Oranges and Smoke – Full Story Friday

Every morning I check my navy blue sneakers for scorpions. I am afraid of being stung. When we got to camp on our first day, Becky, our camp counselor, told us that scorpions love to climb into our open shoes at night while we sleep, attracted to our leftover warmth. She says to shake them out every morning if we don’t want them to sting our toes. 

I imagine their little skeletal bodies tucked into the tip of my shoe, the sickly yellow tail curled over its back, ready to strike, a little drip of venom quivering on the edge of its stinger. 

I shiver and feel goosebumps prickle my skin even though I am snuggled into my warm sleeping bag. I don’t want to get out and check my shoes. I don’t want to get ready for the day, but I am hungry and everyone else is up, getting dressed for breakfast. I hear them giggle and chatter as they pull on their pastel t-shirts and slap their sneakers against the worn wood of the cabin floor.

I slither out of my bag and dress quickly. I smack my shoes against the floor like a mad woman, rapid staccato beats filled with desperation. Today they are empty. Today I will live.

We are marching single file down the path that leads to the communal fire pit. I am careful not to touch the plants that line the sides; bright green poison ivy crawling up the trunks of the trees, prickly sticker bushes. Yet, no matter how careful I am, I feel like little needles are poking through my pants, pricking my skin. 

The fire pit looms through the tree branches as we approach from our dirt trail. The round metal frame of the pit gapes open to the sky like a hungry baby bird waiting for a worm. Split logs lay smooth side up in widening circles around the fire pit. We choose seats in the inner ring and someone passes down oranges, their bright fiery skin makes it look like we are passing stars down an assembly line. Becky builds a fire; twigs and sticks and crumpled newspaper on top of splintery chopped wood. 

The rest of us sit and hollow out the oranges. We cut a little round hatch in the top of the orange, just large enough for a spoon. We scrape the meat of the fruit away from the skin of the peel, spraying crisp citrus mist into the air, tiny geysers of juice. I shove the orange chunks into my mouth and chew like I am a wild animal. 

The fire snaps and crackles, little embers glinting above it, ashen fireflies. Our camp counselor mixes blueberry muffin batter in a large steel bowl, the firelight glinting off the metal. I tap a rhythmless song on the ground with the tips of my sneakers, impatient for the taste of sweet bread and berries. 

Becky makes her way around our circle, pouring batter into each of our oranges. We place their little orange peel hats back on top and snuggle them in a thick wrap of aluminum foil. Becky carefully places them into the fire, nestled like shiny chrome coals at the base of the flames. The wait feels eternal. I am picturing my peel inside its foil, shimmering bright, and the hot bubbling batter expanding and growing into a fluffy steaming muffin. I can already feel the round blueberries, juicy and bursting on my tongue. 

When we pull our citrus ovens out from the fire and peel back their glimmering jackets, we find molten lava muffins. Their barely baked outsides cradle a hot liquid core but we are too hungry to care. I use my fingers and scoop that sticky half-done muffin into my mouth bit by bit. I let out a languid sigh of satisfaction, sated at last. My later moments will be filled with cold showers, the hair raising sound of bugs skittering across the tarp roof, the stinging pain of a bad sunburn. But for now I exist in this perfect moment of hot blueberry muffin batter and the scent of oranges and smoke.