The Chronicles of Casey V, OR Mental Ramblings of the Most Awesome Summer of My Life

Excerpt

 June 14 – Casey V’s Summer Journal – Entry Numero Uno

Well, I’ve done it. No turning back now. This could be the most awesome summer of my life, or the biggest mistake in my entire sixteen years. Well, obviously you can’t count the pre-school years--I mean, how much fun can you possibly have when you’re wearing diapers and sucking your food out of baby bottles?

As I sit in the big luxury bus motoring up to Michigan for the summer, I’m holding out hope. Hey, I’m the optimistic sort. Spending the entire summer in charge of a bunch of girls has the makings of a fun summer, right? On the other hand, I’m scared to death about leaving home. I mean, I have spent a few nights away, with my friends or whatever. But I’ll be gone all summer long.

<< Sigh. >> I miss my mom and my friends already.

Of course, it was my mom who got me into this gig in the first place. Flipping through the newspaper a few months ago, she came across an ad for camp counselors: “Casey, look at this! Camp counselors! How fun.”

I go over to the couch and sit on the arm beside her. “Huh?”

She’s all flushed and happy-looking. “I spent a summer in the Poconos as a camp counselor when I was a teenager, and it was the best summer of my life. You should do it. You’ll create memories you’ll never forget.”

Oh boy, now we launch into the snake-in-the-locker story, and the bumping-the-head-on-the-rock-in-the-lake story. I’ve heard them so many times I think it was actually me there in a previous lifetime.

“I don’t think so, Mom. I’m not all that good with kids. And I’m not even sixteen yet. I’m probably not old enough.”

I get up and walk away, but not before I hear my mom pick up the phone, punch in some numbers and interrogate someone like a cop in a bad movie. Twenty minutes later she’s sticking a piece of paper in my face with all the particulars. Turns out I’ll be sixteen before camp starts, so I’m old enough. Oh, yeah, and no special skills needed. No experience with children required. The main qualification they look for is the lack of a felony record, I suppose.

Anyway, I ended up doing a phone interview the very next night, and voila! Here I am.  

I wonder if anyone else has “Camp-Counselor-for-the-first--time-blues.” I look around and see Pink-Hair Girl with headphone wires sticking out of both ears, her eyes shut, and head bouncing rhythmically to tunes I can’t hear. Her lashes are coated thickly with mascara, and her pink hair isn’t the only thing weird about her. She has freakishly white skin (something the Goths spend big bucks to fabricate) but with the pastel-ness of her mop, she just looks really pale and unhealthy.

Hmm, guess someone thinks she’ll be a good influence on young kids. Of course, she probably aced her phone interview. Someone up there at good ole Camp Gitchy-poo-poo is gonna freak when they actually see some of the interviewees they offered jobs to. And here I thought I was pushing it because I have a belly button ring.

“Yes, Miss V” (I, having already instructed them to address me that way, smile graciously), “all your papers are in order, your phone interview is complete, and you were absolutely brilliant, may I say. Is there anything else you think we should know about you, before you begin your job of supervising and guiding impressionable young minds all summer at exclusive Camp Gitchy-mu-mu on the shores of Lake Michigan, hmmmm?”

“In fact…,” I eye them curiously, “there might be…,” trying to judge their tolerance for the smallest manifestation of my wild side, “… one little thing.” And I whip my shirt up with a flourish, revealing my belly button, pierced with a conservative and tasteful little gold hoop.

The camp supervisors – two Baby Boomers past their prime – gasp with horror and escort me to the door, relegating me to a summer of polyester uniforms and “Would you like fries with that?”

As I chuckle at my daydream, Pink Hair Girl opens her eyes, little gullies forming between her brows as she frowns at me. I swallow a giggle and turn my back on her.

“Freak.”

Huh? I know I didn’t say it. Who did?

I look around and see a girl directly across the aisle from me giving Pink Hair Girl a dubious stare. She rolls her eyes and looks over at me. “Where did they get that one?” she asks daringly loud, considering the subject of her criticism is within earshot.

I do a nervous giggle. After looking at PHG and then the other one, if a fight broke out, I’d put my money on Pink, who had more angry energy going for her. Persecuted her whole life and ready to make others pay. All the other one had going for her was a killer wardrobe, fall-in-place-effortlessly hair, and a face that could have graced the cover of Seventeen. A Miss America wannabe if I ever saw one.

“I’m Brittney.” She sticks her hand out, but when I go to shake it, she pulls it back, still staring at Pink.

I eye her, not sure if she meant to dis me, or if she thought I had some dreaded skin disease she wanted to avoid. “Casey.”

“Have you counselored at camp before?” she asked in a bored voice. I know girls like her. She would never, ever in a million years be talking to me if she had any better prospects in the near vicinity. “No.”

“Me neither. I just hope the cabins have electricity and a private bath for the counselor. I definitely don’t want to share facilities with the girls.”

Then, she scrunched down into her bus seat and opened Glamour.

Up a few rows is Geek Squad Guy. I can tell his career ambition requires the use of multiple laptop computers and intimate knowledge of every electronic game ever made. His head is bowed, reading I assume, and not something fun like Sports Illustrated or even Teen People. Probably the owner’s manual of his new wireless super-speed gizmo.

<< Sigh. >>  One of my goals is to meet cute guys this summer. If Geek Squad Guy is the best this Camp Gitchy-poo-poo has to offer, I’m in big trouble.

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