All Adults Here(47)

August had picked the camp, in part, because no one from Clapham went there, and once John and Ruth drove away, there would be no one paying attention to the things August said, no one judging those things against what they knew to be true. Or things that they thought they knew, because August had never said otherwise.

The weeks passed quickly: The kids canoed, they sang around a campfire, and they each got browner and more freckled in the sun. August’s lower bunkmate, Danny, snored evenly, like a human white noise machine. John and Ruth called once a week and sent letters every day, so August didn’t miss anything at home.

Parents’ day was a week before camp was over. August told John and Ruth they didn’t have to come, but they wanted to, of course, and August couldn’t argue too much.

During the days, August tried things: a friend’s top with flouncy sleeves. A beaded necklace. Everyone painted each other’s fingernails, even the most handsome boys who played basketball shirts versus skins, so comfortable in their own bodies that they didn’t mind if other people looked.

Every night, lying in bed, August asked questions to the air:

What’s the difference between your body and your brain? Nothing? Everything?

What’s the difference between what you are and what you say you are?

What’s the difference between a lie and a secret?

What’s the difference between fear and shame?

What’s the difference between the inside and the outside?

What’s the difference between a meteor and a meteorite? The meteorite hits Earth. It makes contact. Was there a word for a meteor that had to choose when and if it hit?



* * *



—

August wasn’t the only one.

The most popular activity at camp was Cloud Watching, and all you had to do was lie on your back on the big sloping hill and stare up. Sometimes there were lots of clouds to watch and sometimes there weren’t, but it didn’t matter. There would be a counselor there, reading a book, or just lying on their back with closed eyes, and all the kids would surround them like petals on a flower. The counselor who most often offered Cloud Watching was tall and skinny, with a freckled nose and curly brown hair that pointed in all directions at once. Her name was Sarah, and according to some of the kids in August’s bunk, Sarah had been called another name before. A boy’s name. Her dead name, was what the campers who had been there for several summers called it, which made it sound like a ghost story. But that’s what Sarah called it, and they all loved Sarah, and so no one used the dead name, not ever. August always did Cloud Watching when it was with Sarah, and hurried along, to make sure to get the spot closest to her, the tops of their heads almost touching. Some of the boys teased August gently (okay, so there was teasing, sweet teasing), saying that he had a crush on her, and it was true, in a way, but not the way they meant.

The morning that the parents came, everyone was nervous and excited. They knew the summer had changed them—all summers did. That was why the kids at school looked different in September. Being a kid meant being in a constant state of transition, no matter what. It was true when you didn’t want it to be, in addition to when you did.

August thought a lot about what to wear, and finally decided: a swap with Emily, a Clapham High School Tennis sweatshirt of John’s for a long striped dress with short sleeves. It was nautical and made August look tall and slinky, like a dancer in a 1940s movie that took place on a ship. That’s what all of August’s friends said, and when August walked the length of their bunkhouse like it was a runway, they all cheered. Robin was wearing a dress on parents’ day. All the campers waited on the main lawn for their people to arrive. One by one, a kid would jump up and run across the grass and leap into their parents’ arms. Even the kids who claimed not to have suffered a second of homesickness leapt. Everyone had a well of feelings that were hidden from view; August liked that.

August saw John and Ruth when they rounded the corner, holding hands. A thousand kids were running a thousand directions, and August saw Ruth jerk her head to one side and then the other, searching. John cupped his hand around his forehead to block the sun. They were thirty feet away, then twenty, then ten. August walked toward them, and Ruth gasped, and ran straight, her arms wide. August was as tall as she was but it didn’t matter, she would always be big enough to hold her baby. The dress was long and could stretch only so far. August was in her arms and then John piled on top of them, a happy clump. August held on tight. While they were hugging, there could be no questions, only love.

There was some free time, then lunch, when your parents could take you out if you wanted, then there was the camp play. The idea was that by the time the parents left, everyone would be so tired from the day that no one would be sad.

August led Ruth by the hand around the bunk, showing her where everyone slept, showing her the crevice in the wall where all her handwritten letters were stuffed. She crawled up on top with August while John went to the bathroom (“Smells like twelve boys have been peeing on the floor all right!” he said when he got back) and they whispered.

“I like your dress,” she said, and touched the fabric by August’s knee.

“It’s my friend’s,” August said. “I’m just wearing it.”

“Okay,” she said. “It looks nice on you.”

“Thanks,” August said, and touched the wooden walls, where generations of kids had written their names, and the years they’d slept there. Sometimes it was a girls’ bunk and sometimes it was a boys’ bunk. August touched the spot where someone had written Zoe in bubbly letters, two tiny purple dots above the o.