I don’t want to admit that I’ve never had a boyfriend, never been on a real date. I went to the junior-senior dance with a big crowd of friends and always had some guy to keep me company while the others danced, but there’s never been one special guy for me. I know I’ll meet someone someday—maybe in college—and get married. I might even meet someone here at camp. Maybe I’ll get to talk to that surfer guy. I can almost feel his fingers wrapped around mine, moving in time to the music.

Sara has her nose in a book. “Hey, Sara,” Yvonne says, “don’t you have some words to share on this subject?”

“Well. I come from a long line of old maids. About half the women in my mother’s family—and five of the seven Saras—were old maids. They were independent scholars. I think I’d be one of them even if I weren’t crippled. I’d be happy in a convent, if they’d take atheists, but being crippled it makes that much more sense. In the marriage market, I’d be damaged goods. Better to stay off the auction block.”

“You don’t believe in God?” Yvonne is astonished.

The conversation moves on to religion. I want to tell Sara she’s wrong about being an old maid. There’s someone for everyone. She’ll find someone to love, someone to love her. Maybe some strange guy like Abraham in the Bible. But nothing I say can make any difference. She has to figure everything out for herself.

Day Five

Day Five

The circle is a perimeter. As such, it describes an area and creates a division between within and without, embraced and rejected, included and excluded.

“At least you let him keep the sports sec-tion.”

“Yeah, just shows how nice I am, how generous, how giving!” Sara has talked Mr. Bob into giving her his morning paper. She spreads the Charlotte Observer across the picnic table in front of the lodge.

I look at the headlines and think about Mr. Bob, right now, inspecting our cabin. He crawls under our beds. No dust. No sand. He climbs up into the rafters. No cobwebs. He’s more and more frustrated. Margie’s hospital corners are perfect.

“Oh, great! Another letter to the editor about student protesters. Listen to this idiocy.” She reads the letter in a crotchety old man’s voice, stressing all the trite phrases. Silent majority. A loud-mouthed few. Spoiled. Permissive parents.