater for their first rehearsal. Although it had stopped raining earlier in the afternoon, the wood benches encircling the theater were still damp. I laid my poncho out on the bench before I sat down, and the other girls followed suit. Jackie, the play’s director, stepped to the middle of the elevated platform of the stage and formally introduced herself. Then she introduced each member of the cast, giving a little bit of background on the parts they’d be playing. When she got to Perry, she asked him to join her on stage.

  “For those of you who don’t know, this is Perry Gillman, head counselor of Birch. Perry’s an accomplished violinist, and we’ve been fortunate to have him agree to play our fiddler. Tonight, he has graciously offered to showcase a sampling of the score to give everyone a taste of the show’s music. Perry, if you would,” she said, turning to him.

  He stepped forward, violin in hand, and pulled the bow across its neck. His talent hadn’t been exaggerated one bit. I closed my eyes to listen, almost forgetting where I was and who was playing. When he was done, the entire amphitheater was on its feet clapping. True to form, he walked off the stage as if what he’d done was no big deal rather than the feat of artistry we’d all just witnessed. Jackie thanked Perry and then continued explaining her vision for the show. At the end of the meeting, Davis handed out the rehearsal schedule for the next several weeks. As the kids filed out, I went to talk to Davis and Jackie about resigning from my post. Jackie was looking down at a set of notes on her clipboard as I approached. I tapped her on the shoulder.

  “I wanted to thank you both for the opportunity, but I wasn’t so much offering my help with the costumes as I was offering up some ideas.”

  Davis quickly chimed in. “We talked it over last night, and think you could really be an asset.”

  “That’s nice, but you said there wasn’t really a budget for costumes.”

  “I spoke to Gordy, and I was able to work something out,” Davis said. “Plus, I hoped you might know people in the industry and be able to get us some fabric at cost.”

  “I do know some people, but …” I started, but Perry sidled up to me with a smug look on his face. Suddenly I just couldn’t let him have the satisfaction of being right about me. “But I’m not really sure if we’ll need to do that. I can make it work. I’ll get the budget from Gordy and figure something out. I’ll have some sketches for you by next week.”

  Jackie and Davis seemed confused by my one-eighty. So was Perry.

  “That’s great. We’ll make sure you get some time with Big Bertha,” Davis said.

  “Who’s Big Bertha?” Perry asked.

  “I cannot believe she’s still around,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Yeah, she still has a few good years in her,” Davis answered.

  “Who are you talking about?” Perry asked again.

  Big Bertha was the camp nickname for an old Singer sewing machine housed in arts and crafts. It had once belonged to Gordy’s grandmother and even had its original foot peddle. When she died, Gordy couldn’t bear to part with it and found it a home at Chinooka long before I was even a camper. I’d learned to sew on Big Bertha, spending countless hours behind her, crudely stitching together my latest designs for the play fashion shows we staged at night in the bunks.

  “As much as I love Big Bertha, I’m not sure if the old girl has enough juice in her for what I need. I’ll see if I can get a friend to drive up my electric sewing machine from the city, along with some extra fabric from my apartment,” I said.

  “So Big Bertha is a sewing machine?” Perry asked a final time.

  “Yes, Big Bertha’s a sewing machine. What, were you worried that there was a woman on these grounds you didn’t know?”

  “Hardly,” he replied before storming off.

  “What’s that about?” Davis asked.

  “We didn’t really get off on the right foot,” I answered.

  “Too bad. He’s a really good guy.”

  “That’s what people keep telling me. So sketches by next Tuesday?”

  “That should work,” he said.

  “I hope I don’t disappoint you guys.”

  “Gigi, it’s a camp play, not the Bryant Park tents at fashion week,” he replied, making what he thought was a joke. Li
ttle did he know, only one year ago, I had shown at those very tents.

  I offered to sit OD every night for the next week so I’d have time to do the sketches. Under the moonlight, at a rotting picnic table, I finally found the inspiration that had been eluding me for months. When the week was over, I gave my sketchbook to Jackie and Davis to review. I was almost as nervous as I’d been when Anna Wintour came to see an early preview of the very first collection I worked on for Diane von Furstenberg. A few days later, Davis gave me the green light to go ahead, and I was off and running.

  Chapter Ten

  Having survived the first few weeks as head counselor, the next hurdle was chaperoning the all-camp social. The girls had been looking forward to it since they arrived at Chinooka, debating their outfits and which guys they were planning to make a move on. The night of the social, Bunk Fourteen was a flurry of activity as the girls first tried on their entire wardrobes and then each others’. Even Jordana got into it, asking if she could borrow the dress I’d worn to Rosie’s, which I, of course, lent her.

  “What are you going to wear?” she asked while digging underneath her bed to find a match for the sandal she already had on her foot.

  “I might just stay in this,” I said, pointing to my cargo pants and white tank top.

  She shook her head. “Gigi, you cannot stay in that.”

  “I have to stay back with Candice and her clique during the first half of the social anyway.”

  “You’ve sat OD every night this week instead of going out. You walk around this place like you’re serving some sort of sentence,” she said.

  I smiled. “Aren’t I?”

  “There are guys here who have expressed interest,” Jordana said.

  “Interest in me? I guess they don’t know I’m a hundred and five.”

  “Do all your friends find this self-deprecating thing as annoying as I do? Look at you. Ah, finally found it,” she said, pulling her missing sandal out. She spun around in a circle. “So how do I look?”