Wings and Things

by Dana Starr

Hillary’s head dangled upside down off the top bunk. Sitting on the bottom bunk, all I could see was hair. Lots and lots of it. She parted the curtain of hair, looked at me, and blew a bubble. When I thought the bubble couldn’t get any bigger, it popped. She sucked sugary pink gum back into her mouth and grinned. We’d known each other for fifteen minutes. I already considered her my best friend.

“Hey, let me see that,” Hillary said, scrambling off the top bunk in Cabin C at Camp Cedar Hill. I had no idea what she was talking about. She grabbed the paperback book off my bed. It was the book I’d stolen from the top drawer of my stepmother’s nightstand. Hillary stared at the cover of Gentle Rogue. “He looks just like my boyfriend,” she said.

“You wish,” I replied, snatching the book out of her hand. I didn’t need to look at it; I’d already memorized every chiseled feature of Fabio’s naked chest and stomach.

One muscular leg, in skin-tight pants, was visible.  A woman with dark hair was propped against his other leg, her back to him. She wore a lilac gown that barely contained her heaving breasts. He had an arm wrapped around her waist, and an expression I didn’t fully understand that summer of 1992. Was he mad? Sad? Glad? I didn’t know, but I thought I understood the look on the woman’s face. Her emerald eyes were half open, just like her puffy lips, begging without words for a passionate kiss.

I’d practiced that same expression in front of the mirror alone in my bedroom for weeks. I was good at it, if I do say so myself. Before summer break, I stared at Billy Joe Hawkins across the table in the junior high school cafeteria with that smoldering look on my face. He eyed me with concern, swallowed a sip of chocolate milk, and asked, “Brittany, are you going to throw up?”

Billy Joe was no Fabio, but even at thirteen, I knew beggars couldn’t be choosers.

I stuck the paperback in the beat-up locker next to the bunk bed I’d be sharing with Hillary for two weeks. I covered Fabio with a pile of underwear. My panties were plain white cotton, unlike the skimpy, lacy lingerie that my stepmother, Stephanie, wore. It always embarrassed me to fold laundry and find her panties mixed with mine.

Stephanie loved a romance book featuring Fabio on the cover. She spent nights sleeping between Fabio, in the drawer on her left, and my Dad in the bed on her right. Dad snored most nights. I could hear him from my room across from theirs. Sometimes, if I crept into the hall and stood in front of their closed door, I could also listen to them discussing me in hushed tones before the snoring started. They had no idea what to do with me; neither did I.

The night I heard them talking about sending me to summer camp in New Hampshire, I got busy. I figured Stephanie wouldn’t miss one steamy book out of a dozen books or a few Virginia Slim cigarettes out of a pack she hid from Dad in the same drawer with Fabio. I also figured Dad wouldn’t miss some little liquor bottles left over from flights he took on business trips. By the time eighth grade ended, I was ready with everything I thought I needed to endure two weeks at summer camp.

I scooped socks out of my bag and carefully arranged them in the locker. The dinner bell rang before I could finish unpacking. I brushed my hair and applied the only “lipstick” I was allowed to wear—Dr. Pepper Lip Smackers. I wanted to look my best, even though there were no boy campers to impress.

In the dining hall, I sat at a long table surrounded by the seven Cabin C girls. Hillary sat next to me, eating a hot dog and pork and beans. I didn’t realize at the time, but each girl at the table was on a journey to adulthood that summer. Some of us were a little farther down the road than others. I was on my way, but still more girl than woman.

At almost fourteen, I occasionally played with my old Barbie. I’d dress her and fix her hair to go on dates with Ken instead of doing my homework. I drank Kool-Aid and wondered what Kahlúa tasted like. That was Stephanie’s favorite. Dad would mix her what he called “a stiff drink” to “calm her nerves” after I’d talk back to her and make her cry. I spent a lot of nights banished to my room. It didn’t really bother me, but I hated to miss America’s Most Wanted and Full House.

I’d have to live without TV while having, according to Dad, “the time of my life.” I assured him I had no interest in horseback riding, canoeing, or crafting. I was much more interested in sleeping late, reading Gentle Rogue in the air conditioning, and thinking up ways to annoy Stephanie.

A tall, thin woman walked onto the stage at the front of the dining hall with a microphone in one hand and a cup in the other. “Welcome to Camp Cedar Hill. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Diane West, camp director.” Girls from six to sixteen years old stood, clapped, and cheered.

“Thank you. You have no idea how happy and grateful I am to be back with you this summer.” She raised the cup in her hand and started singing, “Let’s gather round and raise a cup. Let’s sing this song to pump us up.”

Everyone raised their cups. I followed along even though I had no idea what was going on. I’d never been to summer camp before, but it seemed like almost all the girls, including Hillary, knew the song. They sang about fun, fellowship, and forever friends.

After lights out later that night, I drifted to sleep. At some point, I startled awake from a recurring dream, which was really more of a nightmare. It was about my mother. My real mother, not Stephanie. Mom died of breast cancer when I was eleven.

At least once a week, I’d dream that I couldn’t find Mom. We’d be at Dippin’ Dots in the mall. I’d look away from her to reach for a napkin. When I looked again, she’d be gone. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her heading to Sears. I’d chase after her, but people got in the way. When I got around everyone, Mom would be gone, and I’d continue searching. Or, sometimes, she’d be just ahead of me; I could almost touch her, but she’d speed up and away from me. I chased her in my sleep over and over. I never caught her.

A full moon provided some light in the cabin. A fan whirred in the corner. I was wide awake and anxious. I got out of bed and quietly slid into my Keds.

Opening the locker without waking the room wasn’t easy. I moved in slow motion, determined not to get caught. When I finally got the locker open, I stuffed socks into my pajama pants. I was halfway down the path to the dining hall when I heard rustling behind me. I stopped, turned, and listened. All I could hear were annoying crickets. I was about to turn around when Hillary popped out of the shadows.

“You scared the crap out of me,” I said.

She grabbed my arm and giggled. “Wait for me.”

I wasn’t sure where to go, but I was sure that going with her was better than being alone with my thoughts.

We ended up behind the dining hall, overlooking a field of sunflowers that seemed to stare at us in the moonlight. The Milky Way hovered over a hill behind the sunflowers. I reached into my pajama pants, removed the socks, and sat on the grass.

“Why did you bring socks?” Hillary asked.

“This is why.” I pulled little airplane bottles of Smirnoff and Jack Daniels out of the socks. “Want one?”

Not too sure of herself, she said, “Uh, okay.”

“Which one?”

“You pick,” she replied.

I handed her one of the Smirnoff bottles. “I wish I had Kahlúa,” I said with swagger I didn’t possess. “It’s my favorite.”

Hillary looked at me with wide eyes. I’d never drunk Kahlúa or any other liquor in my life, but she didn’t know that. I wanted her to think I was cool. That I wasn’t the nervous, troubled, self-conscious kid who made bad grades and missed her mother with an ache so bad it felt like a hole in her heart.

“Dang, I forgot the cigarettes,” I said.

“I got you.” Hillary pulled a pack of smokes out of the pocket of her robe and handed it over.

She surprised me, but I tried not to show it. “Do you have a lighter?”

Reaching back in her pocket, she pulled out a lighter and gave it to me. I wasn’t entirely sure how to use it. I handed the cigarettes and lighter back to her. “I think I’ll have a drink first.”

I unscrewed the top off the whiskey—my hand shook a little. Putting the bottle to my lips, I swallowed a gulp. Fire shot down my throat into my stomach. I started coughing, and my eyes began to water.

Hillary was busy with the lighter. It took her two tries to light a cigarette, but she puffed on it like a pro. She started coughing too. Eventually, our coughing turned to laughing. Hillary became my real best friend that night.

The next morning, I woke up in the grass. My cheek rested in a puddle of throw-up brought on by the killer combination of pork and beans, whiskey, and vodka. Billy Joe Hawkins would’ve been mortified.

I wiped vomit off my face with a sock. Hillary was asleep a few feet away. When I made the mistake of standing up, I discovered Diane jogging at the edge of the sunflower field. She saw me before I could duck down. I kicked the lighter, cigarettes, socks, and empty liquor bottles behind a rock.

Diane didn’t look happy heading up the incline toward us. I wanted to disappear; instead, I smiled, waved, and said, “Good morning.”

She stood, hands on hips, looking back and forth between me and Hillary. “What are you ladies doing out here?”

Hillary rolled over and groaned. I noticed some of her wild hair landed in the puddle.

“We wanted to sleep under the stars,” I replied.

“That’s not safe,” Diane said. “We don’t have many rules here, but the number one rule is to stay in your cabin after dark.”

“Okay.” I nodded as if I didn’t know that already.

“We’ll discuss this more after breakfast,” she said. My stomach churned at the mention of breakfast. Hillary opened one eye and moaned.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She just ate too many hot dogs.”

“Help me get her up,” Diane said.

I half-carried, half-dragged Hillary back to our cabin. Halfway there, I turned around and saw Diane watching us from the side of the dining hall.

The cabin was empty except for our counselor. She watched me tuck Hillary into my bed. There was no way Hillary would’ve been able to climb to the top bunk.  

The counselor asked me, “Are you trying to get me fired?”

“Of course not.”

“I’m going to have to tell Diane that the two of you were missing this morning unless we can work something out?”

“What are you talking about?” I couldn’t focus. My head pounded, and my mouth felt stuffed with cotton.

“I won’t say a word if you give me that portable CD player you were listening to last night.”

“No way,” I said. “Go tell Diane. I don’t care.”

As soon as the screen door slammed behind the counselor, Hillary sat up in bed and burst out laughing. “Last night was fun,” she said.

She was right. It was fun, until it wasn’t. “Get up. We’re supposed to be at breakfast.”

“No way. I’m going back to sleep.”

I had no idea that was an option. I skipped breakfast too. Hillary eventually went back to sleep, and I went to Diane’s office.

I was pretty sure I could talk my way out of the situation. My confidence vanished when I saw the evidence on Diane’s desk. It was all there, including the dirty sock I’d used to clean my face.

“Have a seat,” she said.

I slouched into a chair, stared at the floor, and waited. It was so quiet I could hear girls playing kickball outside. Nothing happened. I understood, even at thirteen, that waiting for something bad to happen was almost as bad as something bad happening.

It felt like torture. I couldn’t take it another second, so I looked at Diane. She was sitting, chin in hand, watching me. The morning sun slanted across her face. I could see the faint trace of a crooked scar on her chin.

The moment brought back a memory of my mom. We’d been sitting at the kitchen table before I got on the school bus. The room smelled like cinnamon toast. I looked at Mom, her bald head propped in her hand, a stripe of sunshine hitting her face through the blinds. I saw pain, fear, and crumbling beauty—the kind of beauty I couldn’t express then or now.

“I’m sorry,” I said to Diane and Mom, barely above a whisper.

Diane got up and walked around the side of the desk, settling on the corner of it near me.

“Are you going to send me home?”

“No, I’m a big believer in second chances.”

A spark of hope—and a hint of optimism—startled me. I’d buried those feelings in the graveyard of my heart when I walked away from my mother’s casket two years ago.

“It was my stupid idea,” I confessed. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

I didn’t want to be at Camp Cedar Hill a day ago, but in that moment, all I wanted was to stay. Horseback riding, canoeing, and crafting with Hillary couldn’t possibly be as bad as disappointing my dad, and even Stephanie, one more time.

As if Diane could read my mind, she said, “Stephanie called me last week. We had a long talk. She’s really worried about you.”

“She hates me.”

“No, I don’t believe that’s true. She just wants you to be happy. Don’t you think it’s time?”

I hadn’t considered happiness. I was good at self-pity, selfishness, disappointment, and loneliness.

Diane walked back around the desk and sat down. She tossed the nasty sock and the rest of the evidence into the trash. Sunlight illuminated a honey-colored object on a display stand on her desk. I leaned in to look at it. “What’s that?”

“It’s called amber.” She took it off the stand and handed it to me. It fit in my palm.

I ran my thumb across the smooth surface. “What is it?”

“Well, it was a sticky liquid that came from a certain type of tree or plant millions and millions of years ago. Eventually, it turned into what you’re holding.”

I held the amber up to the light. “There’s something in it. I can see wings.”

“That’s what’s left of a dragonfly that got stuck in the amber,” Diane said. “Can you imagine not being able to escape, no matter how hard you tried to fly?”

“That would be scary.” I handed it back to her. “I feel sorry for the dragonfly.”

“Yeah, being trapped is my biggest fear,” she said.

“Why do you keep it on your desk?”

“I like to look at it. It reminds me that I’m free. I can go pretty much anywhere I want and do whatever makes me happy.”

I was surprised she was talking to me like I was a grown-up and not just an irritating kid. “Where do you want to go?” I asked.

“I’d love to go to California and see the giant redwood trees. Or hike down into the Grand Canyon.” She placed the amber back on the display stand. “Maybe I’ll go to the top of the Empire State Building someday.”

The rest of my time at camp was so much fun. I managed to stay out of trouble. Hillary got third place in the talent contest, dancing to “Vogue” by Madonna. Cabin C won the relay race. Our prize was an ice cream party. On the last day, I couldn’t leave before hugging Diane and thanking her for my second chance. “I’ll see you next summer.”

“I hope so,” she said.

Things were better at home. I didn’t have to miss my favorite TV shows. One night, on America’s Most Wanted, I watched a reenactment of a woman named Cindy who shot her husband with his gun. In court, she said he was abusive, and she killed him in self-defense. The jury didn’t believe her. She was sentenced to twenty-five years in prison. A year into her sentence, she escaped and was still on the run.

At the end of the show, a picture of the real Cindy was displayed on the screen. She had a crooked scar on her chin.

###

It’s been sixteen years since Hillary and I have been in Cabin C. We’re back for a camp reunion. The place hasn’t changed much, but we have. Hillary works in marketing and is in love with her Yorkie named Buddy. I married my first love. Billy Joe and I have a three-year-old boy named Luke. We live and work on a ranch.

Hillary brought cigarettes, even though she doesn’t smoke. I brought booze, even though I’m not much of a drinker. We plan to wait until dark and go back behind the dining hall. We’ll take a puff and drink a sip in honor of second chances.

We aren’t going to sleep outside, but we’ll stretch out on the grass and talk, and laugh, and stare at the Milky Way. Maybe the woman we knew as Diane will be looking at the same thing above the redwood trees in California. Or from the bottom of the Grand Canyon. Or the top of the Empire State Building. I hope so.