almost toe to toe with her sandals, and the brim of my cap casts a shadow on the page. Sara looks up and whips the paper away. “Oh,” she says. “It’s you.” She folds the paper and places it between her knees.
“I was just trying to help you out. You know, offering you a little shade so you can see better.” Now that the paper is no longer between us, Sara and I are face to face. She’s almost as tall as I am, so the brim of my baseball cap sits right about her hairline. I point to the newspaper and crack, “What’s the deal? Who got killed now?”
Without missing a beat, she quips, “A fourteen-year-old in Queens got shot on his way to summer school, a kid in the Bronx killed himself playing Russian roulette, and a bunch of children in Lebanon got bombed for being Palestinian.”
“Oh!” This girl is quick. I like that. I borrow a line from Smiles. “I guess the cops have the day off.” Then I say, “You shouldn’t read all that bad news, mami.”
Sara folds her arms across her chest. “We’re living all that bad news.”
“Even more reason we don’t need to be reading about it.”
“So don’t care about what’s going on in our world?”
“I care about what I can control in
my
world. Like all the fun you and me are going to have this summer.” Sara twists her mouth, trying not to laugh. “You’ve been assigned to the Champs, right?”
“I think so. My girls are sisters. One’s ten, the other eleven.”
“Yeah, you in the best group,” I lie. I lucked out that Barb didn’t put Sara with the Rookies. That’s where she usually assigns counselors if they’re new to the camp or only fourteen. “The Rookies, they’re so young you can’t take your eyes off of them, not a second. Too much work.”
“Isn’t that what we’re paid to do, no matter how old they are?”
“And the Famers? Forget about ’em.” The twelve- to fourteen-year-olds think they’re so big and bad, especially them boy-crazy girls. Blue Eyes was a Famer last summer, and I learned why Barb insists that all the counselors and the crew chief of that group be college kids. “This summer’s going to be live! We’re going to the Skatin’ Palace, Coney Island, Bear Mountain, the Roxy….”
“The Roxy?” Sara bunches her pretty face. “I didn’t see that on the camp schedule.”
“ ’Cause that’s where I’m taking you on our first date.”
“Nike!” Cock-blocking Cookie skips over. “Here’s your assignment.” She shoves the copy of the camp registration form into my hand and bounces off before I can even look at it.
I take a quick glance at the name, then yell, “Cookie, I know you’re not for real assigning me Shorty Rock this summer.”
Cookie spins, then shrugs. “Don’t like it? Take it up with Big Lou.”
Sara glances at the form in my hand. “What’s wrong with Stevie Morales?”
N ot even an hour with her new title, and Cookie thinks she’s all big and bad. After Nike leaves me flat, I make my way across the gym for a quick pickup game. Although I pull my cap low over my eyes and try to creep past Cookie, she still spots me and digs her raggedy nails into my forearm. “Smiles, I have your assignment.” She unclips the registration forms and hands them to me. Today she has on a RIDE, SALLY RIDE T-shirt with an iron-on of that lady astronaut on it. So what she’s the first woman from the United States in space? The Russians already beat us to it. “You’ve got Pedro Jimenez. He’s ten.”
“I can read.” I snatch the forms from her, glance at the Woolworth’s photographs stapled to them, and look for my kid.
“You’re welcome, Raymond!”
This is cold, man. I’m a better counselor than Cookie because I have strong instincts and know how to handle the kids. Most counselors only have one way of dealing with them, and that’s not enough to survive the summer. Take Nike. From the get-go, he barks at his kids like Sergeant Snorkel, but that only works for a spell.
“I was just trying to help you out. You know, offering you a little shade so you can see better.” Now that the paper is no longer between us, Sara and I are face to face. She’s almost as tall as I am, so the brim of my baseball cap sits right about her hairline. I point to the newspaper and crack, “What’s the deal? Who got killed now?”
Without missing a beat, she quips, “A fourteen-year-old in Queens got shot on his way to summer school, a kid in the Bronx killed himself playing Russian roulette, and a bunch of children in Lebanon got bombed for being Palestinian.”
“Oh!” This girl is quick. I like that. I borrow a line from Smiles. “I guess the cops have the day off.” Then I say, “You shouldn’t read all that bad news, mami.”
Sara folds her arms across her chest. “We’re living all that bad news.”
“Even more reason we don’t need to be reading about it.”
“So don’t care about what’s going on in our world?”
“I care about what I can control in
my
world. Like all the fun you and me are going to have this summer.” Sara twists her mouth, trying not to laugh. “You’ve been assigned to the Champs, right?”
“I think so. My girls are sisters. One’s ten, the other eleven.”
“Yeah, you in the best group,” I lie. I lucked out that Barb didn’t put Sara with the Rookies. That’s where she usually assigns counselors if they’re new to the camp or only fourteen. “The Rookies, they’re so young you can’t take your eyes off of them, not a second. Too much work.”
“Isn’t that what we’re paid to do, no matter how old they are?”
“And the Famers? Forget about ’em.” The twelve- to fourteen-year-olds think they’re so big and bad, especially them boy-crazy girls. Blue Eyes was a Famer last summer, and I learned why Barb insists that all the counselors and the crew chief of that group be college kids. “This summer’s going to be live! We’re going to the Skatin’ Palace, Coney Island, Bear Mountain, the Roxy….”
“The Roxy?” Sara bunches her pretty face. “I didn’t see that on the camp schedule.”
“ ’Cause that’s where I’m taking you on our first date.”
“Nike!” Cock-blocking Cookie skips over. “Here’s your assignment.” She shoves the copy of the camp registration form into my hand and bounces off before I can even look at it.
I take a quick glance at the name, then yell, “Cookie, I know you’re not for real assigning me Shorty Rock this summer.”
Cookie spins, then shrugs. “Don’t like it? Take it up with Big Lou.”
Sara glances at the form in my hand. “What’s wrong with Stevie Morales?”
N ot even an hour with her new title, and Cookie thinks she’s all big and bad. After Nike leaves me flat, I make my way across the gym for a quick pickup game. Although I pull my cap low over my eyes and try to creep past Cookie, she still spots me and digs her raggedy nails into my forearm. “Smiles, I have your assignment.” She unclips the registration forms and hands them to me. Today she has on a RIDE, SALLY RIDE T-shirt with an iron-on of that lady astronaut on it. So what she’s the first woman from the United States in space? The Russians already beat us to it. “You’ve got Pedro Jimenez. He’s ten.”
“I can read.” I snatch the forms from her, glance at the Woolworth’s photographs stapled to them, and look for my kid.
“You’re welcome, Raymond!”
This is cold, man. I’m a better counselor than Cookie because I have strong instincts and know how to handle the kids. Most counselors only have one way of dealing with them, and that’s not enough to survive the summer. Take Nike. From the get-go, he barks at his kids like Sergeant Snorkel, but that only works for a spell.
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