April Fools
Aviana
In the three days I’ve been here, I’ve done more than I expected— registered for courses such as hiking, yoga and even an art class, joining in on a group introduction activity, enduring awkward icebreaker games, and sitting through the extensive rundown of rules and procedures. I’ve met the three other girls in my cabin: Madison, Scarlet, and Hazel. They don’t assign cabins based on shared trauma, so each of us has a completely different story to tell.
Madison and Hazel chose the room to the left of the main living area, while Scarlet and I share the one on the right. The bedrooms are identical, painted a soft peach that glows warmly in the daylight. Both have a compact bathroom tucked into a corner, its minty green tiles and surprisingly modern shower adds a touch of freshness to the space. The pastel tones and the faint scent of sandalwood mixed with citrus that lingers in the cabin make it feel oddly peaceful—a place that promises rest and a fresh start.
Scarlet, my roommate, seems to think I have an attitude toward her, but the truth is, she reminds me too much of my foster mother, Mrs. Lily Widlow. Scarlet has that same auburn hair and sharp green eyes, though her face is freckled like a canvas splashed with reddish-brown paint. She’s here because her ex-husband abused her, but sometimes, I can’t help but feel annoyed by her. She’s always so flirty, constantly showing off her body in a way that feels forced, like she’s trying to get attention at every turn. It’s a constant reminder of everything I’ve tried to distance myself from, and I find it hard to connect with her, even though I know her pain is real .
Then there’s Hazel. With long, silvery-ash hair and striking amber eyes, she’s impossible to miss. Her edgy, no-nonsense vibe gives off the impression that she doesn’t care what anyone thinks, but I sense there’s more beneath the surface. She’s the youngest in our cabin, in her early twenties, and is here because of a disorder she hasn’t been ready to share with the rest of us.
Madison, on the other hand, reminds me of Anne Hathaway in The Princess Diaries —before the makeover. Her long, wavy brown hair seems like it would rebel against any weather forecast. On the first day, it rained, and when she walked into the cabin with her frizzy halo, I had to fight the urge to hunt for a hair straightener. Madison’s story is the most heartbreaking—she grew up in poverty in a rough part of New Jersey and once found her mother overdosed on the floor of their home. At just twelve, she had to call 911 and face the unimaginable alone. And yet, somehow, she ended up with a foster family who adopted her, giving her the stability I never had.
I couldn’t help but feel a stab of jealousy. Madison had found a place to belong, a family to call her own. I had bounced between foster homes, never really feeling like I was wanted, always just a temporary guest in someone else’s life. The difference between us was painfully clear, and it made it harder to connect with her, no matter how much I understood the depth of her pain.
Despite our differences, I’ve started gravitating toward other campers during group therapy and nature hikes. Dr. Brenner was right—I’ve seen him often. He’s been a licensed clinical mental health specialist for seven years and teaches at Whale Gulch College in Mizpah, Washington. At Heal Your Soul, he uses Prolonged Exposure Therapy and Trauma-Focused Cognitive Behavioral Therapy to guide us, though he always calls us “survivors” instead of victims.
I read the pamphlet in my cabin on the first day, summarizing the camp’s purpose: “Heal Your Soul provides a safe, supportive environment to process past trauma, offering therapeutic techniques like meditation, journaling, group therapy, and bodywork to facilitate emotional release and healing.” The goal, it explained, was to help participants release the emotional weight of their past and move forward.
As I walked down the winding trail, the girls’ chatter about the week ahead faded into the background. The thought of sneaking away for a few private moments—escaping the group sessions to soak in the stillness of the forest—felt strangely comforting.
“Oof.”
And just like that, I slammed face-first into someone’s shoulder.
“Nice one there, Aviana!” Hazel teased as the girls laughed and walked ahead.
“Aviana, huh? Dr. Carlos Flores. Finally nice to meet you,” said the man I bumped into.
“Finally?” I asked, confused. “I didn’t realize we were supposed to meet.”
“Oh, no, not like that,” he clarified with a smile. “You’re in one of my classes while you are here.”
“Oh? What class is that?” I asked, intrigued and eager to find out what he taught.
“Yoga,” he replied with a grin, then continued on his way. A spark of excitement flickered in me—I’d been really looking forward to that class. Maybe it would help me find some peace, or at least ease the constant tension I carried.
***
Past
Age 9
“Watch where you’re going, girl,” he growled, his voice heavy with irritation. I had run straight into Mr. Widlow’s round stomach as he walked up to the house after work. He wasn’t a door-to-door salesman like I once thought, but a cobbler who fixed other people’s broken shoes .
“I’m so sorry, sir,” I stammered, stepping back.
Whoosh. Crack.
The belt snapped against me before I even had time to process he had ripped his belt from the loops. Tears stung my eyes as I yelped in pain.
“Is that how I raised you, to call me ‘sir’?” he thundered, raising the belt again.
I cowered, yet hands instinctively shielding my backside. “I’m sorry, Daddy Widlow. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“That’s right—you weren’t thinking, you stupid girl.”
Tears threatened to spill over, but I forced them back. Crying only made him angrier.
Apologizing again and asking for permission to go inside the house, Mr. Widlow allowed it but as I reached out for the doorknob to the side door of the house, he called out, “wait up, girl.”
As he approached me, I gulped, dropped the doorknob, and stood motionless as a statue. He was still holding his belt in his hand, and I dared not breathe for fear of getting struck again. I should have known better than to address him as “sir” after spending a year and a half here with the Widlows.
“Your birthday’s coming up,” he said suddenly, his voice unnervingly calm. “Your mother and I want to do something special. Maybe a party at the arcade or a trip to the movies?”
Was this a joke? The same man who had just whipped me was now talking about birthday plans? I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice steady. “If allowed, Daddy Widlow, could we go to the arcade with a few of my friends from class?”
Whack.
The belt struck my arms, feeling like a hot iron poker “Who do you think I am? Harry Stine?” he sneered, referencing some rich farmer.
“I’m sorry, Daddy Widlow,” I choked out. “ I would love for you to take me to the arcade for my birthday, Daddy Widlow. Please, can you do that? Ignore what I said before about friends.”
“Girl, stop that rambling.”
“I will do better next time, Daddy Widlow. I’ll never ask for anything again.”
“That’s better.” He smirked, watching me rub the spot where the belt had landed. His smirk grew darker as he added, “Would you like me to make that feel better? I’m sure I can make it feel as though that never occurred.”
My stomach twisted as he gripped my arm and led me inside the veranda. The golden afternoon light filtered through the lace curtains as he pushed me onto the couch and sat down next to me. His hand squeezed my thigh, his voice low and deliberate. “You’ll grow into a perfect woman someday, just like Mommy Widlow.”
Inhaling to steady my breath so it wouldn’t come out shaky, I took that time to ask again, “Is that a yes, Daddy Widlow? Are you taking me with Mrs. Widlow to the arcade in town?”
I winced as his hand squeezed harder. What did I say? I try to remember what I said to him for him to hurt me. This wasn’t feeling good.
“Girl, I thought you knew if you were to call me Daddy, you call Lily, Mommy. She has done so much for you in the last year. She is much better than your dead mother.”
Wetness coats my face as I cannot stop the tears from falling this time. He is going to beat me for crying. One thing we don’t do in this house is cry. We don’t show emotion because we are not weak, I would hear Mr. Widlow tell Lily often. I never call her mommy. She never makes me call her that, but she does something else. Every night, she brushes my hair before bed. It’s always her, never anyone else. That was her thing to do. “I will never replace your mother, dear, but I hope to one day maybe adopt you as my own daughter. And if you feel you want to call me mom, that is okay with me,” she said to me one night, gently smoothing the tangles from my hair with her careful, practiced strokes.
He is never wrong, and one thing Mr. Widlow will not do is apologize. You should apologize to him for anything and everything you do. His hand was no longer squeezing my knee; instead, it became feather-light as it stroked the outside of my thigh. Up and down, his thumb brushed the inside of my thigh, mimicking soft tickles—just like many times before, since the first time I moved into this house. It didn’t tickle, and I didn’t giggle at the feeling.
I wanted to disappear, to become invisible, but I couldn’t escape the feel of his fingers brushing up my inner leg and up against the edge of my cotton underwear. Just then, a voice called out from behind us.
“Why is she crying, Brandon?”
Mrs. Widlow’s voice, soft but firm, broke the moment.
“Oh, you know how she is, honey,” he said smoothly, letting go of my thigh. “I was playing a prank, and she got scared.”
Mrs. Widlow frowned. “A prank? On a child? What were you thinking?”
“It’s April Fool’s,” he shrugged, feigning innocence.
But nothing about it felt innocent to me