One Last Thing ✅

forty-seven things

Outside, I smell burning leaves, a scent I've always loved. I don't know why. I guess it reminds me of the campfires Riley and I would sit around with stick-skewered marshmallows when we were kids.

Abbott jumps into his pickup, and I follow suit. The last time we skipped school, we went to the Edwards home and spied on the family I destroyed. Today I want to do something that will take both our minds off the shit going on our lives.

He starts the car, backs out, and pulls to the edge of the parking lot. I tell him to take a right. He throws a curious look in my direction, but I don't give him any explanation.

"Just do it," I say, arching my eyebrow.

So he does.

I continue to give him directions until we have passed the city limits and are driving into the country. About ten miles outside of town, I see a sign that says "Camp Minnetonka," and I know we've reached our destination, the old Girl Scout camp that Riley and I used to attend but has since been abandoned.

"Here we are," I say. "Drive up that road."

"But it's all overgrown," Abbott protests.

"It's fine," I reply. "Trust me."

He drives down the gravel road, into a thick wood. The temperature in the car drops a few degrees when we're under the cover of shade. We pass an area that used to be a parking lot but is now wild with weeds and flowers. There's the old commissary, where we bought candy bars and stamps to send letters home, even though our families were only twenty minutes away.

"Keep going," I tell Abbott, enjoying the syrupy sense of nostalgia that settles over me. I remember the excitement that Riley and I felt every summer when we carried our sleeping bags and luggage up toward the cabins. It was a simpler time, when the right flavor of popsicle could make your whole day.

My anticipation mounts as we drive deeper into the camp. I'm longing to see the dining hall, the pool, the ropes course. Slowly we approach a cluster of old cabins and a couple of half-rotted picnic tables.

"Here," I tell Abbott, knowing that this is as far as we can drive. The rest of the camp is accessed by trails which I'm sure are completely covered.

We get out of the truck and slam the doors. I walk toward the cabin nearest to me, the one that Riley and I shared our last summer here when we were twelve. As I climb the steps and push open the ripped screen door, the memories flood into my head. So many whispered conversations, shared dreams, secret fears.

There is a thick layer of dust over the wooden floor. I thought someone would have cleared out the cots, but they're still here—four of them, topped with stained mattresses. I can almost see the ghosts of me and Riley, dressed in bathing suits and jean shorts, munching half-melted Butterfingers and painting our toenails.

I think about the question Abbott asked me in the band room. Why didn't I tell Riley about what my mother did to me? We told each other so many things. She confided that she was nervous that her mother was going to fall in love with someone else because her father was gone so much. I confessed that I felt insecure because I always had to wear secondhand clothes since we were so poor.

Riley was my best friend for years and years. I trusted her, or at least I thought I did. Maybe there's some part of me deep down that feels like whoever I get close to will only end up betraying me. Maybe that's why I never told her about my mother.

I let out a long, shuddering sigh.

Abbott takes my hand again.

These memories are so bittersweet. I thought coming here would take me to a happy place, but it's really only making me feel sadder because I know I can never turn back the clock and get to this place again. This will never again be the camp from my memories.