When I turned 13, I decided to go on the camp’s teen adventure trip, cycling up the length of Cape Cod. When I arrived at camp that July, the other teens were flirting and figuring out who would hook up first. I surveyed the situation and decided that the best I could hope for was a big, plain wrestler named Matt. He was a meathead, but he liked me and we made out in the back of the van on our way to the Cape.
The first night out, we camped in a scrubby forest in Sandwich. In the sandy soil, the trees grew short and twisted. Narrow paths crisscrossed throughout the vegetation, each one looking alike. I tried to navigate my bike through the maze but I got lost. I rode faster and faster in the dusk, panicking, convinced I’d never find my way back to camp. Later that night, safe in my tent, I felt like I might cry just thinking about it.
The next day we loaded up our bikes and left our vans behind. We rode across the fat, bicep part of the cape and stopped for the night at Nickerson State Park. After we pitched our tents and ate, we wandered around the place. There were strange abandoned buildings everywhere. It wasn't clear if the place had been a summer camp or a sketchy amusement park. We found an old bandstand so we climbed onstage and dangled our legs over the edge. It was pitch black and windy. All kinds of creaking and snapping noises came from the woods. The guys teased us by telling stories about ghosts and ax murderers until we screamed and ran off the stage.
Matt caught up with me and led me by the hand with his flashlight to a large building. The swinging door slammed shut behind us. It was an old gymnasium. We couldn't see much, but our sneaker squeaks resonated around the high ceiling. We lay down in the middle of the basketball court and I didn't say a word. We kissed for a while and I let Matt put his hand up my shirt. I could feel him on my leg and I pressed up hard against him. Soon, my shirt and Matt's pants were lying next to us. Suddenly, someone slammed through the screen door. Hey, the voice yelled, bouncing around loudly for a second. A flashlight scanned the floor and the person asked, 'who's in here?’ It was our counselor. He spoke our names and told us to get out. He sounded disappointed and annoyed.
I ran back my tent with my bra stuffed in my hand and collapsed, face up onto my sleeping bag. Oh god, I thought. I was so angry with myself. Now my counselors were going to think I was just a slutty little idiot. But that wasn't me. It was some version of me I’d created to impress the other kids. The real me went to camp to be ‘one’ with the woods. Why did I want to impress these stupid kids anyway? Just because they seemed cooler than me didn’t mean I had to completely change myself to match. I didn't see how I could do this trip now that my counselors had seen both versions of me. I couldn't be two different people at the same time.
My friend was still asking me if I was ok, but I didn't feel like talking. I started to think about how close we were to the ocean. I could walk down there, straight into the water. Maybe I could probably drown myself if I got out far enough. How would I keep myself from floating? The scene played like a film, over and over. By now, my friend had called for the female counselor to come over. She poked her head through the flap and asked me what was going on. I didn't respond to her either. I just concentrated on the noise of the wind and blocked out the sound of their voices.
Eventually, I realized that time must have passed because my friend was asleep. I didn’t want to let myself move or think, otherwise the momentum might carry me to the beach. My mind played thoughts like dreams, while I lay awake. When it started to get light, I knew we'd need to pack up and leave soon. Mary looked in to say good morning and to ask if Matt could talk to me. I tried my mouth and was surprised to see that it still worked. No, I said, I don't want to have a boyfriend anymore.
Outside, I could hear Matt swear, and then swear again louder like he was in pain. My friend dashed in delighted to tell me that Matt had punched a tree and had maybe broken his hand. Slowly, I got myself sitting up, then standing, and walked over to the campfire where everyone was eating. I still wasn't talking much. I was wondering what it meant that I was thinking about suicide again. The last time I’d entertained the thought was five years earlier, in the fourth grade, when I was eight.
By the end of the week I felt a little better. It had been good to push myself, to ride so far. I learned that it didn’t kill me to be sweaty, and gross and sore. We celebrated our last night in a youth hostel on the narrow wrist part of the cape. The town wasn't much more than a sandbar covered with huge dunes and sea grasses. Later that night, lying in my bunk, I couldn't stop thinking about the ocean.
At dawn, we all walked to the end of the sandy road and watched the sunrise from the top of a dune. The water turned gold for a minute as the arc of the sun appeared. While we watched, a familiar ache crept back into my chest - like I was an actor following a scripted play. There was a plot and I knew that the dramatic climax was about to happen. The play just took me along with its momentum and all I had to do was yell and cry at the right time. Damn it, I cursed, why does every thing feel so intense for me? This doesn't have to have some profound meaning. The sun rises every day, I argued. Still, my heart wouldn’t let go of that heavy, stepped-on feeling.
Next: last part - Full Circle
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