Camp Lore - 4. Chapter 4

Another reason I finally gave in to going to camp was my girlfriend, Katie, was in Europe with her parents. That was her graduation present. Mine was going to college.

“More practical,” said my mom.

“Better investment,” added Dad.

Katie and I had been going together for less than a year – since early October – but if she’d been home, I would have battled my parents to stay there, too. Well – reasoned. But with Katie in places I couldn’t possibly reach – and with her being away for almost two-and-a-half months – it seemed less important where I went.

We’d known each other for years – we were in a lot of the same classes since grade school – but had gotten to know each other best senior year, working on our yearbook. She’d worked yearbook since ninth grade, while I was playing soccer, wrestling, and running track. But I was never the best, and had joined the teams in middle school because that’s what my friends were doing. Senior year, I decided to give it all up.

“Are you sure?” Dad asked. He liked telling his friends that I was both in honor society and an athlete. “So it can be done.”

“I’m sure,” I told him and Mom before school started. “It’s not like it’s getting me scholarships. And it will be on all my applications anyway – to show how well-rounded I am. Besides, if I miss it. I’ll play intramurals in college.”

“But what are you gonna do afternoons?”

“I’ll think of something.”

To be honest, I joined yearbook because I’d started fooling with photography and heard they had really good cameras. They also sometimes worked with film and would give it to me free film for taking pictures.

“Where do I sign?” I’d said, though it turns out I didn’t have to promise anything. They were always happy to have more volunteers, especially one who knew something about sports. “Most of the other guys never know where to point the camera.”

Katie told me that, and because this was her fourth year, she was our editor. Still, she was never exactly thrilled with my photos.

“Surprisingly undramatic,” she once called them.

“But honest,” I insisted. “That’s what sports is really like.”

She mainly played tennis. And not competitively.

But because she liked to look at a lot of possibilities before making her choices, she kept sending me out on assignments. And because of that, we saw a lot of each other. Before long, our friends decided we were “a thing,” and I gave her a cheap ring as a joke with our names on it for Christmas.

“I’m glad it wasn’t expensive,” she kidded right back, “because we’re going to different schools.”

We’d applied early decision, and both had gotten lucky.

“I love you, too,” I told her, grinning.

“It’s not that...”

“I know exactly what it is. Don’t worry. Who wants to marry his high school girlfriend anyway?”

That was a joke because of my parents. They’d gone together in high school, then went to different colleges, then somehow hooked up again after graduation. But Katie didn’t know that, and she and I were both so far from even thinking about marriage, it was easy to fool around. Still, because we were seeing each other, and maybe because my body wasn’t always hurting from sports, my last year of high school was my best.

Before Katie, I’d gone with a number of girls. For a long time – something like seven years, which sounds demented, I know – I’d gone with a girl I’d practically known since kindergarten. That had been fine. We’d been a terrific friends – she wasn’t my best one, but we were very close – until I’d gone to touch her. And I’m not talking easy touching, or even kissing like we’d started to do in sixth grade. I’m talking around ninth grade, when we’d learned a little bit more about what going together meant.

It just didn’t work. Here was the girl I’d ridden bikes with – and skateboards, and scooters. Who’d helped me catch and mount spiders for a science project. Who’d played Mary Poppins in fifth grade. I really loved her – well, heavily liked – but every time my hands began to wander, I felt perverse. So we broke up.

Each girlfriend after that was easier, and there were at least four or five.

“He’s making up for lost time,” Dad told Mom.

Actually, I couldn’t keep their interest. Or they couldn’t keep mine.

“You’re always practicing for something,” one of them said.

“Or studying,” another told me. “I never study. Why do you need to?”

“Because I want to go to a decent school,” I wanted to tell her. But that would have been mean. She was planning to grab any two-year school that would take her – and her friends assured her many would. “Then I’ll transfer to somewhere else.” Again, meaning anywhere she could get in.

“That’s great for you,” I agreed. “But I’d kinda like something more aggressive.”

“It’s gonna cost you.”

“That’s why I’m studying.”

With Katie, we were better balanced. She was actually ahead of me in honor society – I was in the eighth percent of the ten percent of students even eligible, and she was in third.

“Not so boring I’d be valedictorian. But not down with you, either.”

“I’m twenty-fourth in a class of two-eighty-nine,” I protested. “That’s not embarrassing.”

“Well, kiss my... hand.”

And we cracked up.

But I could kiss anything I wanted, and so could she. And we took advantage of that when our houses were occasionally empty.

She wasn’t my first, and I wasn’t hers, either. For me, that was one of those less studious girls, and for her, it was a guy who was valedictorian, though two classes ahead.

“Okay, I’m a snob,” she admitted. “But it was fun. Though he was too intense.”

My parents liked Katie. But they’d pretty much liked every girl I’d ever brought home – they’re really decent people when they’re not trying to brainwash me. Still, Katie was almost always in charge and always drove when we went out, and not because of what she called “my habits.” Those were mostly drinking – a couple of beers or my share of a pitcher – but sometimes a little more. Even so, most of the time – with my other friends – I was the “designated driver.” Though not in my own car, because I didn’t have one, and that’s why Katie drove.

“You know we’re saving for your college,” Mom told me. “And you know how expensive car insurance is. And Laurie’s only three years behind you.”

“Your senior year’s gonna be financial murder,” Dad warned.

“Don’t scare him,” Mom said.

“He’s not signing the loans.”

Katie’s parents were also much easier to hit for things than mine. Which might be why she was so relaxed – we were. And that was fine.