Read Online I Don't Have a Happy Place by Kim Korson - Free Book Online Page A

used my acting chops to appear normal and casual. I debated asking her if she wanted help trying to find her sweatshirt but since I rarely spoke to her I thought my sudden attention would make me look like a person of interest. I considered packing my stuff earlier than planned so I could hightail it out of there when the buses pulled in, but Pam Sacks, who’d barely spent any time in the bunk for eight weeks, was now there all the time sounding the alarm about thieves and misconduct and why couldn’t people just do the right thing. How much more of her hysteria could we take?
    The counselors gave G5 a few more chances to come clean, since all of a sudden this was some sort of federal case.
    â€œPam is really upset, you guys,” said counselor Jordana and her giant shelf-like accusing bosom. “Please don’t make us check your bags, people.”
    Which is what they did on the very last morning of camp. There was a collective groan around the cabin because we’d spent an hour packing our duffels the night before. Fine , I thought, let them search my bag . We were leaving anyway. And just maybe, if I was lucky, I would get caught and not be allowed to return the following summer. Maybe there would be a small photo of me in camp directors’ offices worldwide, with a typed note at the bottom indicting me as a thief, a visual warning to keep me out of summer camps in general, like those bad-check writers at the A&P.
    When I first stole Pam’s sweatshirt, I’d turned it inside out so it looked like a plain gray sweatshirt, which most kids had, then I’d stuffed it at the very bottom of my tube-shaped duffel. One would have to take everything out to locate it and I’d banked on the sheer laziness of the counselors.
    When it came time to search my bag, I sat on my bottom bunk and hoped for the best. I used my best acting exercises. Pretend you are innocent. Pretend you are breezy. Pretend you don’t care . Mine was the last bag to be searched and I could swear they spent way more time on it than the other girls’. This was outrageous—why were they so convinced it was me? What did I do to make them think I was the boxy sweatshirt thief? In the movies, people in my situation started yelling about how the camp had no right to treat them this way, how this was unacceptable, how they would call their lawyer. My father’s friend Seymour Rosenbloom was a lawyer and I was more than prepared to throw that name out there if I had to. My father always said he was “top of the line.”
    The morning of the duffel search, the buses were parked near the dining hall, lined up in rows. The Americans who had to fly home left first. There was the requisite singing and hugging and promises to call and write and visit and, ultimately, reunite the following summer. I knew my parents would be waiting eagerly at Blue Bonnets Raceway, smiling and full of questions about how hot it had been or how much rain we had throughout the eight weeks. We would get in the car and drive home with the radio talking about news and traffic. Once inside, I’d wander the house, unsure of what to do with myself.
    I am proud to report that because of my packing handiwork, the sweatshirt managed to hide in plain sight. It was a small victory for me, not getting caught, lasting only until I realized not getting caught also meant no photos of me in the camp director’s office, that I’d be welcomed back just like everyone else. I never even wore the sweatshirt, concerned they might have sent letters home inquiring after it. I shoved it into the back of my closet, where it stayed for a month, until I balled it up and chucked it into a neighbor’s trash can on garbage day. I worried long after that it would surface, like a dead body in a river.

A Lot of Living to Do
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    I was alone by the chain-link fence when the man crossed the