ONE
The smell wraps around me like a reunion between old friends when I step off the bus. That dark soil smell, but mixed with something lighter. Something green that immediately makes me think of leaves in rain, or trees in the wind. I love this smell. I love it every summer. It’s the smell of freedom. Not that stupid kayaking-shirtless-in-a-Viagra-commercial freedom. That’s for straight people. This is different. It’s the who-cares-if-your-wrists-are-loose freedom. The freedom from having two seniors the table over joke about something being “so gay” at lunch.
Several tables are set out next to the parking lot, a big banner hanging over them: WELCOME TO CAMP OUTLAND.
This year, I admit, it smells a little different. Maybe not quite as free. But I knew it would be like this when I came up with my plan. This smell, I hope—slightly less pine, a bit more grass, the barest whiff of daisy, which I could be imagining—this is the smell of love.
“Keep it moving, keep it moving,” Joan, the camp director, calls out to us as we step off the bus we’ve been traveling in for the last several hours, waving her hands like a traffic cop. “Tables are by age—find your age, go to that table to register.”
I look for the table that says 16 and wait in line. I run my hands over my newly shortened hair. Until two days ago, it had been chin length and wavy and super cute, if I do say so myself, but I needed to lose it for the plan to work. The line of campers moves forward and I’m at the front, staring down at Mark, the theater counselor—my counselor. I think he’s in his forties, gray at the temples, skin that’s a little too tan for a white guy, wearing the Camp Outland polo, big aviator sunglasses, and a pin that says THEATER GAY in sparkly rainbow letters. This will be the big test. He looks up at me, and for a moment, there’s a flash, like he recognizes me, but then he squints, confused.
“What’s your name, honey?” he asks.
I smile. Not my usual big grin; I’ve been working on changing it. Now it’s more like a smirk.
“Randall,” I say. “Randall Kapplehoff.”
“Randy?” He practically shouts it, looking me over again as he stands up. “Oh my god, what happened to you?”
“Puberty,” I say, now smiling my real smile. I look around, bring it back to smirk.
“Honey, you were a baritone last summer, this isn’t puberty,” he says. “I barely recognized you.”
Good, I think. That’s the point.
“I just thought it was time for a change,” I say.
“Were you being bullied?” he asks, concerned eyes peeking over his sunglasses.
“No.” I shake my head. “Just … wanted to try something new.”
“Well,” Mark says, sitting down. “It’s certainly new. I hope you haven’t changed so much you’re not auditioning for the show this summer, though.”
“We’ll see,” I say.
He frowns and flips through the pages on his clipboard. “Well, at least you’ll still be hanging out with us. You’re in cabin seven.” He takes a name tag label out from the back of his clipboard and writes a big R on it before I think to stop him.
“Actually,” I say, putting out a hand, “it’s Del now.”
He peeks up at me over the sunglasses again. “Del?”
“Yeah.” I nod, chin first. “I’m Del.”
“Okay,” he says like he doesn’t believe me, and writes it out on a new name tag sticker and hands it to me. I press it over my chest, rubbing it in, hoping it will stick. “Well, I’m going to have to talk to my therapist about this later,” he says to himself. Then he glances at his watch and turns back to me. “Flagpole meet-up is at eleven. So, go pick a bunk and be there in twenty minutes.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“Later … Del,” he says.
I walk back over to the bus where our bags have been unloaded and pick up the big military surplus bag I bought online. The purple wheely bag with the stickers of cats wearing tiaras on it wasn’t going to work this summer. Neither was having my parents drop me off. I think that made them a little sad. Camp Outland had been their idea four years ago, after I came out. Not many other twelve-year-olds were talking about how dreamy and cute Skylar Astin was in Pitch Perfect 2, and how I hoped my boyfriend would look like him someday, so they thought it would be good for me to meet some other queer kids, and they found Camp Outland—a four-week sleepaway summer camp for LGBTQIA+ teens nestled in the woods of northern Connecticut.
And let’s be honest. It was an amazing idea. Every summer has been better than the last. But this summer is going to be the best. Because this summer, Hudson Aaronson-Lim is going to fall in love with me.
I hoist the military bag onto my shoulder, not flinching as the scratchy, cheap canvas brushes my ear, and follow the other campers down the path through the woods. The camp is built like a waterfall feature. At the top is the parking lot, then follow the stairs down and you end up at the administrative section—Joan the camp director’s office, the infirmary, the big meeting hall for movie nights. Then another flight down and you have a big open field lined with cabins. The tier below that is the last one—the real camp—and has the dining hall, pool, drama cabin, obstacle course, capture the flag field, arts and crafts cabin, and a boathouse next to the river. I stop at the cabin-lined field, surrounded by the woods. There’s a flagpole in the center of the field for morning camp-wide meet-ups and evening bonfires. Breakfast is at nine, lunch is at one, and dinner is at six, then lights-out at ten. Otherwise, we pretty much make our own schedules. Sign up for pool time, sports, waterskiing, or just drop by the arts and crafts cabin and spend all day gossiping and weaving friendship bracelets. My favorite thing every year, though, has been the drama cabin. Mark puts on a show, and you have to audition but it’s not like school where the pretty blond girl lands the lead every year. They don’t care about gender or appearance when casting, they just want everyone to have fun, and we always do. Last year, I was Domina in Funny Thing, and I got a standing ovation after “That Dirty Old Man.”
But this year, no theater. This year … sports. I manage not to shiver as I think about it.
“Hey,” a voice behind me says. A voice I know. It’s low and a little breathy. I turn around and there he is, Hudson Aaronson-Lim, in all his glory. Tall, with muscular arms bulging in his white tee, and equally appealing bulging in his black gym shorts. He has a broad, square face, shadowed by prominent cheekbones and a little stubble. His short black hair is swept to the side, but messy, like he doesn’t care. He is, without a doubt, the most attractive man I’ve ever seen in real life. And more attractive than half the men I’ve seen on-screen. He’s got a killer smile, and he unleashes it on me now, crooked and a little sleazy, but only enough to make it sexy. I get that feeling I get around him, like I’m filled with stars and can be anything I want, do anything I want—conquer the world. Checking in on his Instagram never really gives me the same feeling. It’s a high I’ve missed all year.
“Hi,” I say after too long a silence. I hope I’m not blushing.
“You new?” he asks.
I smirk. He barely noticed me before, so it’s not surprising he wouldn’t recognize me. Now I have his attention.