Go to summer camp long enough, and you're bound to run into one. Someone who's completely out of your league. You'll take your shot, but it's certain to end in heartbreak and humiliation as you ponder how things could go so wrong. For me there was frustration too, frustration that she got away and I never had the chance to get her back. Because I am confident that I could have, if fate had only given me a chance. I watched for her every summer, hoping a miracle would happen, that God would bring her back to me, but He never did. I heard that she got married last year, and I stopped watching. I will meet others, I am sure, but none will be like the one that got away.
In my memory, that fateful summer is as clear as last Saturday. The first time I saw her, sitting across the campfire, I thought she looked like any of the other girls I had known. How wrong I was. The sparkle in her eyes, which might have warned me, was hidden by the reflection of the dancing firelight.
She was strange, foreign, a girl from the United States. Rumors had flown before she even arrived at camp that she had a reputation back home as something of a practical joker, but I had some experience and a reputation of my own, and was confident that if any situation came up, as I secretly hoped it would, I would be able to stay in control. Besides, she would only be at camp for a week, before she had to return to the States for work. I had been disappointed to hear this at first. After hearing the stories, I had hoped to spend the summer finding out how good she really was, but a week was not very much time for that.
My first impulse was to discount the rumors about her as ridiculous. She didn't seem the type, and the stories were so wild that they had to be exaggerated. She couldn't possibly have done everything that people said. But, I have to admit I was intrigued, and wondered if she might be the challenge I had been seeking for so many years. I decided I would give her a try and see what happened.
Across the campfire, I watched her eyes travel around the circle until her gaze settled on me. A long, confident gaze that was strangely uncomfortable. I looked away, and all was lost. I think she picked me out at that moment as her next conquest, and everything else that happened was just chess pieces moving into positions that I didn't recognise until it was too late. I was used to seeing the strategy from my side of the table, and like the lost hiker who never looks behind him, the return trail looks strange and unfamiliar. I failed to realize what was happening until she was gone. She was playing it just as I would have, ignoring me to make me think she hadn't noticed. I should have known then that I would just be spinning my wheels, but I had to find out the awful truth myself.
She was a cabin counsellor, which presented the first obstacle to my plans. I would have to find a time when her campers weren't around. Unfortunately, this eliminated most of the days and all of the nights. I couldn't leave anything for her in her cabin, because her campers might see it, and I didn't want to get them involved. I had no choice but to wait for a meal when she sat at the staff table. Counsellors and AC's take turns sitting at the extra tables because there isn't room for everyone at the camper tables. I began to check at every meal to figure out her eating schedule.
For several days I found her schedule very unpredictable, and I gave up on trying to anticipate it. Time was running out, and I began to feel the pressure, which is why, when the opportunity presented itself, I finally decided on an admittedly childish method of getting her attention. She had left her bathing suit hanging on the clothesline outside her cabin, and it was dinnertime, so while everyone was in the dining hall I slipped out, removed the bathing suit and took it to the kitchen where I found a tall bucket and a piece of broomstick cut up for making doughboys on campouts. I balanced the stick on the bucket, hung the suit on the stick, and filled the bucket with water. I found that the suit floated, so I put a rock in it to make it hang properly. Then I put the whole thing in the freezer, behind several pails of margarine, where it would not be found.
By dinnertime the next night the bathing suit was encased in ice. I was somewhat disappointed that no mention had been made of the missing bathing suit. I felt that a girl with a reputation such as hers would be more aware of such things, and I began to doubt even more strongly that the stories I had heard were true. I was saddened by the idea that I might be wasting my time, but I had started this, and I might as well finish it. She was sitting at the staff table, and dinner was over. Dessert was being served when I asked the cooks to deliver a special dessert to her table. I used hot water to loosen the ice block and put it on a serving cart. They agreed to my request, understanding my motives, and delivered my creation, along with a dull ice pick, to her table.
She laughed, along with everyone else, and scanned the room looking for the culprit. Once more her eyes settled on me, laughing eyes that looked for and found the answer she wanted. She raised her ice pick to me (as a toast or a mock threat, it mattered not. I would welcome either.) and made short work of the ice block.
For the rest of that evening and all of the next day I waited. Sure, it wasn't the most clever way to start things off, but it deserved some kind of response. Toilet-papering my vehicle; sewing my sleeping bag shut; setting alarm clocks al around my cabin. But there was nothing. The following day was to be her last, and I went to bed that night very disappointed.
Next morning she said goodbye to everyone, but said nothing to me. I saw her getting into her friend's car as I got into my own truck. She saw me, but didn't wave. Sitting in the driver's seat, I reflected that it was going to be a boring summer.
As I started the engine, I noticed a piece of paper on the seat beside me. I hadn't remembered seeing it there before, and reached for it as I took my hand off the gear shift and stepped on the accelerator to back up. As I grasped the paper, I realized that my truck hadn't moved. I shifted gears and stepped on the gas again, without success.
I knew then what was wrong, even as I opened my driver's door. I didn't need to look at the paper or the truck. My rear tires were one inch off the ground, held by two sturdy blocks of wood. I knew my jack was gone, and wouldn't likely turn up for several days.
I turned to see her waving from the back seat as she drove slowly out of the camp gate and out of my life. Becky Belt, you were everything they said you were. Come back, I dare you.
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