Hope and Other Punch Lines(2)

That’s the first beginning, which I tell you only because otherwise the rest won’t make any sense. To meet Abbi Hope Goldstein is to meet Baby Hope, and to understand that in my town, at least, I get pointed at—people know my name even though we’ve never met—and occasionally, someone will corner me in a supermarket line while my hands are full of deodorant and hummus and tell me where they were that morning, like it’s something I want to know about them.

The absolute worst is when I make strangers cry.

But as promised, there’s a second beginning. Right here, right now, in a moment of rare triumph, the first days of summer vacation. Sunday night, nine p.m.: me, age sixteen, rocking out alone in my bedroom. I belt a girl-power ballad into a makeshift microphone, aka a dry shampoo bottle, because I can’t find my brush.

Shimmy. Shimmy. Hair flip. Shimmy.

Tomorrow I start as a counselor for four-year-olds at Knight’s Day Camp, two towns away. When I visited for the interview, there were lush green lawns and an old-fashioned red barn and something they called the “plake,” which is a hybrid pool/lake. We’ll have pajama day and a bouncy castle water slide and a Color War. Also arts and crafts and potato-sack races and even a Dance Dance Revolution activity block. Knight’s is a happy place, by far the happiest place I could find in the tri-state area, and believe me, I looked. Even went as far as to Google “happy places in New Jersey.” Now I get to go there eight hours a day five days a week, and for two months, not a single person will look at me and see Baby Hope.

Time is still confusing and slippery. Based on some unexpected medical developments, there’s a good chance I’m running out of it. But for the next blissful eight weeks, I am going to be just Abbi Goldstein.

I’ll get to make little kids laugh and not a single stranger cry.





It’s not like I’m going to burst into tears or drop my coffee or make a big scene or anything. I saw that happen at the Blue Cow Cafe last spring, and it was bananas. Abbi Goldstein, aka Baby Hope, walked in, and this middle-aged dude knocked over a full mug and started weeping right there in front of everyone.

We all have our wounds, especially in a town like Oakdale. Mine are pretty gruesome. But I wanted to tell that guy to get it together. Find a coping mechanism. I abuse comedy the way other people abuse drugs, and that seems to work pretty well for me. He should try a Chris Rock special.

She’s a teenage girl, after all. Not the freaking Messiah. It’s not fair for him to put his shit on her.

At least, that’s what I used to think. Because when I see Abbi Goldstein across the field at Knight’s Day Camp, of all places, I’m not going to lie: I hear an actual click in my brain. As if all the pieces of a plan I’ve been working on for years but haven’t yet figured out how to implement suddenly fall into place. Yes, I fully recognize my own hypocrisy, and I have surprisingly little trouble ignoring it. Not even a twinge of guilt.

This feels like fate, which to be clear is not a word I’d ordinarily use. That’s the domain of bad poetry and greeting cards and also, idiots.

But she—well, Baby Hope—is exactly what I need.





I can tell when someone recognizes me. There’s this double look, a one-two sweep, that I feel as much as see: a tiny tingle at the base of my neck.

Today, I feel it two hours into camp orientation. A boy across the lawn. Crap.

“Just so you know, you’ll be in charge of all accidents,” Julia, my new senior counselor and essentially my boss this summer, says to me, and I use this as an excuse to turn around to face her. Now his view is only of my back. Better.

“No problem. My parents made me take a first-aid class,” I say cheerfully. We’re standing on a grassy field in the blazing sun, and I try to imagine what this place will look like tomorrow when the kids get here. Until my grandfather died a few years ago, I spent my summers at my grandparents’ house in Maine, and after that, Cat, my then–best friend, and I worked at Torn Pages, Oakdale’s used-book store, so this is my first time taking part in camp life.

I can handle accidents. Some Neosporin and a Band-Aid, preferably adorned with a cartoon character, and the cute little monsters will be good to go.

I have no idea how to handle that boy, though.

“I’m not talking about skinned knees. Our campers are four,” Julia reminds me. “Their control over their sphincter muscles is limited at best.”

“Oh, so there’s a poop element to this job. Gotcha,” I say, thinking it’s funny that people still have to shit even in happy places.

Julia’s black, probably twentyish, and the kind of beautiful that feels like a trick. It’s a slow build, but once you notice, you can’t stop staring. A small star-shaped stud dots her right nostril, quiet confirmation that she’s also effortlessly cool. She’s short, like me, though built more like a gymnast than a prepubescent boy. I wonder if we were both assigned to the youngest kids so that people wouldn’t mix us up with our campers.

“Also, my future boyfriend is the four-year-old boys’ counselor, so we’ll be paired up with them a lot. That’s Zach.”

Julia points across the expanse of grass to a giant with blond hair and a crooked, goofy, I’m game for anything smile. He’s wearing a tie-dyed Knight’s Day Camp T-shirt, slouchy sweatpants cut off into shorts, and a wide-brimmed hat with a Velcroed chin strap. Of course, he’s standing right next to the boy I’m trying to avoid, who is, presumably, his junior counselor.