The Art of Being Alone (Together)

02 | The Ghost of Grace Milner

I survey the sunshine-drenched grounds of Camp Create It behind the safety of my rolled-up passenger's side window. As we drive under the big wooden archway that bears the camps' name in big white letters, my stomach stirs with uncertainty.

Dad hums along to the radio as he drives up the dirt road, totally oblivious to my internal freak-out. It's been a week since he told me I'd be coming here. I've spent the past seven days trying to figure out how I can make the most of this experience, and the plan I came up with is pretty simple: focus on my photography. 

The classes will be like a dream come true (especially when compared to Winsor High's boring teachers and ancient darkroom equipment), and I plan to take full advantage of everything camp offers. After spending a few days here, I'll be over my creative standstill for sure.

And like I said before, making friends isn't exactly on my to-do list. I don't have to totally shun everyone (that'd be difficult, considering I'm going to be surrounded by a little over two hundred people), but I'm not looking to get close to anyone, either. My old daydreams of summer romances and new-found friends don't really apply anymore, but it won't hurt to make a few acquaintances. Acquaintances can't hurt you the same way friends can.

Dad slows the car as we pull into a large paved area at the entrance of the camp. The place is swarming with vehicles, teenagers, and parents. A few staff members stand around, easily identifiable in their green polos and khaki shorts, clipboards in hand. Cabin assignments, most likely.

Piles of colorful luggage and backpacks decorate the pavement, sitting next to cars as families hug goodbye and friends reunite. Two girls wave to each other from across the lot, jumping up and down and running into each other's arms. Nearby, a pair of older-looking boys stroll up to each other and do one of those laid back handshakes, the casual kind that every teenage guy just seems to know somehow.

Dad parks near the edge of the lot and looks over at me with a large smile. "Looks just like the pictures!"

He's right; it's like we've stepped into the brochure. I smile back, nodding as I look at the woods in front of us. A dirt path cuts through the trees and buildings sit along it in the distance, barely visible through all the foliage. "Yeah."

He pops the trunk and steps out of the car to get my luggage, so I follow. As soon as I open my door, my ears are attacked by the loud chatter and squeals of excitement from nearby campers.

Dad hoists my big yellow suitcase out of the car as a counselor a few feet away holds up a megaphone, asking for campers with last names starting with M through P to come get their cabin numbers. I take out my backpack and my tote bag from the backseat as Dad shuts the trunk.

"Campers whose last names start with Q, R, S, or T, please see me for your cabin assignments!"

I turn to the source of the voice: a tall, female counselor with a bun of curly hair. She's got a megaphone in one hand and a clipboard in the other, just like the rest of the staff around the lot.

"I should go, I guess," I say to Dad, trying to ignore the anxiety that sneaks its way into my excitement.

"You have fun, okay?" He leans in for a hug and kisses my forehead before handing me the big suitcase, which immediately makes me lean to the side thanks to how heavy it is.

"Okay," I agree, shifting the bag up onto my shoulder. I'm not one to get sappy, so I'm sort of thankful for the excuse to get going. I don't want Dad getting all misty-eyed on me. "I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too-- and I'll miss your cooking. With both you and Mom gone, I might starve to death, you know."

I laugh, shaking my head. "You'll survive. They make TV dinners for a reason."