Not a Happy Camper by Mindy Schneider

flour, water, yeast, margarine and honey. I’d never thought about what went into a challah, just that it came out of a plastic bag.
    â€œYou care to join us, young lady?” Walter asked Betty Gilbert who was standing in a corner, clutching her current readingmaterial,
Sheila Levine is Dead and Living in New York,
and working hard to maintain her appearance of hating camp.
    â€œI’m busy,” she said, but from the way she was peering over the top of her book, I knew she wanted to be included.
    â€œSuit yourself,” Walter continued, “but before we start, who knows why we make the challah?”
    For all the years of Hebrew School among us, no one knew the answer.
    â€œMaybe
you
do?” I proposed.
    Walter let out a sigh. “You kids should know this. Making challah is a mitzvah. Who knows what ‘mitzvah’ means?”
    I knew that one. “It’s a good deed.”
    â€œYes. And who knows about the twelve tribes of Israel?”
    Hallie took a shot. “Um, there were these tribes. Twelve of them. In Israel...”
    â€œWalter, why don’t you tell us?” Maddy suggested.
    â€œAll-righty then. Eleven of the twelve tribes were farmers, raising their own food. But the twelfth tribe, the Levis, took care of the temple.”
    â€œFar out,” said Autumn Evening, “and then they invented pants.”
    â€œIn appreciation,” Walter continued, “the other tribes would bring them donations of bread. Challah is the name for the act of separating the piece of bread given to the Levis. It’s why we break off a piece when we make the blessing on Friday night and pass it around the table. Sharing is a mitzvah. God’s commandment that we make challah is His way of reminding us to share.”
    â€œWalter!” Dana shouted out, “we wouldn’t care if it was pagan food of the devil. It’s the best thing you make. Now show us how!”
    Under the master chef’s guidance, we mixed and poured and stirred for half an hour. Well, all of us except Betty Gilbert.
    I suspected Betty’s aloofness was really a defense, a desire to avoid being ridiculed. I didn’t know what she was afraid of specifically,but it was a feeling with which I was well acquainted and the reason I had skipped Arlene Stein’s Bat Mitzvah party a month earlier. Instead of the usual clunky dancing to a fake rock band at some catering hall, Arlene’s parents rented out the pool at the YWHA. Picturing myself in a bathing suit in front of thirteen-year-old boys and thirteen-year-old girls, I declined the invitation, opting to stay home and polish off a Sara Lee cake left over from my mother’s Cultural Affairs Committee meeting.
    After the ingredients were mixed and folded, Walter said we were ready to knead the dough.
    â€œSo Mindy, you gonna go see Philip while we’re here?” Dana asked.
    â€œHe’s not my boyfriend,” I insisted.
    â€œOoh, look how hard she’s denying it,” chided Hallie. “That’s a sure sign. So Dana, you gonna go see Aaron?”
    Dana smiled. “Um... duh!”
    As the boy talk escalated, my bunkmates and I got a little carried away, pounding and punching the malleable bread into submission.
    â€œThat’s enough, girls! That’s enough!” Walter shouted, stopping us before we destroyed it. Next, the dough was placed into a warm oven to double in size. This would take an hour and a half. Time to kill.
    I knew Kenny would be playing basketball and Philip would not be, so I ran oh-so-casually as fast as I could to the court, plunking myself down on the sidelines.
    â€œHi! Whatcha doin’ here?” Philip asked.
    He was standing right next to me. I hadn’t anticipated this scenario. Like water trapped in a hotpot, I could feel my insides about to boil. I was mad at Philip, convinced in my own mind that he’d gone around after the softball game telling people he was