I hate camp. I don’t fit in, but my parents give me no choice. During dance time in my pink toe shoes, pirouetting in front of Danielle, the dance instructor, I can put the skitters to rest. Just as I finish changing into my sneakers I hear reveille. Bugle call sounded earlier this morning.  Zelda, our counselor, runs onto the dance floor, her hands filled with purple and gold flags and hats. She divides the campers in half, blows a whistle, and then announces: “Color War has begun. Split into your teams by the racing pool. Get there, now!” 
     Purple and gold bands of children laugh and weave their way through bunk cabins to the pool. Another whistle blows us to order; hundreds of campers separate into two teams by color.  I’m first with the gold baton. The tips of my toes curl along the cement edge of the pool, arms back waiting for the call: On your mark, pop. And I’m plunging through the blue. My body glides through the aqua lanes, no sounds but my breathing.  When I burst through the line between water and air, my breathing mingles with the campers’ cheers. I feel disoriented. 
     I don’t miss my parents, or their fighting.  But I do miss curling between the sheets snug up against the warmth of Lily my nanny.  I miss baking in the sun with Jakey, my honey-colored beagle.  And I miss the powdery smell of my baby brother Peter.  I worry over his thumb, wet diapers, or bottle. Lily tucks the tiny bunting into the crook of her arm while I sit on her opposite leg.  First she sprinkles the warm milk on the inside of her black-corded wrist.  She lets me lick the white liquid, and then Lily asks, “Is it ready?”  I test the drops on my wrist, making sure not to burn Peter. I love tilting the end of Peter’s bottle until he empties the last of the formulae. After he’s finished, Lily removes the nipple; a tiny bubble bursts, leaving a milky film on his lips.  Carefully I bend over to kiss his sweetness.
     Some campers cheer as I hand-off the baton to the next swimmer, finishing ahead by two lengths. Yet I know others resent my lead.  I want to be alone. So I slip into overalls and sneakers and run down a pebbled path to a nearby stream. Jumping from rock to rock, it’s like dancing. Sometimes I miss a rock and splash into the muddy bottom sending tea-colored clouds through the stream. Cool water seeps through the canvas tickling my toes. I don’t know how long I’ve danced my way down the stream, but now I’m in unfamiliar territory. There are no bunks in the distance, no more camp sounds, just my breathing and the slow trickle of water winding through the green of the woods. The green turns darker, and a pull on my tummy stops me at a bank where I suck on strings of honey suckle. I feel small among the trees, but not as small as in camp with no baby to mother.
     Stars begin to poke through the dark canopy above.  I hear people call my name, “Rose Marie, Rose Marie.” Beams of light bobble from up-stream. I run into a counselor’s arms. He sets me down and says,“We were very worried, and we almost called your parents.” 
     I begin to spin in my head, losing ground and say, “Oh no Manna, oh no.  No Manna, please no.”
     “Let me have her,” says Danielle. I wrap my spindly legs around her waist, my tangled curls spread across her shoulder and back while she carries me to the infirmary in silence.
     The camp doctor lays me on top of a paper sheet on an examining table. Stripped to my panties, the ones painted with hearts, I shiver. He touches, prods and then asks, “Does this hurt?” I stare. “How about this?” No answer. “So the cats got your tongue?”
      I think about Manna and stare up at the doctor, I raise my hand, and then place one finger on my lips. The doctor tells Danielle, “A little cold and tired. Let her sleep. She’ll be fine. No need to call her parents.” Hearing this, I leapfrog off the table.
     The summer moves quickly. Besides swimming and dancing I discover colors:crayons, clay, and finger paints.  I’m always late leaving the paint shop. Today I’m finger-painting yellow. I push my finger off the page, then move the yellow down the table leg, and continue up into the crook of my toes. When I reach the soft pot of my belly, I run out of the shop. I want to feel the heat turn the yellow belly into sunshine. Zelda and my bunkmates form a circle around me and laugh. Zelda scoots me to the showers. I miss being yellow.
     During lunch I sit at the bench; I open white slices to expose the creamy browned butter. I dip my finger and swish the goo, and then push the goo on my tongue.  I curl my tongue around the peanut butter, trying to make it last, and then I suck until there is nothing. I must remember to ask Lily for peanut butter sandwiches when I go home.

     Coming home from camp, my mother’s Buick trundles up the crushed marble drive. I race to Lily’s room; it’s been stripped bare. Lily’s pictures are gone. I open the closet; unfamiliar clothes replace Lily’s.  I race to Peter’s room and bump into a new housekeeper closing Peter’s door behind her. “Shush now, I just put him down,” she says and shoos me away. 
     It still feels like summer, even though today I start second grade. In my underwear, I sit on the edge of the white bed. I stare at the white walls, white tile floors and white curtains. The only other furniture is a blonde highboy. The only color is a navy plaid skirt with suspenders. The skirt and a white blouse with a peter-pan collar are spread on the bed. And on the floor are balled white socks inside black and white saddle shoes. Mother walks by and says, “Have you brushed your teeth?” I nod. She says, “I know you can talk.” I don’t answer. 
     “You’re old enough to dress yourself. Lily babied you. You are a big girl now. Bertha, the new housekeeper has too much work and Peter to keep her busy. When you go to school you’ll forget Lily.”
     After Mother leaves, I hear the heavy shoes of Manna coming closer and closer.  He stops at my bedroom door and says, “You get dressed or you’ll know what’s-good-for-you.” I stare at his polished black shoes so I don’t have to see his eyes. As I slip off the bed, I’m afraid to turn my back. While I sit on the floor and tug on the white anklets, I peek at Manna.  He glares a moment before he leaves.
     I miss Lilly. I miss the comfort of her sliding on my clothes, sometimes tickling even though she was in a hurry. Manna sends her away. I didn’t even get to say good-bye. I have no choice; I do what I’m told. I dress myself and walk into the den. Bowls are set on the table; the new housekeeper offers to pour cereal and milk. I touch her brown hand that seems much larger than Lily’s. It’s a heavy, sad, hand.  Bertha ignores my touch. Maybe she’s angry. Maybe she’s afraid of Manna too.

THE END