15
EVEN IN THEdark cover of night, I could still make out some of the larger signatures on the ceiling above me. I’d been lying here for hours now, tucked into my sleeping bag. I’d tried all the things I normally did when I couldn’t fall asleep, which was often these days. Counting backward, half-assed attempts at meditation, a breathing exercise I’d learned thanks to a TikTok video Lydia had sent me.
Nothing had done the trick, so I’d resorted to scanning the ceiling and the wooden beams, where the names of past campers, and the years they attended camp, covered the planks overhead. The bright light of the moon stretched across the ceiling, highlighting pieces of the past: Casi, Jessica, Ilana, Christina, 1979, 2012, 1986, 2023, painted in bright colors, and scribbled in Sharpie. Summer after summer, kids scrambled onto top bunks and left their mark, only for them to eventually be written over by somebody else, another person who wanted to hold on to their summers here, to be remembered in some small way.
In the past I’d loved reading these names; it was like flipping through a yearbook from a school you didn’t attend. But tonight it was just a reminder of the steady rush of time. This sleepless night might have been ticking on slowly, but all around me, life was speeding by. Just the thought of all the uncertainty that lay ahead had my heart racing, and I flopped over onto my stomach, willing myself to calm.
But there was no peace to be found as my mind bounced between remembering the tenderness of Mack’s touch on the diving raft, and the twisted pleasure he seemed to take in tormenting me with the wireless password. And then, a parade of negative thoughts about myself flooded in, right next to the ones about Mack. My mind felt like a bar on a Friday night during happy hour, crowded and full of frantic shouting, where no one can hear a thing.
Reaching down to the floor, I yanked my phone out of the charger and opened a web browser, typing “signs you have burnout” into the search bar. I scrolled down through the results, article after article after article. Words like “exhausted” and “drained” floated by on the screen. Finally, I tapped one titled “5 Signs You’re Burnt Out and How to Beat It!”
A stock photo of an attractive woman in a bright red business suit clutching her forehead took up half the page. “If you’re depressed at the office, struggling with sleep, missing out on work–life balance, and cycling through negative thoughts about yourself, you may be dealing with burnout. But don’t worry, besties! We’ve got the blueprint for breaking free from burnout to help you live your best life yet!”
I grimaced and quickly closed the article.
Maybe I didn’t want to think about the signs of burnout, after all. Besides, I had a plan to fix things, and now—with my eyes nowhere near drooping closed—was as good a time as any to get to work on it.
I dug my headlamp out from under my pillow, sliding it over my messy bun and tightening the strap around my brow. My therapist had once told me to move locations when I had insomnia; apparently some studies showed that just the change of setting could help our bodies recalibrate and get back into the right mindset for sleep. I might as well try it, even though I’d found it wasn’t always foolproof.
I grabbed a few things to keep me busy—my notebook, camp letter, and a pen—and tiptoed toward the door of the cabin, opening it slowly, inch by inch, so as not to make a sound. Despite what Trey had said earlier, there was no snoring coming from his side of the room, just the repetitive whir of white noise blasting from Nick’s phone, plugged into the wall.
Outside, I settled into the wooden swing that hung on one end of the cabin, suspended by thick metal chains. I gave myself a tiny push with my feet, setting it rocking back and forth gently. I thought back to what Sam had mentioned, that Mack had installed swings at all the cabins, yet another small touch that showed how much he loved this place.
Thanks to the moonlight, I could make out the outline of the boathouse, and I wondered if Mack was having a sleepless night too. But then I remembered who I was dealing with. He’d probably crawled into bed with a smile on his face and fallen asleep to sweet dreams of taunting me with that stupid medal.
I fiddled with the pen in my hand, tempted to start a new list with one item on it: Stop thinking about Mack.
I’d probably go to my grave still trying to check that one off.
Instead, I unfolded my old letter and placed it next to me on the swing. My headlamp lit up the paper on my lap like a spotlight. My list from work, written just yesterday, stared back at me. I flipped the page on that part of my life. It was time to start fresh.
I thought for a moment, and then wrote: Clara’s Camp List: Must Be Completed In Order to Save Job.
Good enough, especially on no sleep.
Lydia always teased me about my to-do list titles, but writing them out like this organized my brain and helped me to see the end goal. And this one was clear: Get through this week, and head back to the office a better, brighter, shinier version of myself. I imagined Amaya stumbling off of Abe’s desk in awe as I sashayed into the office with my proverbial shit together.
I glanced over at my letter, covered in my tidy teenage handwriting. There was no way I was getting a dog or cutting my hair this week, so those were automatically out.
Starting at the top, I copied over every goal I’d declared for myself on that final night of camp in clear, deliberate penmanship, with a large, empty box next to each one. The bigger, the better, I thought.
Underneath each action item, a bullet point followed by a brainstorm, just like I was sitting across from Amaya, prepping for a new business call with a client.
1. Do something meaningful with your life. Don’t waste it.
- What counts as meaningful, anyway? My job???
2. Surround yourself with people you love, who love you.
- Maybe already done? I’m here! Check!
3. Do something that scares you. Daily. Take risks, goddamnit! (Jump off the high dive, you scaredy-cat).
- Anything but that stupid high dive. Sorry, old self.
4. Experience real joy.
- More wants. Less shoulds.
5. Be kind to yourself.
- Meh. I’ll try.
6. Have a shitload of fun.
- Camp games! Color Week! Wish boats! Do all the stuff I loved once.
7. Be a great friend.
- Fix things with Sam.
8. Take a lot of LOVERS! Or at least have one passionate love affair.
Directly below it, I penned, Mack. Then I crossed it out. Then I wrote Mack?
Why had I included this on my list back then? I vaguely recalled the word “lover” being an inside joke that summer between me and Eloise, as we devoured her fat stack of romance novels. And I’d jotted “LOL” next to it as if to discount it further.
But I’d also written this letter right after my first true moment of raw lust, tangled up with Mack for a minute in the woods. I knew that somewhere, there was truth in this demand. So I tried to channel the Clara I’d been back then, and what she would have wanted from a lover.
Sex, I’d decided. Definitely, sex.
And that was almost certainly not happening after the very weird and intense encounter with Mack.
But we’d kissed, so that counted as something.
I turned the page again, trying to push out the memory of him with a new list.
- Capture the Flag
- Friendship Bracelet–Making Party
- Color Week Relay
- Dessert Party
- Truth or Dare (for Eloise)
- Wish Boats
All things I’d loved as a camper, all totally easy to replicate this week. Pressing my hand gently on the page, I tore it along the edge and folded it up into a tiny square, no bigger than a matchbook.
It was settled then; I was getting my life back on track, and I knew exactly how to do it.
Sometimes it really was as easy as making a list.