Camp
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Lev Rosen
Interior camp tent © DMaryashin/Shutterstock.com
Interior sun icon © BullsStock/Shutterstock.com
Cover art copyright © 2020 by MDI Digital. Wooden background © 10 FACE/Shutterstock.com. Cover design by Angelie Yap. Cover copyright © 2020 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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Simultaneously published in 2020 by Penguin Random House UK in Great Britain
First U.S. Edition: May 2020
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Rosen, Lev AC., author.
Title: Camp / by L. C. Rosen.
Description: First edition. | New York : Little, Brown and Company, 2020. | Audience: Ages 14+. | Summary: At Camp Outland, a camp for LGBTQIA+ teens, sixteen-year-old Randall “Del” Kapplehoff’s plan to have Hudson Aaronson-Lim fall in love with him succeeds, but both are hiding their true selves.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019034949 | ISBN 9780316537759 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780316537742 (ebook) | ISBN 9780316537926 (library edition ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Camps—Fiction. | Gays—Fiction. | Lesbians—Fiction. |Gender-nonconforming people—Fiction. | Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. | Love—Fiction. | Secrets—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.R67 Cam 2020 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019034949
ISBNs: 978-0-316-53775-9 (hardcover), 978-0-316-53774-2 (ebook)
E3-20200424-JV-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
One
Two
Three: Last Summer
Four
Five: Last Summer
Six
Seven: Last Summer
Eight
Nine
Ten: Four Summers Ago
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two: Last Summer
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Transcript of L. C. Rosen’s Acknowledgments Speech for Camp, Given 5/25/2020
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ONE
The smell wraps around me like a reunion between old friends when I step off the bus. That dark soil smell, but mixed with something lighter. Something green that immediately makes me think of leaves in rain, or trees in the wind. I love this smell. I love it every summer. It’s the smell of freedom. Not that stupid kayaking-shirtless-in-a-Viagra-commercial freedom. That’s for straight people. This is different. It’s the who-cares-if-your-wrists-are-loose freedom. The freedom from having two seniors the table over joke about something being “so gay” at lunch.
Several tables are set out next to the parking lot, a big banner hanging over them: WELCOME TO CAMP OUTLAND.
This year, I admit, it smells a little different. Maybe not quite as free. But I knew it would be like this when I came up with my plan. This smell, I hope—slightly less pine, a bit more grass, the barest whiff of daisy, which I could be imagining—this is the smell of love.
“Keep it moving, keep it moving,” Joan, the camp director, calls out to us as we step off the bus we’ve been traveling in for the last several hours, waving her hands like a traffic cop. “Tables are by age—find your age, go to that table to register.”
I look for the table that says 16 and wait in line. I run my hands over my newly shortened hair. Until two days ago, it had been chin length and wavy and super cute, if I do say so myself, but I needed to lose it for the plan to work. The line of campers moves forward and I’m at the front, staring down at Mark, the theater counselor—my counselor. I think he’s in his forties, gray at the temples, skin that’s a little too tan for a white guy, wearing the Camp Outland polo, big aviator sunglasses, and a pin that says THEATER GAY in sparkly rainbow letters. This will be the big test. He looks up at me, and for a moment, there’s a flash, like he recognizes me, but then he squints, confused.
“What’s your name, honey?” he asks.
I smile. Not my usual big grin; I’ve been working on changing it. Now it’s more like a smirk.
“Randall,” I say. “Randall Kapplehoff.”
“Randy?” He practically shouts it, looking me over again as he stands up. “Oh my god, what happened to you?”
“Puberty,” I say, now smiling my real smile. I look around, bring it back to smirk.
“Honey, you were a baritone last summer, this isn’t puberty,” he says. “I barely recognized you.”
Good, I think. That’s the point.
“I just thought it was time for a change,” I say.
“Were you being bullied?” he asks, concerned eyes peeking over his sunglasses.
“No.” I shake my head. “Just… wanted to try something new.”
“Well,” Mark says, sitting down. “It’s certainly new. I hope you haven’t changed so much you’re not auditioning for the show this summer, though.”
“We’ll see,” I say.
He frowns and flips through the pages on his clipboard. “Well, at least you’ll still be hanging out with us. You’re in cabin seven.” He takes a name tag label out from the back of his clipboard and writes a big R on it before I think to stop him.
“Actually,” I say, putting out a hand, “it’s Del now.”
He peeks up at me over the sunglasses again. “Del?”
“Yeah.” I nod, chin first. “I’m Del.”
“Okay,” he says like he doesn’t believe me, and writes it out on a new name tag sticker and hands it to me. I press it over my chest, rubbing it in, hoping it will stick. “Well, I’m going to have to talk to my therapist about this later,” he says to himself. Then he glances at his watch and turns back to me. “Flagpole meet-up is at eleven. So, go pick a bunk and be there in twenty minutes.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“Later… Del,” he says.
I walk back over to the bus where our bags have been unloaded and pick up the big military surplus bag I bought online. The purple wheely bag with the stickers of cats wearing tiaras on it wasn’t going to work this summer. Neither was having my parents drop me off. I think that made them a little
sad. Camp Outland had been their idea four years ago, after I came out. Not many other twelve-year-olds were talking about how dreamy and cute Skylar Astin was in Pitch Perfect 2, and how I hoped my boyfriend would look like him someday, so they thought it would be good for me to meet some other queer kids, and they found Camp Outland—a four-week sleepaway summer camp for LGBTQIA+ teens nestled in the woods of northern Connecticut.
And let’s be honest. It was an amazing idea. Every summer has been better than the last. But this summer is going to be the best. Because this summer, Hudson Aaronson-Lim is going to fall in love with me.
I hoist the military bag onto my shoulder, not flinching as the scratchy, cheap canvas brushes my ear, and follow the other campers down the path through the woods. The camp is built like a waterfall feature. At the top is the parking lot, then follow the stairs down and you end up at the administrative section—Joan the camp director’s office, the infirmary, the big meeting hall for movie nights. Then another flight down and you have a big open field lined with cabins. The tier below that is the last one—the real camp—and has the dining hall, pool, drama cabin, obstacle course, capture the flag field, arts and crafts cabin, and a boathouse next to the river. I stop at the cabin-lined field, surrounded by the woods. There’s a flagpole in the center of the field for morning camp-wide meet-ups and evening bonfires. Breakfast is at nine, lunch is at one, and dinner is at six, then lights-out at ten. Otherwise, we pretty much make our own schedules. Sign up for pool time, sports, waterskiing, or just drop by the arts and crafts cabin and spend all day gossiping and weaving friendship bracelets. My favorite thing every year, though, has been the drama cabin. Mark puts on a show, and you have to audition but it’s not like school where the pretty blond girl lands the lead every year. They don’t care about gender or appearance when casting, they just want everyone to have fun, and we always do. Last year, I was Domina in Funny Thing, and I got a standing ovation after “That Dirty Old Man.”
But this year, no theater. This year… sports. I manage not to shiver as I think about it.
“Hey,” a voice behind me says. A voice I know. It’s low and a little breathy. I turn around and there he is, Hudson Aaronson-Lim, in all his glory. Tall, with muscular arms bulging in his white tee, and equally appealing bulging in his black gym shorts. He has a broad, square face, shadowed by prominent cheekbones and a little stubble. His short black hair is swept to the side, but messy, like he doesn’t care. He is, without a doubt, the most attractive man I’ve ever seen in real life. And more attractive than half the men I’ve seen on-screen. He’s got a killer smile, and he unleashes it on me now, crooked and a little sleazy, but only enough to make it sexy. I get that feeling I get around him, like I’m filled with stars and can be anything I want, do anything I want—conquer the world. Checking in on his Instagram never really gives me the same feeling. It’s a high I’ve missed all year.
“Hi,” I say after too long a silence. I hope I’m not blushing.
“You new?” he asks.
I smirk. He barely noticed me before, so it’s not surprising he wouldn’t recognize me. Now I have his attention.
“You could say that,” I answer, not wanting to outright lie.
He steps closer. I coordinated my outfit perfectly for this meeting. Brown flannel button-down with short sleeves, untucked; olive-green shorts; yellow sneakers that pick out the yellow in the flannel. I’ve also lost twenty pounds, cut my hair off, and studied the “bros” at school all year. I am, I think, Hudson’s dream boy. A masc fantasy. Sure, I watch everything I do now, and I won’t be able to be in the show this summer, but it’ll all be worth it for love.
I smell him as he steps closer—this sort of faded lightning smell, like day-old deodorant and maple. I work hard to keep my knees from shaking.
“I’m Hudson,” he says.
“Del,” I say, keeping my voice low.
“So, what cabin are you in?” He’s really close now. I can feel the heat off his body and I wonder if he can feel it off mine, like we’re touching.
“Seven,” I say.
“Oh.” He raises an eyebrow. “So, did you pick that?”
“It’s my lucky number,” I say.
“Well, I’m cabin fourteen,” he says. “So maybe your luck is changing.”
“Something wrong with seven?” I ask.
“Nah, they’re good people,” he says. “But I think you’d have more fun with me—in my cabin. Folks like us.” He waves his finger back and forth between us, almost like a question, a “We going to do this?” and I have to take a deep breath to keep from nodding.
“Well, it’s just where I’m sleeping, right?” I say.
“Yeah,” he laughs, and reaches out and gives my shoulder a squeeze. This is the first time he’s intentionally touched me and it’s something I’ve wanted for years and it’s hard not to melt right away, but instead I just lock eyes with him and smile. Remember, I tell myself, you want him to fall in love with you. If I just wanted to screw him, I could probably do that right now—but I’m going to be the guy who finally gets Hudson to commit. No one else has done it, but I will. Because I have a plan.
“Well,” he says, dropping his hand, his eyes closing just a little, like he’s curious, “I’ll see you around, I hope.”
“I hope so,” I say, and he grins, and I wonder for a moment if it was too much, but no, I think, as I turn around and head for my cabin, that was just enough. I look back after a few steps and he’s still watching me and smiles when he sees me watching and then heads for his own cabin.
Okay, I say in my head, walking slowly, breathe in, breathe out. My legs feel like jelly, my heart is racing. Okay. Okay okay okay. Step one, done. It worked. IT WORKED. Maybe this whole thing could work? Maybe I didn’t give up carbs and cut off my hair and spend hours working on my walk and voice and learning not to talk with my hands or quote a show tune every sentence for nothing. Maybe I can really win my dream guy.
I walk into the cabin and George starts screaming. “OH MY GOD,” he says, giving me a hug. “I was watching from the window, and I almost didn’t recognize you—I mean, I saw the photos on Snapchat, of course, darling, and everything you texted me, but I didn’t think you’d really be going through with the wardrobe and styling changes.” He reaches up and pets the air where my hair used to be. “Poor hair,” he says solemnly. “But you just talked to him, and he totally checked out your ass as you walked away! Could you feel his dark, sexy eyes just burrowing into you?” He wiggles his eyebrows.
“Hey,” Ashleigh says from her top bunk on the side of the room, where she’s flipping through a comic.
I let my bag drop, and I take one long dramatic breath.
“I think it’s going to work,” I say.
George screams again, one big drag queen shriek.
I grin, and look them both over. My two best camp friends. Two best friends, really. It feels sad saying that about people I only see for four weeks out of the year, but we e-mail and text, and watch Drag Race together while in a group chat, and it’s not like I have other queer friends. There’s not even a GSA at my tiny school in eastern Ohio. Like, I’m sure there are other queer kids, and maybe they’re even out, a little, like I am, to a few friends and their parents, but no one is talking about it. Once you start talking about it, other people join the conversation, and in eastern Ohio, they don’t always say nice things.
My transformation at school didn’t go unnoticed, though. I was still a theater kid (always the chorus, never a lead—there, anyway), but suddenly the girls were looking at me differently, asking me to hang out. I pretended to be sick a lot. My parents gave me weird looks a lot, too, and asked if everything was okay, but I just smiled and told them things were great. It was definitely strange. But worth it if I can go back to school with my phone lock screen as a photo of Hudson and me making out.
“So,” George says when he’s done screaming, “what’s the timeline on this? You’re still going to be able to hang o
ut with us, right? Mark says they’re going to do Bye Bye Birdie this year, and I am so excited! Darling, you know I’m going to cut some bitches to play Kim, so don’t even think of going up against me.”
George spreads his fingers out in front of him, his nails painted in green and gold to spell B CAMP @ CAMP. I’ve been so focused on my own physical changes over the school year, I guess I didn’t notice his on Snapchat and Instagram. He doesn’t look that different. He’s still “stocky,” as we call ourselves (well, called, in my case, I guess), but his face is a little more angular, and the stubble and chest hair peeking out from the collar of his purple V-neck give his sandy-colored complexion more maturity. His black curly hair is still shaved at the sides and big on top, but it looks less like a kid’s haircut and more like a man’s. He’s gone from looking too young for his age to looking a little older than the rest of us. And he’s wearing it well. Ashleigh hasn’t changed at all. Same denim cutoffs, same black-and-white flannel wrapped around her waist and black tank top. Same rough-looking undercut, one side of her head shaved, the other side’s unwashed wavy hair falling over her thin, pale face. She’s the ultimate theater techie. Lights, sound, stage managing—she does it all, way better than anyone else.
“I don’t know if I can be in the musical,” I say, trying not to sound as sad as I feel about it.
“Darling, no,” George says, shaking his head. “I know you have this plan and all, but there’s always time for theater!” He does jazz hands.
Ashleigh looks up from her comic, a worn-out copy of Deadly Class. “You’re giving up theater for this guy?” she asks. “Really?”
“That’s the plan,” I say. “And he’s not just some guy. He’s Hudson. THE Hudson. The perfect man.” As I say it, a few more old friends come into the bunk—other theater kids. We say hi, give each other hugs, some tell me they like my haircut. Jordan does a double take and says, “Whoa, didn’t recognize you. Cool look, though,” with slightly worried eyes before grabbing a bed. I take the bunk next to George’s, under Ashleigh.
“I thought you’d be taking the top bunk with that new hair,” George says.