Flow

The camp counselor has pubic hair.

That’s what it is, but I don’t yet know that’s what it’s called. All I know is there are two strips of black, eighth-inch shaved hair peeking out of the front of her bikini.

Part of me is certain I’m seeing something I’m not supposed to.

The other counselors fawn over her, and us kids just try to look cool, though I’m not exactly sure why.

Those black hairs intimidate me. Is that what happens when a girl grows up?

A quiet voice in my mind…

Is that what will happen to me?

I don’t like it, don’t want it. I’m convinced that a choice must exist somewhere along the line. I imagine that shit growing on my body, and I’m mortified. Embarrassed. Like she should be.

I go back into the changing room next to the pool and pull off my bathing suit. It’s worrisome to change in front of the other girls, but I’m just a kid; they usually allow only one age bracket at a time in here. There’s no way out of it, either. 110 degrees means we strip.

I don’t understand what it means to grow up.

I know this teenager who works at the camp. She’s in charge of the other counselors, and every evening she plays taps on her trumpet. She gets to sleep in her own little house, and there are gigantic green grapes that grow overhead. I jump up to grab a few, and it’s true: they really are the best grapes I’ve ever tasted.

I go to the water fountain and load up my bottle with powdered Gatorade. Thirst is an issue here. You don’t even think about it. You just gulp it down.

The day is closing.

Soon, night will be upon us.