Poetry by Dythandra

My Summer Job

The parentals keep secrets so badly
The brochures, laid under only a couple of newspapers
Hiding on my father's desk.

Tuesday nights--the routine never changes.
They bowl
I prowl.

"Summer Camp Jobs--Good Pay, Great Times!"
I'd rather stick needles in my eyes.

Still, forewarned is forearmed.
I look over each one--the first two are religious camps,
I laugh out loud.
The Baptists and Jews would love me.

Then the next--a cheerleading camp.
I could push the progress of humanity 100 years ahead
As an arsenic-laden kitchen lackey.

I scan the rest--equestrian, swimming, tennis...
Not likely.

Then I see the one they've underlined.
"Lake Akinokee Arts Retreat"
They are clever--they've spotted the only camp
With the potential for me to warm
From loathing to apathy.

They drop hints over the next few days:
"What do you plan for the summer, dear?"
and
"Wouldn't you like to have some money for the fall sales
At that lovely new corset shop that opened in the fetish district?"

Like they've ever even shopped there.

I play dumb.
"I just thought I'd stay here,
Cherishing the people I love."

That was overkill. They realize I know the truth.

I could probably have worn them down,
Pointed out my intolerance for sunlight,
Reminded them of my tendency to sleepwalk.

But they have a trump card, and play it well:
Aunt Mabel.

A battleship of a woman, she always arrives
Prepared for war.
Her handbag laden with pamphlets,
Explaining why rock music is a tool of the devil
And gay marriage a sign of the apocalypse.

I might stay and clash with her,
But for her pair of endlessly yapping chihuahuas,
Which she calls her "children".

I extract a few concessions before I concede;
My room locked, forbidden,
And no questions asked next fall
When I spend my summer earnings
On my long awaited dermal ink.

The camp is all I feared--trees and a lake
And no "personal music devices" allowed.
Apparently we make our own music
Voices of the damned, no doubt.

I am, as new staff, assigned to a team.
My leader is perkier than a coked-up cocker spaniel
And she shows me my bunk, beneath hers,
Surrounded by a dozen more of her ilk.

"We'll have such fun!" she exclaims.
I stare at her, wondering,
How long it would take them to find her body.

After the first few days, I find my niche,
Or at least a job assignment,
That allows me the least amount of human contact.

The "painting cabin"--little more than a greenhouse with easels,
But it's far removed from everything else
And buys me brief moments of solitude.

Turns out it's also near the aptly named "makeout rock"
Where my digital camera captures
Useful leverage for later bargaining.

I scowl through the endless "fireside evenings"
Where we sing tacky, politically-incorrect songs.
Passed down from generations of campers previous,
With refrains including "the red man our brother".

Then another exercise to loathe,
We're all assigned a "secret friend"--
Someone to buy special presents for
During our twice-monthly escape to an actual town.

Had I been blessed to draw the name of some stepford in training,
My task would have been simple.
Laxative chocolates or something slimy.
But such was not to be.

I unfold a paper to read "Philip".
I sigh. He's the life guard who tries a little too hard,
Perhaps oblivious that his ectomorphic physique and unfortunate complexion
Seal his fate in this shallow pond.

I've heard stories through my less than satisfactory earplugs,
Giggled after lights out in my cabin.
Seems Philip has courted a half dozen of my roommates,
And each sends him to the next target--their goal:
To each have a chance to skewer his hopes before Labor Day.

Against my natural predilections
I surreptitiously gather information.
Seems he likes toffee, and tries to charm with card tricks.
Unfortunately, one of the female lifeguards,
"Accidentally" dropped his deck of cards into the lake.

I make the purchases, then steathily sneak them to his mailslot.
He is clearly pleased the next day,
Demonstrating for all, his legerdomain.

It would be heartwarming,
Had I not left my heart elsewhere for safekeeping
Before condescending to waste eight weeks of my life
In this fresh-faced hell.

Meanwhile I receive my "gifts":
A "Girl's guide to cosmetics" and
"Chicken Soup for the Adolescent Soul".

Unfortunately for my secret benefactor,
Carrying cash is not her practice,
And I easily discover the secret friend
By checking out debit receipts
In our cabin's wastebasket,
And matching to the offending card
When all others are asleep.

The benefactor of my largesse, meanwhile,
Has managed to figure out my identity.
Seems the rest had already proven
Their lack of compassion sufficiently.

He sought me out, quietly, thanked me.
I shrugged it off--no point in denial.
Nonetheless, an..."acquaintanceship" blossomed.
He knew not to presume more.

We had one bond--our loathing of the others.
My time alone cleaning and setting up the art cabin,
His standing watch for hours at the swimming dock,
It was natural our imaginations had free reign.

We took our revenge patiently on the entire camp.
Seems an old science camp that once occupied this place
Left some supplies around--we find a length of tubing
Perfect to cover the ceiling vent the bats use,
And reroute them into my cabin.

We steal the square dance cds,
And replace them with death metal
I purchased on another trip to town

And the printer that makes the poster-sized copies of student art work?
Seems it also does a lovely job
On those photos I took so surreptitiously
Of antics at Makeout Rock.
The most graphic ones posted everywhere--
Of the girl who provided my self-help books.

Revenge is a dish best served 24 hours a day
It helps to kill the hours--'til it's time to collect
My well-earned tattoo.