The water is dark and frigid when my campmate and I hold hands and jump. The first ones in, we’re both gasping and sputtering when we resurface, gooseflesh blooming over every inch of skin exposed to the morning air. The other campers laugh at us and the noises we make as we splash, furiously trying to warm up. I don’t think I like polar bear swims.
The sun rises and splinters against the water as we shout, breaking the early stillness. The water’s just beginning to feel manageable by the time we hoist ourselves of the lake and onto the dock, wood rough against our legs. I’m not wearing my glasses, so she’s a blur sitting next to me, shivering. We gravitated towards each other the first day, and haven’t left the other’s orbit since. She smiles while suggesting we go dry and get changed; I can’t see it, but I feel it as we walk to the boathouse for the final time.
Our troop packs and cleans the cabin; it’s the last day of camp, and the middle of the Persaids meteor shower, so we’ll all snooze outside tonight. A few short days and I’ve developed a crush on this girl. Braces, wild hair. Thirteen, just a year or two older than me. We started holding hands the second day, hugging each other goodnight, and it makes me wonder if she’s like me.
Adults will say you don’t know much when you’re young, but sometimes you do. I have a friend who’s sister asked if I knew what queer meant a few months back, when she found the two of us holding each other in bed after a sleepover. Some things you know are different.
We’re the last two in the cabin, lingering behind while grabbing our sleeping bags. It feels secret and safe, and I ask her not to laugh, but does she like girls the way, you know, girls like boys?
“I don’t think so,” she admits. I’m instantly uncomfortable, quickly sitting down with my back against the wall. Embarrassed. She doesn’t hesitate to join me on the floor, pulling me in close. “But,” softly, “it’s okay if you do.”
It’s the second time I’ve ever voiced this to anyone, but the first time I’ve gotten this response.
Again, “I mean it. It’s okay.”
We sleep under the stars that night, snuggled a few feet away from the others. Our noses are sunburned, lips chapped. We’re exhausted, but promised we’d stay awake until we see a shooting star. She reaches over, taking my hand to lace our fingers together. Sleep drunk, but unblinking, finally we spot a smear of light overhead. Make a wish, I tell her. She leans in until I can feel her breath on my cheek, and tells me her wish, even as I tell her if she does, it won’t come true. Her thumb rubs gently over mine. We wake, we leave, and I carry her “it’s okay” back home.
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You can find Riley Montag on Twitter @rileyamontag