“Peggy Jo, let’s figure out how much stuff we have.” Sara isn’t letting herself be punished; she’s taking charge.

“Six big packages of crepe paper. Let’s see … fifteen coat hangers. Lots of Kleenex!”

“How many stems can we get from one coat hanger?”

“Three probably,” Yvonne says.

“Okay, Jean. You’re the math whiz. How many flowers per table?”

I shrug. I’ve had enough of Sara’s organizing. Her organizing sucked me into the reverse telethon. True, in the excitement of the moment, I wanted to do it. But I never had a chance to say no. I never had a chance to think. She used me. She took advantage of the way I like to go along.

The others try to work out the count. I know there will be six flowers on five tables and five on the other three. But let them figure it out. They make tally marks on paper. I can’t believe a big brain like Sara has to make tally marks on paper.

Finally they get it. Now there’s a big discussion about the decorations. Should all the centerpieces be the same? What about the odd numbers? What colors would look good together? And then the leis. Endless discussions.

“Who can handle the wire cutters?” Sara asks.

Denise straightens and clips coat hangers. Yvonne and Peggy Jo cut crepe paper. Margie wraps the stems, so even, so tidy. Sara’s fingers churn out dainty Kleenex flowers and her mouth churns out endless advice to everyone else.

“Becky, thanks for coming by,” she says graciously. “I think we’ve got it together, so we can let you go to your campers.”

I’m flabbergasted that Becky lets Sara dismiss her that way. And Sara obviously finds it amusing. “Well,” she says, maybe before Becky is out of earshot, “Becky really has a way with prison labor!”

I can’t make flowers so I’ll just sit here. For once, I won’t participate. I cross my legs and cross my arms and sit, all folded up like a pretzel. A pretzel in a wheelchair.

The room fills with good-humored chat and laughter as the others crank out flowers. I can hear relief in their voices; it’s so strong I can almost smell it. I can definitely see it; Margie’s face advertises it, plain as a billboard. The boom has been lowered and they’re in trouble, but they don’t care. They’ve decided the displeasure of a camp director is no big deal.

I’m frustrated. We were supposed to go horseback riding this morning and swimming this afternoon. I want to get some more photos. However, the punishment is due. What were we thinking?

The work becomes as rhythmical as a dance. They’re singing. Camp songs, church songs, folk songs, rock ’n’ roll, Motown. They take turns leading, all of them. Well, almost.

In her corner, Mary sits stiff on her cot, tapping an eyebrow.

In her corner, Dolly is sprawled in her chair, blabbing about her novella.

And in my spot, I smolder.