I’m interested to see what’s coming out of the suitcases. Sara has five baggy cotton dresses and five pairs of underpants, two nightgowns, one bar of soap, one comb, one tube of sunscreen. No extra shoes, no swimsuit, no bra, no stockings, no socks. No toys. No toothbrush. But she has a sewing kit, typing paper and envelopes, two library books, a sketch pad, and a box of artist’s pastels.

“It’ll probably be a little duller without the Jesus Freaks,” she says. “I wonder what they’re doing this summer? Are they serving the Lord somewhere else, do you think, or are they born again, as non–Jesus Freaks?”

I shrug.

“So now we’re back to giving outrageously healthy, preprofessional types a little real-world experience. It’s a big job, but, hey.”

I consider the counselors, watch them at work. Sue. Tidy and efficient. Camp T-shirt, with crutch-and-pine-tree logo, neatly tucked into her shorts, medium-brown hair looking just-brushed in a perfect pageboy. And the other one, Carole. Petite frame overwhelmed by a baggy sweatshirt from St. Andrew’s College. Red hair, about shoulder length, not quite confined by multiple barrettes and rubber bands that seem to have been added at different times during the day as the need arose. Like all the counselors I’ve seen, they’re clean-cut but not square, in good shape but not jocks. Sara’s description is accurate as far as it goes, but it makes them seem like comic-strip characters when, really, they’re just normal people.

I can imagine Sue, after college, working as a physical therapist or teaching MR kids. She’s competent, in control. Now, Carole seems different. She catches my gaze. “Need anything? Bathroom?”

I nod. Might as well get it over with.

*   *   *

Six toilets, and no stalls. I’m glad no one is here but Carole and me.

“You’ll tell me what to do, okay?”

With both arms, I grab the steel handrail beside the john. I press my heels hard onto the floor, and I’m up.

“Get my pants.”

She gets my culottes and underpants down in one quick tug. I release one arm from the handrail and raise one foot off the floor. I pivot on the other heel and catapult myself around the rail. I land, hard, on the toilet seat. I can’t believe how loud the pee is, falling in the water. Up to now, my mother has always been around to help. Now she isn’t, but it’s all right. I stand up and point to the toilet paper with my chin. Carole wipes. “Okay?”

I nod, and she pulls up my culottes. In an instant, I whirl back into my chair and we’re laughing together with surprised relief. A clump of red hair has escaped from the ineffectual hold of those barrettes.

*   *   *