Not a Happy Camper by Mindy Schneider Page A

my boyfriend. It would make me appear unavailable for Kenny, whichmeant Kenny would never realize I was interested in him, which meant I would only dream about him more.
    â€œJust came out to watch the game,” I said, blasé.
    â€œKinda dull,” he informed me. “Wanna go do something else?”
    â€œCan’t. My bunk’s helping Walter bake tonight’s challah. Well, he’s letting us pretend to be helping. It’s pretty cool. But I have to stay around the dining hall.”
    â€œEver been upstairs? I could show you.”
    â€œUpstairs? Above the dining hall?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    This was one place I was really curious about. I’d heard stories how those rooms were the worst place on Boys’ Side to live.
    â€œIt’s, like, the most disgusting place,” Philip said cheerily.
    â€œWhy would I want to see that?”
    â€œBecause,” he explained, “it’ll make your bunk look so much better when you go back.”
    I tried to hide my interest, but Philip was pulling me by the arm, away from the game. I hoped Kenny didn’t see him touching me. Or maybe I hoped he did.
    We didn’t enter the dining hall from the kitchen side; we went in through the opposite end, via the covered porch, a popular spot for sitting and watching the entire waterfront structure submerge in a heavy downpour.
    â€œIt’s really nice to watch sunsets from here,” Philip said.
    â€œOh, yeah?” I answered. “Well, maybe if it ever stops raining we’ll see one.”
    Once inside, we climbed up a set of creaky old stairs, the kind with a little closet built underneath that seems so perfect for storing winter clothes until you come back a year later and find them devoured by moths and/or destroyed by nesting rats. At the top of the steps, we heard a strange noise. It sounded vaguely human, like moaning. If I believed in ghosts, I’d have believed I was hearingone then. Someone—or something—was in terrible pain. I pulled back and turned to Philip, then sucked in air, ready to scream. “Shhh!” he said and moved closer. I looked at him like he was nuts. Something terrible was going on in that room.
    He motioned for me to be quiet and follow him. Scrawny little Philip was very brave. As we tiptoed onto the landing, we could tell where the noise was coming from. It was a room at the end of the hallway, where a woman was moaning in pain. The door was closed. The moans grew louder.
    â€œShould we call someone for help?” I was really nervous now.
    â€œSounds like she’s doing okay,” Philip assured me.
    A moment later, the moans climaxed with a shriek and then stopped abruptly.
Is she dead?
I wondered. Would I be blamed somehow and, more importantly, would this result in being grounded and losing privileges? The door swung open and Julie Printz, the counselor who ran the girls’ waterfront on sunny days and therefore had plenty of free time, stepped out, looking a little disheveled, but hardly in agony.
    Not only was she not in pain, she was kind of glowing. Her expression quickly turned to embarrassment when she saw us. As Julie ran down the creaky stairs, I could hear my mother’s voice in my head,
“Tie those laces before you trip and break your teeth.”
A few seconds later, the waiter who had played piano for
The Sound of Music
emerged. He didn’t look the least bit embarrassed.
    â€œAll yours!” he shouted, as he ran by the two of us.
    â€œThanks!” Philip called back, grinning, as he watched the waiter bound down the steps after Julie.
    I was utterly confused and then it hit me:
Was this sex? This? This was sex?
What the hell was wrong with people? How could this be? I’d never heard these sounds before and my family slept with all the bedroom doors open. All I’d ever heard was my father snoring and I had three brothers.
How did my parents do it? Why
would my parents do it?