The Chrysalis

Chapter 1

It was meant to be a simple assignment. A mere summary for the journal that had been a yearlong project in Mrs. Dearborn’s advanced placement English class. Mrs. Dearborn had proven to be big into journals. She said that the daily writing assignments were a tool to help you fulfill your dreams--take charge, chart the progress, all that self-empowerment jazz. This, the final page of the journal, was to be a direct response to the first entry in which Mrs. Dearborn had instructed the class to write about what they hoped to accomplish during the coming two semesters. Christina’s entry, dated September sixth of the previous year, lay tauntingly on the desk in front of her. Christina read it for what seemed like the thousandth time:

"...I want this year to be different. I’m tired of watching life from the sidelines. I know I’m probably supposed to write about how I want to do well in my classes and get good grades, but the truth is, if all I have to show for myself at the end of this year is a report card filled with straight A’s, then for me this year will be a failure. This is the year that I want to rise from my obscure position in the back row of life and do something! A part in the school play would be a good start. Everyone will say ‘Who is that on stage? I don’t think I’ve seen her before,’ and then someone will say ‘Oh, that’s Christina--she usually sits in the back.’ Well, not anymore! At some point after my dramatic debut, I want some cute guy to fall madly in love with me and take me to the prom...in a size five gown!"

Christina had to acknowledge that the intervening pages certainly did document some sort of progress. Her face burned in a wave of embarrassment as she flipped past pages thirty-two through thirty-four which charted in shockingly vivid detail the sudden nosebleed that ruined the drama club audition last October. As page fifty-seven breezed by, she was forced to reflect on the bad choice of working with Miss Kline, the Home Ec. teacher, on the Donut Project--undoubtedly the cause of never getting a size five dress or a prom date.

Christina regretfully noted that about fifteen pounds stood between her and a sideways glance from Kevin Witherspoon--or any other suitable date. Of course, Christina could truthfully report (it was immortalized on page 115) that she had been asked to the prom; however, she didn’t know what was worse: being asked by chess club captain Bernard Flood or not being asked at all.

Christina sighed and resigned herself to the truth: her journal was not a tool of dream fulfillment, but an agent of despair. She picked up her pen and wrote:

"After reviewing the available evidence, the only conclusion I come to is that this year has been a complete failure. My junior year has done nothing but underscore my inability to leave my mark not only on this school, but the world in general. My failure to land a role on a stage as insignificant as Riverside High does not speak well for my future prospects of making any sort of debut on the infinitely larger stage we know as real life. How long do I have to stay backstage, waiting for the role written just for me? Or maybe it’s just that I’ve been permanently cast as stage crew. (Sigh) I guess that’s my cue to pick up my honor roll report card and go home. Regretfully, Christina Brannigan."

Christina took her time on the walk home. Kicking a pebble, she mentally chalked her junior year up as a loss. The beginning of the year had shown such promise. Last August, her best friend, Joanie Thompson, got her driver’s license and inherited her brother’s brick red early eighty’s model station wagon. In rural upstate New York, transportation was the difference between a year of after school sitcom reruns and the possibility of employment and a social life.

It wasn’t long before the girls found a job shelving books at the library in town, a decision that quickly seemed to provide an unexpected payoff when Mrs. Travis, the drama instructor, happened to come in on their shift to make thirty copies of the script for Bye, Bye Birdie. Christina and Joanie had exchanged a meaningful glance and flew to the modern drama shelves, quickly checking out the only remaining copy of the script. Further investigation produced the musical score on cassette tape from the Broadway show tune holdings. The two remaining weeks before school began, Put on a Happy Face sputtered and crackled endlessly from the station wagon’s aged speakers until the left one blew. After that, they turned the volume up full blast and sang twice as loud. Afternoons were spent in Christina’s room running Kim and Rosie’s lines until their voices sounded as rough as the engine of Joanie’s car. For the price of a video game and a quick stop on the way home, Christina’s younger brother Kyle could occasionally be bribed into standing in as Conrad Birdie.They were, without reservation, prepared to take the Riverside High drama scene by storm.

They were prepared for everything but the blood vessel that burst just as Christina stepped up to the microphone to secure a leading role with her well-rehearsed audition. They were prepared for everything but the sudden transfer that caused Joanie’s family to move out of the area later that semester. They were prepared for everything but the junior year that actually happened.

Christina sighed heavily. Her mother was right. Time and again, she shook her head, noting, half in bewilderment and half in amusement, "things just happen to you, Christina." Poised, articulate, and self-assured, Mrs. Brannigan was ill acquainted with the number and variety of details that could go wrong in the course of a day.

Christina stopped, as she often did, to look at the yellow and black striped monarch caterpillars that could predictably be found devouring milkweed along the dirt road that would eventually narrow to become her driveway. A fourth grade science fair project on butterflies had led to an inescapable fascination with the insect. Christina had transformed her brother’s old fish tank into a caterpillar habitat and watched, day after day, as it went about the seemingly endless and tiresome business of consuming as much milkweed as Christina supplied. Then, the unaltering routine ended as the caterpillar retreated inside the chrysalis it had quietly formed around itself. The creature remained in its self-imposed holding pattern until some outwardly imperceptible metamorphosis occurred and the butterfly struggled from its boundaries. Some miracle within the chrysalis had transformed the creature from worm to limitless radiance on wings. Now, with the reminder of a lackluster school year still fresh on her mind, a part of her could not help but envy the brightly colored insects.

Before ascending the porch steps, Christina reached into the mailbox and pulled out the usual assortment of junk mail, college brochures (they start rolling in early when your name is engraved permanently on the honor roll), and, although she nearly missed it, the most predictable envelope of all. It was from Aunt Meg, and Christina didn’t even need to open it to know what it said. It was her standing invitation for Christina to spend the summer with her at Camp Edson.

The Camp Edson question had been posed annually for the past four years. As much as Christina truly loved and admired Aunt Meg, she knew that they were very different people. Athletic and vivacious, Meg Wilson thrived in the adventure-filled camp atmosphere, confidently rising to the challenges of managing the activities of nearly one hundred young, disadvantaged campers and a couple dozen teen-aged staff members. Christina, however, could not begin to imagine where she would fit in. Not exactly the picture of physical fitness, she couldn’t imagine being much help with sports. Meg always said the cook was shorthanded and the Donut Project had certainly given Christina ample kitchen experience, but she wasn’t about to make that mistake again. No, Camp Edson was definitely an opportunity that Christina would let pass.

The sound of the phone ringing inside caused Christina to quicken her step. Tossing the mail onto the bureau inside the door, Christina slid into the kitchen and grabbed the phone just before the machine picked up.

"Christina." The nasal voice on the other end was vaguely familiar in an uncomfortable way that the next sentence would clarify. "This is Marcie Flood, Bernard’s sister. I’m calling because Bernard had a wonderful idea that I’m just sure you’ll love."

"Like a hole in my head," Christina’s thoughts screamed.

"About two weeks ago, I started working at the new bakery in town. Business is better than we thought..."

"Why in the world do I care?" Christina’s thoughts continued.

"...Bernard is even the new dishwasher, but we still need some help with the morning donuts."

Christina’s stomach sank to her feet. She knew where this was going.

"...boss wants experience." She put special emphasis on the word. "Bernard immediately said he knew the perfect person..."

The image of Bernard’s acne-spangled face sprang to mind. "I’m going to be sick," Christina silently acknowledged.

"...with all your work on the Donut Project..."

Meg’s letter popped into Christina’s head. "Listen, Marcie, thanks for thinking of me, but I probably won’t be here this summer. I just got an important job offer in the mail that I’m seriously considering."

"Oh. All right." Marcie’s voice fell flat. "Hey, that’s great. Well, call me if it doesn’t work out, OK?"

"Sure thing, Marcie." Christina hung up and groaned, wondering what excuse she’d give when she ran into Marcie or Bernard later in the summer. She poured herself a glass of lemonade and wandered back to the front porch. On the way out, she picked Aunt Meg’s letter up off the bureau. "Might as well read it. Maybe there’s some news for Mom." Sometimes Meg included interesting pictures. It was worth a look.

Christina scanned over the first three paragraphs. What are you doing this summer? We could sure use your help here at Camp Edson--the usual. The fourth paragraph, however, suddenly seemed to be flashing neon.

"This year, I’d like to offer more activities than in years past. I’d like to incorporate more arts and crafts and maybe even some drama. How about it, Christina? Here’s your chance to break into the drama world after all. Please give it some thought. Looking forward to hearing from you soon. Love, Meg."

Christina sat back and closed her eyes. Images jumbled together in a gruesome kaleidoscope. Donuts. Bernard’s bespectacled face. The tag in her jeans with the two digit number. Her hair--still short at the top (was she hiding under a rock when everyone else grew theirs out?). The pages from her English journal. An imagined Christina with toned muscles and hair all one length. A tiny chrysalis. An airborne monarch.

An unexpected excitement suddenly began somewhere in her stomach and quickly overcame her. Her junior year may have been a flop, but her senior year would be a different story. This would be the summer that would change everything. Christina ran inside, slamming the screen door behind her.

Chapter 2

"OK, Christina, bring the paddle in. This looks like the perfect place to stop," Meg said with satisfaction. Christina gently pulled the paddle up from the water and laid it on the floor of the rowboat. The still waters and pleasantly cool evening air combined with a wonderfully indescribable summer-in-the-country scent--part freshly mowed grass, part wild flower, part mystery--was the perfect setting for Christina and Meg’s first dinner together on Lake Edson.

It was nearly impossible to believe that only three days had passed since Christina had announced at the dinner table that she had decided to go to Camp Edson. From the time the barbecued spare ribs and blueberry pie had been cleared from the table, to the instant Christina’s father tossed her two oversized duffel bags into the back of their jeep, Christina hadn’t had a moment to reconsider her decision. Thoughts of donuts, Bernard, or Marcie immediately put the brakes on any second thoughts that did manage to materialize between hasty trips to Wal-Mart and telephone calls to and from Aunt Meg. When she actually arrived at camp, things hadn’t slowed down a bit. Meg had greeted her in paint-splattered overalls and a dripping roller in hand. Within minutes, Christina found herself dodging the vivid orange paint that seemed to spray from the roller with a vengeance at every pass over the walls of the arts and crafts cabin. Christina was relieved when Meg finally suggested the picnic on the lake. It was the first time she’d actually sat down in days.

The boat swayed gently as Meg slowly slid to the floor of the boat and carefully spread a yellow checked tablecloth over the board in the center of the boat which, under normal circumstances, served as a seat for the oarsman. Meg wasted no time covering the table with an array of unusual and interesting items she pulled from a wicker picnic basket: triangular strawberry cream cheese sandwiches on honey wheat bread, a small bowl of fresh fruit, scones with strawberry jam, and a thermos of hot spiced tea. Christina smiled; this was the reason she enjoyed being with her aunt so much: nothing was ever normal--it was better.

Remembering why she came here, Christina avoided the warm sweet-smelling scones and grabbed a cluster of green grapes from the fruit basket. She accepted the mug of fragrant spiced tea that Meg passed to her and leaned back against the life vest she propped up behind her. Holding the mug in both hands, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Dinner should always be like this," she said, smiling.

"Enjoy it while you can Christina. Next week at this time we’ll be dining with one-hundred excited campers and their overworked counselors." Meg tucked a strand of her shoulder length auburn hair behind her ear and tipped the thermos to fill her own mug with tea.

"Maybe that will be fun, too," Christina said hopefully.

"Depends on how you look at it."

"What do you mean?"

"Why did you come?" Meg asked, instead of answered.

Christina’s eyes narrowed over top of the mug she pressed against her chin. She thought for a long moment before confessing. "I wanted to change," she finally answered softly.

"Then you will."

"How do you know?"

"People tend to do what they want to do--if you want to change, then you will."

Seeing Christina’s puzzled frown, Meg raised her eyebrows knowingly. "It’s not hard to lose weight here."

"How did you know..."

"You’re only eating the grapes." Meg’s forehead wrinkled as she shook her head and smiled at Christina. Christina sighed and then smiled. She could never keep anything from Meg.

"It’s not just that--I want to grow my hair out, too."

"Then we won’t cut it," Meg shrugged casually. "It’s guaranteed to grow."

"You make everything seem easy."

"The things you think you want are easy." Meg’s green eyes seemed to flash some hidden insight that totally escaped Christina.

"What do you mean?" Christina asked for the second time that evening.

"You want more than you think," Meg answered.

"But what does that m..." Christina’s sentence was cut short by the static squelch of Michael’s voice coming over Meg’s walkie-talkie.

Meg excused herself by extending a finger toward Christina while she raised the walkie-talkie to her face to answer her husband. "Go ahead."

Christina only caught a few phrases of whatever message Michael had for Meg, but gathered that it had something to do with some majorly technical detail about some problem or other with the camp finances. Meg’s eyes narrowed in concentration as she listened, frowning occasionally, before seeming to dismiss the entire thing with a wave of her hand. Or perhaps she was just shooing a mosquito away, Christina couldn’t tell for sure. Either way, she signed off with Michael, and handed an paddle to Christina. "Sorry, Christina," she apologized, "Just a couple calls I need to make." Christina sighed inwardly. Dinner on Lake Edson--and their conversation--had come to a sudden conclusion.

Once her bags were emptied and nested in the back of the walk-in closet, Christina curled up on the plump green and white checked chair near the window. She had no idea what Meg was getting at when she said Christina wanted more than she thought she did. To Christina, it was simple: she had three months here at Camp Edson to remake herself. After she lost that troublesome fifteen pounds, grew out the front of her hair so she could wear one of those popular all-one-length styles, and spent the check she’d earn this summer on some trendy clothes to show off her new figure, she’d be set. Meg even said herself that it wouldn’t be hard. Deciding that she must be making too much out of a simple comment, Christina got up from the cozy chair and walked to the kitchen.

Michael was sitting at the table, poking through the leftovers in the wicker basket while they discussed some project they were working on for the first week of camp. In everything, Meg and Michael were true partners. Michael was making some sort of remark about how glad he was that Christina’s diet meant more scones for him, and Meg was laughing. It seemed like the two of them were always having such fun together. Christina loved that about them. They both turned their attention toward Christina when she entered the room. She noticed that Meg turned her head to look out the kitchen’s big picture window before she said, "Christina, now would be a great time to go out to the barn to look for some boards for the puppet theatre you were telling me about."

"It’s a great idea," Michael added, "let me know if I can help."

"Thanks." Christina said, puzzled. Why the big hurry? Christina wondered as she walked across the lawn and into the side door of the barn. "It’s almost dark," she mumbled to herself. "It probably could have waited until tomorrow." She started poking through a stack of boards that were propped against the wall.

Some were too short, others were rotten, so far nothing seemed to be quite right. Christina tossed the rejects aside with a sigh. The flying boards stirred up a lot of dust and Christina began to cough, shutting her eyes tight against the swirling billows. Suddenly, a flapping in front of her face startled her and she screamed, flailing her arms in front of her. She took a big step back, stumbling blindly to avoid what she later realized was a bat, tripping over the discarded boards and landing, backwards, on top of them. All of this would have been bad enough, but when Christina finally looked up, she saw a tall, muscular guy with the bluest eyes she had ever seen looking down at her with a decidedly puzzled expression. Suddenly she knew that this was definitely IT: the embarrassing moment she’d never psychologically recover from.

"Are you all right?" The deep blue eyes surveyed Christina with concern.

"Well, I, um, I guess so," Christina stammered, noticing a rip in her new sweatshirt and a small scrape on her arm. "It was a bat," she said, stupidly, in an effort to explain the situation.

The guy with the gorgeous eyes laughed. "They’re all over this barn--I’ve been startled by a couple myself." He ran a hand through his thick, dark hair and glanced up, as though he was expecting another one to swoop down to prove his point.

"Yeah, I’ll bet," Christina thought to herself.

"Hey, it looks like you’re bleeding." Again the blue eyes clouded with concern.

"Oh, it’s nothing," Christina said dismissively.

"Hope you didn’t catch a rusty nail..." He bent down and began to look around for what may have caused the injury.

"No...I’m afraid it was nothing that exciting." Christina paused, embarrassed. "It was this." She held out her hand. "My birthstone ring. My arm scraped past the stone as I fell." Christina laughed nervously, feeling more foolish than ever for doing so.

Gorgeous Eyes Guy shook his head and smiled as he extended a hand toward Christina. "So you want to get out of here?" he asked as Christina accepted his hand and pulled herself up from the pile of boards. "Unless," he added hastily, "you’d rather stay for awhile."

Christina laughed. "No, I think all this can wait until tomorrow."

"So, what’s the story with the two-by-fours?"

Christina began to tell him about the puppet theatre that she was planning to build. After outlining her plans for the hidden storage cupboard, she described in vivid detail the brightly colored mural of puppets she was mentally designing for the outside of the theatre. She then went to some lengths to convey the dramatic feel she hoped would be created by the silver curtain she planned on making from an old prom dress she found in Meg’s closet. By the time she realized that she was enumerating all the available puppets by name and physical description, she clapped her hand over her mouth in horror. She couldn’t believe she was doing this again. How could she prattle on endlessly about such drivel to this incredibly gorgeous, but obviously unattainable total stranger?

Christina forced her gaze away from his captivating eyes. "I, um, have to go now," Christina said hastily to his chest.

"Let me know if you need anything." Christina thought she noted confusion in his voice, undoubtedly brought on by the abrupt shift in the conversation. It was hard to tell without looking at him. "Meg hired me to teach woodworking here this summer and to help Michael with odd jobs," he listed his credentials confidently before adding, very sincerely, "I’d be glad to help you with the theater if you’d like."

Suddenly Christina realized that it was not by accident that she met Gorgeous Eyes Guy in the barn. Meg must have known he was out there, and that it wouldn’t be difficult for them to strike up a conversation with Christina out there rifling through lumber.

"Nice try, Meg," Christina thought ruefully, inwardly cringing at the mental image she had of herself sprawled on top of the boards and babbling about Gwenivere, the medium-sized, freckled puppet. "Leave it to Christina the super-klutz to foul up just about anything."

Christina mumbled some sort of thanks and began to run toward the refuge of her room.

"My name’s Mark, by the way!" Gorgeous Eyes Guy called after her.

She managed to turn around and glance at his left Nike as she called over her shoulder, "I’m Christina!" She paused slightly, no longer able to resist a quick glance at his face.

Mark of the Gorgeous Eyes flashed a terrific smile, and Christina ran inside, embarrassed over the spectacle she was sure she made of herself.

Chapter 3

She continued slowly down the path, trying to catch her breath. "All this had better pay off," Christina mumbled to herself. Her thoughts began to wander to the first day of her senior year. Thin and stylish, she’d turn the heads of guys who didn’t even know she was alive last year. Perhaps Kevin Witherspoon wouldn’t even realize that she was the same klutz who ran over his science notebook in the school parking lot last fall. "Slim chance of that," Christina thought, grimly recalling the woeful image of Kevin sitting in the library redoing a week’s worth of homework and an outline for his term paper. "Wasn’t my fault he chucked his homework on the curb so he could play basketball--someone was bound to run over that curb."

"What curb?" came an inquiring voice from behind.

Christina whirled around, horrified to see Mark jogging up behind her. Had she been talking out loud? It wasn’t likely that things got much worse.

"Um, yeah, hi, Mark," Christina stammered. "Have you been back there long?"

"Just long enough to hear that some curb took a hit," his eyes flashed in amusement. Christina was glad her face was already red from exertion. "It’s OK," Mark continued easily, "I talk to myself when I jog, too. Gets kind of lonely out here sometimes otherwise. How far are you going today?"

"Well, actually, I’m done. I was just heading back to the house to help Meg."

A confused look crossed Mark’s face that worried Christina. "You’re done jogging," he paused, obviously trying to grasp a concept that was eluding him at the present. "You’re done jogging," he repeated, "and you’re on your way to Meg’s house?"

"That’s right," Christina said, narrowing her eyes and looking oddly at Mark. He’d seemed bright enough the other evening, but Christina was beginning to have doubts.

"Well, then I’ve got to know...why are you clipping along at high speeds in the opposite direction of Meg’s house?"

High speeds? She must have picked up her pace while she was daydreaming without even realizing it. But the wrong direction? She’d followed the path the wrong way and hadn’t even noticed. Things definitely just got worse.

Mark chuckled gently, seeing the horror that passed over Christina’s face. "Don’t worry about it, Christina. It’s not as though the trail is marked or anything." He shrugged it off. "It does seem though, Miss Christina, as if you could use a trail guide--and perhaps someone else to talk to..." Mark grinned mischievously. "What do you say we team up and jog together from now on?" Mark looked at her questioningly with his piercing crystal blue eyes. "Besides, I could use some company too."

Mark seemed to have a way of putting Christina at ease. She smiled. "Well, I guess, since you put it that way, sure, I’ll help you out." Now it was Christina’s turn to give Mark a mischievous grin. They both laughed.

"Come on, Christina, we’ve got about a mile to go, so let’s set a nice steady pace."

The Canteen had a rustic, old west feel to it. The wide, rough, wallboards were covered with horseshoes and cowboy hats with the occasional horse poster interspersed for good measure. Not that any horse, past or present, had ever resided at Camp Edson, but Christina knew that nothing was out of the realm of possibility as long as Meg had anything to say about it.

Just as she stuck her head in the case and began pulling out the Raspberry Squirters, she caught a glimpse of a familiar pair of Nikes in front of the counter. Realizing how ridiculous she must look crammed headfirst in the display case, crushing the Crunchy Chocolate Chunks with her left elbow as she attempted to maintain her balance, she quickly began her retreat. Thinking her head had cleared the case, she shot up, and instantly felt the pain of her miscalculation.

She played off the blunder, hoping for the long shot that Mark hadn’t noticed. He’d taken a cowboy hat from its peg on the wall, and stood at the glass counter, drumming his fingers on the counter and chewing his gum slowly and deliberately.

"Service is a mite bit slow today at the old corral," he observed wryly, a twinkle in his deep azure blue eyes.

"Canteen." Christina corrected.

"Canteen, Corral, makes no difference." Mark waved a hand dismissively over the counter. He surveyed the display case and shook his head.

"We’re not open for business yet, Mr... Christina said, her voice trailing off as she played along.

"Chadwick," Mark said, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

Christina smiled inwardly. Mark Chadwick. She liked it.

"No, it certainly doesn’t look that way," Mark agreed. "You might want to check your elbow there, ma’am," Mark said, nodding toward her arm. He tipped his hat, before hanging it back on the wall. Christina glanced at her elbow. To her dismay, three Crunchy Chocolate Chunks hung from it. She grabbed a napkin and wiped them off with disgust.

"Thanks."

"No problem. How’s your head?" Mark winked at her and grinned.

"I’ll live."

Mark stepped around to Christina’s side of the counter and began to help empty the display case. "I actually came down here to fix the stair rail," he explained, "but I’d much rather do this considering that I already fixed that rail last year." He shook his head.

"How many years have you been coming here?" Christina asked, suddenly realizing she knew very little about this guy, beyond the obvious--he was stunningly gorgeous and had this incredible gift of making Christina feel good about herself no matter how much she goofed.

"This is my third year," Mark said, "and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Not that I had much choice in the matter," Mark grinned. The display case was now completely empty.

Christina sprayed the interior with glass cleaner and began wiping it out with a paper towel. "What do you mean?" she asked, curious.

"My Dad lost his job about six months ago and things got really rough for my parents. They had to sell the house. About a month ago, they moved to the west coast. Dad has family out there, and his uncle has a small guest cottage that he offered to my parents. Dad found a job making half as much as he did before. They’ll be OK, but they are going to have to make some real adjustments in their lifestyle. There’s really no room for me at the guest cottage, although my folks insist I can come out if I want to." He shrugged. "I’d rather be here, though. Needless to say, the college money is gone. I was a little late applying for financial aid, so I’m not sure if college will happen for me this year or not. I still hope something will come through, but I need to be working in the meantime, and I’d rather be here than anywhere else."

Christina was stunned. She had no idea Mark had so much working against him right now. He always seemed so positive.

"Enough about me. What about you, Christina?" Mark looked her square in the eye. Christina opened her mouth to answer him when they heard Michael calling for Mark outside.

Mark looked apologetically at Christina. "We’ll pick this up later, OK?" He swung himself over the counter, grabbed his toolbox from beside the door and ran off.

Before dinner, the group had sat in a circle on the large braided rug that covered the portion of the hardwood floor nearest the fireplace. Bill from Albany, whose five years at Camp Edson put him in the role of Sr. Counselor, had played the guitar while the group sang campfire choruses and other familiar songs. By the time they ran out of songs they all knew and had resorted to those with ad-libbed lyrics, Meg asked everyone in the group to go around the circle and say something about themselves.

It was the sort of thing that made everyone uncomfortable for the few minutes that it was their turn, but turned out all right in the end. Christina had been dreading her turn to speak, but when it came, it didn’t seem so bad. She had enjoyed listening to everyone else and was beginning to feel right at home. She told the group she came to camp to escape a boring summer working at the bakery with Bernard Flood, and that she was hoping by the end of the summer she’d finally have something worthwhile to write about in her journal. Everyone laughed a nice comfortable laugh that let Christina know that these were people who understood, people who could become friends.

Suddenly, the lounge door flung open, and a tall, slim girl with incredibly stylish short brown hair called out in a loud voice: "Hey, guys, don’t tell me you started without me!" She walked over the counter and peered into the empty pizza boxes. "You didn’t save me any pizza, either!"

"Sorry Stacey," Kelly called out, "you can have my crusts!" She said, holding out the chewed bits of dough. Everyone was laughing and Stacey approached the group, hugging three of the male counselors on the way.

"Hey, Mark," Stacey called out, "long time no see, how’s it going?" she said, extending her arms to give what was apparently her trademark hug. Only it didn’t stop there. Stacey put her arm around Mark and gracefully slid onto his lap. "Did you miss me?" she asked, grabbing a half eaten piece of pizza from his left hand and scarfing down half of it in one bite.

"Always, Stacey," Mark said with a laugh.

Christina felt sick to her stomach. One moment the world felt comfortable and safe. Then, without warning, it seemed as though a wrecking ball had blown through and shattered the whole thing to bits.

"Stacey, you’re just in time to introduce yourself to the group," Meg said.

Stacey flashed a beautiful, perfect smile. "I’m Stacey," she said in a much-too-perky tone as she waved a perfectly polished set of ice blue nails. "I’m here, let the fun begin!"

Everyone suddenly seemed to break off into groups of two or three, catching up on news, and reminiscing about the time last year when so-and-so....

Christina glanced down at the cracked vinyl couch cushion and sighed, noticing her crooked, dirty nails as she picked at a section of black plastic tape that was presumably camouflaging a seriously large hole in the cushion. She wished she could disappear.

Michael announced that it was time for midnight canoeing. Stacey, who had eventually taken a seat at Mark’s feet, looked up at him and said, "You’ll ride with me, won’t you, Mark?"

Mark started to open his mouth and then glanced at Christina.

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