We roll off the path onto the grass behind the lodge. Already it must be up in the high eighties; just the thought of outdoor sports exhausts me. I guess I could report sick, but I’m not really sick.

Sara says, “I have an idea.”

Oh, no. An idea.

She indicates Denise and Peggy Jo. “They were talking about badminton. We can say they’re playing proxy for us and just sit around. As long as we cheer a little, we’ll be left alone, especially since you’re feeling cruddy.”

She does know how to work the system, and right now I’m glad. I’m glad she’s helping, not trying to stir something up. I stare vacantly and let her get things organized. The game starts, and I make the effort to sit up straight, the way an interested person would sit.

She looks at me with the corner of her eye. “You do the telethons, I know.”

I nod.

“Easter Seals, right?”

“Yes. And CP too.”

“I’ve never done one. What’s it like?”

“Oh, pretty inter-esting. I’ve met some ath-letes and a soap star. That was neat.”

“I guess it would be. But sometimes don’t you get aggravated? You know, they make such big high drama out of everything.”

My head follows the ball, but I don’t really see it. “Last time, I was inter-viewed with my dad. He bragged on me. He said I was a jun-ior mar-shall, Be-ta club. Per-fect atten-dance, lots of friends.” I shrug.

“Yeah?”

“I felt good. My pa-rents were proud. I thought I had a posi-tive mes-sage. Then, the MC looked into the cam-era, with tears—” My voice is almost a squeak. I’m not sure I can finish the story.

“Tears in his eyes? What did he say?” She leans forward.

“He said, ‘Friends, this girl needs speech thera-py.’”

She starts to interrupt, but now I’m determined to finish. “He said, ‘With-out your help, she won’t get it.’”

Sara throws her head back. “What a complete and total asshole!”

I laugh. I can’t believe I’m laughing. Until this moment, I saw nothing funny about it. After it happened, I tried to put it out of my mind, but instead I kept getting stuck, asking myself what I could have done to make my point better. Now laughter has broken the logjam and is washing over my brain, carrying away the trash.

Sara is thoughtful. “That’s a classic telethon story. The idiot couldn’t see it—you’re a speech-therapy success story. As good as it gets.” She studies the tangle of trees on the other end of the field. “Or else he was scratching around for an angle to get the phones lit up. Never mind that it’s false. And insulting.”

I’m engaged, thinking again. “Some-times, I wish we didn’t have tele-thons.”

“Yeah.”

“But with-out the tele-thon, this camp would-n’t be here.”