pencil shavings

one: sam

I strongly believe that fate is a failed comedian in disguise. It's just cracking itself up as it messes with our expectations and guffaws shamelessly at the fallout. Take the grand milk explosion of the kitchen this morning that devastated my vans, or the famed leg-breaking at the start of summer last year, or the mere chance that hundreds of summer camps have still left me invariably friendless. But maybe today will be different - if I wish hard enough.

Trailed by an everyday cloud of sunscreen, I hum California Girls and follow the suburban maze of flower-lined roads to camp. It's one of those vivid days Astell would have spent on the beach in its entirety; she would have begged Dad to go but ditched him in on the boardwalk and flown down to the sand and called me to come only once her coke was in hand and her towel out. I sigh as the memories rush up.

"Miss, can I help you?"

The tall man peers at me over his desk, still typing.

"Hi, yes, um, I'm here for the writing camp?"

I smile softly, watching him finally pause his typing to flip through some papers.

"First door on the left. Ms. Henderson."

I nod and veer away as quickly as I can without actually running. Today. Maybe this would be the day when I make gorgeous friends you read about in coming of age books, or I meet a tall guy from a rom com. I take a breath and peak my head into the slightly-open door with the name "Henderson" taped to the front in bubble letters.

"Hello! Hello hello hello - oh you must be Ms. Hadds, yes yes come in dear!"

An overwhelming scent of multiple flower gardens plummet toward me like a human hurricane. One moment her charcoal-lined eyes hover just in front of my own, and the next I'm engulfed in a bearhug.

"Hi," I croak out, wincing. My nose smashes into her frizzy hair.

"So good to have you dear - Samantha yes?"

She pulls back enough for me to see the ornate necklaces weighing down a fairly youthful face, a tan complexion framed by puffy black hair.

"Sam," I correct by instinct.

"Sam, Sam, wonderful," she coos, guiding me to the front of the room in a swirl of orange skirts. It's a small classroom, with four rows of middle school-flashback-inducing desks and a few clusters of kids (the perfect mixture to set off a parade of panic in my gut). "I'm Ms. Henderson, your adviser for these wonderful two weeks - Oh! Priscilla!" And she's off, flitting over to the pretty-eyed girl in the doorway.

I blink at the room. That tinge of hope from this morning tapps my mind again, though anxiety marches in with rapid heartbeats. With a deep breath, I squeeze between the chairs and the wall, crab-walking to the back of the class, and collapse into one of the back-corner desks.

Maybe today.

Jocks-who-are-just-there-because-of-parents had magnetized near the middle, girls with braces and binders whisper at the front, and the few lost boys in band tee shirts had huddle by the teacher's table. Aside from me, the only other occupant of the back rows is a lump of maroon fabric, which could quite possibly be a person, but I can't be sure.

I bite my lip, praying for one familiar face, until I see Paige and grin. Paige, the girl from my school, my friend from European History, my closest study partner during finals week, the one person I might categorize as a "friend"-

"Oh, I remember you! It's - oh my God. What was your name again?"

Right. That's my friend.

I smile through my clenched jaw and lean over my desk for the illusion of comfort. "Sam. Great to see you again - and for once not with our heads buried in Victorian Era England."