July 10

Camp Sokaogon

Dear Mother and Father:

So. My first letter. I still don't understand it. They confiscate our cell phones, then insist we write letters home. Outmoded. That's the word for it. Paper. Stamps. Ink. Not to mention relying on the U.S. Postal Service, which is every bit as outmoded as the letter I am writing.

Do they believe it conveys some kind of artisanal value? Which leads to my next question: Is there any value to artisanal value?

But enough. I suppose you want pertinent details. The camp has three "villages." They are named after indigenous tribes. Ho-Chunk, Menominee, Potawatomi. Ho-Chunk is for the youngest girls, aged 9-11, with Potawatomi for the oldest, aged 15-16. As you know, unless you've forgotten my birthday, I'm in the Menominee village. Menominee Cabin 4, Top Bunk 4. That's where you should address your outmoded letters.

There are five other girls in my cabin. I will list their names. I will also list their allergies. I do this because it was the first piece of biographical data we were asked about, after our names. You might regard this as flippant in nature. It is. Sofia (peanuts). Isabella (mold). Zoe (shellfish). Ella (eggs). Hailey (milk). Our counselor is Megan. She is 18 (Isn't that kind of old for someone to be a camp counselor?) They all seem civil enough, but not very bright.

They gave us a tour of the camp: archery range, air rifle range, field hockey area, nature and craft centers (which are not "centers," but tents), nearby Red Cliff Lake, tennis courts and an infirmary. They also took us to a place called Navajo Dunes. They are not dunes, but a vein of sand cut in a steep hill. And "Navajo" is a misnomer. It is a tribe indigenous to the Southwest, not northern Wisconsin. They encouraged us to run, jump and roll down the "Dunes." My cabin mates did. With abandon. I abstained. I don't like rolling down things.

I have to go to dinner now. I hope all is well where you are, which is where I should be.

Your daughter,

Avery

P.S. I told Sofia I was a pescatarian. She replied that she was an Episcopalian. I would say God help me, if I believed in such an entity.

July14

Camp Sokaogon

Dear Mother and Father:

I hope you are well. I am not.

Let me articulate. Paper spinners. They are little spheres perforated with two holes, run through with strands of yarn. You make twirling motions. They spin. That's it.

I don't get it.

My wunderkind cabin mates took hours decorating them. I colored one side red and left the other white. Four minutes. Megan said it lacked imagination. I told her I was honoring the Latvian flag, which possesses a color scheme first mentioned in the Rhymed Chronicle of Livonia.

Megan gave me the same kind of vacant stare Mrs. Gilschmidt, my former English tutor, employed when I declined to read Toni Morrison in favor of J. L. Mackie. It was at that moment Mrs. Gilschmidt accused me of "excessive precociousness," a trait she conveyed to you as a sign of fundamental behavioral maladjustment. Actually, it was a sign of Mrs. Gilschmidt not being sufficiently familiar with error theory.

I mention this because I firmly believe it was at that moment you formulated a theory that I would benefit from a social immersion with my own cohort in a fresh environment, thus leading to Camp Sokaogon, Menominee Cabin 4, Top Bunk No. 4.

Making spinners.

You could have saved us all a great deal of trouble by merely finding tutors more intelligent than Mrs. Gilschmidt.

I have to go. The dinner bell rings. I mean that literally. They really do ring a bell, summoning us to the dining hall and all that steaming starch. Pavlov is smiling, wherever he is.

Your daughter,

Avery

P.S. There are signs of intelligence on this distant planet. I made a remark that spinners were appropriate for chimpanzees, not young women. Sofia, the Episcopalian, noted that it was unwise to underestimate chimpanzees. Their IQ relative to humans is anywhere from 30 to 40, on par with octopi, dolphins and elephants. I like Sofia. She's certainly got something over Mrs. Gilschmidt.

July 18

Camp Sokaogon

Dear Mother and Father:

This will be one of those proverbial good news/bad news letters.

The good news: I converted Sofia to pescatarianism (which she now knows is not a mode of worship). The bad news: This apparently has upset the kitchen staff. I don't understand. Is it beyond their capacity to serve an extra portion of salmon at dinner? It would certainly be less objectionable than a greasy plate of atherosclerosis-inducing tater tots, no?

You must be rejoicing. Not about the pescatarian conversion, but the coveted social interaction. Ms. Anterschluss, the camp therapist, seemed delighted. I have regular appointments in her office, situated in the "Big House," a not-so-big house where the camp's offices and Camp Director's residence are located. Ms. Anterschluss asked me so many questions I thought I was defending a dissertation.

But there are no dissertations here. We have something else. We've moved on from spinners to lanyards. That's right.

Lanyards.

Most of my erudite cabin mates settled for the basic butterfly stitch, but Sofia and I broke away from the pack to the cobra stitch, then quickly vaulted through the box and circle stitches. That left the triangle stitch. Mine is black, red and green. Sofia's is pink, blue and white. I chose my colors to honor the Pan-African flag. Sofia chose hers because she said she likes pink.

Megan said they were both quite good, but I could detect a bias toward Sofia's. It wasn't based on the quality of the stitching. It was the colors. Megan strikes me as someone swayed by colors. That's why she's 18 and a counselor at Camp Sokaogon, judging lanyards. Is that harsh? I am trying to work on my harshness.

The dinner bell rings. I must bid you adieu.

Your daughter,

Avery

P.S. They are serving haddock tonight. Sofia likes to call it headache. I try to laugh every time she says it. Is this progress?

July 22

Camp Sokaogon

Dear Mother and Father:

We participated in something a bit more intellectually challenging than spinners and lanyards: a scavenger hunt.

The scavenged objects were: an acorn, a feather, a ladybug, a flower (of any kind), a "kiss" from the camp cook, Mrs. Everhaud (more on that later) and a boxelder maple leaf.

All of my luminous cabin mates located several items with ease, including acorns, feathers, and flowers. I am relieved to report the required "kiss" from Mrs. Everhaud was not a literal kiss. She merely drew the outlines of one on our foreheads with a lipstick (though as she did so I detected the scent of alcohol on her breath).

The ladybug was next. I knew coccinellidae gather in forage fields, particularly alfalfa and clover. There is a patch of clover in back of Menominee Cabin 2. I went there and found a cluster. I also found Sofia. She evidently has some knowledge of coccinellidae. She noted that a cluster of ladybugs is also known as a "loveliness of ladybirds."

Sofia continues to surprise me.

This put us dead-even in the competition. That left one item: the boxelder maple.

Boxelders maples are odd-pinnate, with three to five leaflets. Camp Sokaogon is thick with red maples, sweetgums, Douglas firs, white oaks and flowering dogwoods, but, to my surprise, not boxelders. While the rest of the group was stumbling around seeking ladybugs, Sofia and I ranged through the camp, seeking the prize.

I finally found an allusive boxelder behind Ho-Chunk Cabin 3 and wasted no time racing back to our cabin, where our intrepid counselor, Megan, had graduated from judging lanyards to officiating scavenger hunts.

Sofia and I arrived with our items at the same time. I was anticipating a tie (somewhat humiliating, but manageable, given Sofia is a sister pescatarian), but that was not the end result. Megan asserted that my leaf was not a genuine boxelder. I contested her judgment, and asked for an appeal. Ms. Trudy, the camp naturalist, was brought in. She concluded that my boxelder was not a boxelder, but a common sugar maple. I don't think Ms. Trudy could distinguish a boxelder from a four-petal pawpaw.

So Sofia won. I congratulated her. Her prize was a strawberry sundae. She offered to share. I declined. I was not trying to be unsportswoman-like. But partaking of the sundae would have relayed the impression I endorsed the boxelder verdict.

I do not.

Your wronged daughter,

Avery

P.S. Please purchase for me The World Encyclopedia of Trees: A Reference and Identification Guide to 1300 of the World's Most Significant Trees. It is not for me. I plan to give it to Ms. Trudy.

July 26

Camp Sokaogon

Dear Mother and Father:

We now have a club: The Pescatarian Sisterhood. Hailey applied and was duly accepted. Ella asked for admittance, but was declined (Sofia voted for her, Hailey and I voted nay). Ella cried, and is disconsolate. So is the kitchen staff. They appear vexed at the complex logistics of coming up with another portion of fish at dinner.

On with the news.

No spinners, lanyards or scavenger hunts. Today we went to the craft "center" to make lemon batteries, or, more precisely, to make lemons into batteries.

It takes a lemon, a bit of copper and a steel paper clip. You stick them into the lemon, then (disgustingly) press your tongue against both. You're supposed to feel a tingle. I explained to my incredulous cabin mates that these are electrons moving across the surface of your tongue.

Sofia interrupted my narrative by pointing out that this is a type of voltaic battery, and that the two metals (copper, steel) act as electrodes.

I told Sofia to shut up (crass, but effective). This elicited a remonstration from Megan, despite the indisputable fact that Sofia interrupted me. I pointed this out, to no avail. I am afraid just about any communication with Megan is to no avail.

Pescatarian Sister Hailey sided with me, while Ella, quite predictably, seized the cudgels in Sofia's favor. The rest of my dauntless cabin mates remained neutral.

Megan sought to alleviate the tension with some physical activity, which delivered us to "Navajo Dunes." By the way, an editorial note: I have renamed them Excessively Precocious Dunes, in (sardonic) honor of Mrs. Gilschmidt.

As my cabin mates ran, screamed, jumped and rolled down the Dunes, Sofia attempted a rapprochement. She confided that when she ran and jumped, there was one moment during her flight where she believed she could stay afloat forever.

As far as rapprochements go, this one was beyond sentimental. It was pathetic. I reminded her that someone who knows about coccinellidae and voltaic batteries should certainly understand Newton's three laws of motion. I listed the first two and was about to enlighten her with the third when she (again) interrupted me and recited it: force equals mass times acceleration.

I told her (again) to shut up. Megan didn't hear me. She was rolling down the Dunes, clear testament to why she is 18 and at Camp Sokaogon. Sofia then presented me with a look akin to Mrs. Gilschmidt's.

Your daughter,

Avery

P.S. Don't be distraught. No less than Aristotle observed that friendships are inherently transient. I'll wager Sofia doesn't know that. She will.

July 30

Camp Sokaogon

Dear Mother and Father:

Civil war is upon us.

I sponsored a motion to expel Sofia from the Pescatarian Sisterhood. Hailey supported my motion. It was unavoidable. The Pescatarians simply cannot tolerate a member who cheats on scavenger hunts, then compounds the offense with a witless belief that she can defy Newton.

Sofia promptly approached the aggrieved Ella and formed a new alliance: The Vegan Sisterhood. After a spirited recruitment drive from both sides, Zoe joined the Pescatarians, while Isabella declared allegiance to the Vegans.

I found the whole experience invigorating. The kitchen staff did not. It is fomenting a rebellion over the changes in dietary requirements. Is it really a logistical challenge to serve a few bowls of organic, locally grown Brussel sprouts and chickpeas?

Megan scheduled a visit to the air rifle range. It was meant to ease tensions. It did not. The event became a tournament between the Pescatarians and Vegans. Each markswoman was allowed five shots per target. Hailey performed ably, scoring 16 points (out of 25 possible). The aggrieved Ella shot for 12. Pescatarian initiate Zoe managed a piteous 11, while Vegan fledgling Isabella answered with a yeoman-like 14.

That left Sofia and I. Sofia went first, firing away for a semi-impressive 21 points. I needed a matching score to deliver a victory to the Pescatarians. I was confident, stepped to the mark and fired away. Mrs. Perlmutter, the rifle and archery range director, let out a long, low whistle as I squeezed off the last shot to tally 21 points.

I lowered my rifle and looked over at Sofia. She appeared crestfallen. I took this as a benediction.

I wished to save my target as a fitting testament to my august triumph, but Megan was already there, examining the perforations. Apparently, there was concern that one of the apertures did not break the four-point area, but was just outside the line, rendering it a three-point score.

Mrs. Perlmutter was called in for a consultation. I watched as she fiddled with her bifocals (a risible attempt to appear officious) and made the final determination: a three-pointer. This rendered the whole contest a tie.

The rejuvenated Sofia beamed. Megan rather grandiosely suggested we shake hands. I refused and described her as a latter-day Arnold Rothstein, confident that she would not fathom the insult. She did. I was sent to the Camp Director in the so-called "Big House." She listened patiently as I gave full vent to my grievances, then requested I apologize. I declined the proposed détente.

My steadfast (and highly principled) position did not result in a punitive action. I was sent back to my cabin, where the schismatic atmosphere can now be best described as volatile. Ella started crying at dinner. That girl is clearly inclined toward melodrama.

Your ethical daughter,

Avery

P.S. Apparently, there is a punitive action resulting from my refusal to apologize. You may expect to receive a letter from the Camp Director informing you that I have proven to be disagreeable and disruptive. Perhaps the Camp Director is related to Mrs. Gilschmidt?

August 2

Camp Sokaogon

Dear Mother and Father:

Sofia is no longer with us.

Let me rephrase. She is with us, as in extant. But not among us. She is in the medical clinic, which the camp has cheekily christened the Waldorf Astoria.

Shortly after dinner last evening, Sofia suffered a skin rash, digestive distress and a general tightening of the throat. It was quickly determined that she was suffering from borderline anaphylaxis, a serious allergic reaction.

After she was safely ensconced at the Waldorf, the camp staff initiated an investigation. It came down to the desserts. Those without peanut allergies were served chocolate peanut butter Tagalong Pie, while those with peanut allergies were served alternate portions of cinnamon-apple Sufganiyot. If you will refer back to my initial missive, I listed my cabin mates' respective allergies. Sofia is allergic to peanuts. Apparently, very allergic.

The next phase of the inquiry focused on how Sofia could possibly have consumed even a morsel of the contraband Tagalong Pie. The camp staff appeared flummoxed, and the inquest stalled. I felt it my responsibility to offer the most viable explanation: cross-contamination of the desserts, effectuated by Mrs. Everhaud's obvious proclivity toward alcohol consumption.

This did not elicit a constructive, informative exchange.

After rejecting my theory as meritless, the direction of the probe abruptly changed course. Toward me. Megan started asking quasi-rhetorical questions centering on my whereabouts when the desserts were served. Megan knew precisely where I was when the desserts were distributed. I was sitting at my customary spot at the table, one seat away from Sofia, with Zoe between us.

At this point during the interrogation (the exchange took on a patently inquisitorial tone) Megan fell silent. The expression on her face could not be mistaken. It was blatantly accusatory. She stood waiting for me to reply. I remained silent. Sun Tzu said that the greatest victory is that which requires no battle.

Megan wouldn't know Sun Tzu from Admiral Halsey.

Once the investigation was adjourned in an apparent stalemate, routine returned to the realm of Camp Sokaogon. We spent the afternoon in the craft "center" making foliage faces, an activity so utterly devoid of merit, I won't waste pen or paper describing it.

Your semi-martyred daughter,

Avery

P.S. I am crafting a get-well lanyard for Sofia. I have chosen the dependable box stitch, which strikes me as sufficiently convalescent in tone. I will put in a strand of pink, to coalesce with Sofia's aesthetic preferences.

P.S.S. Megan has switched seats at the dining table. She now sits next to me. I will not hazard a guess as to her motivations.

August 4

Camp Sokaogon

Dear Mother and Father:

Let me begin with Cicero: "Nothing is more noble, nothing more venerable, than loyalty."

Evidently, the Pescatarian Sisterhood has never read a line of Cicero. They have defected to the Vegans. Every last one of them.

That was the first act of what has been a decidedly atypical day at Camp Sokaogon. Shortly after breakfast (following the mass defection, which was announced by the confederate Zoe), I was summoned to the Camp Director's office. When I arrived, I found in attendance Megan and Ms. Anterschluss, the camp therapist.

The meeting began awkwardly, with Ms. Anterschluss returning my get-well lanyard. I had delivered it the previous evening to the Waldorf Astoria, with clear instructions to present it to Sofia. She sent it back. Sofia apparently hasn't reached a recuperative status that lends itself to commiserative gestures.

Our conference degenerated from there.

The Camp Director suggested that I would be more comfortable residing in the "Big House" for the remainder of my sojourn at Camp Sokaogon, and take my meals with the Camp Director's family.

I asked if this was a choice or an ultimatum. Ms. Anterschluss replied that it was neither. She described it as an optimal compromise. I asked her to define optimal compromise. Megan replied that I was intelligent enough to divine its meaning.

Megan wouldn't be able to divine her own reflection in a mirror. I verbalized the sentiment. The meeting ended abruptly.

When I returned to Menominee Cabin 4, no one was there. My bed, Top Bunk 4, was stripped of its sheets and blankets, and the mattress folded over. All of my belongings had been removed.

I am writing this from the front porch of the "Big House." The Dining Hall is just down the hill. I can hear the cacophony of all the campers and the clattering of dishes and announcements on the public address system. There will be a campfire tonight outside the nature "center," followed by fireworks over Red Cliff Lake. I will attend neither.

Your daughter,

Avery

P.S. I plan to go to Excessively Precocious Dunes. I will run hard and leap into the air. I'll pretend I can fly. It will last for one brief moment. It will amount to nothing. But it is something.