Chapter Eleven
At the end of the first week at Camp Refuge, one of the senior counselors was eager to show us the infamous ravine.
Even though I knew some of the other counselors from church, Jameson was the only person I was close to.
The boy’s cabins were separate from the girls, so I had no one to head up there with. At least, that’s what I thought.
But then Hannah showed up. While my campers were soundly asleep, she met me around the back of my cabin at the window I’d made a habit of sneaking out nightly. And even though by that point I was a pro at jumping down from the sill, Hannah still held out her arms to catch me and soften the landing.
“Is it weird that I’m nervous?” I asked.
“Depends. Why are you nervous?”
Maybe because I was about to strip down to the bikini Kristen had convinced me to pack, in front of counselors who I’ve known since we were sharing Eggo waffles and syrup-soaked sausages over Crayola-colored pictures of Moses parting the sea.
Maybe because this was the big moment when Jameson might see me as more than just his sister in Christ. Maybe as his girlfriend, or prom date?
Or because underneath all those incredibly valid concerns was the fact that I felt like an impostor.
I’d never been the kind of girl who wore a bikini while night swimming, acting out a fantasy where she shocked everyone by showing them what lies underneath her knee-length skirts and crew neck blouses.
Honestly, my dad or Mrs. Patricia might have called it dancing on the line of sin.
But in reality, it was just a silly game of teasing among a bunch of horny teens that, until this summer, I never dreamed I’d be part of.
And, yes, I was participating, but I wasn’t into the shock value. These girls were an average size four and under while I came in at a whopping eight by comparison. Plus, without a flat ass and narrow hips, my bikini bottoms were a size ten.
“This was a mistake,” I said, stopping completely.
We were already running late because I couldn’t figure out the wraparound ties on my bikini top, and now I was spiraling at the realization that once I took off my oversized T-shirt, I’d be revealing my oversized everything to everyone, including Jameson—who had a six-pack.
Why did I let Kristen talk me into a bikini?
All of this could’ve been avoided with my safe and secure Lands’ End tankini top and skort bottom.
“It’ll be fun,” Hannah said, her voice even. She didn’t sound at all impatient, which made me feel even worse.
“I feel like… I feel fat,” I finally said.
Hannah’s eyebrows skyrocketed. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No. You’re super fit from, like, field hockey. For some reason, all black Christian boys are decked out with muscles—”
“Maybe it’s a blessing?” Hannah asked, joking. She found this amusing.
I continued, “And Yasmin’s lost, like, thirty pounds since last year, so she’s going to look great. And Rachael and her little Mary Minions wear bikinis to the public pool, so this is nothing to them. I’m the only one who—”
“Is absolutely gorgeous? Who actually has curves?”
“What?”
“Clarity, you’re beautiful. You are not fat, not by a long shot. And, yes, you might not look like you’re on the verge of blowing away in the wind, but I like girls with a little shape.”
Her words hung in the air between us. Though I felt a little vain at how her every compliment was like spoon-fed gelato, I also felt better.
Most days when I looked in the mirror, that’s how I saw myself.
Beautiful, curvy, different from the norm in the best way.
But sometimes, when I was changing in the locker room after PE or showing up at the community pool at the beginning of summer, I started comparing myself.
That’s usually when things went downhill.
“Plus,” she added, turning on her heel and casually continuing down the path, “there’s this quote from The Great Gatsby about Myrtle Wilson. I think it goes, ‘she carried her surplus flesh sensuously as some women can.’ I feel like if there was ever a person to apply that to—it would be you.”
We were walking at an even pace now, and though I knew I could still turn back and climb through the window of my cabin and forget this night ever happened—or almost happened, I chose to keep up with Hannah. I was pumped, the way I imagined some people felt before a bungee jump.
“I carry my flesh sensuously,” I said, tasting the words in my mouth.
At the time, I completely glazed over the fact that Hannah had basically just told me she thought my body—every curve, dimple, and soft spot that might spill over the hem of my suit—was hot.
I was more focused on using her springboard of compliments to affirm myself, and maybe that’s how it should’ve been right then.
I didn’t want to rely on anyone to feel good about myself.
As I suspected, we were the last ones to show up.
I could hear the other counselors laughing as we crept around the mess hall and found the narrow path that cut through the trees.
We wandered in the darkness, following moonlight and noise, stumbling over twigs, the large leaves tickling our ankles.
When we emerged into the clearing, all eyes found us.
This was before Hannah and I became Hannah and I, so I wasn’t nervous or trying to hide our friendship. Instead, I waved at Yasmin and scanned over the heads sticking out of the water until I saw Jameson already wading over to us.
I turned back to Hannah. Every hair on the surface of my skin was charged with electricity. “You were right,” I told her. “Thank you for making me come.”
“I didn’t make you do anything,” she said, but in her smile, I could see the You’re welcome.
With my back still turned to the creek and the other counselors, existing in the bubble of Hannah and me, the bubble of my sensuous flesh and perfection, I pulled my T-shirt up over my head in one swift motion, the humid air rushing to kiss my back.
“Hey, Clarity,” Jameson said behind me.
I winked at Hannah, hardly noticing that she also took off her T-shirt and was wearing a black Nike one-piece that—in all honesty—outdid every two-piece any girl could ever wear, but I was completely absorbed in what I thought I wanted.
She found some of her friends, the other counselors appointed to recreation time. I waded into the creek, deep enough that the water came halfway up my thighs, until I was standing in front of Jameson.
“Hey,” I said quietly. Even though we were out in the open, I wanted that one word to be just for him.
Looking back on that night, I realize two things. Blinded by my insecurity and then consumed with vanity, I never complimented Hannah. I could’ve and should’ve said how awesome her suit was.
Thing number two: After our initial greeting, when Jameson blatantly gave me the longest once-over of my life, we waded farther down the stream for some “privacy.” I started to feel nervous, no longer a badass, but more like I’d made a mistake.
I knew God had His eyes turned away from our counselor-collective brink of sin, so—needing to be saved—I turned around to look for the next best thing—Hannah.
Jameson slid his arm around my waist, and suddenly I didn’t know if I wanted so much privacy, if I wanted his hand to be on my bare skin, or if I even wanted him at all.
In my fantasies about us finally getting together, we were at a restaurant or huddled in the back of a Starbucks—fully clothed—talking about what we’re going to study in college and how we coincidentally want to go to schools less than thirty minutes away from each other. Not like this.
So, while Jameson started going on about how his day was, I looked over my shoulder—my eyes darting across the creek and its banks.
When I found Hannah huddled with the recreation counselors, her eyes were already locked on me.
In my mind, I screamed for her to come pluck me out of this moment.
She slipped completely under the surface of the creek water, not even excusing herself from the other counselors, and swam over.