“Yeah,” I say. Tennis had been one of the easier ways to get fit during the year. Dad set up a net in the backyard. “My dad likes to play, too.”
“Cool. I’m pretty bad at it, I have an awful serve.”
“I can give you some pointers, maybe.”
I can see him smile in the dark. “Maybe.” He turns back to the tour and we walk along the grass, taking in the camp. It smells so green and the night has made it smell wet, too—the faint fishiness coming off the lake, but not, like, gross fishy. Other campers are running around with flashlights, scaring each other in the dark, and some counselors are around, watching them. By the drama cabin I see Ashleigh watching George and my other bunkmates practicing dance moves for auditions.
“So, you saw the dining hall, obviously,” Hudson says as we walk. He points. “That’s the arts and crafts cabin. The counselor who runs it, Marguerite, is this weird conceptual artist in the real world. I think she has stuff in museums? I don’t usually go there; I have zero artistic talent.”
“Zero? Really?” I ask. I don’t mention he’s wildly understating Marguerite’s weirdness.
“I …” He pauses. It’s hard to read his face by just the stars and few electric lights, but he looks almost sad for a moment. But then it’s gone, and I decide it’s just the dark. “Nah, nothing really. But it’s cool if you do. I’m super jealous of people with artistic talent.”
“Well, I’m not great at art stuff, either,” I say. “But I signed up for A and C. I figured it would be a nice way to relax during the day.”
“For sure. And A and C. Listen to you! Already got the slang down.”
Drat! Did I overplay my hand? “Well,” I say. “I’ve gone to camp before. Just not this one.” It spills out of my mouth without me thinking, but then I realize I’m a genius! This will cover for so many things.
“Yeah? What camp?”
“Oh, just a small Jewish camp in Ohio,” I say. “Camp Shalom.” It’s the most generic Jewish camp name I can think of.
“My dad wanted to send me to a Jewish camp!” he says. “But I told him I really wanted this one. I showed him how the outdoors counselor is an Olympian and then he was okay with it.”
“Why wouldn’t he have been okay with it?”
“Just … he liked the Jewish camp better,” Hudson says, turning away. “Here’s the boathouse.” He does a presenting motion at the boathouse, which is locked up and dark, the motorboat and canoes parked next to the dock that extends out in front of it. There are no lights on the other side of the river, just trees. It smells like fish and faintly of moss. Hudson points out the boats and talks about waterskiing and canoeing.
“But mostly people hang out on the porch.” He points at the covered porch that juts out over the water. “It’s great to just chill there, watch the water.”
“Cool,” I say, trying not to laugh. The porch is prime make-out territory.
“Over here in the woods is the adventure trail stuff,” he says. “This is where I spend most of the day. Obstacle courses, hiking … it’s awesome.”
“I signed up for it, too,” I say.
“Cool,” he says, putting his hand on my shoulder. “Then I’ll show you tomorrow. It’s kind of dangerous at night.”
We turn and walk away from the river, and Hudson points out more—the soccer field, which is also used for touch football, capture the flag. The farm, with the two pet goats and three chickens. The archery field, the kickball field, the basketball court. And the drama cabin, which he points out but doesn’t have anything to say about. I wish he knew how special it is. I’m not sure he’s even been in it, aside from sitting in the audience for camp-wide stuff, like the end of summer show. Maybe he doesn’t even go to that. He could go to the bathroom and then go hang out in the woods instead of sitting through the show every year. It would explain how he doesn’t seem to recognize me at all, even after my pretty groundbreaking portrayal of Domina in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum.
“I’m excited for the show,” I say out loud, then wince. I am, and I want him to be, too, but we are FAR too early in the plan to change him into a musical theater lover. “I mean, so many of my bunkmates are in it.”
“Yeah. It’s usually fun, I guess? I feel like it’s so not my thing and it just goes over my head,” he says. Which is better than I’d hoped—although that means he doesn’t sneak out, and he DID see my Domina last year and I’m just going to take it as a compliment on how into my characters I get that he doesn’t know Del is played by the same future Tony winner. “I guess I just don’t get spending all your time on the show. You can’t switch out if you don’t like it, and it takes so much time every day there’s like no time for anything else. I just think there are better things to do.”
I feel my blood get hot and I look away, worried I might be turning red. Better things to do? I’m aghast at the idea. Musical theater is joy. It’s expressing stories and song and dance and a whole community. It’s connecting with people—your castmates, the audience—and playing, and getting to see the same scene done dozens of different ways until you find a truth in it you can express. That sounds so pretentious. But it’s true. I get to be a version of myself that feels real every time I act and sing and dance, and here it’s queer, unrestrained by gender or sexuality or any of that nonsense. Here you get to find out more about yourself in every scene.
But I can’t say that. That would give me away. And besides—he’s right. There is something better, otherwise I would still be doing theater this summer. The something better is him.
“Yeah,” I say, instead of disagreeing. “I see what you mean.” He nods. I nod.
“So, anyway, that’s the tour,” he says. “You want to head over to the talent show?”
“Absolutely.”
“You have your talent ready?” he asks.
For a moment, I’m actually caught off guard, and panic seethes through me like the fizz of a shaken soda bottle as you open it. Did I miss something? It’s always the counselors’ talent show first night. Then I get it, he’s teasing me. The new kid.
“What?” I say. “Do I need one?”
He laughs, and takes my hand as we walk toward the drama cabin. And there aren’t even any stairs around this time. “I’m kidding. First night the counselors put one on. Camper talent show is usually a few weeks in. And strictly optional. You have any talents?”
My cabin usually puts on a big musical number from a show we’re not doing, but I guess I’ll have to sit that out this summer. “Not really,” I say. “You?”
“Nothing they’d let me do onstage,” he says. I can feel his smile in the dark. “But I’d be happy to show you sometime in private.”
I wait a beat too long before I say, “Sometime, maybe, in the future.”
“Sounds like a plan. Oh, I should warn you, though. The counselor talent show … it can be kind of a lot? Like, it’s awesome, sure, yay gay pride, but just … be prepared.”