5. June
JUNE
The Room Where It Happens - Hamilton
A yawn cracks my jaw so wide that tears gather at the corners of my eyes. Thank you, waterproof mascara. My eyes water further when I head out of the dining hall after breakfast and morning sunlight hits me square in the face. It’s not particularly early, but I had a terrible night’s sleep.
The ibuprofen I dry-swallowed better work, because my dorm mattress is no better than a slip of paper. Or maybe it’s that thirty’s fast approaching. My old ass is gonna need memory foam soon.
And the campers stayed up yapping past curfew. At least I’m not scheduled for dorm duties until week three, but it’s absolutely gonna suck. Even once everyone quieted, and I got used to practically tasting the wooden slats beneath the mattress, my mind couldn’t stop turning over Shaker’s.
Nick Harper .
Jesus, that man came out of left field. Sexy left field.
I press a hand to my sternum as it turns hot and tight. Probably from the dining hall coffee. They must pull the filters out of the garbage to make that sludge, and I’m not a teenager anymore, sucking back a Diet Coke at 8:00 a.m.
Not an auspicious start to my first day. But I turn away from the main courtyard, and at least the sun slants differently, hitting the red brick walkway and turning it a fiery red and gold.
Devanney Performing Arts Center, or DPAC, was brand new when I was a camper, but the building’s showing its age now.
Same, girl .
Water stains drip down the outside despite obvious and vigorous pressure washing.
I pull open the doors, but the new building smell I remember has dissipated.
When I walked in for my first morning announcements as a camper, inhaling the scent of sawdust and fresh plastic, it energized me.
Like I was exactly where I was meant to be.
Now, the auditorium buzzes with low chatter from campers and counselors. My eyes find Nick leaning against the apron of the stage, conversing with a faculty member I don’t recognize.
He runs a hand through his dark waves, and my cheeks heat.
I can’t believe he thought I wouldn’t remember him.
I wasn’t that big of a bitch in high school.
Right? Our graduating class had about 200 students, and the circle of nerdy creatives was even smaller.
I’d always said hi to Nick, but he was quiet.
Honestly, I figured he didn’t like me. He barely ever said three words to me back then, and he slipped away whenever I was around.
The auditorium doors clank behind me, indicating someone else is arriving.
I need to move; I can’t stand back here for morning announcements.
Music track kids sit up front—on the left and right sides of the house—voice students behind them.
DPAC is their domain, where they practice and perform their concerts.
They would’ve sat front and center, but the theatre kids claimed that spot already.
Music track outnumbers theatre, but theatre kids are louder.
I drag my feet as I pass dance track campers.
They sit in the center of the middle section, quiet, keeping to themselves—it’s an insular track.
Up front, counselors lean on the edge of the stage, sipping from their giant tumblers, hydrating after their antics last night.
I forgot how everyone carries massive water bottles around all day.
It’s just me and my everything’s got a snooty name.
“Never in the history of ever has someone relaxed after being told to do so.” I stomp down the path, doing my best to ignore Shaw, who catches up to me easily.