Camp Willow Summer

*Chapter 1: The Excuse I Lost* My name is Maya. And I have never liked summer camp. Like, ever. Every summer since I was ten, I had the same plan. My mom would bring up the Camp Willow flyer — all glossy pictures of kids canoeing and smiling like they weren't being eaten by mosquitoes — and I would bring up Grandma. "Can I just stay with Grandma this summer? She needs help with her garden. And her dog. And her stories. She can't be alone." It worked for six years straight. Grandma had this old lake house right near Camp Willow. Not _in_ the camp, but close enough that I could see the cabins from her porch. She owned Camp Willow a long time ago, before she sold it to Mr. Davies. She knew every trail, every counselor, every scary legend about the lake that glowed on full moons. Last summer, she would sit with me on her porch swing, her hand in mine, and say, "Maya-bug, you don't have to love camp. You just have to find one reason to go. Just one." I never found the reason. I had Grandma. Grandma was my reason to NOT go. Until March. Grandma passed in March. Quietly, in her sleep, in that lake house. And when my mom put the Camp Willow flyer on the fridge in June, I opened my mouth and there was no excuse left. No garden. No dog. No stories. Just silence and the fridge humming. So now I'm here. Four weeks. No Wi-Fi that actually works. Cabin 4, which is the farthest from the bathrooms. My duffel bag is too heavy and my hoodie is too thin. I'm standing by the registration table trying to be invisible when the camp director, Mr. Davies, calls my name. "Maya? Maya Williams? Grandma Evelyn's girl! We saved Cabin 4 for you. Your grandma used to tell stories there." Great. I'm already the legacy kid who doesn't want to be here. I drag my bag to Cabin 4. The girls inside are already best friends. They look at me, then go back to braiding each other's hair. I leave my bag and walk to the lake. That's where we have to do icebreakers. If I have to do icebreakers, I at least want to drown after. I sit on the very edge of the dock, hoodie up, pulling my sleeves over my hands — my anxious habit — when someone sits next to me and doesn't say anything for a full minute. I can feel him looking at the water, not at me, which weirdly makes me breathe easier. I look over. Boy. My age. Dark hair, messy from the bus ride, holding two juice boxes like he couldn't decide which one to give me. Gray t-shirt, Camp Willow logo faded. "I'm Josh," he says. "You looked like you needed an escape juice." I take the apple one. Our fingers brush. "I'm Maya. And I am currently regretting all my life choices." He laughs. Not a loud laugh. A quiet, private one that makes his shoulders shake. "Same. My brother made me come. Literally dragged me onto the bus." "My mom made me come," I say. "So we're both hostages." "Hostages get extra marshmallows," he says, and hands me the second juice box too. "And they stick together." Before I can say thank you, a whistle blows so loud I jump. Another boy — same face, exact same face, but louder — yells from the field, holding a clipboard like he's the CEO of summer. "JOSHUA MICHAEL! Stop flirting and bring your hostage! We're starting orientation! You're late!" Josh rolls his eyes but his smile gets bigger. "That's Jason. My twin. He thinks he's in charge because he was born four minutes earlier. Four minutes." "You're twins?" "Unfortunately. Identical. He'll tell you he's the handsome one. He's lying." I laugh for the first time today. A real laugh. Jason jogs over to the dock. Now I can see the difference. Same face, but Jason's energy is all out. Grinning, loud, confident. Josh's energy is all in. Jason stops right in front of me. Stares. Like he's seen a ghost. "Maya? Little Maya? From the porch?" Little Maya from the porch? How does he know- "Evelyn's granddaughter. You used to wear that yellow raincoat and you would throw rocks at our canoe to get us to go away." My mouth drops. "You were the canoe boys?" "The canoe boys!" Jason throws his arms up. "Yes! We used to camp here every summer. You hated us." I did hate them. Two annoying boys who always splashed me when Grandma took me to the lake. "You grew up," he says, still staring. "So did you," I say. "Mostly." Josh stands up, and suddenly I'm between them. Jason is looking at me like I'm a memory that came back. Josh is looking at me like I'm a person he just met. "She's cold," Josh says quietly. "I'm not-" "You are," he says, and takes off his own hoodie — a big, oversized gray one that says CAMP WILLOW STAFF even though he clearly isn't staff. It's warm from his body. "Anxious hoodie upgrade. You can give it back at the end of summer." He hands it to me. It smells like laundry detergent and lake air and boy. I put it on over mine. It goes down to my knees. It's too big and too warm and too perfect. Jason's smile disappears. Just for a second. He looks at the hoodie. Then at Josh. Then at me. "Okay, orientation!" he says too loudly. "Let's go, hostages." We walk to the field, three in a line. Me in the middle, drowning in Josh's gray hoodie. Jason keeps glancing at it. And I have this weird feeling, like I didn't just get a hoodie. I just started a war. And I don't know it yet, but that gray hoodie will become the reason the whole camp whispers. And the reason I will have to choose between the boy who gave it to me and the boy who never forgot me. ---