4. Miller
There are about a million reasons to say no. My life is here in Philadelphia. My friends.
Plus, I have no fucking clue how to be a camp counselor. But I said I was looking for a challenge, right? And I’m not one to back down from a bet.
“Hell, yeah,” I say. I hope my enthusiasm masks the slight panic in my voice.
Brett laughs. “Oh, man. This is going to be great. I can’t wait to see you, and I have a feeling that this is going to be a shitshow. Staff week starts in a week. Can you be here by then?”
Let’s see, between my schedule of doing nothing and doing more nothing… “Yeah, I can make it by then.”
“Awesome. Text me your email and I’ll send you some paperwork and stuff. I can’t wait.”
Something occurs to me. “So, uh… what do I bring?” I’m imagining shorts and flip flops, but I’m sure there’s more to it than that.
Brett’s chuckle doesn’t do much to assuage the feeling that I’m in way over my head. “Oh boy. I’ll send you the camper packing list. Just… multiply by a few weeks. There’s a laundry room the staff can use, so factor that in.”
“Okay. Thanks. This is going to be fucking amazing. I can’t wait.” Blind enthusiasm is better than fear. Always.
Right?
“I’m going to give your number to another counselor who’s going to be coming up for the summer, a late addition to the staff just like you. She hasn’t been here in a few years, but she’s a veteran. She can give you all the information you need. And Miller?” Brett pauses, and I wait for him to give me some advice, some pep talk or something. “You can’t swear at camp.”
* * *
“What the fuck do you mean, you’re going to go work as a camp counselor?” Blake stares at me in disbelief from where he’s standing on the other side of my bedroom. The bed between us is covered with clothes and other things I think I’m supposed to be bringing on this little adventure.
I snatch the packing list out of his hands, giving him a pointed look. “Exactly what I said, dingbat. And I can’t swear on camp property apparently, so we’re going to practice using alternative words.”
“The fuck does that mean?”
I roll my eyes. He knows exactly what it means. “Like, say what the heck does that mean, or maybe what the hoppin’ toads does that mean? Words other than fuck. I think you and your PhD can come up with an extensive vocabulary.”
Blake wanders into my kitchen without answering and comes back with a beer. “My PhD is in economics and game theory, you anus. I didn’t exactly read the classics while I was in grad school.”
“I think anus might be considered to be on the same spectrum as asshole.”
“I’ll work on it.” He takes a swig of Yuengling with a scowl, one of his more frequent expressions.
I stare at the packing list, trying to make sense of everything.
T-shirts, short and long sleeved
Shorts and long pants
Sweatshirts
“What do you think I need a sweatshirt for? It’s eighty-five degrees, for crying out loud.” I hold the paper toward Blake.
He shrugs. “Maybe it’s just in case? It can’t hurt to bring one, right?”
I roll my eyes. I don’t need a sweatshirt. I’ll be fine. I keep working my way down the list.
Hiking boots
Shower shoes
Sneakers
Why are there so many damn shoes on this list? Just sneakers will be fine. If I survived the high school locker room after lacrosse practice without getting athlete’s foot, I think I’ll be okay in the camp bathrooms. And hiking boots? Who owns those? Again, sneakers will be fine. I mentally check off all footwear.
Flashlight
Unnecessary. What are we, going cave exploring?
Water bottles
Laundry bag
Raincoat
I toss an umbrella into the duffel bag that’s open on my bed. Do I even own a water bottle?
“Go get me a water from the fridge,” I tell Blake.
“What’s this for?” he asks as returns from the kitchen and hands it over.
I pack it into the duffel bag. “The list says water bottles.”
Blake looks doubtful. “I don’t think they meant Dasani.”
I ignore him. I may not be an expert on summer camps, but it’s not like Blake is, either.
The rest of the page contains an exhaustive list of toiletries. Toothpaste and toothbrush, got it. And bug spray and sunscreen. I can probably get a grocery delivery with those before I leave. Or just have it delivered to the cabin or tent or whatever we live in at camp. And maybe I’ll even order a new pair of sandals for the shower, if I must.
Also, snacks. If I’m living in the woods for the next few weeks, I’m bringing Doritos with me. And maybe some Swiss Cake Rolls.
I pull on the zipper, which gets stuck halfway. I drop the bag on the floor anyway. There are still some things left to pack, and not all of them will fit in the backpack I plan to bring, so I’ll need to shove a few more things in the duffel. “All set. Want to see if Maddox and Cam can go out to the bar tonight? I’m leaving in the morning.”
* * *
“So what are you going to do? Like, teach kids knot tying or something?” Maddox leans back against the booth and tips his beer bottle to take a sip. His wife Holly is home tonight, apparently dealing with morning sickness. From Maddox’s description, it does not sound pleasant.
“I don’t know. Maybe. I could teach them poker, I guess. Or lacrosse.” I shrug and lift my own drink to my lips.
I didn’t look into whether we were allowed to have alcoholic beverages at camp, but given Brett’s stance on swearing, I’m guessing it’s also anti-alcohol.
Anti-good times, more like.
Cam pushes a hand through his hair as he sets his soda on the table. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing? I mean, just think of how things went when I agreed to help Addie babysit. I’m just saying.”
I snort with laughter as I pop a handful of peanuts into my mouth. “I don’t think these kids are in diapers. God, I’d give anything to have video evidence of you changing that kid’s diaper.”
Cam frowns, probably remembering the little gremlin who peed on him. “I’d give anything to forget that. The whole idea of kids freaks me out, honestly. I can’t believe you’re about to voluntarily take this on.”
I’m still on the fence about whether this is a good idea at all. Fortunately, Blake saves me from having to respond.
“Well, let’s wish the fucker luck. Better him than us, right? Miller, we’ll miss you, and we expect frequent updates. Got it?” He raises his beer in a toast. “Cheers.”
We clink our drinks together. I’ll need all the luck I can get.
It’s only 10 p.m. when I get back to my apartment. I never go to bed before midnight, but I’m going to be getting up early to beat traffic, so it might make sense to tuck in sooner tonight.
I look at the duffel bag on my floor, its zipper gaping open and the Dasani bottle sticking out the top. Maybe I could use some advice, honestly. I pull my phone out and add the number Brett sent me to my contacts, then send a text.
Becca Camp Person
Hey, Yoda. This is Miller. Brett gave me your number. I’m coming up to camp soon, and I hear you know all the things. Teach me your ways.
Um. Hi.
No ways to teach me?
Not particularly.
Well, aren’t you just a ray of sunshine.
Do you have a question for me?
What color underwear are you wearing?
There’s no answer. Geez. It was a joke, woman.
Mine are plaid, for the record. Real question is just about packing. What do I really need to bring?
Bring what’s on the list.
That’s surprisingly unhelpful. I wonder what wisdom Brett thought this delightful creature could impart. I can’t wait to meet her now, see what she’s like in real life.
The picture I have in my head is less than flattering, but you never know.
I plug in my phone and set it on the nightstand next to my favorite candle. It smells like cherries and citrus and was a Christmas gift from my mother last year.
I don’t usually question my mom because her ideas usually turn out to be good ones. Like this candle, for example. Cherry and citrus sounded like a terrible combination, but it works somehow. This whole camp thing, however, might be a disaster waiting to happen, even if it was her idea.
What the fuck do I know about being a camp counselor? I’m way too old for this. I have no idea what I’m doing. This is going to be a hot mess.
When the sun finally peeks through my blinds, I’m pretty sure I’m making a huge mistake, but there’s one thing I’m not doing, and that’s being a quitter. I don’t back down from things, which, to be honest, has caused me some problems in the past.
But the point is that I’ve never quit something important, and I’m not going to start now.
And Brett said he was short on counselors. He needs me, which means these campers need me. And I can get through anything if it helps people.
I toss my toothpaste, toothbrush, and a couple of razors into my backpack along with a phone charger before I zip it up and sling it over my shoulder. Blake is going to check in on my place while I’m gone, since I’m not sure exactly how long it will be. I’m planning to stick it out for the whole summer, but if things really go downhill, I could be back sooner.
I toss the duffel bag into the backseat of my Wrangler and set the backpack on the front passenger seat. I love this car. Maybe it’s a little much for city driving, but now that I’m doing this camp thing, it seems like it lends me a little credibility, like maybe I’ve eaten some granola in my day or scaled a mountain or two. Maybe even shit in the woods.
None of those are actually true, but there’s a first time for everything.
I call my mother as I pull onto the highway, loving the hands-free function.
“Hi, honey. How’s it going?” she answers on the first ring.
I flick on my turn signal and shift lanes. “Good. I’m headed up to camp.”
Her laughter fills the car. “I still can’t believe you took him up on it, Miller. I’m sure it’ll be good for you, and God knows they’re lucky to have you. But if I could be a fly on the wall!”
Mom’s been using that expression since we were little. Usually, it means she thinks we’re about to do something that she imagines will become a shitshow. I guess her and Brett have that in common.
“Hey, have some faith in me. I’ll be a good counselor.”
“Oh, I know you will. I have no doubt. I’m more worried about the campers who have to deal with you. Does Brett know you still love to pull pranks?”
I grin, thinking of all the things I’d love to pull this summer. “Nope.”
Mom laughs again. “Oh, heaven help that poor man. He has no idea what he’s getting with you, does he?”
“Nope,” I say again. It’s true. One of my favorite hobbies is planning elaborate pranks. My mom has been the target of many of my jokes over the years, but who do you think I learned it from?
She snickers into the phone. “What are you thinking of doing first? Want me to call him and tell him you broke both your arms and you need someone to help you for the next few weeks?”
I roll my eyes. “Nah. He won’t buy it. I was thinking more like putting his boxers up the flagpole some morning. Something classic and harmless. I think the kids would get a kick out of that one, too.”
The underwear-up-the-flagpole prank will be a solid choice for the first week.
Maybe the second week I can get someone to help me steal all the forks from the dining hall or something. Benign but annoying.
“Hmm. Low-level, but yes, classic. I like it. Well, if you need help, let me know. I’m also here if the kids need to be threatened. Remember how I used to call Santa and the Tooth Fairy when you were little, and they’d threaten you into behaving?”
Yeah, I remember. It was terrifying to think that I’d pissed off Santa, until I got old enough to read and realized the number she’d dialed was for Uncle Jack.
“I’ll let you know. Anyway, just wanted to let you know I’m headed out. Tell Jordan I say hi and I’ll call him Tuesday, okay?” My weekly call with my brother is set in stone, not to be missed by either of us. He has Down Syndrome, so he’s mentally younger than his twenty-two years, and routines are important to him.
I hit my brakes as traffic slows in front of me.
“Will do. Love you!” Mom chimes before ending the call.
I do my best to focus on the road. As I get further outside the city, the traffic begins to thin, and my mind wanders to all the things I read in the camp handbook that Brett helpfully forwarded me, along with the ridiculous packing list.
I make a mental note to remember to pick up bug spray on my way. That’s one of the few things that seemed actually necessary on that list.
According to the handbook online, we’ll be separated into cabin groups by camper age—the groups are named almost too cutely, things like Ladybugs and Dragonflies—and then the counselors are also assigned to a department for activity times. Arts and Crafts, Sports, Swimming, Boating… what was the last one?
I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, trying to remember.
Anyway, I’m hoping for Sports. I was a decent lacrosse player back in the day, but I’ve also dabbled in soccer, tennis, and football. I even tried basketball for a few years in high school, since the coach saw me in the hall and assumed the tall kid would be a good center.
It turned out that my height, six-foot-three back then before I put on another inch in college, wasn’t quite enough to overcome my inability to shoot.
The drive takes a solid seven hours, even though I shaved off the extra sixteen minutes my GPS estimated at the start. It’s almost 3:30 when I finally turn onto the dirt road.
Well, I wanted a change, right? Looks like this is it.
A smile crosses over my face as I see the sign, welcoming me to my next adventure.
WELCOME TO CAMP WINNIE.