The Camp Rockaway brochure promised every kid was a rock star waiting to happen, but they never met me. We hadn’t even arrived, and I was ready to turn around and go home. My heart beat faster and faster, like the world’s worst metronome, until it froze – until I couldn’t feel or think or breathe. Then, just when it felt like nothing but a jumble of clockwork bits, it stuttered to life again.
I was sitting in my family’s Honda Odyssey, heading toward my destiny, but the GPS kept rerouting. Maybe I should’ve taken it as a sign. Was a higher power trying to tell me something? That I should turn back? That my fate was not, in fact, to be found in the Catskills of Upstate New York? Even if a higher power wasn’t trying to dissuade me from going to summer camp, the higher power in this minivan definitely was.
I flipped through the book 3 times (March = the 3rd month) and stopped at page 133.
Is my singing so bad that they won’t even let me leap around in a stripy unitard because I’ll pull the whole chorus off-key?
So back we went, and heard that Reanne hadn’t posted the ten-day wonder cast until eight thirty -explaining the cluster Wilders who stood around the bulletin board that Morales had left his final decisions until the morning, which is why it went up late.