Oh my God, those two are hooking up. My jaw drops so low it almost unhinges, but no one else in line pays them any attention. In fact, Marcos and the Beginners seem to be purposely turned the other direction. My muscle memory wants to text Vicky all the dirt: Sksksjsksl hot counselor is banging one of the campers, and he’s like 40!!!!

“In you go,” Briggs orders, and Drew dashes into the private shower. Inside, a gigantic splash erupts like the world’s biggest water balloon just exploded.

“WOOOO!” Drew cackles. “Thank you, Jesus!”

After Marcos, Owen, Alan, and Vance each run inside the shower for their squeals, it’s my turn. There’s no showerhead: a lime-rotted pipe leads from the floor to one of their hanging water catchment cones, except this tank is three times larger than the ones at the clinic. A metal triangle attaches to a chain at the tip of the cone. “Right, pretty basic, really,” Briggs says, following me into the enclosure. “Stand under the cone here, pull that chain there, and water comes out. Got it? Hang your shirt on them hooks. And I’ll warn you: your fellow campers are still at-risk little gay boys, so you better put your shirt back on before stepping outside. Even though you’re not much to look at.”

“Excuse me?” I ask, my arms shielding my chest in an “X” as he scans me.

“Your pale and…mehhhh…patchy chest hair. It’s not exactly appetizing. We’re all about to eat.”

Briggs departs on that zinger. Once his footsteps fade away, I gather the courage to whisper: “Maybe if I looked more like Drew, you wouldn’t mind me strolling out shirtless. Fag!”

The word falls out of my mouth like a loose tooth. Fag. The forbidden word. It’s been hurled at me online more times than I can count, but looking at this smug dude who’s had his sweaty paws all over a twinky camper…it made the hate rise in my throat as naturally as a wolf cub’s first howl.

Fag. Act like one and you get called one. It felt almost…cleansing to say it at someone else.

Speaking of cleansing, I eagerly undress and finally step into the shower basin. Inside my knapsack is a towel, toothbrush, tube of SPF-55 sunblock, and a bottle of hot pink body wash labeled Tropical Trip in funky letters surrounding a cartoon bird of paradise. Reverend Packard droned on about no plumbing or electricity at Nightlight because we’ve returned to nature. Good to know returning to nature includes Herbal Essences. I squirt pink ooze into my left palm and yank the cone’s chain with my right.

Come on, shower, I need you. I need you bad.

The shower spray is like a bucket of cold water dumped on my head. Chilly rainwater surges down my back, and I release a long, pained moan as every hair on my ass stands at attention. Despite this drenching, my front barely gets wet and I forget to lather on the Tropical Trip. I spread the banana-coconut-scented wash around my pits and pale/mehhhh/patchy-haired chest and pull the chain a second time. Before I can chicken out. My teeth clench, but nothing falls from the pipe except a few dribbles. I pull again. A drop.