Bummer Summer

by Ann M. Martin

  “Let me get this straight,” said Dad. “You’re not happy here now.”

  “Right,” I said. That was the honest truth. Even if Muffin wasn’t going to touch my things anymore, I still had to put up with her whining and barfing, and the trips to the baby pool, and the colic, and always being late, and Kate—especially Kate. She came on hot and cold like a faucet. I didn’t know what to make of her.

  “So,” he continued, “wouldn’t you like to get away for a while, until things settle down?”

  “Maybe.”

  “But you don’t want to go to camp.”

  “Right.”

  “Do you have any other suggestions?”

  I thought a minute. “Visit Aunt Noel and Uncle Sheldon in Trumbull?”

  “They’re in Europe this summer. Noel’s on sabbatical.”

  “I could join them in Europe.”

  “Nice try.” Dad laughed.

  “Stay with Granny and Grandpoppy?”

  “Honey, two years ago we’d all have jumped at the idea. But now I think it would be too much for them. They’re simply not well enough.”

  This is true. My mother’s parents, the only grandparents I have left, are getting sort of frail and forgetful. They have these two stodgy, live-in housekeepers. A summer with them would not be all that much fun anyway.

  I was rapidly running out of ideas. This was pretty much the way my Plan B brainstorming sessions had gone.

  “Kammy, the camp sounds wonderful,” said Kate. “It’s in Connecticut in a very pretty, woodsy part of the state. You can swim, ride horses, take hikes, learn to canoe. It’s a super place. It has everything.”

  I kept my mouth shut.

  “Would you be willing to try something?” she went on.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. What?” At this point I’d have tried summer school.

  “Would you agree to try camp for two weeks? There’s a parents’ visiting day after two weeks. When we come up then to see you, you can come home if you really aren’t happy. We’d work something out. Or you could try just living here again. But at least give camp a try.”

  What a choice. “Living here again” sounded more like a threat than an option.

  I felt like sticking Kate with one of Baby Boy’s diaper pins. The problem was that it was such a reasonable offer. If I said no, I’d look like the World’s Biggest Baby.

  I decided it all boiled down to Camp versus Home. The Great Unknown versus The Horrible Known. I thought about it for a minute. Maybe the unknown would turn out to be better than the known. Maybe. I decided it was worth a shot—but I wasn’t going to enjoy trying it.

  At dinner that night, Dad was in a rare mood. He looked very relieved. Was I that much of a problem?

  When we were all seated and Mrs. Meade had filled our plates, he actually stood up and made a toast.

  “Here’s to us,” he said, holding out his water glass.

  Kate held hers out, and Muffin copied her.

  I stared at my lap. It already had crumbs in it.

  “Hear, hear,” said Kate.

  “Hear, hear,” said Muffin.

  Baby Boy burped in his infant seat.

  I hoped we could get on with dinner.

  “Well, it’s all arranged,” said my father as he sat down again. I don’t think he noticed that I had chosen not to participate in the toast. “We’ll drive up to Camp Arrowhead on Sunday.”

  I didn’t say anything. I examined my peas.

  “Oh,” said Dad suddenly, “I should have shown you the pamphlets we have on it. Paul sent them a few weeks ago. I wonder where I put them. Anyway, they describe the activities and the area, and have photos of the cabins and the lake and things. I’ll try to find them after dinner.”

  “Kammy, I really do think it will be fun,” said Kate. “A whole summer with lots of different things to do. Have you ever been boating or water skiing? You can go swimming in the lake every day, play tennis. Don’t those things sound like fun?”

  “They’re not high on my list of priorities.” I had never picked up a tennis racket in my life.

  Dad coughed. It was not a true cough. I was treading on thin ice.

  Kate wouldn’t give up. “There’s a terrific arts and crafts program. You’d like that. Pottery, weaving, woodworking, needlework, metal shop.”

  I bit my lip. I did like arts and crafts. A whole lot.

  “And horseback riding,” she added. “I know you like horses.”

  She had me there. I love horses. More than anything. And every person at that table knew it.

  “Yes, I like horses.”

  “Good, good,” said my father. “Now, you and Kate and Mrs. Meade and I have less than a week to get you ready. We’ll bring the footlocker down from the attic. And you’ll need some new things. I think a tennis outfit, and certainly a sleeping bag, right, Kate?”

  Kate nodded and smiled.

  “And like I said, we’ll drive up on Sunday.” He seemed awfully delighted about sending me to Camp Arrowhead.

  Well, he may have been happy about dumping me up there, and Kate may have been happy about dumping me up there, but I was not going to be happy about dumping me up there. I had said I would go. That was all. I didn’t have to be happy about it.

  Why were they so happy, anyway? Was it really because they thought I’d be happy? Or was it because they didn’t want me around?

  They had a perfect family without me—mother, father, daughter, son. Four beautiful, happy people. Where did I fit in? Was I ruining their little family? I certainly hadn’t improved it any. Maybe they didn’t want me around. Maybe this was just Step 1. Step 2 would be boarding school. After that—who knew? I didn’t even want to think about it. Camp was scary enough. Two weeks, maybe even eight! The longest I remembered being separated from my father was when I was seven and he went to a convention, and I spent two nights at my grandparents’ house. (They lived next door at the time.)

  I was scared of living with strangers and of swimming in a lake. (Snakes swim in lakes, too, and with their whole bodies under water so there is no way you can see them in time.) I was scared of trying new sports and new foods. (Who, besides Mrs. Meade, knew that the only way I can eat a fried egg is if the yolk is broken so it gets cooked, too?) What if I got sick? What if the other campers teased me? What if I made a fool of myself? This was going to be some summer. A bummer summer.

  I finished my dinner in silence.

  The next day was Tuesday. That was the day the Great Camp Preparations began. Kate took me to the Quakerbridge Mall for a shopping spree. (That was her term for it. Mine was bribery.) It was supposed to be fun. Muffin and Baby Boy stayed home (to Muffin’s surprise and dismay) so Kate and I could go alone together and have lunch and everything.

  I was not in a fun frame of mind. Which meant that I was not going to find things I liked. Shopping is a chore, and you have to be mentally prepared for it. Kate was prepared. She felt like fun.

  We went to this clothing store first. Kate was under the impression that I needed three sports shirts, preferably with alligators on the fronts. I didn’t see what was wrong with my “South of the Border” T-shirt, but at this point, clothes were the least of my problem.

  After I looked through three racks of shirts in my size and rejected every one of them, Kate began to appear a tiny bit miffed.

  “Kammy, there must be something here you like.”

  “Not really,” I said.

  She frowned at me. She’s a very good frowner. Lots of wrinkles. “Please don’t be difficult. You need new clothes. You’ve grown a lot this year. Look. Look at this shirt.” She pulled a pink-and-white striped one with an alligator off the rack. “Isn’t this cute?”

  Cute. I am not a cute person. I wrinkled my nose. “I don’t know. Not really.”

  “All right,” said Kate. “If you’re not going to help, I’ll have to choose for you.”

  “O.K.,” I said. “I’m going to play Pac-Man.” The store was equipped with a Pac-Ma
n game for shoppers’ bored children.

  Kate gave me a look that could have killed a snake. “I really am,” she said.

  “O.K. Will you be long?” I was asking for it.

  Kate did not dignify the question with an answer. I had to give her credit for that. She whipped around and marched off in the direction of the alligators.

  I did not see her again until I had spent $1.50 on games. When she came back she was all smiles.

  “Hi, there,” she said.

  I dragged myself away from the little biting fish. I know it’s not a fish, but that’s what Pac-Man looks like.

  “Look what I found for you.” She held the bag open as we left the clothing store and got on an escalator.

  I peeked inside. I saw a lot of pink and lime green and one or two alligators. “That’s nice,” I managed. “I’ll try them on at home.”

  Kate sighed.

  I will not go into the rest of the details of the “shopping spree.” Mostly they are boring. Pretty much the same thing happened at the shoe store, the sports store, and the Quakerbridge Luncheonette. I gave in to Kate right down the line, but not until after I’d given her a hard time.

  When it was all over I had the three alligator shirts, a tennis outfit, a pair of Nikes, six pairs of white socks, a sleeping bag, a canteen, a mess kit, two Speedo bathing suits, and a bathing cap. (Plus a salad for lunch.) What I had wanted was an “I’m a heartbreaker” T-shirt and roller skates. (Plus cheesecake for lunch.) But what I wanted didn’t seem to count.

  Kate did not speak to me on the way home.

  On Wednesday, Mrs. Meade and Kate lugged the black footlocker out of the attic. It had these nice brass fastenings. (The footlocker, I mean; not the attic.) They began packing very carefully. The packing lasted three days.

  On Saturday I decided to stay in bed. Dad stuck his head in the door around noon. “Come on, Miss Slug-a-Bed. Up and at ’em!”

  He is incredibly corny at times.

  “Dad,” I mumbled from under my pillow, “I don’t feel too well.”

  “Let me feel your forehead, honey.”

  I emerged from under my pillow.

  “You’re fine,” he pronounced. What did he think he was—a faith healer?

  I started to protest.

  “Kammy,” he said gently, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  I rolled over on my back and looked at him.

  “We have a compromise. Your part of the bargain is to try camp for two weeks, right?”

  I kept my mouth shut and rolled back over on my stomach. I didn’t say a word until we arrived at Camp Arrowhead the next day.

  Chapter 5

  Camp Arrowhead

  THREE HOURS IS A very long time not to speak to somebody when you and that person are alone together in a car. That was why the ride to Camp Arrowhead seemed to take more like three days.

  Everybody in our house, even Baby Boy, had gotten up at five-thirty that morning. Nobody complained. If I had been speaking I might have complained, but I was not speaking. To anybody.

  Except Simon. He understood. He had spent Saturday night with me, his little body all curled up by my neck. When Simon is that near my ear, his purr is quite loud. Louder than you’d think a ten-week-old kitten could possibly purr. I talked to Simon and told him my feelings about camp. He smiled a cat smile, which meant he understood.

  Kate cooked a huge breakfast for us—orange juice, bacon, eggs (any way you wanted—I didn’t get any since I wouldn’t say what I wanted), and danish or toast.

  Muffin wanted to know why she’d been waked up. “Why are we up so early, Mommy?” she kept asking. Kate tried to explain about camp. (For a smart kid, Muffin was sure acting slow. Nobody had talked about anything except camp for a solid week). But all Kate succeeded in doing was scaring her. “Am I going, too?” Muffin asked. She looked like she might cry. Again.

  At that point I considered opening my mouth to say, “Why, yes, Muffin, of course you’re going. You’re going to another camp. Camp Blockhead. You’re going to stay there for three or four months. Without your mother.”

  I was really torn, but in the end I decided it was more important to keep up the silent treatment.

  At seven-thirty Dad and the footlocker and I got in our station wagon.

  Kate stood on the front porch of our house burping Baby Boy. Muffin stood beside her in a yellow nightgown and her pink bunny slippers, solemnly holding Rose-up. They waved and called out, “Good-bye, Kammy! Good-bye! Have a great time.”

  I stared straight ahead of me. I did not move a muscle.

  We started driving and Dad tried small talk for about six minutes. Then he resorted to the radio. He pushed the button for classical music. I pushed the button for WORM. Dad kept on driving. We listened to WORM all the way to Camp Arrowhead.

  The first thing I saw at camp was people. A whole fleet of them. Their cars were parked in a big parking lot. All across it and in this grassy area next to it were mothers and fathers and children and babies and counselors. There were about eighty-five other station wagons and footlockers. I was glad Kate had painted my name on my footlocker.

  “Oh, my Go—,” I started to say. I was saying it under my breath, but as it was the first thing I’d said in about twenty-four hours, my father heard it.

  “Kamilla,” he warned.

  “Well, I’m sorry,” I said, “but look at all these people.”

  “It is sort of a mob scene,” he agreed. I think he was glad I was talking again.

  Before we had extricated ourselves from the car, a counselor greeted us. I assumed she was a counselor anyway. She was wearing a CAMP ARROWHEAD T-shirt and had a whistle around her neck. Also, she was carrying a clipboard.

  “Hi,” she said. She was perky. I wasn’t sure how I felt about a perky person. Perky is almost as bad as cute.

  “Hello,” said my father, sticking out his hand. “This is Kamilla Whitlock, and I’m her father, Robert Whitlock.”

  “I’m Susan,” said the girl. “Nice to meet both of you.” She checked her clipboard. “Kamilla Whitlock. O.K., your counselor this summer will be Nancy. Nancy Hirsch. She’s over there wearing the yellow shirt. Just leave your trunk by your car and we’ll see that it gets to your cabin. Nancy will help you with everything else.”

  “Thank you,” said Dad. He heaved the trunk out of the back and stood it on its end, out of everyone’s way.

  Then we started across the lot for Nancy. I had butterflies in my stomach. I thought I might even throw up. But I took a few deep breaths and calmed down.

  “Hi,” said Nancy as we stepped up to her. “You must be either Kamilla Whitlock or Emily Marshall. Everyone else has checked in already.” She smiled. It was a nice smile.

  “I’m Kamilla,” I said, and hesitated, not knowing whether to tell her about my name. But she solved that problem for me.

  “Kamilla. That’s a pretty name,” she said. “Is that what you like to be called, or do you have a nickname?”

  I like people who give you choices and listen to you. She didn’t ask me what I’m called. She asked me what I like to be called. I could have said Tulip Bernice Vanessa and it would have been all right with her, as long as it was all right with me. “Everyone calls me Kammy.”

  Suddenly I remembered Dad. “And this is my father,” I said awkwardly. I am not very good at introductions.

  “Nice to meet you,” said Nancy, smiling her nice smile again.

  Nancy started explaining what we were supposed to do next. It wasn’t too hard. Just go over to the lawn by the mess hall, where there seemed to be some sort of ongoing picnic lunch, eat, and wait for Nancy. Dad could leave whenever he felt like it.

  I watched Nancy as she talked. Her best feature was her lack of cuteness. She was attractive, but not cute. No button nose, no dimples, and a few interestingly crooked teeth; short, dark hair that fell to her shoulders, and no barrettes or headbands or pink ribbons. So far so good.

  Dad and I left her and walked off
in the direction she had pointed out. We followed a gravel path through a little woodsy area. A few signs directed you to the mess hall, the cabins, the lake, and the stables. All the signs were the brown wood kind with the letters carved in and painted yellow. They stood on short stakes. Very rustic.

  Dad and I followed a bunch of other campers and their families along the path. I wanted to talk to Dad, but I didn’t quite know how, after all those hours of silence.

  “Dad, look out!” I called as he approached a tree root. It was about an inch tall. Perfect tripping height. “You don’t want to break another toe,” I said. He hadn’t broken a toe since Thanksgiving.

  Dad stepped gingerly over the root, looked down at me, and flashed me a rueful grin. He reached for my hand. But I wasn’t quite ready for that. I drew back.

  We emerged into the sunshine. A big building stood before us. It was built out of the same brown wood as the signs. And it was carefully labeled MESS HALL (just so nobody would mistake it for the lake or the stables). Beyond the mess hall was a herd of people.

  Dad and I walked over to where four long tables loaded with food were set up. I saw sandwiches and hamburgers and hot dogs and potato salad and watermelon and cupcakes and lemonade. I was not the least bit hungry.

  Dad took a plate and filled it. Piled it, to be exact. Sometimes I am amazed at his appetite. I dragged along behind him with an empty plate.

  “Come on, Kams,” he coaxed. “Eat up. You may never see the likes of this again. It even beats our barbecues.”

  “I’ll eat later,” I said.

  “You’ll probably have to wait until dinner.”

  “That’s O.K.” I felt numb. “Dad, how are we ever going to find Nancy in all this?”

  “Don’t worry, pumpkin. She said she’d find you.” Dad stood with his plate of food and looked around for a space big enough for the two of us to sit down. We finally found a tiny patch of grass and wedged ourselves between a fat family and a family with six children.

  I watched everyone eat. It was sort of gross.

  Suddenly a bell rang. It went off like an Oriental gong. They probably heard it in North Dakota.