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I graduated from high school in 1988. That summer, I went to a UCC National Youth Event in Grinell, IA. I spent two weeks traveling through Spain with my mom. And I spent the last week before I went away to school at church camp in Deering, NH.
The night before I left for camp, HSBF Scott and I were sitting on the floor in my room. He was �helping me pack.� It was a rare occasion, his being allowed upstairs into my bedroom, but my parents knew we were both stressed about going in different directions the next day. I would head off to camp and then go straight to Gordon. He was on his way to UMass Amherst.
If I�d had my way, I would have lost my virginity that night, on my floor with my parents downstairs. Scott told me, though, that he didn�t want the first time we were together to be a goodbye. It was very sweet.
The next day, I was off. Camp was a very safe place for me. I was Top Dog at Deering that summer. Everyone wanted to be my friend. I don�t say that sarcastically or conceitedly�I was one of the Seniors, a returning camper several times over. And I was having a blast. It was my last week of summer, and I intended to enjoy it entirely.
The conference center was home to a different group of campers each week of the summer. Some weeks were for little kids, some for junior high, some for families. The last week of the summer was reserved for the high school camp. Deering staff was made up of two groups�camp faculty, which changed with each week of camp and each new group of campers, and Camp Family (CF), which was mostly high school and college kids who lived at Deering all summer and worked on the grounds, in the kitchen, doing maintenance, whatever needed to be done. That last week was the only week all summer where Camp Family mixed with the campers (the only week our ages matched). Although that mixing was somewhat discouraged, there really wasn�t anything the Grownups could do to stop it. It was going to happen.
Lorne was a Camp Family member, a big stocky redheaded football player from Long Island. He listened to nothing but the Grateful Dead and chain-smoked clove cigarettes. He was quiet, almost painfully so, when I first met him. Truthfully, I didn�t really think much about him at the beginning of the week. He was CF�in the background of my camp experience. For the first couple days, he stayed in the periphery of my Deering experience.
The third night, we gathered in Elizabeth, the big hall, to watch Cry Freedom. One of the camp faculty talked about apartheid, about Stephen Biko, about the movie. Everyone�campers, staffers, CF�sat absorbed for the two-hour showing. After the movie, somber and not yet sleepy, we ventured up Vesper Hill in small groups.
Vesper Hill remains one of my favorite places in the world. A grass covered hill with a big birch cross on top, it got its name because the base of the cross is where campers gather at the end of the day for vespers (like mini closing ceremonies for the day). On sunny days, we�d roll down its hillside, landing breathless and laughing in a heap at the bottom. On a clear night, if you lie on your back and look up into the New Hampshire sky, every star comes out to greet you. It�s an awesome and wondrous sight. I feel very small up there, surrounded by the beauty of the darkness.
Lorne joined our circle at the cross, his clove smoke drifting across our heads. He came over and sat beside me. Like almost every other camp circle before and after it, this one became a backrub circle. His hands on my shoulders were strong, supported by his linebacker arms. I commented on his strength. He blushed and mumbled a response I didn�t catch.
After that night, I found him in my little circle any time CF and the campers mixed. Gradually, he started talking to me a little bit. Camp is a very touchy-feely place�someone was always giving a backrub or holding your hand or walking arm-in-arm with you. I didn�t really notice at first that it was really only me he touched. When I did realize, I was flattered. Hey, I was 17, insecure in the power of my female attraction. He liked me. Whether I liked him or not, that was cool. I was doing something right. He picked me flowers and left them outside the door of our cabin and made me �warm fuzzy� pompoms (like camp friendship bracelets). Somewhere toward the end of the week, he kissed me. I didn�t stop him, but I didn�t kiss him back, either. I just�let it happen and then moved away. He looked at me confused, but let it slide.
After that, I steered a little more clear of him. Not obviously, just�in my own quiet way. Most of Camp didn�t even notice. He did. I chose to not address it. Hey, it was my last week of summer. I was supposed to be having FUN.
My mom had wanted to come get me on Friday night, but I threw such a fit at having to leave early��But Mom, I�ll miss closing circle and the bonfire and revealing the secret buddies and the dance and the chance to sleep in the big hall and���that she relented, agreeing to come and get me at 5:00 Saturday morning.
Friday came all too soon, and the closing circle (campers and faculty only) reduced me to a sobbing teenaged mess. How could I leave all these people�my best friends�and go away to a strange place where I knew no one? I couldn�t imagine.
My friends formed a protective circle around me, and soon, I was smiling and laughing, the leaving forgotten for the moment. We changed into our dance clothes and headed back to Elizabeth. The music was loud, carrying over the rolling hills into nowhere. We danced with wild abandon. We danced the way you can only dance when you�re that young and nothing matters but that moment. I was glowing.
Somewhere around 11, I started hugging people goodbye and went to the Library, where we all planned to sleep that night in a big slumber party mass. I changed into my pajamas and was unrolling my sleeping bag when the door opened and Lorne came into the room.
�Good, you aren�t asleep,� he said.
�No�I�m still up. Just getting settled.�
He walked over, bedroll in hand, and asked if I minded if he slept next to me. I did, rather, but I didn�t know how to say no, so I shrugged. He set up his sleeping area, sat down and smiled.
Lorne said more words then than I�d heard him speak all night. While I lay propped on one elbow, listening, he talked about being on the team in Long Island, about how he hated football, how he�d rather listen to the Dead and smoke his clove cigarettes and be peaceful. But football was important to his dad, so he played. He talked about how glad he was that he�d met me that week, that I was a special person, someone who had changed his life.
I didn�t really know what to say. I didn�t really feel one way or another about him. I was flattered, but that was where it ended. But I couldn�t say that. So I said nothing and just smiled at him.
He leaned over and kissed me. I kissed him back this time, once, mostly because I didn�t know what else to do. He wanted more than one kiss, though.
A lot of the next few minutes, hours, I don�t remember clearly, perhaps from self-preservation. I remember trying to push away from him. I remember his landing on top of me with all his linebacker weight. I remember his pushing my pajama bottoms out of his way. I remember that his jeans were half off, down around his knees. I remember his belt buckle, crushed into my thigh, leaving a bruise that wouldn�t fade for weeks. I remember the pain as he pushed himself into me. I remember the music, Peter Gabriel singing Biko into the New Hampshire night, drowning out any attempt I made to cry out. I remember his telling me, over and over, that he loved me. I remember his rolling off of me when he was done, leaving a wet sticky trail across my sleeping bag. I remember not daring to move for hours, as his breathing became regular and shallow next to me, as the room filled up with the rest of the campers and they, too, fell into easy sleep. I remember finally daring to get up, gathering my things and running to the bathroom, where I remained under the showerhead until I used the entire tank full of hot water. I remember my mom chalking my quietness up to the early hour and the emotional drain of a week of camp. I remember Lorne standing next to the window of my mom�s car, clove cigarette dangling from his lip as he handed me a bag containing his red and white baja shirt and a letter, professing again his eternal love and devotion, counting the minutes until we�d see each other again.
I hate the smell of clove cigarettes.
(I need to stop here. My hands are shaking.)
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