Page 3 of Until Next Summer
“But what does this mean for my staff?” I say. “Do you want us to just…clear out?”
“No, no, of course not,” Mary rushes to say. “The whole process will take a while.”
“Probably not as long as you think,” Jack mutters under his breath.
Anger flares inside me. I want to grab them by their shoulders and shake them, ask how they can do this. Don’t they understand how much this place means? To their parents, to all our campers. To me.
I remember Dot saying Jackhatedcamp as a kid, that he resented how his parents spent all their time and energy here. Mary loved camp, apparently, but she’s never been strong enough to stand up to her older brother.
Now she smiles gently. “Don’t worry—we haven’t even listed it yet. And whenever we get an offer, we’ll make sure to delay closing until next fall. We’re not going to just toss you out on your keister, you know?”
She gives a little laugh, but I can’t join in, even half-heartedly. My camp is closing. After twenty years, this summer will be my last.
two
Jessie
September
It’s been two weeks since the news from Jack and Mary Valentine, and I’m still reeling.
I’ve been going through our standard end-of-season tasks, so every day brings another reminder that this is the last time we’ll do any of it. The last time Mr. Billy, our groundskeeper, will repair the shingles on the Arts and Crafts cabin; the last time Dot will inspect the watercraft; the last time I’ll count how many bows and arrows survived the summer and how many I’ll need to order for next year.
In a few weeks, Dot and I will move into our rented rooms in North Fork, Minnesota, the closest town, a forty-five-minute drive away. Mr. Billy goes to stay with his brother in Florida. Dot and I spend the winter months enrolling campers and hiring counselors and staff. We’ll return to the property in April to start prepping for summer.
Our last summer.
Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I head down the path to the girls’ area to check the cabins. On the way, I pass Mr. Billy, his angular frame stooped as he pushes a wheelbarrowfull of trimmed branches. I wave, and he grunts. He’s taken care of the camp for as long as I can remember—a huge responsibility, since we cover three hundred acres of land, with dozens of buildings and a thousand feet of lakefront—but I’ve never thought of him as old. In the past couple weeks, though, he’s aged a decade. His typical vibe is one of mild annoyance, but now he seems almost fragile.
My boots crunch through fallen pine needles; they’re dry and brittle, like my mood. When I pop my earbuds in, the revival ofSweeney Toddwith Josh Groban starts playing. A musical about a man hell-bent on murderous revenge after everything he loves is taken from him…maybe not the wisest choice. I turn it off.
The first girls’ cabin comes into view. It’s over a hundred years old, with a big front porch and a peaked roof. During the summer, the porch railings of all the cabins are covered with a rainbow of drying towels and bathing suits, but today they’re barren. I wonder if the future owner will save any of these buildings, or if they’ll bulldoze everything, erasing a century of memories.
The thought makes me physically sick.
I climb the steps to the first cabin, open the door, and walk inside. My boots echo on the wood floor. The air smells like decay; the bare bunk beds remind me of skeletons. But I tell myself to stop being melodramatic and inspect the beds, the mattresses, the blinds, checking them off my list. Briskly, I move from cabin to cabin, trying to avoid the onslaught of memories.
Cabin Two, where I stayed as a nervous eight-year-old. Cabin Four, which I pranked as a feisty twelve-year-old, putting sand in the campers’ sleeping bags. Cabin Six, whereI was assigned my first summer as an enthusiastic new counselor.
And Cabin Ten: my home for eight summers, from ages nine through sixteen.
When I reach the bunk I always shared with Hillary Goldberg, a shimmering déjà vu comes over me. Standing on tiptoe, I push the top mattress to the side and there it is, carved into the wood:hillary and jessie bffaeae. Best friends forever and ever and ever.
It’s been years since I’ve let myself think about Hillary—if she ever pops into my mind, I push her right out. But now it rushes back, the exhilaration of arriving on the property and spotting each other. That first big hug. Running to claim our bunk. Knowing we had eight glorious weeks stretching out in front of us.
It’s strange to realize Hillary is an adult now. I still think of her as the round-faced girl with messy curls and wide brown eyes who’d always go along with my schemes—including our plan to be counselors together. Of course, that didn’t happen. She took an internship with some big company. It was crushing at the time, but it taught me a crucial lesson: camp friends aren’t forever friends. Camp life isn’t real life. For most people, it’s an escape from the real world.
Whereas for me? It’s my entire world.
All my camp friends, all the counselors I’ve worked with over the years, have moved on, and I’ve stayed right here. I’ve always felt that this is where I belong, but once camp closes for good, where does that leave me?
Once all this is gone, will anything I’ve done matter at all?
—
When I get back to the office, Dot is there, scowling at her ancient PC.
My cabin is one of my favorite places in the world. In addition to the main office, there’s a bedroom, a small bathroom, and a kitchen. It’s cozy and quaint, filled with handmade wooden furniture that dates back to the original camp. It’s also the only place on the property with Internet, and as I enter, my phone starts buzzing in my pocket.
