By Stephanie Dethlefs

You. Summer after summer we waited for the moment we could burrow into our sleeping bags in the dark cabin and whisper about your movements, your laughter, your words. Little things we noticed captured, like pinned insects: blond hairs on tanned forearms. Strong hands soothing young campers with skinned knees. Calf muscles flexed as you leaped for the volleyball. You were all of the things, all of the things we were supposed to want. 

Most of the camp staff simply passed the time, there for the job experience, the smuggled drinks and hands slipped up each other’s shirts in the woods after lights out. But you were there for us. First to be at the finish line of relays with high-fives, to roam table to table in the dining hall, to devour a s’more in a single bite. Telling us dark stories at campfire, troubling stories of missing children and bloody handprints and bumps in the night. Your voice softening the fear you caused.

We did not say that when you locked eyes with us, the air became thick with unease, a sour smell. We did not say that.

There was always one. The one to whom you would give your second s’more. The one whose high-fives would linger, your fingers folding around hers, her head lowered in tasteful humility. Her name would weave its way from bunk to bunk, tinged with envy and awe and something else we couldn’t name.

We strolled the campgrounds in packs, observing a world flattened now by the uproar within us. Fourteen, the oldest of the campers, we slid off our shorts and T-shirts to reveal carefully selected bikinis, arms wrapped around our bodies, shifting our weight on the slick wooden dock. Waiting just a moment longer before leaping off to play Marco Polo in the cold lake water. 

~

You cross paths with us in the evening as we’re on our way to brush our teeth alone. You remind us about the buddy system. 

We know we should be in pairs or groups, but we are the oldest now, these paths as familiar as our bedrooms at home. 

You wedge yourself beside us on the narrow trail, and a thin branch scrapes our ankle. 

Have you ever been kissed? You ask this casually as you near the bathrooms, casually, as if you didn’t just stop our hearts. You don’t look at us, your pace hasn’t changed. We’re shocked into muteness, neurons grasping as we remember to keep walking. You don’t wait for our answer because you already know it.

You pull us behind the building, one hand pressing against the wall above our head as the other lifts, thumb stroking our bottom lip before pushing your mouth against ours. We gag a little as you shove your tongue into our mouth. You pull back, disinterest passing across your eyes like an eclipse. 

We quickly see our mistake and tilt our chin up, exposing a quivering throat. Doesn’t that feel good, you whisper as your fingers push and probe and penetrate. It isn’t a question.

You say you’ll wait outside to walk us back. But when we exit, you are gone. 

We say nothing to our bunkmates that night. Burrowed deep into our sleeping bag, we watch a small spider walk across a thin line of moonlight on the ceiling. We touch the skin above our collarbone and our fingertips burn.

Tomorrow, under watchful eyes, our heads will lower in chaste humiliation. As we walk in the safety of numbers, drips of chocolate from the proffered s’more will leave traces among the leaves.