Fall With Me(9)
Author: Bella Forrest

The kids are excited for the barbeque. It distracts them while we’re out on the morning trail ride, and at one point, Brett nearly falls off when his mount takes a misstep and stumbles coming down a gentle incline.

When we get back, Allison is complaining because she doesn’t want to have to help get all the food ready.

“I’m not really that good in the kitchen,” she says, as she eyes Brett, who’s playing Frisbee with a few other kids.

“All you need to do is either make burgers or slice tomatoes,” I tell her. “It’s not rocket science.”

“Um . . . I’ll be right back,” she says, and before I can say anything else, she flounces out of the kitchen.

“Must be nice to be the owners’ daughter,” Karen says. “She’s probably the only person I haven’t really learned that much from since I’ve been here. I’ll slice the tomatoes.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“Although she is lucky,” Karen continues, her gaze going out the window where Allison has seamlessly integrated herself into the Frisbee game by standing so close to Brett it looks like she’s got a hand in his pocket. “All the boys really seem to like her. Can I tell you something? I’ve never even had a boyfriend before. I’ve only ever been kissed once, and that’s because someone dared someone else to do that. Isn’t that terrible?”

It kind of is, but I smile and shake my head. “You’re not necessarily missing out on much,” I say.

“My parents are pretty strict Christians and it was kind of drilled into me at a young age that you’re supposed to wait until you get married. Or find the person that you’re going to marry.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. Some guys would probably find that pretty attractive, actually.”

“Yeah, but does anyone do that anymore? You’ve . . . you’ve been with a guy, right? You’ve probably been with lots of guys.” Her eyes widen. “I mean . . . I didn’t mean to make it sound like that. I just meant that you’re really pretty, too, and I’m sure you have no trouble getting guys. I’m not saying that you like sleep around or anything.”

“It’s okay,” I tell her, suppressing a smile. “And yes, I’ve been with a few guys. But really, Karen? There’s nothing wrong with waiting. If that’s what you want to do. And sometimes it can be a while until you find the right person. Or maybe you’ll end up meeting someone who’s the right person for that time in your life, and then you’ll move on. You’re still young.”

“Maybe you could give me some pointers.”

I laugh. “I’m really not the person to ask for that sort of thing. Allison might be a better bet. Maybe that’s what you could learn from her.”

Karen reaches for another tomato. “I’ve just always wanted to do things the right way, you know? I play by the rules. I guess that was kind of drilled into me by my parents, too. I’ve never even had a beer before. I’m waiting until I’m twenty-one. Seven more months.”

She’s lucky in a way, I think. She’s got a totally clean slate. No baggage from past relationships. That sounds pretty good to me right about now.

*

Down on the beach, Bill and a few of the campers have built a fire and they’re grilling burgers. I go around and help the kids that need assistance with their tents—some of them can’t get it staked in right, and a few—including Brett—are chasing each other up and down the beach with the rods, jousting. Then I go pitch my own tent a little further down the beach as a way to patrol the parameters after everyone’s supposed to be turned in for the night.

We all eat, and sit around the fire while Lorrie tells a ghost story that I’ve heard every year but always still scares me the same. Bill gets his guitar out and a few of the guys get up to try their hand at night-Frisbee.

By the time full dark has settled and the fire is throwing long shadows across everyone’s faces, I notice Brett and one of the other guys sneak off back toward the trail leading to the ranch. It’s not so much that I want to be known as the cool counselor; rather I get that some things are just more fun with alcohol. So yes, I turn a blind eye when they not-so-covertly haul a thirty-rack down to the beach and haphazardly try to stash it under an old quilt.

Karen comes up behind me and taps me on the shoulder. “They’ve got beer,” she mumbles. “How did they get beer?”

“Who knows. They figure out a way every year. Allison probably got it for them with her fake I.D.”

“They’re underage! I should tell Bill.”

“It’s okay.” I give her a look. “Why don’t you supervise the marshmallow roasting; let me worry about the beer.”

I decline to add that when I say worry, I really mean help myself to one or two.

I watch as the kids covertly go over to the quilt and help themselves to a can. They go in twos or threes, like they’ve got this whole thing coordinated, leaving some of them by the campfire while others have wandered down closer to the surf. There’s giggling and shouting and everyone’s having a good time. Bill is playing “Teach Your Children” and a few of the kids are even singing, the chorus part anyway.

“I wish we had some fireworks!” someone shouts.

“Let’s make some!”

They dissolve into giggles like it’s the funniest thing ever.

I walk over to the quilt, which Brett is sitting near, Allison next to him.

“I’m not going to bust you,” I tell him as he hurries to hide the can, “on the condition you give me one.”

He grins. “I knew you were down,” he says, and tosses me a warm can.

“Actually, I’ll take two. And I better not find the beach covered in empties in the morning.”

“Yes, Mom,” he says.

I drink one of the beers in the shadows by my tent and then go help make s’mores. I’ve got the technique for toasting the perfect marshmallow, and I end up making a dozen or more s’mores and passing them out to the campers who seem only capable of burning the marshmallows or dropping them into the flame.

“Is there anything you can’t do?” Simon asks dreamily from next to me, after I hand him what is probably his fourth s’more.

“There’s plenty,” I tell him. “You should go sit next to Heather,” I add. Heather is a little mouse of a girl who has alternated between following Simon and Allison around, contenting herself with the scraps of attention they throw her way every so often.