The Tiff Singularity (A Collection of Lake Wonder Fiction)

Ruining The Ravioli

She's said it a thousand times: she doesn't want to go. Camp Nightshade sounds like a particular kind of nightmare. There could be nothing worse than being surrounded by girls who don't like her for the entirety of camp and not even having Darryl there to make it better. It's dumb. To borrow a word from her brother's vernacular, it's bullshit.

It's not like she gets a choice, though. She's eleven. Eleven year olds don't get to choose whether or not to go to camp. They just kind of go.

Also, she's a little grounded for trying to put a dead lizard in Miss Mary's desk drawer. Camp is a bit of a punishment. Foxglove Cabin awaits. She wishes it wouldn't.

Actively avoiding packing her things into the duffel bag on the floor or getting her old sleeping bag from the hall closet, Worm flops back on her bed and stares up at the popcorn ceiling and the gently-turning fan. It shakes like it's going to fall, but it never does. One day, she'll do what her brother did and put up flags and posters up there-- though it probably won't include girls washing motorcycles or guys washing cars, which has always struck her as a weird choice in decoration. Evan says she'll get it when she's older. She doesn't think she will.

Clothes surround her on the unmade bed, unfolded and unpacked. There's a part of her that thinks that, if she doesn't do what she's supposed to, then maybe she just won't have to go.

No such luck. A knock sounds from the bedroom door. It opens a split second later, bringing her father's face with it. "Worm, are you packed yet? We have to get going-- Christ, Annabelle."

She doesn't sit up. "Hey, Dad."

"How come you're not packed? We're going to be late and this has to be done because you're not going to have time tomorrow before you have to get on the bus."

"I don't want to go."

"To camp?"

"Yeah."

"But you love camp."

"Not right now, I don't. Darryl isn't even going."

"Because he's grounded, honey."

"I know, but-- I don't want to go if he isn't going."

"Worm. Honey. We already paid for it, and we agreed: you're going because of what you did to Mary's desk." He sighs like he's thinking. "Come on. What's the worst that could happen?"

Worm shrugs the most that she can while laying flat on her back. "I don't know."

"Then how come you don't want to go?"

"I don't know. Darryl, I guess."

He sighs, runs a hand through his thinning hair, leans back out into the hall. When he pokes his head back in, it's less of a poke and more of a he is now in her room. Worm sits up and acts like she's folding a shirt when they both know she isn't.

"Come on," he says, hands on his hips, stained undershirt folding under his fingertips. "Let's get you packed. Let's run down the list. Everything should be here, right?"

"Should be," she says, even though she hasn't checked.

Of course he has a copy of the list in the back pocket of his jeans, though. He pulls it out, unfolds it, and squints at the tiny black font. "Alright. Seven shirts--"

"I don't need seven shirts," she grumbles.

"You're bringing seven shirts, young lady."

"Fine."

"So fold them and put them in the bag. Seven pants and shorts, too."

"Fine." She does as she's told, and adds the underwear and socks to the duffel without him having to say so.