Campfire Cookies (19 page)

There is no natural cover at Ocotillo Lookout, so the first thing we did when we got here was help the counselors erect blue tarp canopies. These were to protect us from sun during the day and from thunderstorms overnight. Luckily, the nighttime weather stayed clear, so we got to sleep out under the stars.

At mealtimes, we sat on the ground or on rocks or benches we made ourselves out of whatever wood we could scavenge. I won't tell you about the bathrooms because, short version, there weren't any. We cleaned up with wet wipes or water from jugs brought in on a dirt road by truck. As for the other bathroom-type functions, I'll just say shovels were involved, and it was all very environmental.

By the fourth afternoon, my clothes were dusty, and I smelled like campfire smoke. I was sweaty from the heat and tired from sleeping poorly on the ground.

And I was happy.

Olivia, Lucy, Grace, and I had fought till we were so sick of fighting there was nothing left but to be friends again, and now—at last—we were.

Also, I hope it's not braggy to say so, but I was proud of the really sweet little outdoor kitchen we had set up for ourselves. Our utensils came from Mrs. Arthur back at camp and included a cutting board, pots, knives, bowls, plates, and napkins. Grace had found a forked stick and stuck it in the ground, and we had hung a ladle from it.

We didn't actually need a ladle, but the setup looked really cool.

Each kitchen had a cooler for perishable food. The truck brought us ice, too. Anytime I felt like I was some kind of pioneer woman roughing it on the Oregon Trail, I reminded myself that the pioneers didn't get ice deliveries.

In case you haven't guessed, by this time I had taken
back my vow not to be in charge. It was me that organized the kitchen, or more accurately, me that told Grace, Emma, and Lucy how they should organize the kitchen. With my broken ankle, I wasn't good for much besides ordering other people around. Also, I could see that if I let anyone else be in charge, we wouldn't get the kitchen organized till Pack Trip was over.

The prep area was the cooler, which we placed in the center of the space we had mapped out. The campfire was in one corner, and the cleanup area (a plastic tub with a sponge and a rag) opposite. We even had a flowering cactus centerpiece on a table we made out of rocks and boards.

Hannah helped too, but she emphasized that it was our kitchen, and we should be in charge. Same with the cookies, which is probably one reason we wasted so much dough.

“If we think of it as experimenting instead of baking,” Grace said, “we'll feel better. The rules are different. Some stuff has to get used up.”

“Is that true?” I was dropping spoonfuls of dough onto
greased foil for what had to be the zillionth time. If we were going to fulfill our promise to Jack, this batch had to work. We didn't have time or ingredients to make another one.

“Absolutely,” Grace said. “I mean, my parents are scientists, and they do experiments. In the end it's worth the waste if you learn something or get something good. Ready?”

“Ready,” I said. One thing about foil ovens, they're flimsy. Now Grace pinched two lower corners in her fingers and I pinched the opposite corners, and we moved the oven from the prep area to the grill above the campfire. As always, the dough shifted and the sides drooped in transit, but when at last the oven was safely in place, I felt optimistic.

And what do you know, this batch worked!

Lucy and Olivia had been on a wildflower walk. With my broken ankle, I couldn't go, and Hannah had given Grace permission to stay back with me. By the time Lucy and Olivia returned, we were transferring golden-brown cookies to a cooling rack made out of crisscrossed manzanita twigs—Grace's idea.

Lured by the aroma, a small crowd came over to see how things were going. We had marked off our kitchen with a border of rocks and branches laid out on the ground. There was nothing to keep people from stepping over it, but no one did. Instead, they lined up and watched as if we had a cooking show or something.

“How many good ones ya got this time?” asked Angela, a seven-eight-nine from Primrose Cabin.

“Thirty-six, so far,” I said, “and I'm really sorry, but you can't test one.”

“Yesterday you let me test one,” said Brendan, also a seven-eight-nine.

“Because it was half burned,” Grace explained. “None of this batch burned, and we have to save them to share at the campfire later on.”

Walking by, Jack must have heard this, because he made an abrupt course change and came over to join the spectators. “Is that a promise?” Wearing his trademark old-man hat along with a pink Hawaiian shirt, red cargo shorts, and flip-flops, he looked out of place as usual in the sea of denim, plaid, and Western boots.
“ 'Cause if it's not,” he went on, “I think my memory of certain, shall we say,
transgressions,
might be more vivid than I thought.”

I gulped. He meant he might remember about Grace and me in Boys Camp. But he wouldn't tell Buck, would he?

Olivia said, “It's absolutely a promise. Don't you worry.”

Brendan said, “What's a ‘grans-teshun'?”

“A
sin
,” said Jack, and then he waggled his fingers and bugged out his eyes. This made Brendan and Angela giggle, but he wasn't looking at Brendan and Angela. At first I thought he was looking at me, but then I realized it was actually something over my shoulder

And then the something over my shoulder giggled too.

I turned around and saw . . . Hannah. Her eyes were bright, and so was her smile. She was looking straight at Jack.

O . . . M . . . G.

OMG!

OMG!

Wait, what?

Olivia Baron and I both had afternoon riding, and all summer long I had wanted to ask her a question. Now almost everyone in the whole camp was riding back from Pack Trip—creating a cloud of red dust as we went—and she was ahead of me on the trail. As usual, she was mumbling something—talking to her horse?—but I couldn't hear what she was saying.

I grinned and shook my head and wished for the
millionth time I had my phone. If I had, I would have put a video of Olivia riding Shorty up on YouTube. The tall, glamorous black girl and the stubby, mousy horse were what my mom would call one odd couple for sure.

We were more than halfway back to camp and, maybe because I didn't sleep well on the ground, my mind was wandering aimlessly. It was as if I didn't have the energy either for conversation or for focusing on any single thing.

The day was cloudy, unusual in the desert, and Jane had told us there might be a storm overnight. Pack Trip had been fun, but I hated being dirty. The Flowerpot girls were our Chore Score archrivals, but they sure made delicious cookies.

We had been riding single file on a trail, but now the trail veered right and fed into a dirt road, the same road used by the nurse's car and the truck that brought supplies for Pack Trip.

On the road, there was room for me to ride next to Olivia. This was the last day we' d be on horseback and
probably my best opportunity to ask my question. I hesitated. Everybody knew Olivia Baron was the most stuck-up girl at camp. If I spoke to her, she'd probably look down her nose as usual.

But, oh heck—who cared if she did? Camp was almost over. I might never even see her again. Besides, I was really, really,
really
curious.

I bumped my horse's flanks with my heels and clicked my tongue to urge her forward. Sheba is a purebred quarter horse, only five years old, and lively. Even so, she didn't catch Shorty right away. Only after a couple of minutes did I recognize the significance of this. Shorty wasn't poky anymore.

Now I really wanted to ask my question, so I goaded Sheba into a trot—even though I knew we weren't supposed to. Sure enough, Cal, the counselor in charge of the horses, hollered at me, “Don't trot that horse!”

“Sorry!” I called back, but mission accomplished. I was now riding next to Olivia. When I looked over at her, I realized she wouldn't be looking down her nose at all, not even if she wanted to. Shorty was so short that
for the first and only time ever, my view was the top of Olivia's white hat.

“Hey,” I said. “How ya doin', Olivia? Those were really great cookies you guys made.”

“Thank you,” said Olivia.

I noticed she had her braids tucked up under her hat and she was wearing a pink bandanna (so was I) with a plaid, Western-style short-sleeve shirt (so was almost everybody). The shirt was mostly magenta and turquoise, the most popular colors that year. Unlike me, she looked clean. In fact, somehow Olivia almost always managed to look better than the rest of us girls.

I was trying to think of a lead-in to my question when Olivia surprised me. “Uh, Brianna?” she said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Oh, that's funny,” I said. “I wanted to ask you something too.”

“You can go first if you want,” Olivia said.

“Oka-a-ay, so, well . . . what I want to know is, what is it you say to Shorty, anyway?” I asked. “I mean, he's so
different from how he was at the beginning of camp. He was a poke-along, and now he walks faster than Sheba. The first time I saw him, I thought of Eeyore—you know, from
Winnie-the-Pooh
?”

“He reminded me of Eeyore too!” Olivia said.

“I like Eeyore,” I said.

“Yeah, as a character, but not to ride,” Olivia said.

“Yeah, no,” I said. “Definitely not to ride. So what is it you say to Shorty? Is that why he's different?”

“Maybe,” Olivia said. “But I don't say anything that special. I just give him pep talks, you know? Like I tell him, ‘Lift and step! Lift and step! You can do it, Shorty! You're a handsome horse!' ” She shrugged. “Do you think he has started to believe it?”

“Definitely,” I said. “What is it you wanted to ask me?”