You lie on the top bunk facing the wall, reading the graffiti and wondering how old it is. (Is it still there now?) Books before boys because boys bring babies.
"Boys before books, because books are boring," sneers Abbie. Her smiley face t-shirt is snug tight against a generous chest. She is 12 years old, only 1 years older than you, but her breasts are as full and round as oranges. You want to squeeze them to verify if they feel like koosh balls.
You've already had your medicine and peer down at the others waiting their turn. Abbie is taking her inhaler. Trish, the tough junior councilor, who wears her army fatigues even to bed, is next on deck. Later she will sneak out to make out with her new boyfriend, another junior councilor who is both black and two years younger than her. You are afraid of her and are glad that you don't have to talk to her. Behind her stands your best friend...your ex-best friend. You aim murderous x-ray vision in between her shoulder blades.
Blonde Julia, curly-haired and doll-faced, lies on a bottom bunk with her chin in her hands, lazily humming along to the Shania Twain song coming out of her headphones. The dumpy twins in the top bunk above take advantage of her distraction to whisper about her. "Why does Ace even like her?" hisses Laura in despair. "Whatever," retorts Leigh, peeling off a chip of nail polish with her teeth. "I don't need some goon hanging off me all day, grabbing my boobs in front of my friends." You are distracted from your attempt at telekinetic murder by their conversation. Oh Ace. He of the classic good looks kept from being too intimidatingly handsome by baggy jeans, greasy hair and crappy self-designed Big D and the Kids Table hat. You want to eat him with a spoon, but he's too busy untying Julia's bikini top after she falls asleep sunbathing to notice you. You console yourself by thinking about that time you touched that nubile Australian councilor while the whole camp was playing capture the flag. The sweat on his bare torso was as thick as motor oil. Later, during arts and crafts you saw him talking to Krystal, the pretty hippie councilor. She told him her favorite Grateful Dead songs were "Dark Star" and "Uncle John's Band." You applied lots of glitter to your popsicle stick creation and imagined what Krystal and the Australian might do together after lights out, when they were alone and under the stars. You assumed it would look like something you saw on Baywatch.
Carrie is singing now. Oasis, of course. She never stops talking about that band you never heard of. She sits cross-legged on the bunk above your ex-best friend's bed. Her frizzy hair is smooshed into an aqua scrunchie. In between bubble gum smacks, she chirps: "where were you while we were getting high?" In this stupid cabin. She is the one who reminds you that you are here because you are sick. Not like other camps where you would be the loser and the others would be cool. Well, it's true here, too, but now everyone's sick. You are here because you are sick. Carrie frightens you, but not in the same way that Trish keeps you on guard. She strikes you as a cross between Kimmie Gibbler and Fairuza Balk in The Craft, always following everyone around and going on about seances she did with her cousins despite the fact that everyone is obviously creeped out/annoyed by her. But when she starts singing "Champagne Supernova," everyone leaves the medicine line despite the gripes of the varicose vein-strewn cabin nurse and piles on her bed, screaming along. Where were you while we were getting high?
