Hawaiian music comes over the PA. A floodlight comes on at the front of the lodge, and under the light two girl counselors dance the hula. Two grass-skirted sets of hips sway like palm trees in the breeze; two pairs of bare arms roll like waves on the beach. Each perfect body perfectly mirrors the other’s graceful movements. As I watch, another image breaks into my head: I see two different sister bodies—those mismatched sisters—graceful Norm, gangly spazzo, the two I watched in the shower. Was it just two nights ago? For an instant, I see that girl again, I am that girl again, that spazzo girl with a grinning mouth and stomping heels. I can’t bear it. I close my eyes. Another image pops up. A girl in a wheelchair, grinning like a fool and poking the linoleum with her heel, while a cute guy in cutoffs holds her hand and dances the shag the way it was meant to be done.

I draw my mind inside my body; so deep inside I can’t see. I open my eyes, but instead of looking at the dancers, I watch Carole cut my meat. I open my mouth to the first bite, and my eyes dart to the dancers for just an instant. I fold my mouth around the salty ham, tear it with my teeth, mash it with my tongue, push it down my throat, and feel my stomach go to work on it. It is good. For the last couple of days, I’ve been nervous. I haven’t been eating right. Carole gives me a forkful of rice and peas. Then pineapple, orange slices, and grapes. More ham.

My mouth is getting dry. Carole raises the straw to my lips. The cup of Hawaiian Punch has a little paper umbrella in it. It’s so sweet I’m thirstier than ever. I’ll get some water later.

They clear the dishes and bring out pineapple upside-down cake. The crumbly cake, tart pineapple, and sweet goo make me think of church suppers at home. It’s amazing how much better I feel.

*   *   *

Mr. Bob stands. “It is my honor and privilege to present awards for the last session of 1970 at Camp Courage.” At arts and crafts, we made picture frames of bamboo tied at the corners with twine. Now the frames are back, with certificates in them.

Sara whispers, “Get ready. This will take a while. There will be an award for absolutely everyone. Maybe even me.”

She’s right. Everyone gets a certificate for something, for Camp Spirit if nothing else.