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Journal Entry 1, June 30:
There is no way I’m writing ‘dear diary’ (Who does that anymore?) Losers.
Anyway, I’m finally old enough to be a camper at Camp Majestic! EEEEE! (In case you didn’t know, that was my silent squeal.) I am now an official teenager! I still can’t believe that my birthday was just last week! I got this journal (also an adorable kitten). I plan to record my experiences, so what better place to use it than Camp Majestic?
Camp Majestic is an extracurricular nature camp my Christian private school hosts yearly. Being in God’s beautiful nature for three weeks will do me some good. Having adventures will be the best! But I need to pack for camp; it’s already getting late.
Writefully Yours, Abigail.
I put down my journal and look at the pile of clothes on my bed. I wish these clothes could pack themselves but, as they can’t, I stuff some clothing in my suitcase. My mom knocks on my door, and before I say, “Come in,” she enters my room.
“I don’t need help,” I protest, but she helps me pack anyway.
She hugs me, then bends down to pick up a shirt that has fallen off my bed. Her long brown hair (a family trait) falls around her face. As she stands up, it goes back in place.
“Are you excited about tomorrow, Abigail?” she asks, trying to get little tendrils of hair out of the way.
“Yes! I can’t wait to spend an entire week with Trish!”
Mom laughs and says, “Your eyes sparkle when you get excited.” Mom tells me I’m a miniature of her because we look identical, act alike, and even sound similar. We have long brown hair, sparkling blue eyes, and two left feet. But I have a green tint to my eyes, like Dad had.
Mom turns and looks skeptically at my small pile of clothes and says, “Are you sure you’ll have enough? I know it can get pretty cold at night. Maybe you should bring a sweater?”
She opens the closet and finds the sweater my Grandma Margie knitted for me when I was 10. It no longer fits; the gigantic cat on the front is ugly.
“Mom, I have a system. I know what I’m bringing, and some extras, just in case. You don’t need to worry about me,” I say, taking the appalling sweater from her and burying it in the back of my closet.
“I suppose you’re right,” Mom says with a sigh. “You aren’t my baby anymore.” Her eyes go misty, like when she looks at my old photos. I can’t stand it when she talks like this. Usually, she tries to hug me and then remarks about how old I’m getting.
I am right; I barely dodge Mom’s outstretched arms as I grab my lake shoes from the floor.
Mom quickly redirects her hands to a shirt lying on my bed. She holds it up for me to see. “I remember when you got this. It was way too big for you because you were so tiny.” The mist returns to her eyes. “I can’t believe that you’re already thirteen! Stop growing, missy!”
Mom is super predictable. I giggle, which makes Mom beam as she packs the shirt. Then I stuff my shoes in.
Mom zips the suitcase and reminds me, “Don’t forget to set your alarm. You need to get up bright and early tomorrow.” I give Mom a quick hug, then slide into bed.
But then I can’t seem to shut my brain off. I think of the multiple stories I’m trying to write. I drift off to sleep, thinking about how awesome it would be to be on an adventure someday, like a character in a storybook.
In the morning, the sun not yet penetrating my room, I go downstairs, intending to eat a bowl of cereal but find that Mom has made pancakes. Mom hardly ever does this because she’s so busy.
“Here you go, sweetie,” she says as she hands me a plate. Mom is looking frazzled again like she does when she has a deadline due.
Even though she is busy, she sits with me during breakfast as we chat. At about 7 o’clock we get in the car. It only takes about ten minutes—a new record—and Mom drops me off in the school’s gym.
I quickly find Patricia, who is in the corner of the gym, talking to a friend. “Trish!” I wave to her. She looks at the girl she’s talking to, who flips her hair and struts away, then slowly walks over to me.
“Hi, Abigail,” she says, not looking like her usual peppy self.
“Can you believe we’re finally able to go to Camp Majestic? We can be bunkies!” I say, letting excitement creep into my voice. My hands bounce around eagerly.
But I notice that Patricia isn’t sharing my enthusiasm. “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Is your mom going away on a business trip again? Or is your brother still annoying you?”
Trish lives with her dad because her mother is away often. And her older brother is a pain. I don’t know how she can stand him.
“No, it isn’t either of them.” Her hands are fidgeting; I know that she’s nervous about something. She tries to brush her blond bangs away, but they fall back in front of her eyes. Then she crumples the edge of her pink shirt. I notice that she’s wearing eyeshadow. She seldom wears it.
“Abby,” she says, her voice getting whiny. I look at her again. Her face gives her away; she is feeling guilty. She isn’t looking at me. “Rosalyn already asked to be bunkies. And, no offense, she likes the things that I do too. Rosalyn is cool. She said that we are best friends.”
Hearing this strikes me hard. “But we are best friends,” I say. “We have been since kindergarten.” And why would she do this now?
“You and I can still be friends,” she quickly says. “I just want to hang out with Rosalyn this summer.”
The girl whom Patricia was talking to previously saunters over. “Hey, Trish,” she says. She and Trish are wearing the same outfit, but she wears more makeup than Trish. “Rob says he can sneak us some snacks for the bus trip.” Then the girl notices me.
Her owl-like black eyes survey me as if she were testing me for something. She flips her long curls and demands, “Who are you?” but I can't speak. Trish has taken my ability to speak and burned it to a crisp. It’s like a part of me has died.
“See you, Abby,” I hear Trisha say. She and Rosalyn go over to Rob Moras, the biggest idiot in the school. I go over to the bleachers and sit down, thinking hard. ‘Oh, God,’ I’m thinking. ‘Why is this happening? I don’t want to go to camp with no friends!’ Then I’m stuck in my nightmarish thoughts.
I only look up when I hear the bell ring. The principal, Mr. Evans, stands by the door with a microphone. “Students,” rings over the speaker system. The feedback is almost unbearable. “Please line up for the buses. You will be loaded onto the buses shortly.” He hands the microphone away and covers his ears as the feedback continues.
Everyone gets in line as we walk outside, feeling like kindergartners, and sit on the asphalt. I watch as people around me chat with their friends. I feel so alone. Trish and I were always together. But now I’m alone, and it doesn’t feel good. I’m barely holding back tears.
I watch as others are allowed into the buses. One bus takes the boys; the other takes the girls. I climb on board, immediately spot Trish and Rosalyn, and pass them without Trish glancing my way.
I find a seat at the back of the bus, far away from Trish and my new enemy—Rosalyn. The seats quickly fill up and soon we’re ready to go. I am staring out the window, wishing I was already at camp, when a girl walks up and asks, “May I sit next to you?” I nod, taking a good look at her.
This girl looks around my age, with long chestnut-brown hair, hazel eyes, and creamy skin. She’s wearing a blue t-shirt that says, ‘You're looking at the future president.’ She’s wearing cool earrings in the shape of dolphins. She must have been a new student; I had never seen her before.
“Hi, I’m Kalia! Is this your first time going to this camp? I’ve never been. Is it fun?” She says, super-fast. She laughs at herself and says, “I'm so excited to be coming to camp! I might as well speak gibberish.”
I laugh too. I already like Kalia because she’s so quirky. “Well, we go to our camp, we get to pick bunkies, our cabins, and—”
Kalia interrupted me, “So there aren’t cabin assignments? Are they cabins like you’d see from the 1800s?” she asked. The bus lurches into action. Kalia quickly sits beside me to avoid being thrown to the floor.
“I’ve heard it's more of a dorm room than a cabin. I don’t think there are assignments. The only assignments are for leaders and their jobs, but I’ve never been. Have you been?”
“No,” she says. “I moved into town about a month ago.”
I blurt out, “Would you want to be bunkies with me?” I bit my lip, anxiously waiting for Kalia to answer.
Kalia’s eyes light up. “That would be awesome!” she responds enthusiastically. I smile with relief. She puts her pillow on her lap and shifts to a more comfortable position.
“Maybe camp won’t be so unbearable with her around,” I think. “Maybe I can have my adventure after all.” I take out my journal and write:
Journal Entry 2, July 1:
This summer at Camp Majestic will be the best! I’ve made a new friend already. Even if I don’t hang out with Trish, I know being with Kalia will still be awesome! I can’t wait to get there!
Writefully Yours, Abigail
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