How Sweet It Is - Alice J. Wisler [81]
Zack smiles at us. Even when I look away from him at the others, I can sense his gaze in my direction.
“Charlotte is back,” Dougy says. “Did you miss us?” He hands her a thin stick, which she reluctantly takes. “We’re getting ready to cook up more marshmallows.”
“We were waiting for you,” says Joy. “You two took forever.” She emphasizes forever like it’s a disease.
If you would learn to be more pleasant… I stop myself from completing the thought. I look up to see Zack smiling at me. I smile back.
“Bedtime,” he announces after everyone has roasted a few dozen more marshmallows and eaten just as many without toasting. Eight bags wasn’t too much, after all.
I volunteer to walk with the kids to the restrooms to brush their teeth and use the bathroom before bed. I am like the Bionic Woman—try and stop me. I feel I can do anything. This time I put on my jacket.
As I escort the kids along the path through the woods, everyone shining his or her flashlight, some aiming their beams in the pine trees, Darren switches his to high beam. The next thing I know he is in step beside me.
The girls rush into their side of the building, giggling about something Dougy said. Charlotte is with them, and I am glad to see she’s included. No one better laugh at my girl, I think. Or they’ll be messing with me.
Darren, still by my side, says, “I got scars, too.”
I feel like I’ve just come out of the cold and entered a room that’s warm. Who is he talking to? Certainly not me.
The boys have all entered the building. Only Darren and I are on the path.
“Mine are on the bottom of my feet.” His face, lit by the single bulb shining from the front of the washhouse, holds a sincerity I have never seen from any of the children thus far. His dark eyes are glued to mine. This child who has refused to answer my questions and help in the kitchen, this kid who told me that cooking was a waste of time, has voluntarily spoken to me.
Once when I was seven, my teacher gave me a snowflake ornament crafted from the thinnest glass I have ever held. While the gift was an honor to receive, I was so afraid of dropping and breaking it that the ornament made me nervous. I feel like I did then right now. I don’t want to drop and break Darren’s new trust in me.
He doesn’t seem fearful of me or angry at me. He continues to keep his face toward mine and says, “My scars are usually covered up so no one sees them.” Then he gives me a look that transcends anything I can describe. It is as though he can see into my heart and knows everything about my scars even though he is only twelve years old.
I start to say something, but if I did I would be talking to myself. He has dashed into the boys’ bathroom.
Rubbing my arms, I stand on the dirt path with my mouth hanging open.
When the girls come out of the building, their giggles echo across the campground. Soon the boys join them, and like a stampede, they take off toward our campsite, beams of flashlights bouncing off the trees and each other.
Rainy stops and turns toward me. “Aren’t you coming back with us?”
I am still trying to catch my breath.
————
At eleven o’clock, the adults make sure the children are all accounted for. Robert, who has better luck with wood and matches than Zack or the rest of us, sits on a log by the edge of the fire pit and adds kindling to the dying fire. The kids have been sent off to their tents. There are two boys’ tents and two girls’ tents and a counselor in each tent with the kids.
“Settle down,” Zack commands. “Get some sleep so you can wake up for breakfast and a hike tomorrow.”
“What’s for breakfast?” asks Bobby from inside the tent he is sharing with Bubba.
“Pancakes and sausage.”
“Did we bring syrup?” asks the boy.
Zack looks over at me.
I say, “Yes, and butter. The real kind.” I also packed the jar of pig’s feet Mom sent me. You never know—perhaps I can get someone to try it, eat it up. I certainly won’t be ingesting any.
“Don’t start without me!” Bobby shouts. Then he tells Bubba to move over, and we hear the zip of his sleeping bag. “Don’t snore, Bubba,