“No peanuts,” I say, taking my voice down a notch. “You guys are not allowed to have peanut M&M’s.” I walk over to Fancy and take the M&M’s out of her hand. “Sorry.”
Fancy glares at me. “But . . . but . . . no one in our bunk has a peanut allergy.”
“You’re right that nobody in the bunk has a peanut allergy,” I say. “But other kids in the camp do and we’re not taking any chances.”
“That’s so unfair,” she whines. “My parents paid for these.”
“Talia?” I call out. “Where are you? Help!”
“Just changing!” I hear. “There in a sec!”
“How do you know that no kids in the bunk have a peanut allergy?” I ask.
“My mom called and asked,” she says, her voice extra low and gravelly. “Obviously. I’m not psychic.”
Psychic, no; a tiny jerk, yes.
Do not call the children tiny jerks. Do not call the children tiny jerks. “Listen, everyone, it’s almost lunch,” I say, trying to remain calm. “We’re leaving here in five minutes. There’ll be lots of food there.”
“But I’m hungry now,” Lily says.
“Can we have the candy after?” Shira asks.
I hear Eric’s muffled announcement in the distance. “Attention, all counselors. I mean, attention, all counselors and . . . and, uh, campers. Yeah. Campers. Attention, all campers and counselors. It is now time for lunch. Please go . . . please proceed to the kitchen. I mean Rec Hall. Dining Hall! Yes, Dining Hall. Thank you.”
“It’s a good thing you’re hungry, then,” I say. “Because it’s lunch! Hooray! Come on, kids, let’s go eat.”
“But what about the candy? We can eat it afterward?” Emma F. asks.
“Do we have to wash our hands?” Emma C. asks.
“Yes, you have to wash your hands,” I say. “It’s lunch washup. So you should absolutely wash your hands.”
“I don’t want to wash my hands,” Fancy says.
“So don’t,” I snap. “Eat your lunch with grimy bus hands. Your call.” Yikes. The kids have been here an hour and I’m already losing it. I take a deep breath. I force a smile. I cannot lose it. I want to be good at this. I need to be good at this. “Everyone meet on the porch in three minutes, ’kay?”
“I’m not washing my hands,” I hear Fancy say as I turn around.
“You can use my sanitizer,” Talia says, stepping out of our counselors’ room. “It smells like cinnamon.”
I keep walking, all the way to the porch. And then I realize I forgot to wash my own hands.
Lunch is soggy grilled cheese and cold french fries.
Not that I have time to eat. I am too busy getting food, finding ketchup, pouring bug juice, and cleaning up bug juice.
Shira spills it all over the table when she tries to pour herself a cup. Then she starts to cry. Which is how I become the Designated Pourer.
As for the meal itself, the kids seem to be divided into two groups. Half of them help themselves to two sandwiches, multiple plates of fries, and piles of ketchup, as though they’ve never seen food before, while the other half barely eat.
“Do you want something from the salad bar instead?” I ask.
Shira shakes her head. “I’m not hungry.”
Maybe she shouldn’t have eaten that entire brownie. At least she’s not crying anymore.
Fancy goes to take a look at said salad bar and comes back with a scoop of tuna that she then just moves around her plate.
Awesome. I lean over to Talia. “What are we supposed to do? Force-feed them?”
“I guess they’ll eat when they’re hungry,” she says, shrugging. She leans closer to me. “Do you want to call it?”
“Call what?” I ask.
“Freeze,” she whispers, and waggles her eyebrows.
I had forgotten all about freeze. Oh, how I hate-loved freeze as a camper. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll call it. One. Two. EVERYONE FREEZE!”
Prague giggles and freezes. Fancy and Emma C. freeze too.
“Huh?” says Lily.
“You all have to freeze right now,” I say. “First one to move cleans up the table!”
“You move, you stack!” Talia says.
They are all frozen. Prague has her cup up to her mouth. Some of them are holding up forks. Some of them are mid-smile. Some are mid-chew. Shira was about to stand up. She’s kind of crouching there. She does not look steady. She does not look steady at all.
And she moves.
“Shira’s gone!” I call out.
Shira bursts into tears.
“Crybaby,” Fancy says.
“Hey!” I say. “Don’t call people names.”
I promise Shira that the bright side of stacking one meal is that it means she does not have to stack the next one. When the rest of the kids freeze, she can continue eating, she can try to make them laugh, she can pick her nose, she can do whatever she wants.
But she does not stop crying.
“Is everything okay?” Danish asks, walking up just as the snot drips down Shira’s nose.
“Noooooo,” she cries.
“She has to stack,” I explain. “I called freeze.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t call freeze at the very first meal,” Danish says.
Right. Oops. “No freeze. Forget freeze!” I tell the girls. “Counselors stack!”
“I’m not stacking,” Talia grumbles.
“I’ll stack,” I say, but Danish has already moved on to the next table.
I am really nailing it.
Rest Hour: We help the girls get settled.
Swim Tests: Someone pees in the pool. We don’t know who, but we know there are warm spots. So. Someones, plural, peed in the pool. Fantastic.
Milk and Cookies: Twice a day we get snacks in the dining hall. This is called Milk and Cookies even though today they only serve fruit, and no cookies. But I get to see Gavin in a bathing suit and his abs are . . . not terrible to look at.
Softball: Hurrah, something I’m actually good at! And so is Emma C.! She sends the ball flying through camp! “Way to go, Slugger!” I cry out.
“Can that be my nickname?” she asks.
Maybe nicknames are okay if they’re good nicknames? “Okay, if that’s what you want us to call you!”
“Yes, please!”
“Sure thing, Slugger!”
“Then I get to be Emma!” Emma F. calls out. “No more F! Actually, never mind. I want to be Em. Can I be Em?”
“Why not,” I say.
Gymnastics: Lily is a superstar. Like Olympic-level. Okay, maybe not Olympic-level but really, really great. I try to walk on the balance beam but fall off. Talia does a pretty good headstand.
Finally, we have Dinner Washup.
Time for a fifty-five-minute break. I am exhausted. I lie on my bed. My campers are being kind of quiet, which I’m guessing means they are eating candy.
When the fifty-five minutes are done, we gather the kids on the porch and head to the flagpole together.
“Get the kids in bunk lines!” Josh, the head counselor, hollers from beside the flagpole, where all the head staff is huddled.
“Come on, girls, bunk lines!” I call out.