“This is Michelle,” says Charles. He’s doing a terrible job of whispering behind his hand. “The one with THE FRIEND I WAS TELLING YOU ABOUT.”
Charles and I are going to have to talk.
“Uh, hi, Michelle,” I say. “I’m Emmett, you can call me E.” Nothing else to see here, folks. “I’m new.”
“No kidding,” she says, sitting down and pulling Charles with her. “Sorry, was that rude? I don’t want to be rude. Sometimes, because I hate fake nicey niceness, I go too far to the other side. The rude side. Was I rude? I’m sorry. What do you know about Amy Garvey?”
I blink, hoping I don’t have to come out and say “Who?” And then I see that Charles is staring at Michelle with a face that would go right next to the word lovesick in the dictionary. Probably a dictionary that Charles has in our room.
“Um, not … much?” I say, but it doesn’t matter because she’s going so fast I’m not sure if she expected an answer at all.
“I’m working on a musical this summer, about Amy Ashwood Garvey and Amy Jacques Garvey—The Two Amys. These women, known primarily as Marcus Garvey’s wives, were so much more. Really essential to any true study of our history and the diaspora.”
I think I’m supposed to know who Marcus Garvey is, and I’m realizing that people here say diaspora a lot. I hope Charles has a Black history encyclopedia in one of those trunks. I don’t know if the sweat running down my cheeks is from the humidity or my nerves. I try to remind myself that I got myself here all on my own, so I must be impressive too, just in a … different way. Michelle is talking about something called the UNIA when the adults start doing a Be Quiet clap that reminds me of school, and Luke is doing it too, like he’s been here all his life. A tall, dark-skinned man with a black-and-gray beard stands up and walks to the center of the circle.
“That’s Dr. Triphammer,” whispers Charles. “The director. He’s been here forever. I think he went here when it was still a school. He’s nicer than he seems, just … cares a lot.”
I nod.
“Shhh,” says Charles, like I’m the one talking. “He’s starting.”
“Not like we haven’t heard the same speech for the past three years,” Michelle mutters. But she sits back and smiles like she’s getting ready for something good.
And it is pretty interesting … Dr. Triphammer tells us about the history of DuBois, how some kid named Wanda Morgan from New York City had wanted to go to camp in like the 1900s, but they were all white-only, so she grew up and bought some old fancy school and turned it into Camp DuBois. And apparently now, DuBois gets accused of “reverse racism” every year. It’s open to anyone, but “so far, the only ones who register are Black folks,” says Dr. Triphammer, and everyone laughs and cheers. As I look around, I think about how sometimes I’m the only one at some of my activities. Even if I complain, Mom still makes me go. I guess it never works the other way around. I can’t imagine WeeDee and Billy’s parents telling them they had to come here. I can’t imagine WeeDee and Billy asking to, either.
“Wanda Morgan and her husband were Black millionaires at a time when that was most unusual,” he says.
“Like it still isn’t?” yells out someone.
We laugh.
He smiles. “Good point. But the main thing isn’t how many ducats they had, but what they did with that scrilla.” We collectively cringe at him using slang older than our parents, and he bulldozes on with his speech like it’s inevitable. “As you can see, we are situated on seventy-five gorgeous acres of land on Lake Hunter, and our buildings are a mixture of art deco and minimal traditionalist styles, which we work hard to preserve and maintain. Segregation meant that facilities like these were not available to Black people in the 1920s—”
“Except when they wanted us as servants!” someone yells out.
Triphammer nods. “The Morgans lived on and bought this property and the surrounding land, little by little, over a period of fifty years, lifting as they climbed, building a school and then a camp for Black children.” Several campers are mouthing Dr. Triphammer’s speech along with him, and he doesn’t seem to mind. “I know I tell this story every year. It’s a tradition, and an important one. Our heritage as a people is rich, dynamic, and multifaceted. We have endured great pain and experienced soaring triumphs. You are here to have fun, make new friends, and experience new things. You are also here to dig deep. To find the Morgan Mission in you—‘sowing seeds for mutual progress.’” He gets up on a large rock; it takes him a few seconds to steady himself. “Show UP!” he yells.
“Show OUT!” yells back almost everyone else.
Charles turns to me. “Unofficial DuBois chant.”
“Uh, yeah, I figured,” I say.
We chant it three more times, then the barbecue starts. There are grills set up next to giant picnic tables that are decorated with green-and-gold paper tablecloths, and all the plates and cups and utensils are green and gold too. Charles and I get on the line that seems the shortest, but it doesn’t matter because the DuBois staff is like a machine and we’re moving pretty quickly. The burgers look as good as they smell—they aren’t gray! They even have veggie burgers that don’t look like they’re made of clay. There’s fresh corn roasting, and the hot dogs are foot longs. I let my hot dog stay on the grill until it’s black on the outside, just the way I like it, then load it up with mustard, ketchup, and relish. Charles and I pile our plates high and grab seats at the end of a picnic table.
A group of guys is already there, laughing and loud-talking in that way people do when they want to be noticed. Been there, done that. Lamar is there, and he gives me a quick nod.
“Like, why does it have to be all about progress and I have a dream by any means necessary and blah, blah, blah, we the people?” says the loudest boy who also has the best haircut.
“You mixed up about ten different things in that one sentence, Derek,” says another kid, and they all laugh. Charles and I join in, quietly. Derek looks over at us.
“Whaddup, Chucky,” he says.
“It’s Charles,” says Charles. “And hello, Derek.” He says Derek like it’s not a real word, more like a bad smell. From the way time seems to stop, I can tell that Charles is being pretty brave. He takes a big bite of his burger-hot-dog combo sandwich. There’s a pause, and it’s heavy, and something’s not quite right. I look at Charles, but he just looks straight ahead and chews. Something tells me not to look at Derek for too long.
Finally Derek laughs again. “My bad. Good to see you, Charles.”
I can feel everyone take a deep breath of relief. Little conversations start up again.
“Is that the one you were talking about?” I whisper to Charles. “What was that about?”
“Yes. He can be annoying, but he’s harmless,” says Charles. Then his eyes light up like he’s been plugged into an electrical socket. “Michelle! Over here!” He scoots over on the bench so hard and fast that I almost fall off.
Dr. Triphammer stands and claps his hands to get our attention. Then he turns things over to the program coordinator, Ms. Marshall, who talks about this opportunity to immerse ourselves in pursuit of our existing passions, explore new ones, and spend each day nestled in and nurtured by DuBois’s award-winning facilities and staff. I hear some kids grumbling about how DuBois is “not as good as it used to be.” We sing the DuBois song, which is to the tune of that Beyoncé song that is based this old song about letting go that uncles and aunties always jump up and do the Electric Slide to at weddings.
Camp DuBois makes me happy!
This you can bet.
Fam right beside me,
And I won’t forget.
I really love it,
You should know.
I want to cheer Camp DuBois,
It’s my second home.
Then the counselors get up and do a step show! I try to pick it up, I’m usually good at that, but it’s complicated, like the ones my cousin Dwight showed us when we when to visit him in college
. A few people are playing drums on the sidelines and the veteran campers are cheering and clapping to the beat. Even Dr. Triphammer is doing some kind of uncle two-step, while this other guy next to him is doing a whole routine with flips, even though he looks just as old as Dr. Triphammer.
Luke is stepping with the other counselors—when did he even have time to learn that routine? I’m the one who picks up moves super fast. He looks smooth and right at home with the others. It’s a minute before I realize that I’ve fallen into doing the school dance shuffle without realizing it. I stop and just clap. I tell myself it’s because I’m tired, it’s not that I’ve lost my moves, or that I’m feeling a little … lost in general.
“This is my favorite part,” whispers Michelle. “For the culture.”
The counselors end the step show with big cheers, then they start teaching campers the routine. Some of the musician campers have their instruments with them and start up an impromptu jam session. Charles runs back for his bassoon and offers to let me use his oboe (I pass). Some kids are straight up ignoring everything and just reading books at the picnic tables. It is all kinds of a jumble of awesome, and I’m glad to be here with my brother.
Well, sort of. I try to get over to Luke so we can add our own brotherly swag to the step routine—I really want people to know we’re family. But he’s surrounded, so a girl with the biggest Afro I’ve ever seen teaches me the step routine and pumps her fist when I pick it up. Charles and Michelle come over, and we hang together for s’mores and ice cream by the firepit. We compare schedules; I’ll see Michelle in baking, and we’re all together for Black to the Future and the Superhero Secrets class. I’m really curious about that one. I would never ask out loud, but I wonder if we’ll have outfits, or at least capes. Real full-on cosplay would be pretty cool. I tried to get some inside info from Luke, but he kept talking brochure talk at me: “There is a world of options. It’s not camp, it’s a summer arts and culture experience.”
“What’s the A for?” I ask, pointing to my schedule. I look; they have it too.
“Aquatics,” says Charles. “We take the swim test and get placed tomorrow. It’s pretty basic. We’re all usually in the same group—Michelle, Natasha, me, and some others—so you probably will be too. Unless you’re like lifeguard level or something.”
“I’m not,” I say. And leave it at that. I wonder if Mom is missing me so much right now that I can guilt her into writing me an excuse note for swimming. Then I wonder what kind of son thinks that. It’s like I can go from hero to villain real so fast I scare myself.
I only catch a couple more glimpses of Luke as the party goes on. The mosquitos seem to congregate around the citronella candles that are supposed to repel them. I’m guessing they’re high-fiving and laughing at our futile attempts to avoid being bitten. A girl wearing a flower crown and a shirt that says nyc forest school tries to get us to “listen to the fireflies’ song” while a few guys start a competition to see who can make the most disgusting hot dog. When Dr. Triphammer finds out, he makes them eat everything they made, including the chocolate marshmallow surprise that this boy named Darius created. Just when I’m trying to keep the smile pasted on my face, the DJ plays this old-school song about candy; some staff people working the bbq grills really do start the Electric Slide, and even though everybody laughs, a lot of people join in, not just old people. Even Luke does, and so does Charles, looking like he’s doing a completely different dance. He waves me over, but I pretend that I’m still eating.
By the time we’re heading back to the dorms, the squiggly feeling at the bottom of my stomach is almost gone, and I only blink a couple of times when I see Mom’s good night text with a row of heart emojis. I don’t write back anything about swimming. I just send three hearts.
Chapter Fourteen
Something is being slaughtered.
“Axe murderer!” I yell, jumping up. But I’m all twisted up in my sheets and fall out of bed. “Don’t touch the mask! He’ll kill us all!”
Charles opens an eye. “Shower screams,” he says, like that explains anything. “Gimme two more minutes.” He puts the pillow over his head and turns over as the “shower screams” continue.
I get up and go to the window and see a bunch of people jumping into the lake, screaming and screeching. “It must be FREEZING. Why would anyone do that?”
“It’s a tradition,” mumbles Charles. “New counselors jump into the lake on the first morning after campers arrive. It’s freezing, and there’s always someone who chickens out.”
My expression must show what I’m thinking, because he gets up and says, “Yeah, it’s silly. And they still take a regular shower after.” He shrugs. “I told you, we got all kinds. Anyway, some campers take a morning dip too, after we have the swim test. As long as you’re level three and up, and everyone our age is at least level three. So if you want to join in one day, no judgment.”
Mom would probably grow super wings and fly right to New York if her spidey-mom sense told her I wasn’t taking a real shower with soap and a washcloth and running water. Ugh, swimming again. I keep my mouth shut and we get going. There are only two showers on our floor, and Charles warns me that last summer, they had run out of hot water pretty fast. I spray on a good amount of the Lemon Chill Rock Steady body spray that Luke gave me for my eleventh birthday. I’ve been making it last, but today I go all out. Never get a second chance to make a first impression, right? Charles and I get dressed, and I wish I’d brought more sneakers. These barely match my outfit and it’s only the first day.
***
Now that the screams are over, it’s pretty quiet on campus. As Charles and I walk to the dining hall for breakfast, he points out the different buildings, including what he says used to be a planetarium. There’s a man watering flowers in front of the main building, and a security guard who already looks bored rides past us in a little cart. I send a few pics to Mom, and she writes back, Beautiful! and then Get off that phone! Two counselors are taking the covers off rowboats by the lake, and I feel a familiar twinge of wishing I could just know how to swim without actually having to go through the process of learning.
Charles and I are in the middle of an amazingly delicious breakfast (I have a full tray of Belgian waffles that I’ve drenched in buttery maple syrup and stuffed with thick slices of bacon), and I’m still half-asleep when Michelle and another girl walk over.
“Hey,” says Charles. “You guys are late. Breakfast is almost over.” His omelet looks like it was made out of a whole dozen eggs and a wheel of cheese.
Michelle shrugs. “I’m just getting an acai bowl. Speaking of bowls, we’re late because Natasha was prepping for the Blackity Bowl. We all know she’s the Serena Williams of the tournament. I started quizzing her as soon as we got back to our dorm last night. Gotta respect the grind.” She sniffs. “What’s that smell?”
Maybe I didn’t go hard enough on the body spray.
Charles turns to me and loud-whispers, “Natasha’s the one I was telling you about.” He has no chill whatsoever. “It’s like … a mixture of roast beef and dead roses,” says Michelle.
The other girl smiles, and it seems like the gap between her teeth sparkles. “Hey, Charles. What exactly were you telling him about me?” She looks unbothered. She nods at me. “Hi, I’m Natasha. That’s weird, it smells like … bologna-flavored lemonade over here.”
“Hi,” I say. “I’m Emmett, you can call me E.” I give her a nod back. Pretty smooth, I hope. But when I look down, there’s a piece of bacon on my lap. “What’s the Blackity Bowl?”
“It’s a trivia contest on the last night of camp. Pop culture stuff.”
“Who was the first hip-hop group to win a Grammy?” rattles off Michelle.
“DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince,” answers Natasha. “1989. ‘Parents Just Don’t Understand. Fresh Prince is also known as Will Smith. I mean, he is Will Smith.’”
“See?” says Michelle. “My girl is at the top of her game.” S
he looks around and holds her hands up. “We welcome all challengers!” Natasha mouths, We? but she just says, “Ugh. My stomach, I need to eat.”
“Seriously?!” says another kid across the table. “That’s all kinds of wrong. ‘Parent’s Just Don’t Understand’ was not real hip-hop, even in the olden days.”
“It’s truth, though, parents don’t understand,” says a boy. “So it sounds like real hip-hop to me.”
“What does that even mean?” asks Michelle.
“Who defines what’s real?” says the flower crown girl from last night.
Natasha shrugs. “I’m just repeating the facts.” She turns to me. “I need to beat my dad’s record this summer. He won the bowl three times in a row when he came here. This could be my fourth win. So, what are you into?”
“Uh … I like watching movies … Sometimes I get pictures in my head … scenes … like movies … films …” My tongue feels all swole and heavy.
Michelle looks from Natasha to me, then back again and raises her eyebrows at me. “Natasha is the Ava DuVernay of film at DuBois,” she says.
“I thought about taking film … full … I like movies.” I can’t stop babbling.
“I’m a film major!” says Natasha, glancing at Michelle. “Documentaries are my specialty. Hey, maybe I can interview you for a potential piece on new campers. DuBois Through New Eyes.”
“See what I mean?” says Michelle. She taps Natasha’s arm. “Before you guys get deep into it, let’s grab some food. I’ve been waiting for these croissants since last summer.” They leave, talking super fast and laughing.
“Natasha won the Camp Showcase last year. She made a movie called Legacy about how her parents went here,” says Charles. “She’d already recorded interviews with them before she got to camp!”
That gives me an idea. If I wanted to make a film project about Luke, I’d have to interview him. We’ll have to hang out then, he’ll want to see me win. I pick up the waffle-bacon sandwich I’d made. “I’ve never had breakfast this good!” I swallow and a twinge puts a lump in my throat. “Except for my mom’s, of course.” I hope Charles doesn’t laugh.
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