To learn what a child is like today, talk to the kid. To learn what they will be like tomorrow, talk to the parents.
-Melinda Wale
The smell of pine is unbearable. Several unconnected groups of people have dubbed Andre Promes' recently infamous trunk the 'stink bomb'. Even out here, where actual pine trees are relatively prevalent, the synthetic particles reign supreme. With the collar of his checkered polo tented over his nose, he dives under the hatch, and into a pool of cardboard Christmas trees. He moves the car fresheners in swaths, digging for one of the few which have his business info on them, the odor sticking to his hands like a lotion. It doesn't help that he went cheap and used worn out fresheners instead of buying cards, as they all look exactly the same from the back because of it. He thinks, but he's been thinking this for the last ten times as well, that he really ought to sort through them again and keep the business card in the glove box or something. Really, they should have never gotten interspersed were it not for a bout of anger following an unsuccessful pitch. Everything's been a bit hectic as of late. Finally, he finds one, and is quick to close the back door after him.
'Promes Car Accessories' it reads, his work number below it. Andre risks a glance at his daughter, Margot, who is waiting arms-crossed a safe ways away. He walks over to her. To check on the state of his card, he ventures his nose out of its protection and gives it a connoisseur's sniff. His face drops. Being stashed with all the others, some life was always going to get smeared back into the once-extinguished freshener, but this is pungent.
Margot is past the phase where she was naively proud of his new job and wearing the fresheners as necklaces she liked the smell so much, and so far past it that the opposite is now true, so she'll be less than happy, which means Marie, his wife, who is already huffy and distant (literally rather than emotionally; she stormed off as soon as he went back to the Esteem), will be less than less than happy.
As if she can sense his anxiety, Margo snatches it from his hand and immediately administers the smell test. Unlike his cautious, and seasoned, technique, she snorts at the thing like a fair swine. The punch sends her back reeling, every muscle in tensing to deal with it. It's the sort of thing that he could do and look both hideous and incompetent, but it's only ever funny when it's her. "Bleurgh! I'll be sick if I gotta carry this around all week." Holding it with her fingernails, she extends her arm, offering it back. Andre accepts, but immediately returns it by forcing it her hand around it. Insisting without a word.
"Wash it off in the lake for about a minute, and it will be dead an hour later. Leave it to hang somewhere safe outside," he advises. He knows this, well, because he slings the things, but also because he takes a spray bottle to anything going to a loyal customer, which has a greatly reduced, but similar effect. If Marie were to learn of this, she'd disown him, but she sure enjoys the avocados the extra ten-percent revenue gets her. To be fair, he quite likes the house which her cushy accounting gig is practically paying for, ever since he was laid off. Attracted to her daughter's expressions of displeasure like a shark to blood, she has made her way back to the family and immediately taken over.
"Oh leave her alone, would you?" Marie says, draping a single arm over Margot like a seat belt. Her husband can get carried away with the negative comparisons. Maybe she's marginally more overbearing than other parents, but none of them have to rear Margot - who simultaneously is so darling that she evokes the fullest of her love, and rambunctious enough to give her fits. Other than that, she reckons she's usually pleasant. It was her idea to send Margot here - well not here, Andre's mother chose the place with the kid as a sort of 'compromise' - but to camp, so how overbearing could she really be? Some time out in nature will be good for Margot, certainly better than her computer games with all the killing and the magic. More gifts from Nana, who Andre hasn't mustered the gut to tell off, and Margot adores.
"Can we go now?" Margot asks. That question is one that is always asked with a pout and long, bitter vowels, but this time it isn't.
Backpack, forms, Andre's useless card (her own work number is memorized already, which says all one really needs to know), Marie quickly checks everything off. Moving her mouth to keep it all in order, but refraining from orating until she says, "Sure." Thank the Lord he doesn't come up with another delay. He comes in for a final hug. When she doesn't release her restraint over Margot he submits to awkwardly wrapping around the both of them. For a hug, it is uncharacteristically free of contact, a cushion of air, or in some areas, a shared daughter, separating the pair at every point.
Margot uses her loose hand to boop Andre right in the nose. "Boop!" She laughs. It's like she booped him with a dose of laughing gas, judging by his wide smile. That kind of toddler humor is well spoiled by now, and it will never cease if he keeps encouraging it. With a look that brings back the memory of their prior conversations on the subject - less than cheerfully - Marie pivots away, nudging her hip into Margot to spur her forward.
"Bye, buddy, have fun," Andre says. Drawing inspiration from all the other parents, he is sort of following his kid, but at a respectable distance. Out of earshot, but close enough if any assistance is needed; a period in the middle ground before losing her for the month. Marie is more of a trendsetter, and she wonders why she hates change so vehemently. Still, she holds her daughter back from the world, tossing out speculative up-and-down eyeings to every older teen who opens themselves up to such a thing. This was not what she wanted to send Margot away to, she was blackmailed into it, emotionally, really. Nana sold her so hard on the camp that saying no would've made Marie look absolutely pantomime in her daughter's eyes. A young man in line, soaked in black makeup and peppered with piercings makes her wonder if it maybe would've been the better option. As an actuary, she is quite adept at evaluating risk, and her receptors are overloading.
The line is meandering and nondescript; groups of friends standing abreast, significant others dangling like the participle in the next sentence. Shuffling forward, the sky darkens with bruising clouds. Toxic pine ethers bumble in on the first breeze of the dawn. Nostalgia is said to be closely related to the senses, so perhaps that's why an urge to retreat takes stead in Margot's head. It's only her seat belt of a mother that stops her from acting on it, Marie realizes this, too, because she felt the feint of an escape, which prompted her to tighten her hold. For a queue so long, the counselors eat away at it with pace. Apparently, they all came at the exact same time. Suburbans.
Soon enough she's up. They freeze, a mother and a daughter, both once innumerably excited for this moment, but now they share an expression of wide eyes and curious frowns. They lean back as far as they can without falling over backward, staring at the counselor girl who once invited them up to the desk, but now is sending squints back.
Marie is the first to break out of her stupor. "Go on then," she lets her go.
A wicked breeze tumbles through the camp as soon as she does, whipping into the recently revealed skin of the kid. To the left, a stack of papers scatter off the table, launching a younger girl out of her seat to regather them. Margot Promes shivers and pulls the straps of her backpack tight to her skin, taking the final step to the registration booth.
"Hi, and welcome to Camp Azeban! What's your name?"
