By Rosie E.
Before the summer of 2004, I thought camp was all about hot dogs and golden tans and summer love. At fourteen, I was desperate for a chance to break away from my parents and acquire some social skills before I made the journey into the unknown: high school.
But once I set foot on camp grounds, I realized that my conception of summer camp was severely misconstrued.
I spent most of the first week of camp holding toilet paper under my arms and swatting gnats from my face. Needless to say, it took me some time to fit in.
After a lonely period of self-proclaimed humanitarianism (I rescued a family of beetles in an empty water bottle when I saw some boys squashing them on the archery field), a fall-out with a cabin mate (she didn’t approve of my insect hording), and countless sleepless nights, I surrendered my individuality and assimilated myself to the girls I was so desperate to make friends with.
I stuck to a girl named Natalie who, at fifteen, had just broken up with the love of her life and was cruising the property in the hope of meeting her next beau. She was the type of girl who used the word “touché” in almost every sentence she spoke and made weekly visits to an expensive beauty salon where a small Asian woman slaved for hours over her toes and eyebrows.
I was achingly jealous, and when she offered to give me a makeover I jumped on the offer.
After a lip gloss application and my first bout with an eyelash curler, I was walking with the elite of Summer Session Two. Among them was Zeus, a strapping young fellow from France.
In my estimation, Zeus was as romantic as Aphrodite. He often serenaded me with what I thought to be French sonnets and offered me extra sunscreen when I started to get a little “brûlé” (That’s “burnt” in French, for those of us who opted for Spanish in high school.)
In my head, Zeus and I were already in our thirties, raising our children in the foothills of a small town outside of Paris. It was a wonderful life, but the beauty of the relationship fell flat when reality hit me at the Farewell Dance.
The camp counselors organized one of those dances where the boys congregate around the Cheese Puffs and the girls around the juice cooler but neither party has the courage to cross into foreign territory.
When the slow dance came around, I waited for Zeus to come and sweep me off my feet. I even turned down a scrawny boy with braces who shook a little when he talked to me.
But, as these things always seem to go, I was shocked and appalled to see Natalie dangling in Zeus’ arms and mouthing the words, “je t’aime.” I wasn’t sure whether to be mad at Zeus, Natalie, or Avril Lavigne for recording a song for the occasion.
Instead of making a scene, I quietly retreated to the bathroom where I had all the toilet paper I could ever need to soak up the tears from under my eyes and the sweat from under my arms.
Looking back, I realize I should have seen it coming. Natalie and Zeus had practically been made for each other. I thought for hours about what comment I would make to the happy couple when the time was right.
And when they finally trotted by hand in hand, all I could think of was, “touché.”
