We stood in the dust under the trees, craning our heads down the road, waiting, waiting. The flies buzzed relentlessly; perhaps they’d heard about the gathering, too. We looked like a slow-motion carnival, as balloons, streamers, and signs swayed languidly in the breeeze. People clowned about, spontaneously dancing little jigs or practicing silly cheers.
But I stood still.
My signs, with their flowing decorations, moved more than I did. And the butterflies. Yes, the butterflies in my stomach moved most of all.
Somehow I found my voice and squeaked at the girl next to me:
“Are you nervous?”
She turned, smile quizzical, brow furrowed.
“What? No, not really.”
“Oh. Well. I’m …. nervous …. I guess ….” My squeak faded as she turned away.
As I glanced down at my signs, the tethered balloons hit me in the face. Nobody noticed. Impertinent little orbs, they bounced against my face again. I smacked them away and my signs came into focus. Bedecked with swirly flowers and spritely polka dots, they read:
“Welcome, Hermicka!”
“Welcome, Brandy!”
Even with the frou-frou, they seemed …. lacking. Not pretty enough. Not festive enough. I sighed. The butterflies fluttered faster.
But suddenly, a rumbling in the distance, a poof of dust, and around the bend lumbered the bus, loaded with our campers.
“They’re commming!!” someone yelled.
Butterflies forgotten, I was swept up in a surge of cheering, waving, jumping people. One sight of that tottering bus and our lazy, little carnival came to life, complete with screaming clowns:
“Alex! Sara! Welcome!! Max! Woo-hooo! Welcome, Paige! Heeey! Hermicka! Brandy!”
“Wel-commme!!”
As the bus chugged between us, the screams got louder. It was the kids, matching us scream for scream. Safety be damned, they jumped about wildly inside the bus, smushing their faces against the windows, straining for just a glimpse of something.
Their names on our signs.
Suddenly, it didn’t matter what my signs looked like. Just that they were.
The bus choked, stopped, and the butterflies churned again. I hope they like me. What if they don’t like me? Help, Lord.
Kids began streaming off the bus, finding their signs, claiming their counselors. Out of nowhere came two little girls: one black, one white.
“That’s me,” one said, pointing to a sign. “I’m Hermicka.” She was beautiful. And wary.
“And I’m Brandy,” the other one said. “We’re sisters.”
Brandy smiled up at me, showing crooked, stained teeth. She took my hand. Hermicka did not.
I gazed down at these girls and inhaled. Deeply.
Our week at camp had officially begun.
yea!
i’ll be back for more.
oh boy! oh boy! I remember the feelings of anticipation when you were waiting to put a face with the camper’s name on your sheet. Your description helped me remember it so vividly. I’m ready to be a counselor again!!!
I wouldn’t bother.
Why cast your pearls before swine, even if the pearl is your own self?
A — Did you mean this to go on the “distraction” post, perhaps? 😉