1
Being thrown into public school after twelve years of basically never being around other kids is like throwing a fish in a tree to see if it will fly.
Spoiler alert: It won’t.
It will hide out in the girls’ bathroom taking pictures of the scribbled walls instead.
“Summer recreation camp at the middle school will be the best way for you to make friends, Lin,” Dad said when we first landed here in New Jersey. “Then you’ll have playmates all summer and be ready for seventh grade in the fall. How great will that be!”
Easy for him to say—the man could make friends with a porcupine. He already knows half the families on our street, and we’ve only been here for a month. In fact, Dad, who has a habit of going above and beyond, already offered to watch the neighbor’s son every evening, a boy my age named Leo who goes to chess camp and would rather hang out with his dogs than me. I mean, I can’t blame him, his dogs are super adorable. But Dad’s attempts to help me find friends have been suffocating. Besides, I had a friend; I had Mom.
Until she decided to leave on her own adventure.
Now I’m two weeks in to “rec camp,” which basically means playing kickball. All. Day. Long. And every day faced with the fact that I’ve made exactly zero “playmates.” Unless you consider the wolf spider that’s spinning a web in the corner of this bathroom stall a playmate.
Mom always says when you want something, you have to go for it, no matter how impossible it seems, which is why she went for it with this artist-residency thing she won. I tried to approach camp that way too. At first, I was interesting: the semi-famous kid from the YouTube channel Moseying with the Mosers. The new girl in overalls with her mom’s vintage video camera.
But as soon as I opened my mouth that all changed.
I’ve never had a hard time talking to my parents or other adults. I’ve spent my whole life mostly around other grown-ups. We’ve always traveled too much for me to go to regular school, and I’ve never minded; Mom and Dad have always been the most interesting people I could have imagined. I call us the Three Musketeers. Kip, Paige, and Lin Moser: Dad is a famous home renovator, Mom a rising filmmaker star, and me, who gets to be part of everything they do.
Normally, when Dad is working on a house, and Mom isn’t filming him, she and I explore new parks, hiking and learning about the local wildlife, which is my most favorite part about our adventures together. Recently she even let me start assisting her with some of her film projects. We’ve always been a trio. All for one, one for all. Until this summer when Mom decided to go solo. I guess, like me, she didn’t see any excitement or adventure waiting for her in Newbridge, New Jersey.
Or maybe she didn’t see any in me.
At least the big stall in the bathroom has a giant, cloudy-glassed window that has a ledge wide enough to sit on. I pull my knees up to my chest to try to fit perfectly in the box, but I don’t quite fit. It smells a little bit like hand sanitizer and pee, but at least the windowsill is clean. There are footsteps in the hall, squeaky sneakers and shouting boys probably heading out to the field, and I sit very still until the noise passes.
I just want to get through this day and get home.
I flip through some of the photos I’ve taken over the past couple of weeks. I’ve gotten very good at sneaking pictures. I thought if I could study what other kids do in their natural habitat, maybe they would make more sense to me, but I still haven’t figured out how to talk to them about normal things. I try, but every time, I get some weird looks and end up like an ostrich—head in the sand. For the record, ostriches don’t actually stick their heads in sand, but it is what I feel like doing.
Turns out kids here don’t care all that much about hiking the trails at national parks, or which wildflowers you can eat, or about what species of moth landed on them, as long as it gets off. They don’t know about how much planning and working together as a family goes into living on the road like we do, or filming your own show, and they definitely don’t know what it’s like to have famous parents. And since I don’t know anything about living in a small town or playing kickball, it’s not been an easy two weeks.
And if I’m being completely honest, I haven’t been trying as hard as I could to make friends, because this summer the thing I thought would never happen happened: The Three Musketeers broke up. I’ve spent most of the past two weeks sad about being left behind to figure this all out by myself when we were supposed to be having an adventure with Mom like we do every summer.
Why should I give her the satisfaction of making friends? Instead, I’m going to make a movie all by myself. I’ve learned enough from her at this point to be able to plan my own trip and film it. Even if it’s just in this boring town and not the Dry Tortugas where she is. I can do my own thing too. I can go for it too. If she can have her own adventures, why can’t I?
Looking around the confined walls of the dingy bathroom stall, which is what I imagine solitary confinement feels like, I sigh and drop my forehead to my knees. I can’t even convince myself that it’s possible right now.
But I’m going to try.
I aim my camera at the stall door where someone wrote in purple Sharpie and start recording:
Love Yourself, You’re Stuck with her Till the End.
Just as I’m thinking of how to use the graffiti as a clever monologue to open my movie with, the main bathroom door swings open. Voices and laughter pour into the echoey chamber. Several girls giggle about things that happened when school was still in session. What someone named Kayla did during gym class, what Jill did at lunch, what Lexi did on the bus. All they talk about is other girls. I wouldn’t even know how to be part of their conversation, because I still don’t really know who anybody is. Besides, it’s not the kind of conversation I’m used to, or care about. If anyone wants to chat about how the most recent wildfires are endangering California’s animals or who was the first woman to climb Denali, the highest mountain in the United States, I’m your girl. But I already know these girls do not want to talk to me about any of that.
I stretch a leg out, press my shoe against the stall door, and sit as still as possible. I aim my camera at my white Converse sneaker, which has the names of every place I’ve ever been written on it, and hold my breath, praying no one tries to open the door. Water runs as they continue to talk, and it makes a kind of cool background noise for filming dirty sneakers and the scrawl on the walls. Random words and phrases people have written all over the cinder blocks keep my camera focused.
I Hate Boys!!!
They Hate You Too.
Go Ahead and Erase Me. I’ll be Back.
Signed, Sharpie
The paper towel dispenser slams as someone smacks it. Purses zip open, book bags drop, and the chatter continues. There must be an army of girls out there. Through the crack in the door I see several heads of perfectly styled hair looking into the mirror. I have no idea how to blow-dry, curl, or otherwise style hair, or put on makeup. There was never any reason to, I guess, but it seems these are some things Mom and I could have learned together before sending me off into the wild completely alone.
I’m only half paying attention to their conversations until I hear:
“So what do you think about that famous YouTube girl suddenly showing up?”
“She’s not famous, her parents are. She’s just riding on it, thinking she’s better than everyone else. She’s a total snob. She won’t even talk to anyone.”
“Do you think she’ll be in school in September?”
“Who cares.”
I turn the camera off. There’s a stinging sensation in my eyes and the back of my throat, but there’s no way I’m going to start crying here. I swallow it back and keep one eye lined up with the crack in the door to watch them as they laugh and apply more lip gloss. I’m not a snob, really. If I were braver, I’d burst out of the stall right now and say the coolest thing that would blow their minds. But I have no idea what that is. So I stay put.
“I heard her bragging to one of the camp counselors the other day about how many viewers they have on that dumb show. What’s it called? Moseying with the Mosers? So cringe.”
I wasn’t bragging, I want to scream at them. The counselor asked me about it.
“If she were smart she’d keep her mouth shut. No one wants to hear about all the places she’s been in that dumb converted bus.”
I clench my jaw so tightly it hurts. Through the crack in the door I see one girl apply mascara. Another rolls her eyes.
“Total show-off.”
Someone else chimes in and finally takes the subject off me. I can breathe a little better.
“Oh my god, you guys! Are you allowed to go to Michael Sanders’s Fourth of July party?”
The voices continue on about how cute Michael is, whoever he is, and then fade as they all pick up their bags and shuffle back out. Lunch is over, and it’s time for the afternoon game of, you guessed it, kickball. Never in a million years would I think I’d want to stay indoors, but kickball and soccer and whatever other game they make us play have proved reason enough. I’d rather stick my head in this toilet and flush. Twice. I rest my head against the wall and loudly sigh. Thank god that’s over.
Fish, meet birds.
They all take off without you.
Next to me, a stall door creaks opens. “They’re all gone! You can come out now,” a sweet-sounding voice tells me. At first, I don’t move. I don’t know if I can take any more. How are you supposed to know who to trust around here?
“It’s okay,” the voice says. I can hear a light tapping on my stall door. “Don’t listen to anything they say. The only excitement they can muster in their boring lives is to make fun of other girls, but we’re not all like that. My name’s Tinsley Cooper. You’re Lin, right?”
I hop off the windowsill, open my door, and come face-to-face with a girl with bright pink curly hair, wearing a black-and-red lace dress and black boots. I can’t help but smile and take in her whole ensemble.
“Cabaret,” she says, pulling at the ruffles on her dress. “It’s a musical. Anyway, hi!”
“I didn’t know anyone else was in here,” I say. I’ve definitely noticed her over the past several days. Her outfits are pretty spectacular, and I’ve seen her in the athletic fields, often singing as she plays whatever game we’re mandated to play each day like her life is a musical. One morning she came to camp wearing a boy’s wig and a Carhartt coverall, and everyone called her the janitor, but she kept on singing something about seizing the day. Clearly she’s way braver than I am, which makes me wonder how she got that way. How does she not let the other kids’ words bother her?
“How’d you know it was me?” I ask.
She nods. “Recognized your scribbled Converse before you jumped up. I came in to pee right in front of that gang of perfume and hair.” She touches her own curly head. “I should talk. But then I didn’t want to make any noise, and now I don’t have to go anymore.” She shrugs and walks over to the sink to wash her hands. “Don’t worry about any of them. They talk a lot, but they’re harmless. They’re just jealous.”
I start packing up my stuff, throw away my paper lunch bag. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Moseying with the Mosers is so fun,” Tinsley says. “My family and I watch it all the time. My dad also works on houses.” She looks in the mirror and adjusts a few curls, but they simply spring back into place. “Or did, anyway.”
“Thanks,” I say. I don’t really want to talk about it, though. I’m not a show-off like those girls said, and it just makes me think of Mom and what my life is supposed to look like right now.
“What’s the video camera for?” she asks.
I throw my backpack up on my shoulders and hold on to the camera strap. “It’s my mom’s. But I’ve been using it to…” I pause, a little afraid to tell the truth, but then think Tinsley is probably the kind of person who would like this. “Make a movie about my summer,” I say.
“That’s so cool!” Tinsley says, tossing her crumpled paper towel in the trash. “Can I be in it?” We push out of the bathroom together and walk toward the big double doors at the end of the hall.
“Sure,” I say. “Once I figure out what it’s actually about.” Through the windows we can see other kids gathering in the field.
“I despise kickball,” Tinsley says, reading my mind. “If we ask the counselor to walk around the track instead, they’ll let us and we can just talk.”
“Really? You want to keep talking with me?”
Tinsley has a funny surprised look on her face, but then she grins. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I?”
And that was the first time Tinsley Cooper saved my life.
2
I was raised on national and state parks like most kids are raised on Dr. Seuss. So far, my favorite park is in Arizona, a place called the Wave that you can only get to by permit and looks like you’re walking on another planet. Red waves of sandstone surround you like a fiery dream. It was one of my mom’s and my first smaller trips together, where we collaborated like real cofilmmakers. After that she let me be part of all her projects. Yellowstone, the Rocky Mountains, the Grand Tetons, everywhere she went, I got to help. I thought it would be the same for every expedition she went on, until she left me behind with Dad. For turtles.
Don’t get me wrong, Dad is great. We get along fine and all. He’s just not Mom. He can’t go on adventures, because his job has such long days. He’s the builder, the planner, the scheduler. He’s amazing at what he does, but he has to stay on-site to work his magic.
Mom would say things like, “Hey, Lin, let’s skip this afternoon’s math textbook lesson and head over to the wildflower meadow instead.” And then we’d get there and she’d end up teaching me something like the golden ratio, how mathematical patterns show up in nature, and I’d end up learning without even realizing it. I thought we were best friends, but best friends don’t ditch each other.
This summer Dad could have taken a job in any adventurous-sounding state—The Mountain State of West Virginia, or Alaska: The Last Frontier. Or New Mexico: The Land of Enchantment, which is the coolest name for a state that could ever exist. Towns apply to have Dad come and restore an old home; he gets to choose the state we visit. Originally we were supposed to end up in Oregon. Its motto is “She flies with her own wings.” How freaking cool is that? Dad got a job in Portland, and Mom and I were going to check out Crater Lake National Park and film the collapsed volcano for her next project. But instead my life collapsed: Dad’s job fell through, and Mom won the artist residency and left me behind.
This time, no adventurous state for us. Dad ended up choosing a new job to flip an ancient purple Victorian home in New Jersey of all stupid places. The Garden State. What kind of adventure is in a garden? I guess he figured it was better to have a lot of other people around to help him out with me this summer. Little does he know I do not want help. I only wanted Mom.
On the way home from camp, I film the uneven sidewalks and mature maple trees that line the streets. In my mind, I practice what I’m going to say to Dad about quitting summer camp, because despite the great afternoon with Tinsley, I really don’t want to go back. That place is just not me; it’s none of the things I enjoy doing, and Tinsley and I can’t walk the track all day, every day.
He’s going to ask, “What will you do all summer?” But I have a plan, a list of things that I’ll enjoy and he’ll support. I’ll go to the library and sign up for summer reading, and maybe I could start a job as a dog walker. If Leo would talk to me, I could practice with his dogs. Though, after today in the bathroom, I wonder if my time would be better spent watching a lot of YouTube to catch up on hair and makeup tips to learn how to be a proper thirteen-year-old before my birthday in the fall. Just thinking about those girls makes it hard to breathe. How will I ever be ready for real school if I can’t even handle a few weeks of camp?
I hear someone humming, turn off the camera, and see Tinsley Cooper jogging to catch up to me. “Hey!” she says. “Can I walk with you?”
Copyright © 2022 by Jess Rinker