What It Was Like (11 page)

“How am I going to get through all this?” she wondered.

I turned her around by the shoulders to face me.

“I'm going to save you,” I said, looking straight into her eyes. “That's how.”

“OK,” she said, trying to smile. “I believe you.”

It was the right thing to say, and what's more, I meant it.

When we got to the Quarry, we saw that unfortunately we were not alone. Across the water, a bunch of Boonies were partying on the cliff on the far side. There must have been at least twenty kids and quite a few cars. We could hear the radio from one of the cars, blasting across the Quarry, but I couldn't tell what the song was. We couldn't actually blame them for invading “our” space; it was a beautiful evening to be outside, and it was really
their
hang-out,
their
space.

One guy in a bathing suit stood at the edge of the rock and, to our amazement, jumped off the cliff and straight-arrowed, feet first, right into the water, far, far below him.

“Wow,” I said. “That guy is out of his mind!”

“I guess that water really
is
super deep,” Rachel said. “No wonder they dump all their garbage there.”

Another Boonie jumped into the water – head first, in a beautiful swan dive – to the whoops and cheers of his friends.

“It's amazing what people will do for some cheap thrills,” I said.

“They just want to be free,” she declared. “Just like everybody else.”

I spun her toward me, took her in my arms and whispered in her ear, “Someday, it'll be us. I promise. . . . Someday.”

We had to run through the forest to get back on time, but we made it.

≁

Of course I should have known that Jerry, Harriet, Estelle, etc. weren't finished with us. They could have left well enough alone, but they had to prove that they had the Upper Hand. (Why do adults always have to do that?) They couldn't fire me and kick me out of camp now that Stewie was gone, so what did they do? They found a way to send
Rachel
out of camp. The second-to-last week of camp was the big Senior Trip, a five-day excursion to a bunch of different places (this year, it was the Baseball Hall of Fame, the Howe Caverns, and some other touristy sites I can't remember), and at the last minute, they decided to make Rachel a
chaperone.

“Bastards!” I said when she told me of their plan to send her away. “Who thought of that brilliant idea?”

“I don't know. Harriet? That scarecrow Estelle?” she said bitterly. “Who knows?”

“You could refuse to go,” but even as I said it, I knew that that wasn't going to happen. She was still a C.I.T. and, technically, could still be ordered around.

“Oh, I wish I could,” she winced. “But when they didn't call my parents after the Bailey's thing, I promised Stanley that I'd do everything by the letter until the end of camp.”

“And this is how they treat you? By sending you away from me for five days?” I said.

She had no answer for that.

“We can do it,” she said with weak enthusiasm.

“We have no choice.”

The Five Days Without Rachel were a big lesson in Negative Learning. I learned that I did
not
like being without her. It was one thing to miss her for a few hours between morning and afternoon activities, or not see her overnight. But to go for five days without her was both actually depressing (I missed seeing, talking, touching, etc. her) and annoying (it was completely unnecessary and punitive). There were plenty of other C.I.T.s who could have gone on the Senior Trip. They picked Rachel just for spite, to keep us apart. And I haven't mentioned all the other things they did to keep us apart all summer, like making sure that we were on different teams for the Olympics – she was a Greek, I was a Roman.
Plus
they made sure that we were on opposite ends of the climactic Apache Relay. And the all-camp Sing too. She was a Martian, and I was a Buccaneer. You should have seen her, her skin all painted green, dancing the “Martian Monkey.” It caused a sensation in the camp and greatly displeased Estelle, Harriet, and all the other prudes, blue-noses, and killjoys.

I learned that not only was the world a lot less fun when Rachel wasn't around,
I
was a lot less fun. I was grouchy and impatient with the Doggies, and I didn't particularly care that I was. Dale moved Sid, from Marcus' bunk, over to us to take Stewie's place, but he proved to be almost completely worthless. He was a warm, fat body, and that was about it. All Sid did was read
Mad
magazine and steal candy from the Doggies. He was like a big Doggy himself, only he was supposed to help me watch the kids, not just lie on his bed, chain-smoke Viceroys, and pass gas. For two of the Five Days Without Rachel, it rained like some monsoon season somewhere. I had never seen anything like it; the rain came down like
nails
. So the kids were restricted all day to “bunk games,” which meant sitting on their beds, reading comic books or playing quiet games. For me, it was two days of napping, brooding, and breaking up fights over
Battleship
,
Sorry
, and a coveted PEZ dispenser in the shape of Wonder Woman. Not to mention a maddening day-and-a-half long argument among the Doggies (and idiot Sid) about which superpower would be the best to possess. My personal choice? Invisibility.

With Rachel gone, I also got a new level of teasing from people.

“So, how's the horny bachelor life?” said Eddie from the Bronx as he threw an arm around me roughly on the way up to Evening Line-Up.

“It sucks,” I said.

He laughed, but I didn't think it was all that funny. I especially didn't like it when Jerry, passing on the way into dinner, cracked, “Feeling lonely, hero?” He walked away before I could think of a fast comeback that didn't have a curse word attached. Something to take the buzz off the Crew Cut. It was probably best that I kept my mouth shut. He was still my boss, and it was only a few days until the end of camp. I could hang on and hold my tongue that long. But what I especially didn't like was that Jerry started punishing the Doggies as a way to get at me, giving them extra chores like “policing the grounds” around the Mess Hall or his Shak (which meant picking up cigarette butts and any little scraps of paper or trash on the ground). It was one thing to go after Rachel and me; it was quite another thing – completely unnecessary and unfair – to penalize the Doggies.

I spent two hours being talked to by Norm the Bug Guy about the cutthroat faculty politics at the Bronx High School of Science and why I should become a botany major at Columbia. Sheesh!

The only thing that made the Five Days Without Rachel somewhat bearable was that, a couple of times, I was approached by some of the prettier girl counselors. I guess the fact that I was Rachel's boyfriend gave me some kind of stamp of approval. (If Rachel chose me, I
must
have something to offer.) When Rachel was around, she monopolized my time. But now that she was gone, if only temporarily, I was free to be approached by other girls – something Rachel would not have exactly appreciated. She would have been jealous, and I take that as a compliment.

It was on the fourth endless afternoon. I was laying on the sidelines, watching the sweaty Doggies stumble around the burnt August grass, attempting to play soccer, when up stepped Sharon Spitzer, the blonde, unapproachable swimming goddess. Towering over me, she shaded her eyes with both hands, looking down.

“Hi,” she said softly. “I'm Sharon.”

For most guys, that would be enough for them to declare their ever-lasting love. Instead, I just said, “Hi yourself.”

She was wearing white short shorts and a little halter top. Her skin was brown and her hair was golden. She swayed over me, trying various angles to see in the bright sun.

“You belong to Rachel, don't you,” she said, as both a statement and a question.

“You could say that,” I replied, squinting up at her. “You could also say that she belongs to me.”

Sharon gave a little snort of a laugh then sat down suddenly, right next to me in the grass, cross-legged. She was wearing silver sandals and her toenails were painted pink.

“Y'know, I know Rachel pretty well,” she purred. “I live near the Princes, and my parents and her parents belong to the same beach club.”

“Aren't you all lucky?” I said.

She snort-laughed again cautiously, judging me.

“Rachel is a sweet girl,” she said in a way that made it sound like an insult. Sharon was a few years older than me, probably a junior or senior in college, and obviously enjoyed talking down to people. I didn't mind; I just looked at her pretty face and perfect form, and let her condescend to me as long she wanted, so long as I could enjoy the view. A girl this pretty would never have talked to me at home, unless to ask me some kind of favor like help with homework or the answers to a test. I confess that I liked the person that I had become at Mooncliff, even if it was a big front. I really had no business being with beautiful girls.

“I agree,” I said.

“I've watched her grow up,” she continued. “Here, and at home.”

“Good for you,” I said, playing with her.

“Are you sure you know what you're getting into?” she asked, as if she knew some nasty little secret. She had a little gold chain around her neck that caressed her throat just so. I told myself that I should get one of those for Rachel.

“Does anybody?” I answered back, not giving an inch.

Sharon tossed her head, freeing some strands of blonde hair that were sticking to her brow. It was a beautiful move, similar to Rachel's head toss.

“Have you
met
the Princes?” she asked.

“No,” I said measuredly.

She laughed again, a long ripple of rich-girl's laughter. She finally provoked me enough so that I had to defend myself, at least a little.

“I'm not in love with her parents,” I said, sitting up higher.

“‘Love'?” she repeated, a note of mockery in her voice. “Are you ‘in love' with Rachel?”

I hesitated. It was none of her business.

“It's none of your business,” I said. “But the answer is . . . yes.” I was proud of being in love with Rachel: Why be ashamed of it?

Sharon snickered and sat back, hugging her long, smooth legs into her body. She looked me over, unabashedly evaluating me.

“She's had a lot of boyfriends before you,” she said.

“Eric?” I snapped right back, knowingly. “I know about the past. I
care
about the future.”

I sounded more confident than I felt, but Sharon seemed somewhat convinced.

“Rachel's lucky,” she said. “Rachel Prince has always been a fairly lucky girl. But” – she stopped for suspense –”I think
you're
the one who's going to need some luck.”

She rose as quickly as she'd sat down. I didn't move. Her legs went all the way up to those tiny white shorts.

“Thanks for the wisdom,” I said, shielding my eyes. “…Sharrrron.” I liked saying her name, drawn out like that.

“On second thought,” she said, backing away from me. “If I were you, I wouldn't worry too much. Summer things never last.”

She smiled, turned, and walked away, satisfied with our encounter, knowing that she got in the last zinger. She knew that I was watching as she walked away; I could tell by the bounce in her step and that perfect sway of her perfect . . . everything. She was not a nice person and yet I was still flattered by her attention. Such is the power of pretty girls. She had that in common with Rachel, that power. I was glad that Rachel used her power for me, and not against me. And even if what Sharon said about “summer things” had some objective truth, it didn't necessarily apply to Rachel and me. We could be the exception to the rule.

≁

The day that the Seniors were coming back was the worst. The Doggies knew that I missed Rachel and had teased me for the first four days. I didn't let it bother me too much, but on the fifth day, it really got on my nerves.

I was walking the Doggies back from basketball, a game that they had lost to Bunk 7 – kids
younger
than they were. Dale awarded Bunk 7 free canteen at the Snack Shak while we got to walk back to the bunk across the hot campus in the scorching sun, across grass so burnt it smelled like hay.

“You blew three lay-ups, you fat can o' crap,” the Doggy Bully gave the Fat Doggy a push.

“Oh, yeah?” answered the Fat Doggy, “Then why couldn't you guard Anton? He kept running past you like you were, you were –”

“Sue Storm, the Invisible Girl!” cracked the Smart Doggy. Which made everyone except the Doggy Bully laugh hard.

“Shut up, jerkwad!” said the Doggy Bully as he reached out to grab the Smart Doggy, who dodged his paw and ran for cover behind me.

“Shut up, the lot of you!” I said. “You
all
played terribly, losing to those babies! It was a total and complete group effort!”

That bit of truth quieted them down until we got back to the bunk, but then the Doggy Bully made the mistake of opening his mouth again.

“And
you're
not much of a coach either,” he muttered. The Doggies giggled at that.

I was not in the mood for his backtalk and made clear, “You think my coaching taught you to dribble the ball off your feet three times in the second half? You think my coaching let Anton practically
walk
to the basket whenever he gave you a feint? You think my coaching taught you guys to miss twelve out of sixteen foul shots as a team? Don't all of you be stupid together!”

I was harsh with them, but they deserved it.

After a few sullen moments, the Fat Doggy mumbled, “He just misses
Rachel
.”

The Doggies snickered and I let it go, but then the Smart Doggy added, “He just misses Rachel's
cuppies
.”

I flashed with anger at that and grabbed the Smart Doggy by the back of his neck.

“What did you say, smart mouth? What did you say??” I shouted at him, bending him over, squeezing maybe a little too hard.

“Are you gonna shut your trap, or what? What?? You guys gonna say anything about Rachel anymore, everrrr???” I yelled, holding him there frozen until they all shut up, scared. I released the Smart Doggy from my grip, and he started to sniffle.

“Now get on your beds and shut your mouths!” I shouted, and they instantly obeyed. I walked up and down the center aisle of the bunk, glowering, making sure that they knew I was really angry this time. It was pin-drop quiet. I could see the red marks from my fingers on the back of the Smart Doggy's neck. To this day, I still feel bad about doing that. Sticks and stones, etc. I should never've put my hands on him. He was a good kid, curled up crying on his bed; he just said the wrong thing at the wrong time. Sometimes there are consequences when a person says the wrong thing at the wrong time.

On the night of the fifth day, the buses from the Senior Trip were late getting back. They were supposed to get back at eight o'clock at night, but the Main Office got reports from the road that they were delayed. I was edgy all day. The Doggies asked me, “Aren't you happy that Rachel's coming back today?” I told them to shut up and mind their own business. I waited by the Main Office – in the rain, under an umbrella – until almost midnight, until the buses finally did pull in. I'd had hopes of seeing Rachel, but when it got so late, I knew that they would hustle the Seniors and everybody else back to their bunks. As it approached midnight, it seemed futile to wait much longer, but I did. Even under an umbrella, I was getting pretty wet. But I thought that even if I didn't actually talk to her, I would make sure that she saw me waiting for her. And she would appreciate that. And that seemed to be enough reason to wait out in the rain.