I dreamed about Camp Juliette from the minute I heard of it. There would be crafts, hikes in the woods, swimming in the lake and “beach” volleyball, our troop leader, Mrs. Levant, announced with twinkling eyes. All of this awaited on June sixteenth, the day I was sure would begin a better chapter in my life.

Danielle immediately sought out the popular girls when we arrived at Camp Juliette. I soon noticed her whispering to them and glancing my way. It didn’t take long for me to realize I wouldn’t be making new friends, no matter what their campfire songs said.

The first time we played volleyball I missed a lot of returns. Rachel Tomkins, with long blond hair and green eyes, the prettiest attendee of Camp Juliet’s glorious summer, pronounced me “spastic” in front of our entire team. I began to sit out anything I could, claiming headaches and vague stomach troubles. At night I cried silently in my bunk bed and hoped things would get better. I fell asleep listening to Danielle and her friends giggling about boys and clothes.

I wasn’t hated or ridiculed anymore; it was much worse. I ceased to exist.

My final camp trauma came when a water moccasin was captured and displayed on the sandy shores of Lake Juliette. We were assured over and over it was safe to swim afterward and forced to enter the water. I never, ever got over my fear of snakes.

Danielle and I shared a small bedroom. She said much more to me, but the only thing I recall clearly is four years of, “Leave my stuff alone.” She collected things, mostly figurines of horses and troll dolls.

My sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Whitley, was ancient by our standards. Her white hair and sensible shoes made her seem a hundred or so, but she was probably more like sixty. For once, Danielle and I were in different classes and I didn’t have to wither in her poisonous shadow. And God bless her, Mrs. Whitley seemed to know everything about me before I opened my mouth the first day of school. She asked me to stay after class.

“Ronni, I’ve heard good things about you. I’m hoping you can help me with some things in the classroom this year. Would you like that?”

I nodded, mute with wonder about the “things” she might want.

“Also, I think that like I do, you love to read. I brought a book for you from my own collection. It’s old and worn, but I think you might enjoy the story.” She handed me “They Loved to Laugh” by Kathryn Worth.