The Summer Camp Diaries

• Braden •

So it turned out that South Carolina was not somewhere out by Utah, like I had originally thought it was. Though I still wasn't a hundred percent sure, Camp Castaway would be the farthest I had ever been away from home -- physically, at least.

Ria dragged me out shopping once she realized that I wasn't making excuses not to go to Detroit with her. After looking up the brochure online and reading it back to front, she claimed I needed a new pair of swim trunks so I could "look hot enough to attract a romantic interest for the summer". I humored her, but knew that I would never shed my t-shirt for anyone, not even her.

That Friday, my parents and I loaded into the back of Dad's 2015 Ford Focus and started heading south. The miles melded together like liquid metal in a crucible, but I didn't really notice the time passing, because as redemption for sending me to this place without my permission, my parents activated the WiFi hotspot on my phone so I could stay in touch with them (and Ria) if it so happened that there was no cell signal in the camp. Ria provided relevant (or irrelevant depending on your point of view) flowing conversation for most of the trip.

"You could hide a body in these woods and no one would ever find it," I murmured as a I stared out into the deep forests surrounding the road.

In all honesty, the image before me was the thing stories were made of. Trees of all types soared up into the sky and every once in awhile there would be a flash of movement between the branches. My lips slowly turned upward as my mind sorted through all the potential possibilities of a single twitch. It could be anything from a tornado a hundred miles away, to a chainsaw murderer dragging its kill along the ground. The possibilities were endless and before I knew it, I was smiling, despite my still bubbling anger toward my parents.

"We're here." My dad spoke for seemed like the first time in hours.

I looked away from my side window and noticed that we were approaching a large wooden sign that read Camp Castaway. The SUV ground to a halt in a plain parking area where many other kids around my age were leaving cars, hugging family, and otherwise looking like the beginning to a bad horror movie.

I grabbed my black duffel out of the trunk and slung it across my back like a quiver. Then with a hint of hesitation, I turned to face my parents. After a moment of clear internal conflict, my mom kissed the air by my ear, then went to go back to the car, leaving my dad alone with me.

"Braden..." he said slowly as if he had forgotten my name.

"Dad..." I replied, mirroring his tone.

He held out his arms awkwardly and I suddenly felt obligated to give him a hug goodbye. Out of the two of them, my father was always the one who understood better -- it was from his side of the family that I inherited the mental instability gene, after all.

"Promise you'll have a better summer than last year," he muttered in a low voice.

"I promise I'll try."

His face dropped, but he understood it was the best I could give him. He didn't push for anything better and for that I was grateful. He clapped my shoulder enthusiastically, and I had to sink my teeth down into my bottom lip to keep from wincing.

"Well, then see ya in August, Braden."

I nodded slowly.

"Don't forget to get my sax recorked in time for the marching season."

My dad rolled his eyes and started back toward the car. As an afterthought I yelled after him. "YOU AND MOM BETTER NOT DO ANYTHING STUPID WHILE I'M GONE OR YOU'LL BOTH BE GROUNDED!"

"Nice try, Brad!" My dad yelled back. "Don't threaten to kill anyone while you're here!"

I rolled my eyes as they drove off. There was no way in Hell that I could make it through two days without threatening to kill someone, much less two months. I readjusted the strap of my bag, feeling comforted that my practice sabre was resting somewhere near the bottom, then walked in to see what judgement had in store for me.