18. Miller
“Can we play with Lucy today?” Oliver begs as we walk toward the Nature department for the first activity period.
We just barely survived the chipmunk invasion, and he wants to talk about more insane animals?
“I was kind of thinking about just getting Bonnie and Clyde out,” I say.
The rabbits are manageable. You don’t have to deal with them trying to kill you, unlike Lucy the goat, who seems to have an evil agenda. And they’re not all that fast, so at the end of the day you just pick them up and deposit them in their cages.
You don’t have to chase them around with a broom, either.
Picture this: Eight campers are nestled quietly on their beds, reading and listening to music or whatever. You have a belly full of chicken patties and potato chips and settle onto your own bed, ready for a nap.
And then you hear scratching. Then it comes again, from under your bed, where your remaining t-shirts that haven’t been eaten by the goat are folded and where your snacks are safely stored.
You lean over to peer under there to see what the hell is making that noise. And a fucking chipmunk scurries out from where it’s chewed a hole through your bag of Doritos.
You can imagine the reaction of said campers, who immediately deserted their beds and tried to chase the rodent around the cabin. Dave squealed like a little girl and pulled his legs onto his bed, where he stayed, completely useless. Two campers ran into one another head-on.
It took a good five minutes of me chasing the thing around the cabin with a broom to guide it out the door. Rest hour was pretty much over after that.
It turns out you’re not supposed to keep food in the cabins unless it’s in like a plastic container, because chipmunks and squirrels will come in and try to eat it, Dave explained to me after the fact.
Thanks. Information that might have been helpful, oh, a week ago, when I stockpiled an entire pantry under there.
So I’m a little more soured on animals than usual as we head to the Nature barn. Bonnie and Clyde are all I can handle today.
Even with the rabbits, you have to latch the cages well. That was one of the first lessons Mary, the department head, taught me when I showed up here during staff training. Apparently, Bonnie and Clyde got their names when someone left the cages unlatched and both rabbits escaped from their crates and made a mess of the barn.
Barnis kind of a loose term, to be honest. Honestly, I expected worse.
It’s a single house-shaped building, a little larger than our cabins, with the same peeling red paint and black roof.
Inside it’s just one cozy room, with tattered posters of animals and plants on the weathered walls. Two worn armchairs sit at one end of the room, joined by a handful of folding chairs and a plaid sofa that has stuffing poking from holes in various places.
I can only imagine the holes were the result of one of Lucy’s many bad deeds.
Lucy isn’t supposed to go inside the barn, but Lucy does what Lucy wants.
Technically, only the rabbits live indoors. Lucy’s pen is on the back side of the barn. Edison the sheep, Richard the Shetland pony, and Elsa the alpaca live out there, too.
I do not like any of them. And it’s become obvious in the last few days that the feeling is mutual.
“Bonnie and Clyde are boring, and we played with them yesterday,” Oliver argues with a pout.
“I’ll think about it.” That’s about as close as I want to get to Lucy, or any of the other large animals, or animals in general, if I’m being honest.
Thinking. Not looking at or petting or, god forbid, taking out of their enclosures. The only bright spot in this whole Nature department nonsense is that cleaning their stalls—also known as shoveling poop—has somehow been branded as a “fun” camper activity, and thus isn’t my problem.
When we reach the barn, I wince as I see Mary already leading Lucy out of her pen.
Oliver cheers and runs ahead. At least someone is excited about the goat.
To be clear, it’s not that I don’t like animals. I do—when they’re the right kind of animals. Pets, mostly. I love dogs. Big dogs, small dogs, it doesn’t matter. Cats are cool, within reason. Goldfish? Absolutely. Even Bonnie and Clyde have some redeeming qualities.
But a goat isn’t exactly on the pet spectrum. Goats, if Lucy is representative of her species, are evil, bordering on the spawn of Satan. Even if most goats aren’t that bad, Lucy, specifically, just might be the Anti-Christ.
The goat makes eye contact with me—with her stupid, rectangle-shaped pupils—as Mary leads her to the group of waiting campers, who are waiting on the grass.
I swear Lucy smirks at my pained expression.
The second activity period today is a class entirely focused on goats. Goat, actually. Singular goat, which is one goat too many. I’ve accepted that Lucy and I need to be in the same space during that hour. But that one hour of her nipping at me, standing in my way, eating my shirts and doing her best to kill me in a variety of ways is enough.
I don’t need a second hour of Lucy.
But even though the hour hasn’t officially started, the kids in first period have formed a circle around Lucy and settled in.
“Miller,” Mary calls.
I curse under my breath, quiet enough that the kids don’t hear it, and join their circle. This is my job. And if I get fired, I lose any shot I had with Becca.
Lucy spots me immediately as I join the circle and makes a beeline for me.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” I say, stepping back. “I like this shirt.”
Yesterday Lucy grabbed a bite of my t-shirt, then took off, leaving me wearing a ripped crop top for the afternoon. The kids thought it was hilarious. And it was, but I need a few shirts. Between bloody noses and this goat, my supply is dwindling.
Lucy trots off the other direction. I breathe a sigh of relief.
We spend the entire class that way. The. Entire. Hour. Standing in a circle with the campers corralling Lucy, while she hops from person to person, nuzzling her head against them and letting them pet her.
Except for me. She tries to bite me or eat my shirt every time she comes near me. Sometimes both.
I swear, I must have been a goat-murdering peasant in a past life to deserve this type of treatment, because Lucy doesn’t seem to focus her evildoing on anyone else.
I’m getting pretty close to being a goat-murdering non-peasant in this lifetime, to be honest.
The bell rings to end the activity period, and Mary waves as the campers scatter, headed to their next class.
Lucy attempts to scatter, too. She trots off toward the woods with a mouthful of grass.
“God da—darn it, Lucy,” I mutter, catching myself as I jog past campers after Lucy.
The goat looks at me and hops off the other direction, like this is a game, as I try to chase her down.
Lucy pauses to grab another bite of grass, giving me the advantage. I’ve got you now, goat.
I grab her hindquarters and keep a hand on top of her as I walk around her to grab her collar. Lucy turns, evading me as I reach for her harness.
I move the other way. Two can play this game.
Lucy bleats as I walk behind her. Then, with no warning, she kicks me right in the stomach. I stumble backward, gasping for air as she runs off.
How is this my life? Chasing a goat who hates me and being assaulted by the stupid thing?
If it weren’t for Becca, I swear, I’d quit right now. How much would I owe to the camper scholarship fund? I don’t fucking care. I’d give my right nut to be able to never see Lucy again.
But Lucy and Becca are a package deal for now, so here we are.
I limp back toward the Nature barn, where the second group of campers is gathering. They’re standing in a circle around Lucy, who has brought herself back to the barn and is smirking at me. You didn’t know goats could smirk? Me either, but this evil creature most certainly is.
“Why don’t you walk Elsa?” Mary calls, correctly sensing that Lucy and I need a break from one another before this situation escalates further. “She needs to get a little exercise before the third period campers get here.”
I’m not sure I like the alpaca any more than the goat, but at least she tends to be slower. Plus, she’s confined safely to her pen, and I’ll put a leash on her before I take her out. It’ll be more controlled, at the very least.
We make it ten feet from the pen before Elsa sits down and refuses to move.
I tug on the leash. “Come on, Elsa.”
Elsa has no intention of moving. I spend the next twenty minutes waiting for this very large, very stubborn animal to move. My only consolation is that the campers think this is hilarious.
At least someone is laughing.
* * *
I give Lucy a glare as I lock the pens for the night.
“I’m watching you, goat,” I say, pointing at my eyes with two fingers and then at her. “No shenanigans tomorrow.”
Lucy bleats at me through the chain-link fence, a clear fuck you in goat language.
Back in the barn, Mary and I take a few minutes to clean out the rabbits’ cages and sweep out the inside of the barn together. The campers have down time between their last period and dinner, so there isn’t a rush to get back. We close up the building as we head out, pulling the large door closed behind us.
Mary slides a phone from her pocket and taps at the screen, then laughs at whatever she’s reading. “Oh my God. Did you hear about this?” She tilts the phone toward me.
I’m not sure how she gets to carry her phone when the rest of us aren’t allowed to. Honestly, it seems like a lot of people choose to ignore this rule.
“Hear about what?” I close the lock with a snick and squint to read the small type in the text message displayed on her screen.
“You know Becca? She works in Boating?”
She’s got my interest now. I do know Becca, in fact. “Yeah?” I glance back up at her.
“Jana sent me a text. Apparently, Becca tipped a sailboat over last period,” Mary says, laughing as she taps out a response. “All the way over. Turtled it.”
“Turtle?” They have such weird names for things here. I wonder if this is a Camp Winnie thing or a real sailing thing.
“Yeah, like flipping a turtle over and it can’t get back up. Or like a right-side-up turtle with its shell. I don’t know why they call it that. But it means it went all the way over. It’s really hard to flip those back right side up.” Mary taps on her phone and holds up a picture.
The image on her small screen shows something that does look like a turtle, if turtles were white and really fucking big. Without the context, I’d have no idea that was supposed to be a sailboat. “Is she okay?” I ask.
I know nothing about sailing, but I’m pretty sure the boat is supposed to be the other way up. Picturing her tumbling out of that thing into Lake Winnipesaukee, my heart seizes.
Mary frowns, still staring at the phone. “Oh, I’m sure she’s fine. This happens a few times a summer.”
I don’t answer. I’m deep in thought as we walk.
If Becca tipped a sailboat, she’s probably feeling like crap, let alone turtling one. It might be a funny name, but she won’t think it’s as hilarious as everyone who wasn’t involved.
“Are the campers okay?”
Mary nods and finally puts the phone away. “Yeah. It sounds like Drew had to go pick them up in the rescue boat. He’s the Boating department head,” she explains. I’m still trying to keep all the names straight. “They probably loved riding in the motorboat, honestly.”
Mary’s right. I can imagine campers getting a kick out of this whole situation. Becca, though? Not so much.
Becca still won’t really talk to me, but I know she took it really hard when Maya got hurt. She takes herself too seriously. Even with the little I know about her, it’s obvious to me that she’s going to beat herself up for this.
“I’m going to cut over this way,” I say to Mary, turning toward the Fireflies cabins as we near the Sports field. “See you tomorrow.”
She gives me a wave as she continues the other direction.
I walk through the Fireflies cabins that are nestled together, sneaking a glance at Cabin 2. But I bypass my cabin and keep going until I’m between the Ladybugs cabins and the boating area. Just as I step out of the woods, I see her.
Becca is trudging from the beach, headed toward the cabins. Her gaze is on the ground, so she doesn’t see me, but she’s walking right toward me, too. Her shoulders are slumped. Just from her posture it’s obvious that she’s stuck in her head.
I lean against a tree and wait.