In the Dead of the Night 🏚️ Chapter Three
In which cabins are assigned...
You are reading In the Dead of the Night, a serialized YA novel by Erin Bowman. If you are new to the story, visit the Table of Contents and start at the beginning.
Copyright © 2024 by Erin Bowman.
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“All right, all right, that’s quite enough. Settle down.” Mrs. Goodwin flaps her arms like she can stuff the outburst below the floorboards at her feet. She races for a podium. “Please. Quiet now.” Everyone ignores her effortlessly. She fiddles with the diamond pendant of her necklace while desperately eying the older staff standing along the side of the room.
A short woman in jeans and a navy blue Camp Durant hoodie sticks her thumb and forefinger into her mouth and whistles loudly. The shrill noise instantly kills the chatter.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Goodwin says. She tucks her necklace away, smoothes a bit of hair behind her ears. “As I was saying before our late arrival” —her eyes dart to me— “Mrs. Towers is the camp director this year and I’m going to let her take things from here. Mrs. Towers?” She holds a hand out, passing the metaphorical mic.
“Thank you, Laura.” Mrs. Towers turns out to be Whistle Lady. She’s middle-aged, with mousy brown hair and a tan that suggests she spends most of her time outdoors. Despite being a good six inches shorter than Mrs. Goodwin, her energy feels larger, her blunt, clipped voice giving off the impression that she shouldn’t be tested.
As she launches into a speech about responsibility and the importance of role models, I move toward the back of the room, looking for somewhere to sit. It’s impossible to ignore the eyes that follow me, counselors and staff incapable of not stealing a close-up glance. My eyes connect with a girl in the back. She’s pale, built like a bird, and wearing a black, long sleeve tee that says F*ck the Patriarchy on the front. Her dark hair is cut into a shoulder length bob and the ends are dyed neon pink. She jerks her chin at the empty seat beside her, mouths, “Take it.”
I slip into it soundlessly.
She plucks an AirPod from one of her ears and whispers, “Hey. I’m Vivian. Viv for short.”
“Eleanor. Nell for short,” I say back.
She digs around in a backpack at her feet, then yanks the multitool keychain attached to the zipper to close it. “Want a piece?” She holds out a stick of gum.
“Oh. No, thanks.”
She shrugs, snaps her gum in response, and slips her AirPod back in. Then she’s wrestling with the multitool-keychain-zipper thing again to stow away the unwanted stick of gum.
From the stage, Mrs. Towers is still droning on about how she expects us to act like the respectable young adults she knows we are. She say cabins will be checked weekly for drugs and alcohol. We shouldn’t have any of it to begin with but she’ll still be checking. After taps, it’s quiet hours for us as much as the kids. She doesn’t want to hear about anyone sneaking out to meet up with other staff members. She expects us to do our jobs and do them while smiling. All the while, Mrs. Goodwin stands off to the side, looking us over like we’re soldiers she plans to send into battle.
When Mrs. Tower’s monotone starts to make me sleepy, I dare to look around the room.
The bulk of the audience appears college-aged or late high school, although a few look like they’re in their thirties or forties. If they aren’t here as a counselor, they’re either general staff (like maintenance workers), or they’re a sports or activity leader. With the amount of money parents spend to send their kids here, Camp Durant has nothing but the best on staff. When I attended as a camper, some bow-and-arrow prodigy from Arizona State ran the archery program, swimming was taught by an Olympic-hungry twenty-one year old, and a Broadway-bound junior at Julliard spearheaded Performing Arts. I doubt much has changed in five years.
“That about does it,” Mrs. Towers says approximately five hundred hours later.
“Excellent.” Mrs. Goodwin claps her hands together. “Everyone, please form a line and collect your schedules from Mrs. Towers. Lunch is at noon and then you have about an hour before campers will begin getting dropped off. The welcoming bonfire is tonight at nine and everyone is invited, campers included. We hit the ground running first thing tomorrow.”
The room is again filled with commotion—squeaking shoes as people stand, chairs skidding, noisy chatter. Viv and I end up last in line because she says she needs another stick of gum and by the time she’d dug through her bag to find one, everyone else is ahead of us. I don’t hate it. At least at the end of the line I can’t hear what they’re all saying about me. Better yet, they can’t ask me any questions.
Finally, Viv and I are up. She’s a counselor for the girls in Pine Knot and is given their activity schedules, and a list of their allergies, medications, emergency contacts, and so on. And I have… no one, apparently, because Mrs. Towers can’t seem to find my papers.
“I was supposed to be a counselor?” I prompt unhelpfully.
“Oh yes,” Mrs. Goodwin rushes over to interject. “That was before…” She trails of. “Well, let’s just say that wouldn’t be great optics for us right now.”
For a second, I’m not even mad. It’s just hilarious. “No twelve-year old is going to recognize me. They probably don’t even watch the news.”
“It’s just not worth the risk, Nell. I’m so sorry. I switched you to the kitchen staff, just to be safe.” She fiddles with her necklace again.
Oh, it must be so hard for you, I want to say, keeping up appearances. So much pressure and strain this must have put on you.
“Maybe Nell can help me,” Viv suggests. “She could be a support counselor or something. When she’s not busy with kitchen stuff.”
A heavy sigh. “That’s probably not the best idea right now. I appreciate your understanding.”
Mrs. Towers hands over my schedule, which says Kitchen Staff at the top instead of Counselor like Viv’s.
“You’re both in Staff Cabin #8,” Goodwin adds. “And lunch is at—“
“Noon,” Viv interrupts. “We know.”
She’s glaring at Goodwin as though the woman just tried to slit my throat. I decide I like her quite a bit.
“God, what was that about?” Viv grumbles as we step into the mid-morning light. It’s muggy now, but I’m still cold. The fog has vanished and somewhere through the trees, far beyond my current line of sight, Corwin Lake will be visible.
“Come on, let’s drop our stuff at the cabin.” Viv grabs my hand. “Jesus, you’re like ice.”
I squeeze my fingers into fists, blow on them. It’s like I can’t shake the chill I caught on the trip up here, not even forty-eight hours later. I hope I’m not getting sick.
“So what’s your deal? Where are you from?”
It dawns on me that she doesn’t know, that whatever she was listening to on her AirPods earlier was playing loudly enough that she didn’t hear my announcement. She has no clue who I am. I know I can’t avoid it forever, but I want just a few more minutes of this normalcy. I want her to keep looking at me like I’m not a villain.
“You first,” I say as we start back through the trees. It’s shadowy and cool beneath the boughs of pines, the floor a soft carpet of needles. The scent of wet dirt is pungent.
“Not much to tell. I’m from a small town outside Glens Falls where nothing happens.”
I have no clue where Glens Falls is, and my expression must communicate my confusion.
“It’s about thirty minutes north of Albany,” she explains. “I can’t wait to get out. Just one more year and then college. I’ll probably end up at one of the SUNY schools, so, not really escaping upstate altogether, but it’s something.”
“It’s that bad, huh?”
“Ugh, it’s insufferable. There’s this kid Davie Prentiss in my class and he is literally Satan’s walking incarnation. He’s made my life a living hell since fourth grade. I can’t wait to never have to see him anymore.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. And it’s like I can’t escape him. He lives on my street. He was on the shuttle bus with me yesterday. I think I might be cursed.”
“He works here?”
“At the boys camp across the lake, thank God. But the shuttle was the same for both staff. For half the bus ride, I had to listen to him talk about some girl he banged on prom night.” She makes a gagging noise. “What about you?”
“I’m from the city, but I used to come here as a camper when I was younger.”
“Ooh, rich kid,” Viv says with a wink.
“Well, my mom knows the owner. They’re old friends. Maybe she got a discount or something.” I force a smile. It’s not true, but I want her to think it could be. I don’t want the one person who’s tolerating me to think I’m some spoiled, out of touch, rich asshole—whose dad stole from people, no less. “That’s actually the reason I have this job, too. She called in a favor.”
“Connections,” Viv says sagely. “It’s all about who you know.”
“I’m going to be a senior in the fall also. Vassar is high on my college list, so I won’t be “escaping” New York state either if that works out.”
“Major?”
“I’m thinking about Photojournalism. You?”
“Social work.”
I’m about to ask why she wants to get into that field—it’s not one I’ve seen many of my peers gravitate toward—when the cabins appear up ahead. At first, they’re only glimpses of worn wood siding, barely visible through the trees. But soon they come fully into view: a series of small, squat, unimpressive staff cabins scattered beneath the trees. Farther up the path are the larger cabins for campers, rectangular plaques above each door with a cabin name etched into the wood.
“Home sweet home,” Viv says and yanks open the screen door of Staff Cabin #8.
I move to follow her but am struck through with a blow of coldness, like an ice pick to the heart. The hair on my arms stands on end.
I whirl around, expecting to spot a nosey counselor among the trees, watching, glaring, taking photos to send to the tabloids. But of course there’s nothing, just a slight breeze rustling the pine boughs, their needles brushing together like nervous fingers.