Every morning in the cabin, I check my shoes for scorpions because I am afraid of being stung. I don’t know it, but the little scorpions that live here don’t have enough venom to kill me. I think if I forget to check, then I will die. Mornings are a bit stressful at camp.
It is early this morning. We are marching single file down the path that leads to the communal campfire. I am careful not to touch the plants that line the edges, filled with poison ivy and prickly sticker bushes. And yet, no matter how careful I am, I feel like little needles are poking through my pants, pricking my skin.
I am hungry. When we get to the fire pit, the camp counselor begins to build a fire, tossing together sticks and crumpled paper. I sit on the bench with the others. While we hollow out orange peels, the crisp citrus sprays sweet mist into the air. I shove the orange chunks into my mouth and chew like I am a wild animal.
The camp counselor is making the blueberry muffin batter in a big bowl. I tap a rhythmless song on the ground with the tips of my sneakers. I am impatient.
She pours some batter into each of our oranges. We place their little orange peel hats back on top and wrap them tightly in foil. Our counselor carefully places them in the fire and we wait for them to bake.
I am picturing my peel inside its foil, shiny shimmering bright; and the bubbling hot batter expanding and growing into a fluffy steaming muffin. I can already feel the round swollen blueberries bursting and juicy on my tongue.
When we pull them out of the fire and peel back their foil jackets, we find that they are still ooey and gooey inside, but I don’t care. I use my fingers to shovel scoopfuls of that sticky half-done muffin into my mouth bit by bit. I let out a languid purr of satisfaction.
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