The Summer I Became, by Karin Bishop

Part 3

Chapter 7: Starting Camp

As for packing for camp, I knew from experience that it was basically shorts and tees, with a sweatshirt for colder nights, maybe one pair of long pants, and a swimsuit. Translating that now into Hannah’s wardrobe, it meant mostly shorts and a couple of skirts, tees and tank tops and camis, a hoodie and sweatpants, low-cut jeans, and a swimsuit. I knew I could wear a bikini now with no fear of discovery, so one bikini and a one-piece. Lots of toiletries, which now included makeup. And my music portfolio. I was luckier than other students that played instruments and had to lug them around as well as their personal gear. Could you imagine lugging a string bass around? Or a tuba?

On the first morning of camp, Mom got me to the rec center parking lot where we’d board our buses. I wore khaki shorts, a white tee and a green Abercrombie & Fitch sweatshirt. I had socklets and short hiking shoes (Mom’s, actually, but they fit great!) and a canvas rolling duffel. My hair was, as usual, in a high ponytail. I looked as genuine as any other girl there, and better prepared than some of the boys. One boy actually had his belongings in a black trash bag, which ripped, of course, spilling underpants on the parking lot. With all the attention he drew, I was safe from notice.

A counselor called our names, lining us up in columns according to the cabins we’d be in. That way, we could start getting to know each other on the ride to camp. A separate truck very carefully carried our instruments. While we waited to board, I felt a tap on the shoulder.

“Hannah, right?”

I turned to see a smiling Asian girl with short, choppy black hair and thin black glasses. “Yes; Hannah Fletcher.”

“I’m Hannah, too,” she said, extending a hand. “I heard them calling out cabins. I’m Hannah Cho. Violin.”

“Piano,” I said, shaking her hand and smiling back. “So we’re cabin mates?”

“You bet. Is this your first time at camp?”

“Well, the first time to this one,” I smiled, but didn’t entirely answer the question.

“For all of us, ‘cause it’s so new,” she laughed, “But I’ve been to other camps.”

“Where?” I asked, wondering if she’d attended camps with Thomas Sorensen.

“In California. We just moved here last month, from San Jose.”

“I’ve only been to LA …you know, Disneyland,” I smiled. “But it was so long ago I don’t really remember it. San Jose’s near San Francisco, right?”

She nodded. “Great, great symphony in the city. And San Jose’s not too bad, either. And there’s a lot of jazz around. Do you play jazz?”

“Not really but I hope to learn. I mean, my teacher’s Russian and just hammers the classics over and over. She would never stand for me studying jazz.”

“Russian teachers are the strictest, I’ve heard. And, yeah, they don’t get jazz at all. And there’s a whole lot of jazz studies out there now; it can be every bit as hard as formal Russian classics.”

“I know; I looked at some jazz books at the music store and was amazed. And as cool as jazz is supposed to be, I hear it can be really tough to get the concepts.”

“Well, I heard it’s tough, too, but a lot of the top jazz players all had formal classical studies. Let’s hope the camp’s jazz teachers will take pity on a couple of classical girls!”

“That’s us,” I grinned, “the Classical Girls!”

“Classical Hannahs!” she giggled.

After a two-hour bus ride, everybody was cranky. I’d experienced one of the downsides of girlhood when we took a restroom break halfway through the drive. There was a long line of girls waiting to get into the bathroom, while the guys seemed to stroll in and out in seconds and were off playing Frisbee while we were still in line! But with the downside was the upside of chatting. Hannah said she was surprised we were both in the same cabin; at her last camp they’d tried to keep one name per cabin and would have split us up.

A girl in front of us laughed. “Yeah, well, that wouldn’t work with me. I’m Heather,” she said with a smile to us. Then nodding to other girls in the line, she said, “And she’s Heather, and she’s Heather …”

“Don’t forget the Jennifers!” one of the Heathers laughed.

“Tell me about it,” a girl–a Jennifer?–playfully grumbled. “They make us choose. One Jennifer, one Jenny, one Jen, and so on.”

“Yeah, but what are we gonna do?” a Heather shot back. “One Heather, one Heth, one …Heh?”

We were all laughing and in good spirits. But after the second hour back on the bus, the crankiness showed. Hannah had been sitting with me and whispered, “You can really tell about a person when they get this tired. Who can keep it together and who can’t?”

“Will you stop?” I playfully growled. “I’m keeping it together! I’m keeping it together!” I couldn’t keep from laughing, though, and she laughed along.

When we settled, she said, “You have any nickname?”

“Um …no. Kind of like Heather, you know? Never shortened my name. Why?”

“Well, we’ll have some confusion with two Hannahs.”

“I could drop the H. Like the way Cockneys speak? I could be Anna.”

Hannah shook her head. “Naw. Too weird.” She sighed. “I’ve got a nickname I was trying to discard but I guess I’ll have to use it.”

“If you don’t like it, don’t do it, Hannah,” I said seriously.

She smiled. “I like you already–and not just because you’ve got a great name! Okay, I’ll tell you if you promise not to laugh.”

“I promise.”

“It’s Lulu.”

“That’s a cool name!” I said, surprised. “Really! I mean it! It kind of fits, because you’re petite, and cute, and it’s got …I don’t know …it’s got a twinkle to it!”

She frowned at me for a moment and then broke out in a radiant smile. “I love you, Hannah! You don’t get the joke, but you made me feel better about the name. Okay, I’ll tell the counselors to call me Lulu.”

“Um …what joke didn’t I get?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m Chinese but a lot of Hawaiians look like me. And California’s closest to Hawaii.”

“Um …nope. Nothing. Still don’t get–omigod! The city?”

She nodded, pretending to grind her jaw. “You got it–the kids thought I was Hawaiian and called me ‘Hannah-Lulu’!”

My hand flew to my mouth to stifle the involuntary laugh. “That’s awful! It’s almost …”

“Racist? Sort of. State-ist, maybe,” she said, thoughtfully. “But I don’t mind it now, because you said I was petite and cute.”

There was the usual chaos at the camp itself. Getting everybody sorted out and lined up and checked off was messy, but a couple of parents had driven up with forgotten items–one boy had actually forgotten his trombone!–and there were a few latecomers that had come up separately.

Finally we met our counselor and cabin boss, Becky, and assigned six to a cabin. Besides we two Hannahs, we had Lauren (viola), Roxanne (flute), Gabrielle (alto sax), and Teresa (clarinet). Or, as we introduced ourselves, Lulu and Hannah–I told Lulu to go first so we didn’t make the ‘Hannah-Lulu’ thing obvious–Lauren, Roxy, Gabby, and Terri. Only Lauren and I had names that weren’t shortened. There was the usual jockeying for bunks, with Lulu taking the one over me, and Roxy and Terri the other uppers.

Once we moved in we opened windows, but Becky led us outside once we were reasonably unpacked and said we’d walk the grounds while she went over the rules with us. It was better than sitting in the hot cabin like other groups seemed to be doing. Lulu murmured to me that we’d scored an experienced counselor.

The camp was brand new, so there was a trade off from the older camps: While things weren’t falling apart or disgustingly dirty, some things weren’t hooked up yet. But it did look as if the people who ran the camp had taken other camps into consideration. Lauren and Gabby were music-camp veterans like Lulu and me, and we agreed that a lot of the usual hassles had been avoided. And at least nobody from my cabin had been in camp with Thomas!

All the campers gathered at ‘the fire pit’, the central arena for announcements and skits and stuff. There we sat, checking each other out, while the camp bosses were introduced and general announcements made, swimming rules, medical notices and so on.

And there were groups of boys …

Terri leaned over to me. “Babes down there; check ‘em out.”

Lulu nudged me. “Dibs on whoever’s funniest.”

Gabby snorted. “Dibs on whoever’s richest!”

We laughed and they looked at me. “Dibs on whoever’s nicest.”

They groaned and Lulu playfully slapped her forehead. “God; I bet you read romance novels!”

“Cool if they’re bodice rippers,” Gabby snickered.

“Somebody’s bodice getting ripped?” Roxy contributed, and we all laughed and got a hiss from Becky, then a little grin. We all pretended to hunch our shoulders as if beaten.

Somehow, as if by magic, I was one of the girls.

Chapter 8: Music and Culture

Everybody seemed to get along, and it was my first chance to really observe girl society up close. There were loud girls and quiet girls, conservative girls and sexy girls. And odd combinations …for instance, Lauren would be considered a quiet, conservative girl. She smiled mildly at jokes but didn’t seem to put herself forward. She wore longer, slightly baggy plaid shorts and sometimes a t-shirt and a tank top, and always a ball cap with her thin blonde hair pulled through the back. Roxy, on the other hand, dressed sexy in skimpy tops, tight things that seemed to accentuate her bust, and tight short-shorts. She always wore makeup and jewelry and cologne. And yet, in the security of our cabin, Roxy always covered up, changing under her blanket or in the tiny bathroom–a nice change from the outdoor plumbing of other camps–and I realized that not once had any of us seen even the swell of flesh of a breast. Lauren, on the other hand, nonchalantly stripped totally nude to put on her panties and bra, and often sat on her bunk or walked around massaging her bare breasts after a day of constriction from her bra.

I fell somewhere in the middle. I didn’t flaunt my body; I watched the others–without being noticed watching–and might turn away when I put on or removed panties, but I wanted everybody to know without question that I looked every bit as female as they did, so occasionally I’d expose my breasts, like if I was talking with one of the girls and was getting dressed. No big deal. They’re just my breasts. Oh, you got ‘em, too? See? No big deal …

We all went to breakfast together in the Commissary, with set-up and cleaning on a by-cabin rotating basis. Then back to the cabins to get our instruments–or my music–and off to our ‘sessions’, as if that was a cooler name than classes. And there we all separated, depending on our schedule, like high school or college. I had a Conducting class with Gabby and Lauren, Roxy and I had Choir, and Lulu was in a Jazz Theory class with me. That was one of the specialized sessions; everyone had to take Conducting and Choir to give an appreciation of what was involved, musically. It didn’t matter if you could sing or not. The Jazz Theory session–and one that I took in Jazz Improvisation–were unique to this camp and were electives. Others, like Lauren, stayed focused on classical studies.

Lunch at the Commissary, then more sessions and done by 2:00 and, as it said on the schedule, Free Time–which prompted Lulu to mutter, ‘Gee, they usually charge for that!’. We could sign up for lessons in swimming and boating, there was archery, and a ropes course, and some other things. I mainly wanted to swim or float around; Lulu, Gabby, and Nikki, a girl from another cabin, and I made an aquatic foursome. There was this feeling of camaraderie, of belonging, that I’d never had in my life, that was intensified by the four of us, down at the shore of the lake, strutting in our bikinis.

And I could wear a bikini! Nobody had the glimmer of an idea that I wasn’t born a girl, and I wasn’t going to dispel that. I got appreciative glances from boys–usually with an elbowed nudge from Lulu–that I was unprepared for, and Lauren said a couple of the boys in a session of hers had been asking about me. I wished I could’ve returned the favor to her, but she was so meek and unassuming–if she wasn’t naked in the cabin!–that no boys asked.

There was one boy in Jazz Improv that I could tell was interested in me. His name was Michael Delaney and oh, my God could he play! After being dazzled and shamed for two days, I asked him and he said he’d been studying jazz for two years. For several reasons, I asked him for advice. First, because I wanted to try out the girl equipment, so to speak–the lowered eyes, the quiet voice, the submissive hopefulness. Worked like a charm. Secondly, because I really did like his playing …and him. And third, because I really, truly wanted to know about jazz improvisation on the piano. Across the room I got a burning look from a blonde named Heather (!) and realized I was learning something else about girlhood. Sisterhood, yeah …but if a girl’s interested in a guy and the guy’s interested in you …watch out!

And Michael did seem interested in me. I even skipped the foursome at the lake to stay in the piano room with him–and two others and an adult–and study. And we did study; this class was opening a whole new world to me and I was introduced to ‘altered’ chords. These were chords that were …well, to avoid using ‘altered’ in the definition I thought of them as reconstructed along chromatic lines. The solid classical chords that I’d learned to love and depend on now seemed stodgy and blocky. By altering the chord, you changed the fifth and ninth notes, raising or lowering them a semitone. They ‘led’ to notes within the next chord change. You could invert the chord, too, stacking the chord’s notes in different orders, and alter those as well, and it was all so overwhelming to me!

It also seemed sort of …‘loosey-goosey’, in the sense that you didn't have those dependable classical triads. You could do anything–within musical reason, of course–with the ‘tools’ of jazz. Suddenly I was hearing voices in the middle of the chords, leading to other voices, as chords flowed one into the other. And then, when actually playing the chords, feeling the chords and the notes themselves shift and take on new meanings under my fingers, new colors, new tones …

Then Michael played me something on his iPhone; part of two versions of the same tune. It was a ‘jazz standard’, he told me; the Bill Evans tune Waltz for Debby. One version was by Oscar Peterson and one by Evans himself. Michael showed me the song’s structure, and then showed me ‘lead sheets’, with just chord symbols against the melody, instead of the ‘grand staff’ notation that classical music uses, with every note transcribed. With just the chord written, you had to figure out the voicing and phrasing that seemed appropriate to you. The chords could be as simple as ‘G’ or as complex as G7â™­5♯9, which you’d call ‘G-seven-flat-five-sharp-nine’. And you’d use that altered chord because you wanted the flatted-fifth or the raised-ninth to move you–to lead you–to the next chord’s notes.

A whole new world to me!

We fooled around with the song, playing from the lead sheets, and I would struggle with the chording as I told my fingers to go places they’d never been before. I had to think in terms of the melody line, chords that would harmonize and support the melody, and notes–the voices–within each chord that would not only lead to the next chord but also support and harmonize that melody. It was primarily my left hand that was struggling, that I was using to ‘comp’, to play the chord, as opposed to my right hand, which would play partial, supplemental chords, or single-note runs or fills and flourishes and grace notes with and against the melody and the chord. The left hand would deal with the unfamiliar, altered chords, and the right hand would suddenly find new avenues, new pathways between and through the notes of the basic melody, that suddenly opened up with the altered chords.

All the while, my brain feeling like it was being thrown in two or three different directions at once!

As I grew a little more used to the strange new world of jazz improvisation, Michael and I then tentatively began ‘trading eights’, as they call it when one person solos for eight bars and the other follows, comping underneath. It was so bizarre to not be following every printed note on the grand staff; it was only my own ability and musical taste that dictated what notes to play–and what notes to not play!–and only having a few chord symbols and the single melody line to work with was frightening and liberating at the same time.

Then we took a break and Michael produced actual transcriptions of Evans and Peterson’s playing! First we looked at Evans’ transcription and I was in awe of his chording. There was a classical rightness to the internal movement of his voicings, his voice-leading. Peterson’s version was dazzling with single-note virtuosity, although I wasn’t as taken with the richness of his chords. But that phenomenal left hand of his was staggering, supplying both bass notes and chords in a variation of ‘stride’ piano that didn’t feel forced or metronomic like ragtime. Then Michael suggested we improvise on it again, trying different things. Some block chords here, octave runs there, and so on. It was exhilarating, and after one section I found myself giggling as I was playing. It just felt so free!

The adult, Mr. Shipley, laughed and told us to knock it off; it was time for dinner already! I was embarrassed for some reason, and blushingly thanked Michael. He walked me part of the way to the Commissary but I had to run to my cabin to dump my music and run to the Commissary, sitting just before they began the evening announcements. I saw Michael come in at the far end and join his cabin’s table. Suddenly I could feel several pairs of eyes turn to me.

“What?” I asked.

“You and Mr. Delaney …” Lulu grinned, wiggling her eyebrows.

“We were in Improv, playing jazz …” I started, then my involuntary blush gave me away.

Lulu chuckled. “He was trading eights and you were wanting to trade more!”

My blush burned my cheeks now. “It was about the music.”

“For now,” Gabby grinned.

“He’s really nice,” Lauren said. “I’ve got him in Choir. Sings well, too, but …really nice.”

“I learned a lot,” I said, and then wished I’d kept my mouth shut, for the girls sniggered and Roxy tossed a crouton at me.

“No throwing,” Becky said automatically. Then she looked at me and winked. “And be on time.”

Days became a routine; sessions and then I’d do jazz piano with Michael for an hour and then meet my girlfriends at the lake. People stopped complaining or joking about the food; we’d chat and then head back out to our day. Nights were different, though.

The third night, Becky had us each stand up and talk about ourselves. She started and we learned that she was in pre-med, had a boyfriend named Drake that might join the National Guard, and she wanted to be a pediatrician–and wife and mother–when she was older. Oh, and she said to add what she called ‘the Culture Corner’; she announced that her favorite movie was Shrek, her favorite TV show was old reruns of Friends, and her favorite band was My Chemical Romance. Then she was open to any questions for five minutes, and sat down. So that was the pattern for each of us.

We learned about each other; Lulu told about her nickname and wanted to be a jazz violinist like Stephane Grappelli, she said. She’d already played him on her iPod for me and …wow! Lauren wanted to teach music therapy and have a big family. Roxy wanted to travel. Gabby joked that if she couldn’t win the Miss Hawaiian Tropic Bikini Contest, she’d like to cure cancer! Then she said, softly, that she really liked to paint and had hopes of becoming an artist. And Terri said she wanted to train show horses–she lived on a ranch. Clarinet and Arabians …interesting combination! Favorite movies ranged from Titanic to Breakfast at Tiffany’s; TV shows included Gossip Girl, American Idol, and The Simpsons; and bands ranged from old rock like The Rolling Stones to pop things like Jonas Brothers to ‘I don’t know any bands. I listen to classical; Mozart and Prokofiev, mostly. Oh, and Delius,’ from Lauren.

My turn was just before Terri, and I stood and had this sudden out-of-body feeling. Here I was, at last, a girl being accepted by other girls and it felt so good that I almost choked back a tear, and then used that as my starting point.

“I’ve got to confess that I really like you all.” That brought catcalls and shouts of ‘Suck-up!’ and Roxy tossed a sock. “No, really,” I laughed. “You see, I …I don’t have any friends back home. Oh, I’m not going all ‘boo-hoo-hoo for me’; it’s just that all I did was study and …keep out of the way of my parents’ divorce.”

That brought gasps and a knowing nod from Roxy and Becky. Terri reached a hand out and squeezed mine; I squeezed back and released it. The divorce line was something Mom and I had discussed and planned, but wasn’t a total lie–just several years out of date.

“Anyway, I guess I was a drudge at school and yada-yada-yada. But things have changed; I’m going to be living with my mom in a new town, and start at a new school with all new kids. I was terrified at that, but in the really short time we’ve been here, I’m finding that new people are great! I like all of you, like I said, and I think my new year is going to be the best yet. Oh, and I sort of discovered jazz, thanks to Lulu.”

“And Michael!” snickered Gabby.

I blushed.

“Questions?” Lauren asked, looking at Becky, who nodded. “Um …Hannah, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to …but have you kissed a boy?”

“Michael!” mock-whispered Gabby.

“No,” I sighed. “I haven’t …I haven’t had the opportunity. And not even Michael,” I grinned at Gabby.

“The opportunity …” Terri looked confused. “But you’ve dated, right?”

I shook my head. “No. Not even gone to a school dance. Nobody asked me.” That much was true.

That brought a chorus of sad ‘aws’ from the girls. Becky said, “Geez, Hannah, way to bum out the room! Oh, grown-up and Culture Corner!”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I think I might want to be a psychologist, learning ways to make unhappy people …happy. And my favorite movie is …well, Lulu picked two, can I?”

“No,” Lulu said matter-of-factly. “I only got to do that because it was one for each ‘Lu’!”

It took a second for the room to realize what a goof she was and they burst out laughing and Roxy aimed a pillow at Lulu’s head. Lulu winked at me and I remembered her telling me that for some reason, people don’t think Asians have a sense of humor and it took them a moment to realize how funny she was.

“Well, my name is a palindrome,” I said, loftily. “That should count!”

“Well done!” Becky laughed and clapped her hands. “Okay. Two movies.”

“Okay. I’m basing this on movies that I loved and if I switch the channel and find them on, I have to watch them all the way through.”

“Just the opposite of the Adam Sandler effect,” Terri said dryly.

All the girls groaned and agreed.

“The worst!” Roxy yelled.

“What’s up with boys and Sandler?” Gabby agreed.

“Kiss of death if a guy likes that jerk!” Terri added.

“And they all do!” Lauren rolled her eyes.

“I don’t know …” Lulu said, which brought the groans to a screeching halt.

“You …like Adam Sandler?” Roxy said, fingering another pillow.

“No,” Lulu grinned. “But they pay him like twenty-five million a picture, you know? So I sometimes study the things if they’re on to try to figure out just how stupid some guys can be.”

“Got that right!” Roxy said, releasing the pillow.

“Okay,” I seized control to end my stand-up. “Favorite movies are The Princess Bride and Rear Window.”

The first brought yelps of agreement and there was puzzlement over the second, but I could see Becky smiling and nodding.

Gabby said, “Is that the one with the guy in the wheelchair spying on his neighbors?” I nodded, and she clapped her hands. “Oh, yeah, I like that one, too! Dad was watching it and–oh, God, who’s the girl? She’s gorgeous!”

“Grace Kelly, later Princess Grace of Monaco,” Becky said. “One of the most beautiful women in the world–ever.”

“TV shows,” I said. “Well, I don’t dance, but any of the competitive dance shows. And Grey’s Anatomy.”

That brought calls of ‘McDreamy’, ‘McSteamy’, and ‘what is in the water at that hospital that makes everybody screwing all the time?’.

“And bands …Beatles–”

“Too easy. Pick another,” Lulu grinned.

“Okay. Midnight Oil.” Uncomprehending faces, but a grinning nod from Becky. I explained, “They’re Australian and all their songs are about the environment and human rights …” I shrugged. “And I’m listening to jazz pianists now, Bill Evans and Oscar Peterson and Ahmad Jamal.”

I stopped there because only Lulu had a clue who they were. I shrugged and sat down, blushing again for some reason. I got a pat on the shoulder from Gabby and Lulu snaked a hand out and pinched me while looking the other way. I felt glorious; I felt accepted; I felt I was a girl among girls.

It was as it should have been my whole life.

Chapter 9: Sanders and the Slut

Aside from the occasional flesh show when we changed, there were two other new experiences. The first were the showers; we’d put on our swimsuits and use an outdoor shower to wash off before going to the pool and after leaving the pool and the lake, but we usually went from there to the girls’ showers. I was so nervous I was shaking the first time I stripped completely in front of other girls, Lulu and Terri from my cabin and three girls I didn’t know. I had this nightmare that the glue would undo and my entire male genitalia–in my nightmare, I was now hung like a horse–would plop out and the girls would shriek.

It didn’t happen.

I got naked and discovered that one of the other girls was even more embarrassed than I was and for some reason that made me feel immensely better. I lathered up and rinsed and toweled, watching out of the corner of my eye to see how the girls handled the towel around their breasts and crotch, and then I followed suit. It was the same way I did it at home, so it just reaffirmed I was doing things right–part of that socialization my doctors were always talking about. And part of my socialization was overhearing conversations among the girls.

“I swear to God, Angela, your boobs are bigger than they were a month ago!” one girl said, who obviously knew the other from before.

“That’s what’s supposed to happen, dummy!” Angela snickered.

“No, I mean it. Oh, crap; Mr. Sanders?”

That confused the hell out of me but was answered in a moment.

Angela said, “Yeah. Just my dumb-ass luck to get my period in summer camp.”

So Mr. Sanders was their code for ‘period’ …Wasn’t Mr. Sanders the sign over Winnie-the-Pooh’s house? Oh …maybe because her reaction to getting her period would be ‘oh, pooh’? The mysterious world of girls deepened.

Periods were frankly discussed and the first time I saw a girl inserting a tampon I almost ran into a locker. I had to take everything in stride and realized how important this camp was for me, to initiate me into the world of girls and prepare me to be a girl in my new school without making my ignorance obvious. In our cabin, Terri and Roxy had their periods the second week. Terri took it in stride–hardy ranch girl?–but Roxy turned into a whiny bitch for two days. At one point Becky told her to knock it off and Gabby told her she wasn’t the only girl who had bad periods; just have the good grace not to share her misery because it wouldn’t make her feel better.

I learned about pads and tampons and mishaps and the inevitable white-pants nightmare stories and logged everything into my memory for my own use later in school. One of the things that I’d discussed with Dr. Fletcher was what I’d do about my absence of a menstrual cycle; she’d told me not to worry about it because girls generally didn’t talk about it when they weren’t having their period, and took it as a natural occurrence. She did tell me that I might get ‘menstrual indicators’ as a result of my hormone regimen. Obviously, I wouldn’t bleed or cramp, but to be aware that I might get as bitchy as Gabby, or even bloat. If I did have ‘indicators’, I should note the calendar and be prepared for the same a month down the line. She also recommended that I always keep a tampon or two in my purse since all girls carried them for emergencies or to give to friends in need.

The other new experience was …boys. It was obvious that my piano sessions with Michael involved more than music making, but he’d yet to make any move. But the other girls in the cabin freely discussed crushes on boys in their sessions and Roxy and Gaby already had boys they’d meet after dinner. I didn’t know if anything was happening between them or just playful flirting, but I’d get nudged about Michael and would just smile. It seemed the best response and turned out that way, too. It made it look like we were getting romantic but I wasn’t telling.

There was a Skit Night at the campfire we had most nights after lowering the flag and Announcements. And yes, we did that silly ‘Announcements, Announcement, A-noun-ments!’ yell thing–only we did it in harmony! We decided to do a fake boy-and-girl flirting scene full of double-entendres. Becky figured we could get away with it because we were the youngest cabin there, or ‘First Years’; if anybody was embarrassed or didn’t get it, it would have been us. So as we worked on the ‘script’, some of us became boys to flirt with some of us as girls. As luck would have it, I was paired with Terri, with her as the boy! The girls-as-boys wore jeans and work shirts, greased their hair back and used eyebrow pencil to stipple on fake beards. Roxy even put a banana in her jeans but Becky said that was going too far.

The girls were supposed to dress extra-sexy; since Roxy was the only one that had actually brought sexy styles, we ripped up some t-shirts and contributed our less-than-favorite clothes to be altered for ‘the girls’–of which I was one. So I found myself wearing a lacy red bra (padded) that kept peeking from my ripped-shoulder, skimpy tummy top, and a micro-mini skirt–one of Lulu’s, with the hem cut up–low on my hips. Lauren produced some fake-tan lotion and I rubbed it all over–and I mean all over; I went into the bathroom and rubbed it in everywhere. Roxy did my makeup and sprinkled me with sparkly dust and Lauren did my hair, showing a flair for hairstyling if she ever wanted to work with hookers.

I was a sex bomb. I was a babe. I scared the hell out of myself!

Lots of pictures were taken in the cabin, with me primping and posing, one hand on hip and the other behind my head. Then we went to the campfire and I couldn’t believe the whistles and screams we got–that I got–when we entered the area. I looked around at the faces and saw something I’d never seen before–lust. Even some of the girls seemed …interested in me. It was frightening. My eyes found Michael and I couldn’t read his face; there seemed to be conflicting things going on. That made my fear amp up but there was now an element of something else that I realized was shame. I knew that this was a part I was playing, and that it would all be over in an hour, but I’d learned something about myself. I loved being a regular, normal girl more than being a sex kitten or fantasy object. Somehow I felt a bit better then, but I was still troubled by the look on Michael’s face.

Our skit was a smash, with gales of laughter and groans from lines like one of mine. I spoke in a breathy Marilyn Monroe-type voice to my ‘conductor’, a leering Terri, playing a macho stud to the hilt, and asked innocently, “Do I make your hemi-semi-demi …quaver?”

We came in second, behind one of the older kids’ breakdancing and rapping routine. Becky was thrilled; she said of all the camps she’d worked at, First Years never even came close to winning. Part of our prize was cake and ice cream at the Commissary, where we were this close to a food fight because our spirits were so high. I was laughing at something Gabby said, holding my hand over my mouth–Dr. Fletcher had already noted that I had ‘typical female responses’–and through the open door I caught a glimpse of Michael, who then vanished in the shadows. I returned to the merriment a little subdued.

Later, I was allowed a long, hot shower to get the tan stuff and glitter dust off me. I took extra long because nobody else needed the hot water. I slowly soaped my body, and as my hands slid smoothly down my breasts, I quivered and thought that I had a lot to talk about with Dr. Fletcher! I also sent another prayer of thanks to Dr. Carroll for the ‘little procedure’. I dried carefully and just threw on a t-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, my damp hair trailing down my back. I made my way back to the cabin, but just as I entered the clearing where our cabin was, Michael stepped out of the trees. He stood with his arms straight, hands plunged into his pockets, obviously nervous.

“Hi,” I said. “You …um, startled me.”

“Sorry. I just …I wanted to tell you that you were really good tonight. I mean, your skit. You were really funny; you should have won.”

“You mean, my cabin should have won,” I said, slowly, testing.

“Yeah, your cabin, of course ….” He looked away. “But if they gave an award for Best Individual Performance, it would have been you.”

“It was a performance, you know.”

“Yeah.”

“I mean it! Michael, that wasn’t me. I mean, I didn’t even write the lines; I just had to say ‘em.”

“And you were funny. The guys in my cabin are still repeating things you said.”

“Things my character said,” I clarified.

“Um …yeah,” he said, clearly not getting it.

There was a fallen tree near our cabin; I headed toward it and sat down. Knees and ankles together, hands in my lap, head down. He joined me, sitting a distance away.

“Michael, I, um …I learned something about myself tonight,” I began.

“That you love acting? Because you were really good.”

“Thanks,” I smiled. “But, no, that wasn’t it. Um …you know Roxy–Roxanne–in my cabin?”

“Short blonde?”

“She’s not short! Okay, petite,” I grinned. “But, yeah. She wears sexy things all the time. Not as outrageous as we were for the skit, but, still …tube tops and minis and fishnets and makeup all time.”

“Oh, the orange glitter?”

I nodded. “Well, the orange came from Lauren’s tanning lotion, but, yeah, the glitter was from Roxy. Anyway, Roxy wears those things all the time and it’s just her, you know? But to me, it’s like a costume. Like Halloween. I don’t normally dress like that.”

“I like how you normally dress.”

I chuckled. “You can’t tell anything from that! It’s summer camp! Let’s see …shorts and a t-shirt, shorts and a tank top, shorts and a t-shirt …”

“You wore a skirt once. You have nice legs.”

I looked at him, puzzled. “Why is that? You see more of my legs when I wear shorts, but you compliment my legs from when I wore the skirt?”

He shrugged uncomfortably. “Don’t know. I guess it’s just a convention. But skirt, shorts, whatever …nice legs.” Then he blushed.

“Thank you,” I said, feeling my own face get warm. “Michael …” I pursed my lips and began again. “Michael, when we came into the fire pit, everybody was looking at me.”

“Well, yeah …”

“I mean …” It was my turn to shrug. “I got a dose of looking kind of like a slut. From the looks on the guys’ faces. And I didn’t like it.”

He was silent and seemed agitated.

I went on. “But you didn’t look at me like that. You looked at me like …well, sort of like I felt. That it was a slutty costume, but it wasn’t me, and I was uncomfortable in it, and you were uncomfortable watching me in it.”

He nodded and swallowed. “Yeah, kind of like that.” Then he grinned, wickedly. “But you were sexy as hell!”

I blushed. “Thank you, but …anyway, the fact that you were as uncomfortable as I was?”

“Yeah?”

I stood up and leaned over to him and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

I smiled, turned, and went into my cabin. There was a rustle inside and I knew that somebody had been watching and I didn’t care. I felt feminine and I felt a strange sense of power and I felt a great warmth about Michael.

The next night it started raining while we ate dinner so any campfire activities were cancelled. For us girls it meant …makeover time! I didn’t know if they’d been laying in wait for a rainy night, but the girls produced makeup kits and other items as if by magic. We were all in sleepwear, ranging from Roxy’s baby doll to Terri’s long white cotton gown. Most of us wore boxers and a t-shirt; I had a lacy yellow sleep set of shorts and a sleeveless top. I folded my legs under me–I’d gotten used to sitting like that, and after Dr. Carroll’s procedure it was much easier–and waited expectantly since I had no makeup to contribute.

Gabby saw that and declared, “Newbie! Okay, you’re the mudpack girl.”

I was confused. “I don’t …I don’t have any of that stuff …”

“No, but we do!” she cackled, and tossed me a jar of brown masque. “That’s for later.”

For right now, it was makeover time. The girls applied their brushes and wands and colors flew and we did each other’s eyes, lips, and faces, often wiping off and applying something else. Probably the two funniest were when Lauren made herself up like a hooker, and Roxy–of all people–went for a kabuki white with her eyebrows up in the middle of her forehead and the tiniest lips imaginable! I’d been trying makeup at home but was really an amateur, but I listened to the girls coach one another, as well as what I was told, and learned a lot of application techniques. And I found that I liked the smoky colors on me rather than blue or green, and then learned how lipstick could change the shape and size of my mouth. It was a lot of giggles and personal stories and I felt incredibly close to the girls.

Then it was masque time. It was my duty to gently apply the mudpack to any girl that wanted the facial; everyone did so I did them all and my own face last. It was gooey and drippy and I realized that’s why ‘the newbie’ had to do it. Once we had the masques on–and I’d washed my hands–we began doing each other’s nails. Some were extreme–Gabby had a different color on each finger and toe–and some were subdued–Terri went for just gloss. As much as I loved wearing nail polish, I hadn’t brought any, thinking that it would be impractical at camp; then I thought, what the hell! I tried a couple of colors on different fingers and then wiped them off with remover and did all my fingers and toes with a plum red, or a reddish plum, that was called ‘Breaking Curfew’ and I loved it. I’d been taking care of my nails and they’d grown a bit since school let out, but not enough to clack on the piano keys. And they looked lovely!

Meanwhile the masques were tightening and hardening. We did popcorn–Becky had the only camp-acceptable appliance, a hot-air popper–and Gabby produced a surprisingly large laptop and some DVDs, so we crowded around and watched The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, which everybody but me had seen. They said lines from the movie, shouted out rude things to the characters, and we had a great, giggling time. The giggles turned to groans as we peeled and washed off our masques, and then moisturized like mad, but my face felt and looked great after. Then we slept deeply.

End of Part 3