Don't Ever Change (8 page)

AFTER I’VE MEMORIZED
all the names and feel confident I know them, something else starts to stress me out, and that something is: What Next? Just knowing their names isn’t anything. I’m sure Foster knows the names of all the campers in the entire camp—and I bet they know his name too, first and last.

I’m lying on my bed, rolling from side to side, sighing, restless. I text Elliot something vague like where do we go from here? and he texts me back Albuquerque. I’m still staring at my phone, my eyes itchy from not blinking, when Michelle calls.

“What’s wrong?” Michelle says, right away.

“I’m angsty,” I tell her.

“You’re
angsty
?”

“Antsy. I said
antsy
.”

“No,” Michelle says. “You said angsty. That’s amazing, Eva. What a hilarious Freudian slip.”

“It’d only be a Freudian slip if I actually
was
angsty. Which I’m not.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Anyway—I’m antsy.”

“Remember when Steph and I used to call you Shakes?”

“Yeah, but that was for Shakespeare.”

“And for other reasons,” Michelle says.

“My eyes are itchy,” I say. “Camp is making me itchy. I can’t stop rubbing my eyes.”

“It’s been one day.”

“Tell me about
your
day,” I say.

“Well, there are about fifteen different closures for a necklace,” Michelle says. “I also learned that only a few of them are technically called ‘clasps.’”

“It’s the summer before leaving for college and you’re learning about
closures
?”

“I knew you’d like that,” Michelle says.

“I’m writing it down.”

“Have you talked to Elliot?”

“Talked or . . .
communicated
?”

“What about Foster?” Michelle asks.

“What
about
Foster?”

“You’re not in the mood to talk,” Michelle says. “Obviously.”

“Noooo, we
have
to talk,” I whine.

But Michelle doesn’t say anything else, and I can’t think of anything to say either. The nerves around my eyes twitch, like they always do when I’m stressed, so I press against the lids until I can feel my heartbeat in my eyelashes and see a thousand stars.

“My eyes,” I say, and that’s it. Then I hear a beep and it’s Steph on the other line. “Steph’s calling.”

“Tell Steph about your eyes.”

“They really hurt,” I say.

“You could start wearing your glasses again.”

“Eh.”

The other line beeps a second beep.

“What did Shakespeare say?” Michelle says. “Eye, there’s the rub.”

“I’m writing that down too.”

“Take it, it’s yours.”

I click over to Steph.

“I was just telling Michelle that my eyes hurt,” I tell Steph.

“You’re just stressed,” Steph says. “How was the first day of camp?”

“There have been times in history when the word ‘camp’ has been used to describe a very, very bad place.”

“Does a place called the Gap sound any better?”

“I’m warning you,” I say, “I’ve been whining.”

“Eva, I’m sure you’ll start to like the girls.”

“But will
they
start to
love
me?”

“Try harder,” Steph says.

“I know, I know.”

“I called to tell you that Lindsay seems nice.”

“Does she seem illiterate?” I ask. “She seems sort of illiterate to me.”

“You’re being a snob.”

“And you’re living off campus, in a studio apartment, less than a mile from the beach.”

“You hate the beach,” Steph reminds me.

“I hate the
ocean
,” I remind her.

“And you’re going to
Boston
,” Steph says. “That’s awesome.”

“Maybe we should trade colleges. Like, have you ever thought about swapping futures with someone? Maybe you’d have more fun in my future than I would. Maybe you’d make the best of it and we’d both learn more if it wasn’t our
own
lives we had to learn from.”

“You’re just stressed,” Steph says again.

“I need a writing assignment,” I say, rubbing my eyes more. “I suck at being a counselor, and I can’t write unless someone tells me what to write about.”

“Okay, here’s something: write like you’re me,” Steph says. “Write something I’d write, or write me as your main character.”

“I’m too jealous of you,” I say. “Why are we always so jealous of each other?”

“Because we’re girls.”

“Don’t admit that.”

“I love you, Eva,” Steph says. “And you’re
not
jealous of me. I’m going to a state school for hippies and you’re going to a private school for geniuses. Tomorrow I fall back into the Gap, but you get a second chance at being Camp Champ.”

“Did you just say Camp Tramp? Because that’s not nice.”

“Champ, not
tramp
. But how
is
Foster?” Steph asks.

“My eye’s twitching, that’s how Foster is.”

“Don’t you feel better now, though?”

“So-so,” I say. “Hey, why’d you and Michelle used to call me Shakes? Because I’m a writer, right? Because I’m an awesome writer and you think of me as, like, the Shakespeare of the group?”

“That—and other reasons,” Steph says, laughing, and then we say good-bye.

Later I text Elliot something cute like the best friends are breast friends and he texts me back curl powder and whirled peas, which I assume means he tried to type
girl power
and
world peace
some wacky way but his autocorrect changed them.

I write it all down.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

EACH MORNING WE
have what’s called Morning Ceremonies, where all 179 campers and counselors and staff gather in the outdoor amphitheater to sit on stiff seats and listen to various announcements. Today there’s a badly sung sing-along about friendship and letting your light shine, and then Steven introduces the new lifeguard, Marta, and calls an eight-year-old up to the front because it’s his birthday. We tunelessly sing the “Happy Birthday” song and all shout “Hi, Marta!” like a day-care center full of reformed, upbeat addicts.

Foster’s sitting with his group of nine nine-year-old boys (who Steven swears are a “
really
great group”) just off to our left, and they keep swiveling their heads around to sideways-scope my girls—maybe because we’re huddled around Alyssa poring over our schedule for the day, not really paying attention and talking too loud. Underneath
MORNING CEREMONIES
it says
FREE PLAY
. My girls can’t shut up about it because they’re too excited, even me, I’m
dying
to play free, but then we look up and I guess we’ve missed some dismissal, because everybody’s up and leaving, even Foster.

I lead my group out to an empty patch of grass not far from the archery field and climb onto a nice big rock, gesturing for the girls to gather close. Alyssa lies down on her stomach, her head on her elbows, and then all the other girls want to lie the same way, so for a few minutes there’s a steady chatter of who’s going to lie where and who gets to be closest to Alyssa. I try to give Alyssa a coded look, psychically instructing her to
lead by example
, but it doesn’t work because Alyssa’s totally oblivious, and why wouldn’t she be, she’s thirteen and not at all intimidated. None of my girls are intimidated by me, actually, which is the
exact opposite
of how I thought it’d be when I took this job.

When everyone’s finally quiet, I get a chance to do what I really wanted to do yesterday: take a good long look at each of them, at their faces and their whole presented selves. Then, without making a big deal of it, I start taking notes.

Jessica is small; she’s the redhead dressed all in pink. Lila and Renee are best friends, I assume, because they’re wearing matching best friend necklaces and bracelets and rings, and they’ve braided their hair the same way in a high fishtail with matching scrunchies. Jenna is mean; she has a mean face with a hoodie pulled tightly around it. Zoe must be into sports, because she’s dressed like a mini-Olympian: Nike everything and a backward visor. Maggie’s generic, instantly forgettable; I can’t think of anything to write about her. Rebecca wants to be called Becks and tries to give everyone a similarly nickish-name, which is sort of overbearing. Billie’s bright, a smarty, so I like her right away—she’s an early favorite. Alexis is very, very chubby. And Alyssa’s obviously the coolie; she’s got bangs and high-top purple Converses and her ears pierced four times. I write down
Don’t be competitive with your CIT
because she’s thirteen and who cares, but it’s already being hard because Alyssa’s brought her makeup and also because she
is
my competition. The girls can’t grow to love me if they’re too busy obsessing over her.

I read over my notes, pleased with my character descriptions. I fold the page and put it in my pocket. I look around at the girls, who’re just blankly staring up at me, and then it hits me where to begin.

“Everyone tell me your favorite thing about camp.” I say. “Lila, you first.”

“Swimming,” Lila says.

“Yeah, swimming,” Renee says after Lila.

I point to Jessica next. She says, “Meeting friends,” and Alyssa dramatically rolls her eyes, makes a
pbbth
sound.

Zoe shouts, “Tetherball!” and Rebecca/Becks says, “Field trips,” and Maggie says, “Swimming,” and then someone reminds her that two girls have already said swimming, and then
I
have to remind
them
that it’s okay to have the same answer as long as we’re all thinking for ourselves.

Jenna’s favorite thing about camp is going home from camp.

Then Billie raises her hand. “I like making lanyards and I like outdoor cooking and the skits are fun and so are the sing-alongs.”

“Anything but the horses,” Alexis says.

I look over at Alyssa.

“What, you want me to answer too?” she asks, sort of indignant. “Uh, lunchtime.”

“Okay, well, we’re going to do
all
those things,” I say. “But right now is free play and next is”—I glance at the schedule—“capture the flag, with the boys.” I look at the schedule again, because that doesn’t seem right.

“Ooh, the boys,” Alyssa says, and some girls squirm while other girls giggle.

“Alyssa,” I say, whispering, “are we always going to have an hour with Foster’s group?”

“They’re our Brother Group,” Alyssa explains. “So, yeah, every day we have an hour with them. Some days two, if swim overlaps.”

“Shit,” I say, and the girls go quiet. “Shoot,” I say.

“Corey’s hot,” Alyssa says.

“Who’s Corey?”

“He’s Foster’s CIT.”

“Oh my God,” I say, burying my head in my hands. I stay like that for a second, sighing, and when I look up, the girls haven’t moved. They’re waiting for some instruction from me: an order to stay, permission to go, anything. “It’s free play,” I say. “Go, go.”

The girls scatter. Alyssa pulls out her phone—which she’s explicitly not supposed to use during camp hours—and starts texting. I’m too overwhelmed by the heat and our schedule to bother scolding her. I consider taking out my phone too but don’t, even though I know now would be the perfect time to call Elliot, because he’s probably just woken up and hasn’t started his long drive to the next city. I think,
Let Alyssa text, let her get in trouble, let her get fired
, and then I realize Alyssa can’t get fired, she’s just a kid. I’m the one in charge.

“Alyssa,” I say, when we’re alone. “What are they supposed to
do
?”

“It’s free play,” she says between texts. “They’re doing it.”

“What do
we
do? You and I.”

Alyssa sits up. “I don’t know. Some counselors make up group mottos or, like, little songs for their group to sing. Some groups have a color and then they wear a bandanna that color or something else.” Alyssa sends a text. “We can talk about the girls if you want,” she says. “I like Becks, she’s so funny. She was in a stain remover commercial once, she told me.”

“That’s cool,” I say, looking out at the grassy field, silently counting the number of unsupervised nine-year-olds. I count three together, two together, three together, and then chubby Alexis Powell all by herself pulling up grass in clumps, tossing it in the air.

“No one wants to play with Alexis,” I say. Alyssa throws a short glance in Alexis’s direction.

“That’s their problem,” she says. “Girls read too many magazines. They have body image issues,” she says, and flips her hair.

“We are going to fix the Alexis problem.”

“
Pbbth
.”

“But first, what did you say about mottos?”

“I don’t know,” Alyssa says, ignoring me, so I grab her phone and hold it above my head so she has to deal with me. “You
know
,” she says, rolling her eyes, “a motto, like our own saying, like we shout it, y’know?”

“Sure, like ‘Go Team,’” I say.