But what’s it going to be like to bunk with her?

I push any dour thoughts that come with that aside. “So, how many counselors are there here, anyway?”

“Forty. Thirty-three returning, six campers who’ve moved up to junior counselors. And you.”

My gaze drifts to where a small cluster of people collide with squeals and hugs, as if the yearlong wait to see one another has been excruciating.

And I’m the only outsider.

“Ashley!” Christa hollers at a girl passing by. “Come here!”

The tall, willowy girl trudges over in worn Birkenstock sandals, pushing loose strands of her frizzy strawberry-blonde mane off her face. The rest of it—reaching halfway down her back and seemingly as wide as it is long—is held back by a colorful bohemian head scarf, the emerald green in it matching the base color of her flowing floral tank top, and her eyes.

My gaze can’t help but stick to her face—to the thick layer of brown freckles that coats her cheeks, her nose, her forehead—and I instantly take pity on her. I know one other girl afflicted with such freckles—Rachel, from my English class—and I’ve heard the cruel things guys say about her. When I get too much sun in the summer and the fine dusting of pale brown spots appears over the bridge of my nose, I always use concealer to hide them.

There’s no hiding these freckles, though.

“This is Piper,” Christa says. “I need you to show her around Wawa.”

“Of course!” the girl exclaims in a chirpy, upbeat voice, showing off a set of braces with her wide smile before pressing her lips together, as if self-conscious. “What cabin are you in? We can drop off your stuff first.”

“Nine,” Christa answers for me. “Counselors share the bunk closest to the door. My stuff’s on the bottom.”

I suppress my annoyed sigh at the thought of climbing up and down a ladder in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. I guess my new roommate doesn’t believe in drawing straws.

“But first . . . choose.” Christa slides the counselor activities clipboard forward across the table, warning in an ominous voice while pointing to the scar on her arm as a reminder, “And choose wisely.”

I grab the pen and begin flipping through the clipped sheets, though I’m fairly familiar with my options after having spent hours going through the camp website last week. White Pine had stables for horseback riding, and its prime location near the coast of Maine allowed for scuba diving and sailing. But here, in the heart of upstate New York, camp activities are limited to the basics. Kayaking, swimming, hiking . . . They don’t even have tennis. They do have badminton, though, and thankfully, a spot is still available, so I quickly scrawl my name down for that. Finding my second mandatory activity is not as simple. My options have been whittled down to knitting, archery . . . and drama.

I knew we should have gotten here earlier.

“Does it matter if I’ve never done something before?” How am I supposed to help a kid aim an arrow?

“You’ll learn. And there’s always someone who’s done it before.”

Ashley leans in over my shoulder to peer at the sheets, her button nose scrunched up. “I made everyone in my family scarves for Christmas last year.”

“Knitting it is.” I sigh as I jot my name down, wondering if it ever gets cold in Thailand. Rhett didn’t come home for the holidays last year. Can you mail a scarf to a beach hut?

My mom appears out of nowhere then, rushing excitedly toward me. “Can you believe they still have the exact same corn roast pot? Oh, Piper . . . just wait until you dip a freshly picked and boiled cob into a pot of melted butter. You’ll have it running down your chin and all over your forearms . . .”

I cringe at the thought of grease clogging my pores. “Gross!”

“I know!” She laughs out loud and then reaches out to offer Christa her hand. “I’m Alison Calloway, Piper’s mom. I’m so happy she’s spending her summer here. I’ve been telling her about this place forever.” Her eyes are alight as she takes in Christa and Ashley, and I can see the wheels churning inside her head, can hear the excited voice whisper-screaming, “Piper’s made her first lifelong camp friends!”

Don’t get your hopes up, Mom.

“Please take care of my little girl for me. She’s only sixteen.”

“Mom.”

“We will, Mrs. Calloway,” Christa promises sternly, as if accepting a mission request.

“So you used to go here?” Ashley asks, her wide eyes taking in my mother in her silk tank top and coral capris, diamonds adorning her earlobes and fingers, a string of freshwater pearls finishing the look nicely. It’s an outfit more suited to lunching at the country club than dropping her daughter off at what my father called a “low budget” camp.

“I did! Many years ago.” Mom laughs, well aware of how ill-suited she is to her old life. “By the way, was that Russell I saw going into the kitchen? Because I swear it looked just like him, but that means he’d have been working here for, what, forty-three or forty-four years?”

“Forty-five years, this summer,” Christa confirms.

“Wow!” my mom gasps with astonishment. “He was always my favorite. I have to say hello to him before I go. Which,” she checks her diamond-encrusted wristwatch, “is really soon if I want to get to your aunt Jackie’s by dinner.”

An odd rumble and sputtering sounds behind us. We turn to watch a boxy pea-soup-green hatchback park next to my mom’s shiny black Porsche. With its multiple dents and scrapes along the passenger door, the two of them side-by-side looks almost comical. I have no idea what that car is, but it’s definitely old and not in a good, classic-car way.

The driver’s-side door opens and a tall, lean guy emerges. He lifts his arms above his head and arches his back with an exaggerated stretch before reaching down to slide his wallet into the back pocket of his baggy black jeans.

A flock of people runs toward him.

“I didn’t think Kyle was coming back.” Ashley’s emerald eyes keenly watch him.

“Yup.” Christa sighs with resignation. “Why . . . I don’t know.”

Kyle. I file that away as I watch him take turns slapping hands with the guys and hugging the girls, his cheeks lifting with a broad smile. He’s sporting a punkish hairstyle, his chestnut-brown hair short on the sides but longer on top and at the back, where a two-inch strip runs down the center. It’s been gelled to stand on end.

I struggle to make out his face from this distance—he has on dark, shield-style sunglasses—but I have that odd gut feeling that when I do finally see him up close, he’s going to be jaw-droppingly gorgeous.

“I guess they’ve relaxed the dress code since I was here last,” my mother murmurs, and I can’t tell whether she disapproves. She always has been a huge proponent of my school’s uniform guidelines, which includes modest hairstyles.

The guy—Kyle—observes my mom’s car a moment and then says something to his friends. Who showed up here in that? or something along those lines, I imagine. A few fingers point our way, and suddenly Kyle’s walking toward the registration desk, his focus on us.

Maybe on me.