The campers arrived for the first session of the summer in due course and things slid smoothly into the routine I loved so much. I know we call them worms, but we pretty much like most of them. It is surprising how much, actually, given that virtually all of their families run the gamut from pretty damned rich to stonkingly loaded. It is hard not to be a spoiled brat when you are born that wealthy. But get these teenagers off into a primitive environment, away from phones, symbols of status, expensive clothes (mostly), and especially their doting parents and loyal retainers, and they learn to be human beings pretty quickly. Each session was four weeks long, which was plenty of time to deprogram most of them.
The rhythm of life at Dickinger was timeless. Every week, starting with the night of arrival, the whole camp gathered around a huge, low bonfire far off in the woods. Kids sat by cabin with their counselors on huge benches, each made from half a tree trunk, worn smooth by careful crafting and years of wear and weather. The first Campfire served as an orientation, and all other Campfire nights featured announcements and awards for the week. Some ‘awards’ were funny or sarcastic. Not getting several of the awards was a powerful incentive for good behavior. Other awards were serious, and came with some cool trophies, expensive prizes, or simple respect.
Not everyone got a prize or award, even over an entire session, so getting one meant something. Good or bad.
The main activity during Campfires was singing. A lot of people today have forgotten the power of singing in a group, especially without instruments or amplification. It brings groups together, and makes people happy.
No, you are not too cool to sing campfire songs. Yes, I mean you.
Other nights after dinner, individual cabins would do some activity a couple of times a week, sometimes with another cabin, like owl or bat watching, night fishing, or flashlight tag. Friday nights, the night before Campfire, there would be a dance in the chow hall. Dances were as popular with the counselors as they were with the worms, but for different reasons. The campers liked the opportunity to mingle with the opposite sex, and to show off their social skills. Counselors liked dances because chaperoning was a great chance to laugh our asses off at how bad those social skills really were. And more to the point, we loved dances because only 75 percent of us had to be there. That meant that each of us got one whole night each session where we were free to do whatever the hell we wanted.
The immediate thought is that there must be a veritable orgy every Friday, but alas, that thought is wrong. The night off schedule is set in stone before the summer begins, so if you aren’t already hitting it off with one of the girls who have the same night free as you, your romantic ambitions are shit out of luck, brother. My first year as a counselor was a complete non-starter, romantically. My second, I had lucked out and my night had ended with a little mutually satisfying handy action with Jessica Durango, a girl who was a year older than me and who was sadly not back this year. I was not super optimistic this year, as a batting average of even . 500 was pretty rare, much less managing two out of three.
Worse for my luck, I had the very first dance as my bye. (Someone has to.) Even counselors don’t spend much time each week with more than a few members of the opposite gender. And every girl I spent any time with on anything, including my activity partner that first week was either homely, or not into me, or well-supplied in the real-life boyfriend department… or all three. So the first Friday, I spent my free night doing what most of us do when we get that sweet time off-drinking the allowed three beers with other dudes, and sleeping the sleep of the just.
The second Friday, I was on duty in the barn for the dance, chaperoning. It is usually a pretty easy night, and this was mostly no exception. Counselors are encouraged to dance. It makes it easier for the shyer worms to join in, and you get a different perspective on the kids’ (mis)behavior from the middle of the floor than you do from off on the side.
That night, I danced with a few counselors, though none of my favorites. I danced with Carol, too, which was a first. We grooved to some eighties song I did not know, but which she thought was the peak of culture. I decided against doing it again in the future though. You should have heard the shit I took from my own personal pack of worms from my cabin about dancing with The Boss.
I even danced with a couple of Senior girl campers, one of which, Felicity something or other, was a serious smoke show. Needless to say, getting with any camper, eighteen or no, was a nuclear-level termination offense, so that dance was absolutely all that happened.
But that view from the dance floor did give me the vantage to spot the one situation that did need handling. One of my own cabin’s boys, Chip Chadwick (the Third, of course), was dancing with a very cute girl who I later learned was named Adele. In the press of the crowd on the floor, I noticed that Chip’s hands had thoroughly ensconced themselves on Adele’s generously shapely ass, a grope she seemed singularly okay with.
I nodded toward them to the counselor I was dancing with, and the two of us sidled up next to them. When Chip saw me looming over him (I’m a big guy), his hands slid upward to a more appropriate position on her back. “Dude,” I hissed at him casually. “You know the rules! And you are a Senior this year. It is up to you guys to set a frigging example for the younger campers.”
“I’m not here to set an example. I’m here to have fun,” grumped Chip, the little shit, who apparently still needed some reprogramming.
“You are also here to follow the rules, which still apply to you, even if you are eighteen now,” I growled back, looming some more. Chip was a good looking kid, to be sure, but I was the better part of a foot taller than he. I played my trump card. “And the example thing is important. Especially since, if the lower level cabin counselors decide that you are making their job of keeping their kids in line harder because you were feeling up (What’s your name? Adele?) out here on the dance floor, they will make your ass pay the whole rest of your time here. Want to get ‘delayed in conversation’ by a different counselor every morning in the breakfast line long enough for there to be no more bacon? That’ll be the least of your problems.”
“How are they going to know that their problems were my fault?” he asked, taking pause.
“Because we all see a lot more than you guys think we do, especially things that we choose not to make an official issue of. And if anyone misses it on their own, I’ll tell them all about it,” I said, holding his gaze with mine.
You have to know how to manipulate ‘adults’. I’m pretty good at it.
Good at it. Not perfect, as I was about to find out.
The cabins are picturesquely worn wooden sheds with bunks for ten campers, along with the two counselors’ beds flanking the door. The walls are wood on the bottom half and screen on the top, all the way around. Our beds were placed at the door so we would hear if any camper leaves during the night. It is not, mostly, to ensure no one sneaks out, but so we keep track when someone has to go out to the john in the dark.
That night, Van had been off of chaperone duty, and I am quite positive that he had exceeded his ration of beer, because five minutes after lights out, he was snoring louder than any of the worms. I was pretty tired myself, so I also managed to drift off pretty quickly. When there is no electricity or artificial light, you are tired, and the night is as still as it usually is in the wilds of Virginia, even night owls go to sleep pretty easily.
Still, I woke somewhat when one of our charges slipped out some time later. I grumbled inside my head about dudes who can’t remember to pee before hitting the sack, and rolled over to go back to sleep. But, I’m the responsible guy, remember? After a few minutes, whomever had left had not returned. I groaned quietly and sat up, looking around in the dim light of the moon.
Then I swore not so quietly. Fucking Chip’s bed was the empty one.
It was immediately apparent what was happening. The shithead had arranged to sneak out and hookup with Adele. That sort of thing is really, really, not allowed. I groaned as I pulled on my shorts and t-shirt. Van was useless, of course, though I tried shaking him awake. He was dead to the world.
I slid my feet into my sneakers and slipped out of the cabin. The key was to find the strays and returned them to their beds without involving anyone among the senior staff. That way, I could avoid reporting the situation. If I failed to find them pretty soon and had to institute a general search, the senior staff would become involved, and the kids would both be sent home. I’d get dinged over it, which I would deserve, but the worms did not deserve getting booted just because they got horny.
I carried my flashlight, but kept it off. I didn’t want to wake anyone else, which waving around a big, blazing MagLite would certainly accomplish.
My first place to look was the barn that serves as the chow hall. No one was supposed to be in there at night, and I happened to know that there was a crawlspace underneath it that was almost high enough to stand in. It made for a perfect rendezvous spot-dark, soft soiled, and out of sight.
But when I got to the barn, it was empty. Worse, I found that the camp administration had fortified the entrance to the crawl space. (Well played, Carol and Bob!)
Shit. Now, where to look?
I heard a noise behind me as I glared balefully at my empty best guess as to their location. I whirled around, momentarily thinking about bears. Bears were the main reason we could not let kids wander around in the dark.
It was not a bear behind me. It was enormously better. My first impression was of a person. My second impression was of a very female person. My final understanding was that I was looking at Lisa, holding an unlit flashlight herself.
We shared a grimace. “So Adele is in your cabin?” I asked.