Chapter 7

Gari’s was the first morning breath I ever smelled. The night after he slept in my cabin with me. What’s funny is that we never did anything wrong, we just slept.

I remember the first time I saw him. I was wearing a bright pink t-shirt, and a miniskirt. One with shorts underneath; I think it was a bathing suit coverup. But at Abnaki, it didn’t matter. Abnaki was heat. It was natural. It was no makeup, it was barely having time or energy to shower. It was stress, and illness, and disapproval. It was being called princess because I cared about my clothes. It was being stereotyped for where I was from. It was being mistrusted, maltreated, and gossiped about. It was learning things I never wanted to know. Hearing things I never wanted to hear.

It was the kids, in the end, that made the summer. Something I never expected.

Why did you even come here?

Women are funny creatures. Spend time with them, and they can warm up to you. Spend time with the men they knew first, and they become your enemies. Maureen was my friend. She was nonchalant, confident. By the end of the summer she became a wound. She and Lindsay, alone in their cabin, with me alone in mine. On opposite sides of camp. Not once did they come visit me. Not once did they try to include me.

But I’m not one to let that stop me.

He called me a minx. Told me I was fit. Spoke my name softly in his thick Welch accent. At night, he could be anything. But during the day, what we were doing wasn’t allowed. He wasn’t allowed to look at me. To smile. To talk. To touch. It had to be a secret from the campers. I thought that would make it fun. But not knowing if he was actually noticing me tormented me in a way I could never describe.

He used to sneak down to my arts and crafts building during siesta. We would talk, kiss, and laugh. I think people knew, but they never told. I think people were afraid of me.

That night, he left camp. I didn’t know it until he didn’t show up at evening flagpole. We were supposed to have the same night off, to go off camp and do something fun. But he left. He went out with a few of the guys. I think they went to someone’s house and drank and talked. Not a bad pastime, but nonetheless, I was mad. All I wanted at that point was for him to tell me before he left. I felt so rejected, alone. By that point Maureen and Lindsay had decided they didn’t care. I had no one but him. Why do relationships have to sever friendships?

The first time we really spent time together, he paid attention exclusively to me. It made me feel special. In the car on the way down, I sat in the middle between him and James Peacock. They were infatuated with James. He would call my sweatshirt a jumper. He borrowed it, smoked in it, and never gave it back. For some reason I found it satisfying to watch someone take a long drag on a cigarette while the name of my church-sponsored university lit up from the glowing embers. James was polite, fun. All the campers loved him.

I was intrigued by Gari. He stood at a meager 5'7”, but he wasn't shrimpy or small. He was substantial, and he loved that I was taller than him. He loved when I would wear high heels.

Sometimes, he was too nice. It bothered me. I don't want to be treated as fragile. When I hurt my knee, I would hobble around camp with the green and white immobilizer, matching all the cabins. He wouldn't even come near me because he was afraid he was going to hurt me.

I remember being confused. People should have their first relationships long before 19. That way when they get into one, they don't act like 14 year olds, trying to figure it out. I was never more immature or irrational than when I was dating Gari. One night, I broke down. The pregnant 19 year old who worked in the kitchen talked me through it. We sat on the loading dock behind the warehouse-sized pantry that housed the food for the campers. Potatoes waiting to be whipped. 100 pounds at a time, with a beaters larger than my head. As we sat there, sweating, I told her how I felt so out of control. That's okay, she told me. We all pull some pretty bizarre shit when we're in relationships. I mean, look at me. I'm pregnant.

We fought by the showers. The outdoor ones right outside my little lopsided cabin. The one on the left had a toothbrush stuck into the ceiling. I used to wear my little lavalava as a towel when I walked back to my cabin. You could see the sky as you were in there. I remember sitting down and just resting for 45 minutes in the shower. I remember that everything smelled like coconuts. That night, my private refuge was torn open by raw emotion. Raw paranoia. I fought and he fought back. And in that moment I really started to notice that I was taller than him. Older than him. That he was just a phase. That we would never talk again.

Well, except for that one time.

I did love you, I said. Silence. It was the night he told me that he thought he loved me. I didn’t say it back. I didn’t want to, even though it was true.

The phone cut out. I tried to call back. No answer. Over a year later and nothing.

I wonder if he was laughing on the other end.