text: I went to summer camp when I was a kid. My mother saw an ad online and insisted on it--this great, big, family-owned place tucked between some mountains in the Adirondacks. Summers in my small Vermont town were dull and uneventful, and though this was an attempt to fix that, I wanted nothing to do with it. Not because of the outdoors or anything. I didn’t mind being bunked in a dusty cabin, packed with strangers and spiders, without bathrooms or electricity. Nor did I think I was too cool for the silly games and activities proudly displayed on their website. It actually seemed fun. I just felt guilty having any sort of experience without Lily. She’d only been gone a few months. Cities and towns rushed past my window, growing few and far between. The wooded northern roads led us into a long stretch of evergreen tunnel. I gazed silently out the window, doing nothing to hide the bad mood I was in; I was a soon-to-be teenage girl who, on top of having her first fight with her parents, had just had her first period. The last thing I wanted to do was sit in the car with them for two hours. I’d sometimes catch Mom’s eye in the rear-view, but she remained unusually silent. The mother I knew would have spent quite some time reviewing the dangers I could have faced that summer. Things like ticks, sun poisoning, bears, or becoming one of the two hikers a year who go missing in those six million acres. But there was none of that. Not even a word from my dad, who was always good for a laugh. I’d hardly spoken to either of them since Lily. I didn’t even wave bye when the ferry took off for camp. A thin white haze covered the water that day. I stared out over the side of the ferry as we drifted into it, face turned to the breeze as I pressed against the rail. There were two dozen other girls and boys on that boat, and most of them seemed to have already known each other. Some were chatting excitedly beside me, while others zoomed past in a game of tag or in search of other familiar faces that would light up when found. I took it all in, hopeful of what the summer had in store. The charms of Lily’s bracelet clinked against my wrist in the misty wind. Shuttle busses met us on the other side of Lake Champlain and drove small groups at a time down the winding road that eventually led to Burntwood Grounds. I was of the lucky few that had to wait for the last one to double back. The longer I spent on that bench by the dock, slouched against my bag, the more anxious I was to get there. I daydreamed of all the fun I might have, clinging to Mom’s promise that this place would feel like home soon enough. When my shuttle finally arrived, I took the very first seat and watched the others file in to the very back, wondering who, if any, among the group would be my friend by summer’s end. I imagined Lily sitting in the empty seat beside me choosing my next best friend. That’s exactly the kind of thing she would have done. But then I felt a knot in my gut, so I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to see her see all the fun I was having. After driving through an old, small town, whose bricked factories had long since shut down, we were treated to breathtaking glimpses of the Adirondack mountains, rugged and impossibly large. We couldn’t see some of their tops above the overcast, and eventually lost complete sight of them as the shuttle barreled down the forest road that lead to the camp’s entrance. We stopped at a seemingly innocent gap in the trees where a large branch-lettered sign pointed us inward: WELCOME TO BURNTWOOD. Beyond was a dirt road that ascended just slightly, as though taking you up to an entirely new world. I could feel a shift in gravity as we rolled through. At the end, the trees opened up once more and spit you out onto the largest field you’d ever seen. A single golf cart sat markedly in the distance. The other ferry-goers stood around a campfire beside it. They all perked up when they noticed the last shuttle approaching, watching as it dropped us off just a short walk away. Two girls by the fire clapped their hands and squealed at the sight of their friend behind me; she shoved past to go hug them. Counselors in bright orange shirts greeted the rest of us, gasping over how much everyone had changed since they’d last seen each other. I noticed several eyes pass over me and move on to someone else. It was clear that everybody knew everybody around here, and that I wasn’t yet one of them. An older gentleman with darker skin and a goatee stepped forward with his hand held high to get our attention. The pin on his shirt read “Simon.” His voice was deep, with a hint of an accent I couldn’t place. “Okay everyone, listen up! Now that you’re all here, and your bags are off to inspection, let’s take some time to catch up, make a s’more, or two--but not three!” He shot a comedic glance at one particular boy, alluding to an inside joke that I was on the outside of. He paused for laughter and then continued, drawing out his words in a slow, dramatic fashion as he paced back and forth, waving his hands as he spoke. “But first! I just want to say a few things before we begin the 46th summer here at Burntwood Grounds.” The crowd erupted into applause. Simon stood by with a grin and waited. “Yes! Forty-six summers of love. Love for each other. For ourselves. For nature. We are all truly blessed to be here--this, you know. But what you may not know is that things here are not always perfect. Just like each and every one us. There are parts of us beneath the surface--parts we may not like. Parts we deny. Maybe parts we aren’t aware of. Parts that make you who you really are, yes, but parts we can improve upon. Which is why our theme this summer is *self-discovery and growth*. Understanding who we are, for all the good and all the bad. Searching within ourselves for our true identity and embracing all parts of it so as to discover, not just who we are, but who we truly want to be. Find yourself. Love yourself.” He let the words sink in. A group of older kids in front nodded their heads and muttered a phrase under their breath that the rest of the group then repeated. It reminded me of church. I shuddered at a vision of Lily’s casket at the altar. “Now...” Simon concluded with a clap. “Who is ready for the best summer of their life!” The crowd cheered and broke into an excited frenzy, grouping up with the friends they hadn’t seen since last summer. I took a seat on a log by the dying fire, invisible among the buzz. Another girl my age sat down on the other side and poked some life back into the embers, preparing herself a s’more as the fire gasped and was alive once more. I tried not to look when she dropped marshmallows onto the dirt and put them on a stick anyway. She, too, was sneaking glances my way, and my struggle to avoid it only made it harder to do so. It made my palms sweat. But she didn’t seem bothered. She enjoyed her snack while playfully poking the pit with her stick, moving to a song that must’ve been playing in her head. My tempted eyes lingered longer, noting the many differences in our appearance: her straight blonde hair falling freely over her shoulders while my curly brown locks were hidden inside my bun; her bright green eyes were tempered with a stroke of hazel where my plain browns were dull and tired; her pale, freckly skin was worn with dirt and scrapes where my sun-kissed body was a smooth caramel, clean and moisturized. But the closer I looked, the more I saw familiarity in our distinction, as though created from the other’s shadow. The crackling of the flames grew louder. I heard the girl’s voice call out from behind them. “I like your bracelet.” I looked up and saw her take a big bite of her s’more. “Thanks,” I mustered. “Do you want one?” She was mid-chew, with marshmallow on her lips. I shook my head. I wanted to thank her but then seconds had passed. Her eyes kept meeting mine as she continued to chew. When she finished, she grabbed everything she needed to make another and moved herself next to me. “You’ve never been here before,” she stated, quite strangely. She was playing with the fire again, stabbing her stick in and out of it. “First time,” I said with my eyes to the ground, where my feet awkwardly tapped. The chatter around us was growing louder. I could feel the girl’s attention on me, so I asked, “What about you?” She huffed a laugh as she licked chocolate off her hand. “I was born here.” I froze. The fire hissed at her as she continued to poke it. When she looked at me, I could see she wasn’t kidding. “I’m a Lovel,” she said. “Marcy’s my mom.” My stomach sank further. Was I supposed to know who that was? It was bad enough not knowing a single thing about Burntwood, now I was screwing up the only interaction I’d had all day. The girl could sense my anxiety. It seemed to amuse her. “My family owns camp,” she explained. “I’m Charlie. What’s your name?” I cleared my throat. “Maddie.” Charlie reached down for the graham crackers and marshmallows and fixed herself another. “Maddie,” she repeated to herself. “Are you sure you don’t want one? They’re really good.” Those big green eyes were begging me to join her. So I grinned and agreed, to which she joyfully tossed the bag of marshmallows my way. “This is my fourth one,” she whispered. “Don’t tell. Here.” She held her stick out for me to take, and without hesitating I grabbed it, not realizing it was the end that had been in the fire. It burned my hand worse than I ever had before. I shrieked and stared at the throbbing red mark seared into my palm, shooting a frightened glance at Charlie who was looking guilty as ever, her hands clasped over her mouth. The sea of children surrounding us parted as orange shirts hurried over. Simon pushed to the front, took one look at it, and immediately rushed me onto the golf cart. Gasps and murmurs tailed behind me. As we sped off, the roof of the cart rattling with every bump, I looked back at the receding crowd and saw Charlie wave a sad good bye. I waved back. -- Burntwood only continued to expand, like a web, roads through the trees leading to various village-like sections of log cabins. It was hard to pay much attention to any of it given the pain in my hand. After what felt like far too long, we’d finally stopped at what appeared to be the main area of camp. Two large buildings faced one another, separated by a view of the lake beyond. Simon led me into the left building, through a lobby and into an open recreational space where two women--one young, one old--stood face to face behind a table, in the midst of a seemingly important discussion. The younger woman froze at the sight of us. “Medical,” Simon announced. The younger woman’s face softened as she turned to face us, the older woman’s gaze still on her. A white glow from the day’s overcast sky was pouring in through the window wall behind them, casting shadows of the tables and sofas all around. The younger woman stepped out from around the table. “What happened?” “Sorry, Marce. She was cooking marshmallows with Charlie. Grabbed a stick by the wrong end.” The older woman, whose wrinkled neck disappeared somewhere inside her purple shall, began to walk off but paused by Marcy’s side. “Fix it,” she muttered. “Yes, mother. Come,” Marcy added to me with an outstretched hand. I followed her to an office in back, taking a peak over my shoulder to see Simon with his arm around the old woman, heading for the exit. I had a feeling she wasn’t talking about my injury. Marcy’s office was small and refreshingly cold. Safe to say there probably weren’t very many air conditioned spaces at Burntwood, but the Hemlock Building was easily the most modern area of camp, complete with electricity and plumbing. It was no wonder head staff spent most of their time there. Marcy sat me down beside her desk and pressed a cold rag against my hand. I followed stray streams of drops down my wrist where Lily’s bracelet softly lay, her initials shining from the light above. “So how do you like Burntwood so far?” Marcy asked with a sarcastic grin. Her teeth were perfectly straight and almost unnaturally white. She might’ve been forty but certainly didn’t look it. Her hair, unlike Charlie’s, was brown and wavy, and braided around the top of her head. Her eyes dark, but soft. “I know this place can be intimidating,” she said, “but I promise it’s not as scary as it seems. Trust me. I’ve been here my whole life.” She motioned for me to hold the rag while she searched inside a first aid kit. My attention, however, was bouncing from wall to wall, each heavily decorated in Burntwood memorabilia. T-shirts and bandanas from years past spread open and nailed to the wall. Posters and pictures, and spray-painted trophies. Hiking gear, oars, ski poles, and an autographed hockey stick hung above the door. Marcy was rubbing ointment on my hand when she noticed my stare. “Chris Tremblay. Have you heard of him?” “Yeah!” I gasped. “My dad has his jersey.” “Well, he went here,” Marcy grinned. “Years ago. Just a small little thing like you. Knew nothing about camp. Didn’t want to be here,” she added with a raised brow. “And you know what he said to me on the last day? He said it was the best summer of his life. Cried when his parents picked him up. So he came back the next summer, and the five after that. Even dreamed of being a counselor some day but was too committed to hockey when the time came. After the Rangers drafted him, he visited us before heading down to the city. Said he owed everything to Burntwood. That it changed his life.” She must’ve noticed the skepticism in my face, as she leaned in closer. “When he first set foot on these grounds, nobody knew who he was. And when he left that day, there were kids wearing his name on the backs of their shirts.” I glanced once more at the blue shine of his stick above but didn’t feel any better; the air around Burntwood was still heavier than it was anywhere else. And I was still the fool who got hurt in her first hour there. I winced as Marcy began wrapping my hand, pressing the ointment down for a refreshingly cold sting. When she asked me to sit still, I apologized. “It’s okay,” she chuckled. “Everything’s fine. You’re doing great.” But she could see that I was not. She paused, the roll of gauze still in her hand as she worked through something in her mind. “Can I tell you something?” she said suddenly. “Something not many people know?” I nodded, and she continued, wrapping my hand as she spoke. “The woman who founded this place? She got burned real bad too. Her name was Eleanor. She lived in a shack deep in the woods with her family, many years ago. The man who owned it let them stay there in exchange for work. You know, helping on the farm. Stuff like that. And so for a while, that’s what they did.” The wrap got a bit tight, so Marcy unwrapped a few layers and began again. “It wasn’t a great life, but they had no where else to go. So every day, they worked and did all they could to survive in that little shack. It wasn’t easy. And the landlord didn’t make it any easier. You see, he was a very bad man. He was cruel. He worked them too hard, especially the children. Sometimes he’d withhold food if they weren’t working hard enough. When Eleanor stood up to him, he hit her. Almost broke her jaw.” Marcy turned and rummaged through the first aid kit once more, items jangling inside as she continued her story. “Of course, Eleanor then realized that her family was in danger, and that, despite the food and shelter, she needed to get them out of there. Whatever it took to keep her family safe. So late one night, while the landlord slept in his big, empty house beside them, she hurried her four little ones out into the darkness, carrying sacks filled with as much as they could carry. Food, water, clothing.” She finally found what she’d been digging for, pulling out a small pair of scissors and cutting the wrap from the roll. “It was a very windy night, something that should’ve worked in their favor. But just as they were about to reach the only road out, a gunshot rang loud into the air. And it was *chaos*. Eleanor cried for her children to run, not even realizing she’d been shot. She collapsed, shouting still for her children to escape. Her eldest daughter, Shereen, turned back and saw her mother bloody and struggling. So she went back for her, despite Eleanor’s pleas not to. More gunshots were fired, and the kids were disappearing down the dark road without anyone to look after them. Shereen was holding Eleanor in her arms, watching the life slowly fade out of her.” Marcy dragged the first aid kid closer to her and peered inside, this time taking out a small roll of tape. I waited curiously as she took her time. She taped down the end of the gauze and finished with a gentle, loving tap. “But the landlord showed no remorse. When he reached them, he picked Shereen up by her hair and dragged her over to a nearby tree, where he beat her mercilessly. Slammed her head against the tree over and over. Her brothers and sisters were frozen in the distance, watching in horror.” I watched in horror myself, wondering why on Earth she was telling me this. Her stare had drifted somewhere beyond the wall in front of her, as though watching the entire scene play out. And then, to my surprise, she returned to me with a faint smile. “And then a lightning bolt struck the tree, killing the landlord instantly.” My eyes grew wide, the pain in my hand subsiding for just a moment. For some reason, I was more nervous than I felt I should have been. “What happened to the girl?” I worried. Marcy’s face lit up. “That girl is my mother. And she owns that tree now.” She closed the first aid kit with a snap and rolled out from behind her desk, now directly in front of me. “She turned the most painful time of her life into something wonderful. She built a community for her family and all those in need. And ever since, this place has been blessed with a history so rich and full of love, you can feel it.” Marcy took my injured hand and held it gently in hers. “*You* are part of that history now, Maddie. Your pain is not forever, but the power of this place is. I promise.” Her eyes were glossy and assuring, almost mournful. I wondered if my parents had told her about Lily. I could feel the charms of her bracelet being pressed against my skin, as images of her gap-toothed smile flashed in my mind. Her little face peaking from around the corner. Her style. Her attitude. The way she always defended me. The pink walls in her room. The white walls in the hospital. The way she looked the last time I saw her. “Here,” Marcy said, bringing me back. She held out a couple pills for me to take but then recoiled when I reached for them. “I’m not supposed to give you these so...” She put a finger to her lip and dropped them into my hands. I stared at them, fighting flashes of nurses dosing Lily to sleep. I played with her bracelet as Marcy fetched me a bottle of water from her mini fridge and slid it across the desk. I didn’t move. “Do you need me to open it?” she asked. I shook my head despite the growing sting underneath the wrap. I pretended not to feel it. After watching Lily battle the way she did, for as long as she did, I felt guilty ever being hurt. I didn’t know real hurt. I looked up at Marcy. “Do I have to take these?” She blinked. I expected her motherly instincts to force them upon me and was surprised when she said, “Of course not.” She gestured for me to hand them back to her, studying me as I did so. I wasn’t sure why, but she seemed upset by this, and that didn’t feel good. So I forced a smile and asked her more about some of the things in her office: black and white photos of the early days, contrasted by colorful ones of her and her family at various places around camp; purple pool noodles in one corner and tall tiki torches in another, both part of some camp tradition, as it appeared most things were; and a large stuffed-animal of a blue and white wolf sitting atop a bookcase. It was cute. She was going to tell me about it when a sudden wave of voices rushed through the window; the others had hiked their way over and were marching into the next building. “C’mon,” said Marcy, still eyeing me curiously. “Let’s get you back to the group, yeah?” -- The Dining Hall was far less comfortable than the Hemlock Building. The air was thick and sticky, and smelled of sweat and body odor. About a hundred campers, ranging anywhere from seven to fourteen, were packed into tables that just barely fit their capacity. I could feel sets of eyes from all directions shoot my way after following Marcy through the screen door and letting it slam shut behind me with a loud crack. We stood aside as counselors on stage were attempting to silence the crowd, while Shereen and Simon stood carelessly in the far corner chatting with other seemingly prominent people at camp. I met eyes with one of them, a woman with thick glasses and an oversized crescent moon hanging from her neck. Marcy gave it a moment and then clapped this rhythmic giddy-up kind of clap, to which the crowd repeated and fell silent. I already wanted to be just like her. With all eyes now certainly my way, I was more than relieved when I’d spotted Charlie in the center of the room motioning for me to sit next to her. Her mother gave her a nod and wished me off with a gentle squeeze of the shoulder, Charlie’s grin shielding me from the stares as I shuffled past other tables to get to her. She gasped when saw the wrap I was now donning, half-heartedly hiding laughter from behind her perfectly unburned hands. “I am so sorry!” she giggled. Her voice cut right through the otherwise silent crowd. She didn’t seem to mind the glares from nearby staff. And neither did I; her laughter made me feel better than anything. I sat happily beside her and watched the introductory festivities before us, as the entire staff took turns introducing themselves and then performed a very corny skit as a way to go over all the rules. Bathroom buddies, aquatic safety, hygiene, after hours. In a very poorly acted scene, two young boy counselors pretended to sneak out of bed at night, only to be eaten by the camp monster, the Nightcrawler. “A beast of many forms!” another counselor cried from underneath a black blanket. She was wearing a plain purple mask with two little holes for eyes. It was silly, but the looks on the faces of the little kids in front told me that it worked. As the night progressed, I found myself buying in to Burntwood more than I thought I would have. I laughed at all the dumb jokes and clapped along to the songs I pretended to know, watching enviously as Charlie and her friends belted out the words. I’d never met anyone so confident in their own skin, especially not at our age. I admired her just as much as I admired her mother. I’d almost wished they were my family. Then I remembered what Marcy had said. That I was forever one of them. I hoped that was true. Charlie went on to formally introduce me to the other girls at the table. Whether their early disdain was all in my head, or Charlie had had that much pull, they seemed genuinely excited about befriending ‘the new girl.’ They gave me their own version of orientation over pasta dinner, ranting about the people and all the things I’d love and hate. I got lost when they shifted to reminiscing on previous years, but I listened eagerly and laughed accordingly. When the night ended, our counselor, Sarah, took the nine of us over to the girl’s side of camp. A circle of cabins surrounded a small field and sand pit, with more cabins extending along the water. We sat on the docks where rays of the setting sun fought through the overcast to say goodnight. The mountains beyond looked like something from a painting. We did ice breakers and went over more rules, and when the shuttles pulled up with our bags, it was time to settle into the cabin we would be calling home for the next four weeks. It was just a short walk from the docks, something Sarah assured we’d appreciate on those scorching summer days. After hauling bags heavier than ourselves up a small hill, we reached a large, but otherwise ordinary looking cabin. It didn’t appear to be any better or worse than I’d imagined, but when I reached the wide steps of the front porch, my heart stopped. There was a pretty, floral-painted sign on one of the beams: WOOD LILY. I stopped as the other girls passed. Charlie turned back. “What’s wrong?” she asked. I stared at it a moment longer and shook it off. “Nothing.” “Don’t worry,” Charlie grinned. “Wood Lily’s probably my third favorite cabin.” I looked at her, to which she added, “Out of fourteen. That’s pretty good. It’s not as nice as Pine Palace but at least it has electricity.” Her voice trailed off somewhere beyond me as I stared up at the moths circling the yellow porch light. I wasn’t there anymore. I was dragging Lily’s bag up the hospital steps, my mother at the top walking far ahead of me. I blinked and it was Charlie again. I buried the memory and followed her inside. The interior was certainly nicer than expected. The lighting was dim and there was still dirt on the floor, but overall it was neat and well-spaced. There were bunks lining the wall that disappeared into a back section, and a stairway in the corner leading up to the counselor’s private room. The girls immediately began pairing up and discussing who would get which bunk. I was too afraid to ask Charlie. And I didn’t have to. She took me by the hand and pulled me further inside, to the very back where it turned right and extended into an almost cavernous area. This part of the cabin looked older, as though the rest had been built around it later on. “This one has the best view,” Charlie explained as she climbed the top bunk and dove into it. There was a window overlooking the woods, with a clear line of sight to the river beyond. You could just make out the shimmer of the mountains’ reflection in the twilight. She stared out at it while I stuffed my clothes into the dirty drawers. She’d hardly had anything to put away, as her actual home was somewhere on the grounds not far from here. “You can use one of my drawers,” she offered. She’d spun around and caught me standing idly by my bag, debating whether or not to take Lily’s bracelet off. I hadn’t taken it off since the funeral. Not once. But I wondered if maybe it was time. “Does it hurt?” Charlie blurted. I was staring down at my hands. “Yeah,” I replied. I wasn’t sure which thing she was talking about but it didn’t matter. Sarah went around and checked to make sure everyone was properly situated, and after one final reminder of the after-hours rules (and a strong recommendation not to stay up too late), she bid us goodnight and turned off the lights. We listened as the thud of her footsteps disappeared upstairs, waiting for silence before throwing whispers across the room to one another. We got a few giggles in before her voice called down for us to go to bed. My eyes were heavy anyway, it had been a long day. The growing pain in my hand was a reminder of that, and of the fact that I was having too much fun. This pain was deserved. “Maddie,” whispered Charlie. Her face was squeezed between the bed and the wall, staring down at where I lay. “I’m happy you’re here.” “Me too,” I replied. And I was starting to mean it. I thought that was it, when Charlie continued. “Can you do something for me?” She sounded sad. Even in the darkness, I could see the desperation in her big, green eyes. “What?” She paused, and then said, “Can you sleep on your stomach.” Confused, I said nothing. “Please?” she tried again. “Sleep on your stomach, okay? Tonight, and every night.” I nodded as though this was a casual request. But she didn’t move. She was waiting for me to do it. I rolled over, my injured arm now forced wall-side and without much room for comfort. I could hear Charlie above finally move away, rolling onto her stomach as well. “Goodnight, Maddie.” “Goodnight.” I was very uncomfortable, in more ways than one. This was so unexpected. And strange. But strangest of all...when sounds of Charlie’s unconscious breathing trickled down into my bunk, I didn’t move. I stayed on my stomach the whole night. I didn’t know it yet, but it was a good thing I did.