THE FIRST TIME I REBELLED at camp was when I accidentally stole a bagel.
One day we decided to go on a mini field trip to Einstein's across the street. Midway through picking my bagel and chocolate milk, Christine, who did the program with me, asked to borrow a dollar. So I gave it to her, but I realized I would no longer have enough money for both items. But maybe she was borrowing it because she would pay for both of us?
Either way, according to my mixed-up thinking, one of the following things happened:
1. I gave Christine money, which she was obviously using to pay for both our bagels---or so I thought.
2. They didn't ask for money, so I didn't give it to them. They must have just forgotten or just decided not to worry about it.
3. I didn't notice the separate check-out counter. Even if I did, I realized that after giving Christine money, I couldn't pay for both the bagel and chocolate milk.
So I sat at a table and enjoyed the food, mainly the rich chocolate milk, or at least I tried to. I was still relieved to throw the remains of my bagel away and go back to school. I was never stepping foot in Einstein's again.
But that isn't what this story is about. This story is about the second rebellion at summer camp, which happened on purpose.
****
If there was any lowlight to my teen years, it was getting sent to social skills camp.
I didn't know what I'd done to deserve the dishonor. I had friends--- hello, Christine and I were best pals at the time! And hello again--- I also had Holly, Emma, Samantha, Willa, May, Mari, Haley, and Adventure Princess girls.
And there were other things to do over the summer, like celebrate the Fourth of July with Grandpa's fireworks show, going to the pool, and sitting in the cool basement typing up one-page stories. Or maybe I'd watch Spongebob...and the commercials. Nick commercials were always oddly entertaining, a combination of cereal mascots finding their missing cereals, the Charmin bear family, and infomercials you could verbally rip apart, scrutinizing how well the bottomless bags or plastic jar openers worked. Also, not too long ago, my sister had gotten Super Mario Bros 3 for the Game Boy Advance, and we spent many a summer night out on the glider playing it. That was our new favorite game, replacing Disney's Magical Quest.
There were camps, too. I'd done many a summer camp in the past. Every summer, pretty much, since preschool. Many of the programs I joined were actually hosted by teachers at my school. Some were better than others, but we had a hard time finding one the summer before seventh grade.
OFFICIAL LIST OF SUMMER CAMPS WITH RATINGS
Kinderworks. This took place at a woodsy preschool not too far away. It was pretty standard: field games with Mr. Steve, swingset time, pool games (the hardest part being putting on my swimsuit by myself, though I always managed after a struggle), and playing with colorful transparent blocks at playtime. This gets points off for Science with Miss Cindy. We read a book about the Berenstain Bears going to space and cut out rocket ships. We were supposed to cut on the outside, but apparently I cut on the inside, and Miss Cindy was not pleased. Nor did she help me fix my rocketship. I subtly threw it away and hoped nobody asked. FINAL SCORE: 4/10
Writing Camp With Real Writer. This lasted a week and it was kind of fun. Little kids and big kids gathered together to write stories and create characters on lined notepads, the kind Christine and I liked. We even created our own little books. FINAL SCORE: 8/10
Mrs. G's Daycare Camp. One of the teachers at the Quaker school headed this offering. I name it this because it was almost literally daycare. I spent time trying to amuse myself by playing with the toy animals and making books out of Crayola's stamp markers. There was a craft in there somewhere, and a trip to the Crayola factory. That was about it. I still love you, Mrs. G. FINAL SCORE: 1/10
(A point because I do have to give it credit. I think it took place during spring break and it was essentially a daycare program. That doesn't change the fact it was a lousy way to spend spring break.)
There was a slightly more advanced version of this school-sponsored camp that I did once or twice---a hodgepodge of sitting around and doing activities. I remember us sitting in the auditorium, watching such classics as Thief and the Cobbler, Air Bud, and The NeverEnding Story. Another popular activity was building huge pyramids with paper cups and then knocking them down with remote-controlled trucks. We also had a little tissue paper campfire in the center of the room, and, one year, put together a skit where we were guests at a surprise party. That's pretty much what I remember as far as that one goes.
Fishing Camp with Mrs. G and Miss America. Mrs. G also led a more general camp at Quaker school later, which I attended with the current Miss America at the time of this writing (2020). She spent time wrote a story called "My Life" which consisted of three sentences about bones she'd broken in the past. We went fishing at the pond at her house, too, and I caught ten fish, the second-highest total behind another boy's. Thus, I am a better fisher than Miss America. Bet you didn't know that!
Gymnastics camp. Kelly was the one who took lessons at the Little Gym, not me, but I joined her one summer for some fun. I loved playing games on the mats and tossing around the squishy Sno-Balls (which also smelled pretty sweet). But another highlight was seeing Kelly play too rough and have to sit against the wall in time-out. As the one who usually got in trouble, this was satisfying. I don't remember much other than the games, the balls, playing with scarves, and watching Harry Potter at lunch one day. FINAL SCORE: 7/10
Vacation Bible School. This took place for about a week at our church and would follow a theme. We didn't watch a ton of Veggie Tales, but we would play beach games and do other crafts vaguely related to Jesus. It was fun and inspiring. I enjoyed hanging out with a girl from my Indian Princess tribe there one year. FINAL SCORE= 10/10
Mosaic of Fun at Quaker school (aka Bagel Stealing Camp). This one was headed by my first-grade teacher whose classroom I'd met Christine in. This was like the generic camp where we sat in the auditorium, but with a smaller group and with more structured activities. We went for bagels. We made blanket forts and watched Brandy's version of Cinderella in them. We made a haunted house for the little kids in the hallway by the art room--- many years later, I would still see tiny grains of black paper still stapled to the sides of the hall wall and smile. We took walks around the Quaker high school campus next door. We made banana pudding with Nilla wafers that I remember being super good. A quasi-version of the camp you'll hear about later. Silly but fun. FINAL SCORE: 8/10
Theater camp at Quaker school. We worked with our awesome music teacher on a play called The Elephant's Trunk. My role was pretty simple, being the Narrator and reading most lines from the script. We also had some dance and recess time. A quick one and I apparently made Mrs. G cry, as she watched in the audience. FINAL SCORE: 6/10
Sewing at Quaker school. This one was led by my fourth-grade teacher the summer before I started fifth grade. The first summer we made skirts, and I was proud of my super thin and kinda immobile skirt with a poodle patch on the side. The second summer, we made purses. Christine joined me for the second summer, the summer before she returned to our school.
Three memories stick out here. One: getting behind another school bus whose yellow lights were flashing while on the way home from a trip to JoAnn Fabrics, and our driver getting off the bus so they could let the other driver know. The second memory was putting on a fashion show in the auditorium and then going to Christine's house afterward in the pouring rain. The third was eating Firecracker popsicles. FINAL SCORE: 9/10
Theater camp at local church: Discussed in Diaries of a Theatre Geek. FINAL SCORE: 8/10.
Overnight Writing Camp. The only overnight camp I did came in high school, in place of a junior year internship requirement. For two weeks, we would take two classes. In the morning I learned how to make zines, and in the afternoon we did creative writing projects. This was considerably more fun the first year, before the staff started snapping at everyone and half the campers caught colds in the second.
FINAL SCORE YEAR 1: 9/10
FINAL SCORE YEAR 2: 7/10
Social skills camp would be the penultimate frontier, but it starts earlier than that. Actually, the main reason I was there was to guinea-pig it.
One day, just before the summer after sixth grade, I was made to go visit a counselor who specialized in this kind of thing who I'd known from a previous attempt at forming a social skills group that I'd wanted no part of.
When I entered the room, two other girls were there as well. The purpose of us being there was because a new summer camp was being created and they wanted input. Even more interesting was that it would take place, alongside a regular lineup of camps, at the Quaker high school where many people from my previous school had ended up after graduation and where we had attended our weekly meetings for worship. That didn't make me any more excited.
Not that it wasn't a nice campus. It consisted of old brick buildings with stately square windows, many of which were clearly built during a different time. The campus was also equipped with quite a few athletic fields and nature trails with some particularly pink cherry trees. It was definitely a great place to have camp. When we walked to meeting for worship each week as a young child going to school next door, I'd picture students in long dresses and suits walking campus, as it was an old school. The meeting house actually had photos of early graduating classes from a bygone era. Everyone looked serious in their black suits, Victorian dresses, and severe buns as if school wasn't a happy place to be.
I didn't want to go somewhere so old-fashioned.
It turned out that we were being "guinea pigs" for the program. As guinea pigs, we had our own small group, so that we didn't have to participate in the morning social skills lesson. We gave our input into activities--it was our idea to implement a newsletter that the camp had for the years it existed.
After the initial meeting with my group members and another large group meeting for all campers the day before the program started, me and the two girls met our own counselor and headed toward our room. Yes,â¯ourâ¯own room. The cool part about this program was that groups were split up into smaller ones. The smaller groups would hang out most of the day, but everyone would come together for a morning meeting, a group activity, and swimming. That meant that several times a day, these small groups would be together and could dictate what they wanted to do.
In our group, social skills weren't even covered like they were in the other groups in the morning portion. We did our own activities. The first thing we did was make acrostic poems about our names together. As we decorated our papers, I found out that their names were Gwen and Tasha, they loved to play UNO, they each had a sibling and dog they loved, and all seemed genuinely nice and non-gossipy, or at least not intimidating, extremely pretty popular people.
Maybe it wouldn't be so bad?
Except for seeing Rumpelstiltskin The Musical next week. The thing I most remember about that first week was that I really didâ¯notâ¯want to see Rumpelstiltskin. So lame.
After two weeks of drama games, baking cookies and eating the raw dough, writing the newsletter that we headed, lots and lots of UNO, playing a Sorry spinoff with an angry talking pawn whose sass we loved, doing yoga and karate, doing cheesy sand art and window art projects, playing Indian Trail (a game where you'd split into teams and try to lead the other team to you using chalk arrows, two of which were tricks), and playing Monkey in the Middle in the swimming pool with my little group of campers, and then getting out of the pool where the air smelled like the consistency of macaroni and cheese after our swim (this apparently makes sense only to me), my enrollment was up.
Camp was over for the year, at least for us, and I realized that I would actually miss it. I even survived an hour and a half of Rumpelstiltskin. It was now on to Fiddler on the Roof theater camp with long days of memorizing lines ahead. Would I miss this new program too much? THIS was the way to do camp--in a small group where we were the bosses, mostly. It was such a uniquely chill environment. Of course, we saw other campers during some morning activities and during elective time, but we were largely together all day.
So the following year, Tasha, Gwen, Annika and I signed up for four weeks instead of two. Granted, it still went too fast, even with a production of Mulan Jr. in the mix. But as far as I knew, we had years left to go. An added bonus was that, given former classmates' tendencies to hang around the campus helping with other summer programs, especially classmates who attended high school there, Ben might show up. I always had hope.
After my third year at camp, I was about to enter my sophomore year of high school. Freshman year, needless to say, was misery business.
But as camp progressed, I began to notice the little intricacies of the Quaker high school where camp took place and where many former classmates were attending. I thought it was fascinating that the buildings were so old and had a lot of hidden history. In the building where we ate lunch, for example, I learned that girls lived in the rooms above us during the year and that classes took place in the basement in the 1890s--even some teachers had living quarters there. Ben walked through these buildings during the year while I was at school in the next state.
Meanwhile, during the school year, open houses at my boarding school was as staged as a reality TV show. We would all dress in our kilts and button-down shirts, and hang out in a location that the school assigned us. For Danielle and I, that was the basement lounge in our dorm. So on open house day, we brought our laptops down there with us because we figured that none of the teachers would actually bother checking on us to see if we were watching TV on them.
"I'm bored. What do you wanna do?"
The original plan was to open some Spongebob episodes on iTunes and pause them at the right times so we could capture ridiculous animation smears and catch characters making ridiculous faces, particularly for Squidward. We loved Spongebob and were always relating moments that happened in real life to moments from the show. Although we did do this, it wouldn't take up the entire 3 ½ hours. I thought for a moment, then got an idea.
"I'm going to see what Ben is up to. I think he might be in a play this weekend." So I clicked into the Quaker high school's website and had a look around. I always tried to look up things about what Ben was up to and had already learned that he was continuing to act in school productions. I'd emailed him and emailed him since high school started but I had never received a response. Who knew where he was?
This time, what I found fascinated me.
First of all, the school had a comprehensive theater program that was obviously nicer than the one our school offered. You could tell by the backdrops and level of craftsmanship. They valued community action and required everyone to do a service project before graduation. And most of all, they had a feature called "Our Week in Pictures" where you could click on pictures from every week to see what students were up to. The archives went back for years. Not only that, but they had an entire history section where you could browse picture collections from each decade since the early 1890s.
I spent the next two hours browsing through pictures and that was not nearly enough time to discover them all. I did learn some things, though. I enjoyed seeing former middle school classmates in the photos. For example, I learned that Harvey, who also played a lead when we were in Seussical, was making his way into theater himself. Ty was becoming quite an artist. But whenever I saw a photo of Ben, my heart jumped in my chest thinking of all the activities he was doing and friends he was making without me. More than anything, I wished I was in school with him.
And then I thought: what if Iâ¯couldâ¯be?
I mean, I could just see myself there. The students were nice (well, presumably, in these photos taken for social media) and seemed to care about the world around them. They probably didn't have to sit through entire class meetings to deal with drama issues.â¯I could even develop a better appreciation for meeting for worship---way better than more time sitting in class. And the more I looked around the sorry, dark excuse of a lounge, the more I wanted to be in a community with no drama, boys, riveting choices of English classes, nicer dorms, and most importantly, Ben. But could I change high schools again?
The minute that the open house was over, I continued browsing the website. I did this until dinner and found myself getting even more excited about the possibility of actually enjoying high school. As Danielle and I ate, I gabbed on and on about everything that I loved. Once dinner was over, it was right back to the website for even more browsing. And that's where that entire day went.
I even managed to request some information about the school. The admissions process site displayed a quote by an ancient philosopher about how the journey starts with the first step, but in actuality, their process was seven steps. Step 1 was pretty simple: fill out the form with your information and address, and they'd send you a booklet. Simple, right? But as I hit Submit, I was light with exhilaration. Even if I didn't have control over my future, there would be no more what-ifs.
A few weeks later I checked my mailbox, and a flat package sat inside with the school's address. I squealed and ran back to my room before my next class. Iâ¯hadâ¯to open it right away; I had to. Inside the envelope was a green booklet detailing aspects of the school. I loved most of it...the senior "dinner dance," the winter formals, the fact that there were boys (like Ben), the idea of teaching students to appreciate diversity and debate, and the fact that what I knew compared with the booklet formed an obvious conclusion that it was friendly and welcoming, made it an easy pick over my current school. There were things I also didn't like, such as a 2-hour study hall, meal shifts (like dinner crew at my school), and a competitive sports requirement (freshmen had to join 2 teams, never mind that starting a new school alone would be stressful and time-consuming enough!). But I'd at least get to play more hockey. And then I actually read Step 2...a family form that your parents had to fill out. I didn't have some of the information. slapped myself, then realized what I had to do. Apply myself and find out the information I didn't have somehow.
My hopes were dashed quickly. I'd left my info booklet sitting out on the kitchen counter.
"So I heard you're poking around a new school?" asked my dad as I was strolling in the kitchen to grab a drink.
I cringed. Okay, so I'd tried printing out an application earlier and the printer jammed. Fortunately, we'd seem to have ran out of ink and nothing came of it.
"You're all paid up for your current school, but you can go to college anywhere you'd like," he'd said. "Besides, they require very high math scores unfortunately."
I slowly left for my room, embarrassed. What else was there to say? Other than a reminder that I had gotten an A in Algebra in freshman year. Sadly, I did not think of that argument at the time because the sadness was clearly too overpowering.
But I would not let the man hold me down. I recovered and my excited energy back during the following summer at camp. This time around, I pictured classmates wandering the halls. But I felt jealous, too. Images had surfaced the previous fall of Ben in a production of West Side Story. The musical, I knew, was about youth. And what almost always accompanied youth stories? Romance! If I didn't take action soon, who knows what might happen? What was going on here without my knowledge?
That summer, a girl named Amelia arrived. She was roughly my age, and arrived at camp to help out. But she also hung out a lot with us. She was well-known for her positive attitude. Although I was previously known by counselors for my can-do attitude, I wasn't so sure about the idea of doing karate twice a week. When we started out, many of the adults began complimenting my skills, but I wasn't so sure. And when Tasha eventually began sitting out too, I was tempted to sit out as well. That didn't sit as well with Amelia.
"Oh, I think it sounds fun!" she'd say after we'd question something, whether it was karate or the childish song we all had to sing for the talent show. She was always so annoyingly positive, and I loved it.
One day, though, I did have to sit out. We always went swimming after a sports or elective activity, but not when that time of the month arrived. So while Tasha and Gwen went swimming, I was left sitting on the sidelines. Or at least, being left to my own devices in our group's assigned location, which was a study room with computers. The previous day I had spent swim time writing a profile for myself on GirlsLife.com. Nothing that I could have done at home, or anything.
Fortunately, Amelia and I were granted the privilege of walking around the beautiful campus while everyone else was at the pool. The total amount of land they owned might have been bigger than my college. We were among the walking trails, cherry trees, and a large, historic tree that was the basis for the school's logo. There was also a pond and a creek that you could walk down to, if you knew where they were. They were both situated across the street, across from an old train station stop that used to stop at the school in its earlier years. Naturally I thought it was much nicer than my own high school...an old dairy farm in the middle of nowhere. Please. â¯Especially after viewing all the photos the previous school year.
"I hate my high school," I confessed. "This campus is so pretty. It would feel so much better."
"You should stop in the admissions office," she suggested. My heart stopped. There was nothing stopping me now...except my own fear.
"Er.â¯Now?"
Amelia sensed my nerves. "I could do all the talking for you."
I shuddered at the picture of me and her standing together in front of a 10-foot high desk with official-looking admission officers sitting behind it. Me, being the girl who was too afraid to ask for what she wanted. Her, my spokesperson. That certainly wouldn't look good as a prospective student.
"Come on. Want to head over?"
I glanced at the building where I knew the admissions office was located. I could hypothetically have an impromptu meetingâ¯right nowâ¯and my family would never know. But yet...
"Er, okay. I mean, no. I'm not ready, but we could take a walk anyways..."
"That's cool. We can just sit on their porch." At the entrance to the admissions office was a porch where you could sit on swinging benches, so that's where we headed.
Me, checking out a school behind my parents' back. Me! The good girl who went to Sunday School, had a few good close friends, dressed modestly, and was adverse to partying! Looking into a school on my own! Really! It couldn't be real.
We sat in front of the office, where the doorknob stood not six feet from me, gabbing about high school and how much it sucked. I could open it, go in, and go right ahead. But it couldn't be the right time, could it? I stared at the door, rocking back and forth on the rocking bench. It would be so nice to sit there and do work on a warm spring day...but I had changed schools once already. What were the chances of doing it again?
Soon, swim time was over and Amelia and I had to head back to our room. Next year, I told myself, next year.
The next summer, before junior year, was the penultimate summer of camp, yet it was more exciting than ever. I really, really wanted to attend the school.
One rainy morning had most of us sitting on the front porch upon drop-off, and I saw an admissions officer eating a banana inside. I recognized her from my many explorations on their website and I jumped. She was all I could think about that day. While we were sitting inside watching National Treasure, my mini-encounter was all I could think about during the two hours of boredom. Sadly, all my thoughts were for naught. I never found a chance to break away from my group and get away with it.
But that was okay. We were having fun at a place I loved. Maybe someday it would truly be my place for real.
However, someday was limited.
Junior year came and went. I spent every Tuesday night looking through the Week in Pictures section of their website, scouring for photos of Ben and other former classmates. I even convinced my roommate Emily, whose thoughts about our school often aligned, to look into the school when we were having one of our complain-fests. She was just as excited as I was to receive her information packet, yet because she was already in senior year she could do nothing about it. Still, we had a great time fantasizing about what life would be like, and how she'd just get her parents to enroll her anyway because the school sounded so great and man, was she sick of it here.
Naturally, I went back to camp for one final year. It was only for four days, because July 4thâ¯fell on that week and I would be away for the second week. I had to do something, fast.⯠Changes had been made to the program the previous year and it wasn't the same; it clearly didn't have too many more years left in the tank.
For one, we met as a big group rather than as several little ones, meaning it wasn't the four of us anymore, and we all had to participate in the morning social skill lesson. Gwen, Tasha, and Annika had all moved on by now, and so had our counselor, making me part of the bigger "teen" group with the kids who had more special needs, making my presence there a bit pointless. If I had known for sure that none of my friends would be back, I may not have gone either. Then again, I couldn't pass up a chance to be on campus.
And this proved to be a good choice.
We needed a bigger space than the teacher's lounge and surrounding rooms that year, so we moved into a large room in the "main" building where we'd always eaten lunch. The dorm itself was gorgeous and spacious, and I especially enjoyed using a dorm room in which to change into my bathing suit when we didn't have enough bathroom stalls, fancying myself to be a student there. As we played UNO before going home, I looked around. This dorm would be a wonderful place to call home. It should be mine.
One morning that week, I arrived to see a bunch of guys messing around on the porch. Will and Mitch were friendly guys who I enjoyed playing UNO with or just talking to in general sometimes.
"What do you think would happen if we just walked in here?" Mitch asked, looking at the door to the office.
I stared in horror. What were the counselors doing, besidesâ¯not looking?
Will smiled. "I'm gonna go in."
Unbelievable. I thought what might happen if a bunch of professional adults caught a bunch of immature campers randomly walking in on them. What in the world were the admissions people going to say? I couldn't look.
Will then jiggled the handle. "It's locked!"
They were closed. I had a month to get in before senior year at the dairy farm reared its ugly head, and they weren't even open.
As I was swimming in the pool that afternoon, probably on my own, I got the idea:â¯why don't I send them an email myself?â¯As I floated, I couldn't see why not. Life started going in slow motion as my idea came into focus. I could absolutely schedule a meeting because I'd already be on campus.
When I got home, I looked up the director's email and that's exactly what I did. I spent a good half hour thinking of how to present myself. I mentioned being the recipient of a school community service award (the school was very pro-service) and my grades, and translated those facts into what I hoped were two thought-out, professional paragraphs. Essentially, I scheduled an informational interview where I could stop by. I mentioned that I was a current camper and that it would be very easy to come in. After proofreading and scanning fifteen times, I sent it away and crossed my fingers. They wouldn't reply until the next business day, which would be tomorrow. I had the evening to relax.
When I got home from camp the following day (a very, very long trip where I could hardly breathe for anything) I ran to my room and checked my email, heart thumping wildly. I saw an email from Admissions and stared at it for two minutes before opening it. Would it deny me the opportunity?
No.
Hi Morgan...unfortunately, we are closed this week. I will be in the office from 9-10:30 if you'd like to stop by, but if we don't connect, we can always try to schedule for another week.
Best, Jessica Davis
Tears began to pour down my cheeks, but I wasn't sure what they were for. Was it relief? Was it the thrill of actually being professional and conniving enough to go after something I wanted without parents' help? Or was I just worried I was being naughty?
Never mind. I had a meeting tomorrow! A real, semi-professional meeting that I'd set up on my own.
As I usually did, I ran to the phone and texted Danielle with my huge news. She was equally as excited for me. I headed for my closet to select an outfit that looked nice, like something I'd wear on one of my high school interviews as an eighth grader. I chose a knee-length denim skirt, a nice pink top, and matching ballet flats that pinched my feet but otherwise looked nice.
I then had to come up with questions. What were questions you might ask on a job interview? Maybe I could practice. I jotted them down, then placed them into a nice black purse.
The following morning, I could hardly believe what I was in for. As my little sister watched her usual Special Agent Oso on Disney Channel and as I put together my usual camp bag with my usual fruit-punch flavored water and swim gear, it seemed like another ordinary day would be about to unfold, except for the fact that I dressed ever-so-slightly nicer than usual in pink ballet flats and a denim skirt with a nice solid top. But I was psyched.
On the drive there, though, that changed. My stomach was in knots. I hadn't considered any logistics of this meeting, which was in an hour and forty-five minutes. How would I escape from camp activities? What would I tell my counselors? Would they let my parents know how it went when they came to pick me up? I shuddered as I realized they probablyâ¯wouldâ¯say something as I got into my car at pick-up.â¯I would be in so much trouble!
When I got dropped off, I started over to a group of campers to talk to. Maybe it would just be easier to skip out on the meeting? I wouldn't have to tell anyone, and this whole anxiety business could just go away.
Then I saw one camper walk away from our counselor Amy. Amy was a Kate Gosselin look-alike with a great sense of fun, but she also was sure to always reinforce behavior, and I didn't know how she'd respond. But seeing that she was free, I had to seize the moment.
"Just so you know...um...I have a meeting earlier, so I won't be joining you for game time..."
"Really? Where? With the school?"
I couldn't get the words out. "Back there." I pointed to the office.
"Really? That's awesome! Good luck!" she said.
The show of support was amazing. However, my stomach was still twisted into a pretzel. I even found myself wishing the day's social skills talk about being "age-appropriate" (which I didn't entirely agree with) would never end. Then we went to the computer lab for a while where I tried to focus on playing space pinball but failed. I could only notice the clock on the wall, ticking every second, one second closer to 10:30 each time.
Then it was time for my meeting.
I walked up the steps to the porch again, but this time it was different. Rather than sit on the benches, I opened the door.
A redhead, Jessica Davis, was sitting at her desk. She was the one I'd been in contact with. She saw me and looked up. "Do you need help?"
Great. She doesn't even know who I am. Probably thinks I'm Will trying to break in.
I shrugged it off. "Um, yes, hi. I was the one who emailed you about possibly looking into information about next year?"
"Oh, that's right! Have a seat, I'll be with you in a moment."
As I waited for the phone conversation to finish, I twiddled with my purse and peeked at the questions I wanted to ask. The desks weren't nearly as tall as they were in my fantasy from a year or two ago, but the space between us was about that length --- an awkward distance of about seven feet. I fantasized about how cool it would be to meet the rest of the admissions crew, which sadly would not be happening since they were not officially open. Just several months ago I'd interacted with some of them on Facebook regarding an open house, so a few knew who I was. Oh well. This was much better than nothing.
So we talked a little and she glossed over some parts of the school that stood out. I especially liked the parts about there being very little drama. Then I asked her about my chances of applying.
"We don't accept any new students for senior year," Jessica stated.
"Oh." I was caught off guard, but she continued. "How are you doing in school right now?"
I chose the wrong moment to showcase my academic skills. "Almost all As, including a 100 in Spanish." Normally, I was thrilled. Spanish class was one of the few great things about school and I was good at it.
Jessica responded: "Well, we don't normally let seniors in who are doing well, unless they're struggling and wanted to repeat the year. Do you think you could do that?"
I paused. Repeating a grade soundedâ¯crazy.â¯I had many crazy ideas that I wanted to work, but this was outlandish. But could I? I had fleeting thoughts of purposefully failing all my classes and going on to a great school.
Then I thought of Ben leaving me behind and being in a class with people a grade younger than me, including people who I'd gone to school with for years. I thought of being in classes with some of the people I'd used as inspiration for the tire swing invaders in my smoothie stories.
I seized the moment to ask something I was dying to know. "Do you have a huge emphasis on math scores?"
"No, we don't. But we do like students to be decent students in general."
Ha! My parents lied to me! Or at least presented me with false information from the rumor mill. The vindication I felt was too sweet. I marched right in the office, all by myself, and found out that in fact, that was a complete lie.
The rest of the conversation went smoothly and easily. She even gave me a literary magazine, a couple of school news packets, and a "photo wallet" given to all prospective students to look through. I said goodbye and headed upstairs half an hour later. It was as easy as that.
Once there, a group of counselors were curious to see how everything went. I told them about the questions I asked, and they seemed impressed. I asked Jessica why she liked working there, and what most students liked about the school. These were a group of social skills experts we were talking about.
I didn't need them after all. So there.
For the first time, I had set something up of my own volition. Trying to have a say in my future. Planning things all on my own. I felt light and free all day. Except for my feet, which pinched horribly especially when we went to the tennis courts. Why did I not bring a pair of flip flops? My thoughts kept drifting to the pile of propaganda by my bag that I was dying to read. However, a couple of thoughts struck.
First of all, this could be my last day of camp ever, and perhaps my last day on this campus ever. I would be a high school senior. The camp probably wouldn't take college students, and my friends weren't here anymore anyway. I should just enjoy the hours I had left rather than hedge on the pile of paper in our room, and soak up the atmosphere of the old building and the community of the room. After having visiting campus since kindergarten, who knew when I'd be back?
Second of all, how on earth would I proceed and ask my parents about applying? That was the clear next step, and the more I thought about it the more I realized this plan would never work out. I always thought of something in tough situations, whether it was doing the work for my group project partner just to make sure it got done, to memorizing Spanish throughout the day to make sure I was ready to present. Everything always worked, no matter how unpredictable or stressful. It was one of my best qualities. Or, what if one of the counselors mentioned the meeting to my dad as I got into my car? That thought truly knotted my stomach. I looked out the window, where it was pouring rain. It always rained on the college visits I'd been on thus far. I snorted to myself. That figured.
This would not work. Despite all my effort. Especially because we were in July.
But it was also empowering. So many of us refuse to take a leap of faith, and I had done so. There would be no more-what ifs. I shot for the moon and landed among the stars.
When I got home, I cheered up considerably. I had papers to read! I snuck them up to my room and immediately began thumbing through news articles. I laughed to see a picture of my middle school science teacher, the one who led the play-doh experiments, who was once in a play there when he attended and gawked as I realized that his wife was the admissions counselor I'd just spoken to. But I couldn't help myself and went straight to the literary magazine.
And then something happened that nobody could have predicted. Not even me.
****
I was impressed at the quality of the writing in the lit mag. I especially loved the lyrical, poetic monologues by an Afghani girl about love and life and nature. Another unique one was a poem that looked like a wave, entitled, what else, Wave. My mind briefly drifted to eighth grade English class, where we did a unit on poetry. Ben had liked those poems, the ones where the words were arranged into shapes. I read over it, especially the last four lines.
If you see them, tell them I'm okay. Aw, he wants to reassure somebody that they're okay because they're worried about them! He's worried! That's so sweet! Tell them, tell them not to come back. Ah, what a sweet poem about love and loss, written by Ben Mueller...
WHAT?????!???!??
I threw the magazine down and stared at the author's name. The thoughts came in rapid succession, one at a time.
I had been writing emails to him for months, some specifically asking if he was okay. He never responded back.
He didn't want that person to return.
He was obviously never happy with me after my following him at school.
It was obvious he didn't want me back.
He was getting my emails. Why did I know this?
This poem was about me.
THIS POEM WAS ABOUT ME.
Well, maybe. But those last few lines still raised huge flags. And that wasn't even with me trying.
It was about how I always emailed him, asking for friendship back. Always wondering how he was doing.⯠He never intended me to find it and thus assumed he could publish it. But as in many things in my life that haven't been intended for me to see, I saw.
My senior year was spent looking up ridiculous amounts of things from that school...where I knew I'd never go. But hey, I was seriously considering being an English teacher. I could always apply for a job there.
We set aside three weeks in the spring for Project Exploration, where we ditched our normal classes and took one specialty class. I took a simple class in Botanical Art where we were mainly left to work on art journals all day. It was the easiest, most relaxing class I'd ever had. During our study halls, I printed out articles that discussed the school's English projects and saved them in a folder for ideas. You never knew. I was just getting started.
Besides, my crush wrote a poem about me. There was a time and place for giving up. Which was not now. I continued to send him emails now that I knew he was getting them. Heck, maybe I'd even go to graduation and see him there. Anything was possible. Still, it didn't change the fact that senior year would be sad and miserable and not what I wanted. Despite all that, I felt a little better. Ben was thinking about me. I didn't need to be at his school to realize that.
I'd talk to Ben again someday. I knew it.
***
I liked to think that I didn't learn social skills from social skills camp. I knew them all already. I kind of did learn some, actually, but not in a way anybody had intended.
Number one: don't hammer your crush with emails. It's creepy and inappropriate and they will surely write a poem about you.
Number two: It's easy to sound professional writing an email. It's a bit harder in person, but it will come to you. Just be yourself.
Number three: If you are going to an interview, it is impressive to ask the interviewer why they enjoy working there. Apparently.
Number four: It's okay to ask for what you want. Even if you don't get it, you won't have to ask, what if? Don't let your parents fight your battles for you all the time. Do it yourself. Do it without telling them if you have to (within reason, of course). Especially if they fight your battles for you all the time.
And the big number five: this was the turning point in my life where I realized I could Make Things Happen.
Even though I finished my high school career at a place I didn't like, I learned how to act on my own and ask for things. From there, I was able to kick butt at all my college interviews. I didn't get one rejection. I was able to start leaving messages for my crush at college and eventually start going up to him and starting a conversation. That was the first cute guy I'd become sort-of friends with. The confident version of myself was here...or at least, the more confident version.
I guess parents, as parents often are, were right. Just not in the way that they thought.
Thank you, social camp. I owe ya one.
Final score= 10/10.