Jennifer Blecher - Camp Famous

To my mom and dad,

Pamela and Jack Ende

A cartwheel on a warm, sunny day should feel entirely happy. Especially if its not just one cartwheel, but a whole series of cartwheels done by a whole group of girls who have just been let out of the classroom for recess. Hands land on freshly mown grass and laughter bubbles across the field, so joyful that it sounds like its filled with glitter.

My cartwheel was not that kind of cartwheel.

Or maybe I just wasnt that kind of girl.

It was April. Teachers had started calling us almost middle schoolers, even though there were still two months left of fifth grade. Sometimes they meant it as a compliment. Other times as a warning to improve our behavior.

No matter what, it always made me worry. How was I supposed to handle what came next when what was right in front of me kept getting trickier and trickier?

Like recess. It used to be games of tag and racing to the swings and four square tournaments. A swirl of motion. Coats tossed to the ground no matter the weather. Now everyone except me seemed to have a spot, a group, someone waiting to restart a conversation that had been cut short when the morning bell rang.

I couldnt ignore the growing suspicion that I was falling behind. That I was being forgotten.

So when Marin, the most popular girl in my class who was also actually nice, yelled, Cartwheel contest! I looked in the direction of her voice.

Marin and I werent really friends, but sometimes if she liked the cover of a book I was reading, she asked to borrow it when I finished. She always returned the book with no creased pages and, if she loved the story, she hugged the book before giving it back. I liked that about her.

So even though I wasnt part of Marins group, I followed her over to the field. The cartwheels made it easy. I could slip in without having to wait for the other girls to notice me. Or worse, ask permission to join.

I got lost in the rotation of arm, arm, foot, foot. I fell in a dizzy heap, caught my breath, and started again. It was laughter and light and freedom and... Um, Abby? said Quinn, Marins best friend who was not nice at all.

I stopped, my arms a few degrees ahead of my body.

Quinn stood beside me. Even though my vision was blurred, the smirk on Quinns face made it obvious that something embarrassing had happened.

And that it had happened to me.

Maybe you should tuck your shirt in? said Marin, pointing to her waist where her shirt was tucked into her leggings.

Or at least wear a bra, said Quinn.

In an instant the field came into focus. Everyone else was cartwheeling with their shirts tucked into their waistbands. How had I missed that? Had everyone seen my chest? How could I be so clueless?

Laughter came from all sides. But fingers pointed in only one direction.

Wake up, Abby, said Quinn, rolling her eyes.

But I was awake. I paid attention to everything. The way Quinn paused between cartwheels to throw her ponytail into a bun, twisting her hair before wrapping it tight. How Marin drank from her water bottle, examining the metallic rim to make sure that her lips landed in the exact same spot as the light pink gloss marks left from an earlier sip. How when Riley and Jayda cartwheeled right into each other, they collapsed into a happy heap instead of getting upset.

Paying attention to other people was what I did best. Most of the time.

Ms. McIntyre appeared at my side. She was the kind of teacher who could sense what was happening even if she didnt know the details.

Abby, she said, bending down to whisper in my ear. You okay?

I nodded, squeezing every muscle in my face to hold back tears.

Ms. McIntyre smelled like roses and sunshine. Her eyes glowed with kindness. She placed her palm on my back and rubbed tiny circles.

I wanted to lean in and to pull away at the same time.

To start over and never, ever try again.

The recess bell rang. Ms. McIntyre hung back with me while everyone else walked ahead. I thought I could keep the tears inside. I really did. But then Quinn raised her cupped hand to Marins ear to whisper something. Quinn glanced back at me before repeating the motion with Riley.

Quinns gaze was a laser that shot straight into me. Once the tears started, I couldnt stop them. I stood at the edge of the field crying into the arms of my favorite teacher while everyone else in my class walked back into school.

T hat night a note from Ms. McIntyre was paper-clipped to the back of my vocab quiz.

Abby,

I know you had a hard day. If you could see my journal from when I was your age, the pages are filled with so many hard days. Sometimes I read what I wrote and wonder how I survived fifth grade. But I did survive. And you will, too.

Im always here if you want to talk some more.

Sincerely,

Ms. McIntyre

I could not imagine Ms. McIntyre ever feeling the hot sting of embarrassment that I felt at recess that day. But I could imagine her writing in a journal.

Ms. McIntyre swooned when talking about a book that she couldnt wait for our class to read. She did a funny celebration dance on library day. And sometimes, when I wrote something she liked in my weekly reflection, she drew a tiny pencil heart in the margins, both sides equal and round with a perfectly crisp point at the bottom.

I reread the note. If you could see my journal.

I tried to picture Ms. McIntyres journal. Maybe it had a bouquet of flowers on the cover? Maybe she wrote in pink ink? Or alternating colors? Did they even have colored ink back then?

The more I tried to imagine what Ms. McIntyres journal might have looked like, the more I thought about the notebook that Grandma had given me a few weeks before for my eleventh birthday. Shed slid it across the kitchen table in her apartment at the retirement village in Florida. Id flown down all by myself from New York to spend the weekend.

For you, Grandma had said, keeping both hands on the gift. She had an intense stare, a steadiness in her eyes. Like she was not only looking at me, but looking into me.

I lifted the present into my lap, grateful to have something to focus on other than her face.

Sometimes Grandmas gaze made confetti bombs of excitement explode in my belly. A sparkle in her eyes signaled that she saw the whole of me and loved me just the way I was. Other times that same look made me want to curl in a ball and roll away down a giant hill because Grandma seemed to be searching for something to pull out from deep inside of me.

This was one of those other times. I didnt know what Grandma was searching for, but I guessed that it had something to do with the present.

I unwrapped the silver paper to find a fuzzy green notebook with an A for Abby in hot pink sequins. The pages were lined and tinted a pale blue.

For you to write in, said Grandma.

What should I write? Stories?