I tried hard to listen when she told us about what we were going to learn at camp.

“Over the next five weeks, you’ll work in several different visual arts mediums, from painting to sculpture to mixed media to collage. Of course, since this is summer camp, we’ll also take some breaks for fun excursions, too, like a trip to the aquatic center and walks to give us inspiration for our work!”

As she went on, I stuck my finger in my mouth and bit down. I was not a specialist in every kind of art. In fact, I could draw, and that was it. I worried that I’d mistakenly gotten accepted to camp and was expected to be good at all art types.

You don’t belong here, Mean Me said. You’re going to humiliate yourself.

I refocused on Karly, who looked as excited as a host of a preschool TV show. She raised her eyebrows and opened her eyes wide as she said, “We’ll try things like manga, collage, splatter art, and photography! You’ll try new styles, but you’ll each have one big project to complete in your own preferred medium. It’s going to be so much fun! And remember, this is a creative, supportive environment.” She looked at me. “Art is a great way to express any feelings you may be working through in your life right now. And my hope is that you’ll strengthen friendships or make new ones.”

I didn’t want any new friends. I wanted Colette.

And besides, everyone here probably already knew each other.

“With that in mind,” Karly went on, “we’re going to spend today doing some icebreaker exercises. Many of you may have had classes together during the school year, but it’s important that you all feel comfortable with each other, because we will be doing presentations and critiques.”

I slumped in my chair. This was getting worse by the second.

“I’m going to group you into four teams of six,” Karly said, picking up a piece of paper. “You have thirty minutes to learn as much about your teammates as you can. Then we’re going to do an activity to show how much you learned. When I call your name, stand up, and we’ll . . .”

I forgot the rest.

In the back of the meeting room near the wall of windows that looked out toward the spiky peaks of what Uncle Bran had told me was the Wind River Mountain Range, I stood with my hands clasped together so tightly several of my fingers were turning white.