S. Kavi is a South Indian American poet, writer, and artist from Texas. She was a finalist for Best of the Net 2023 and her work appears in antonym, Culinary Origami, and elsewhere. @s.kavi_creates (Instagram)
Tenth Summer Fiction by Sally Simon
CW: Child Abuse & Disturbing Imagery
Dear Carrie,
I hope you get this letter. I sent it to the address I found online for Camp Merrywood, but it has been six years and you probably don’t work there anymore because you’d be like what, twenty-five or something. I mean, you could be married and living in another state for all I know, but I hope they found you because my therapist thinks I need to write this and send it to you, although I think writing it is enough, but what do I know?
I do know I want to thank you for the kindness you showed me during my last year at camp. When I said goodbye and the buses rolled out, throwing up clouds of dirt, I didn’t know I’d never go back. I mean, I should have suspected, but I was only ten and didn’t realize stuff like I do now. If I’d have known, maybe I would have told you this then. Maybe.
This is so hard. I thought it would be easier, but I don’t know how to begin, so I guess I’ll just start on the day near the end of camp, the day I was chosen to raise the flag, the night we had our end-of-camp sleepover. You probably don’t remember.
I’d waited all summer to raise and lower the flag and for Mike (you remember Mike the director, I’m sure you do, everyone loved him) to teach me how to fold it. I practically danced off the bus that morning knowing it was my turn. Finally. You gave me a high five and told me Mike saved the best for last.
At arts and crafts that day, you made me a friendship bracelet, wrapped it around my wrist and said: Forever friends. I still have that bracelet in an old box under my bed. It’s ragged and dirty, but I couldn’t throw it away. Not ever.
At the lake that day, I swam across the deep end for the first time and all the counselors cheered. And at the flagpole, when everyone sang “Day is Done,” you held my hand before Mike took me aside to fold the flag. It was bigger than I thought, and I had trouble with the first two folds, but I looked over at you and you gave me a thumbs up and I knew I could do it.
That had been the best day of my life up until then. I was looking forward to the campfire and s’mores and sleeping in the cabin on old cots, knowing you’d be there to keep me safe from the animals that came around at night, the ones the older campers teased us about.
Do you remember at the campfire, you told me Mike wanted to see me in his office, something about the flag? You were busy readying the graham crackers and chocolate bars, but shooed me along, telling me it would just be a minute.
Well, Mike didn’t want to see me about the flag.
When I went into the office, he told me to close the door. The room smelled of the whiskey my grandpa drank. Mike was sitting behind his desk and told me to come around, that he had something to show me. He told me what to do to be a good girl, to make him like me best. My heart pounded out of my chest and I didn’t know what to do, and you weren’t there, and I heard laughing at the campfire, and wanted to get back for s’mores, and Mike put his hands on the top of my head and pushed down.
Before I left, he told me I was special and to hurry along so I wasn’t missed, and we didn’t want anyone to come and look for me, did we, and now we had a secret. The word “we” cut into me, but I wasn’t sure why. Not yet.
Did you notice how I was so quiet after I came back, how I didn’t even take one bite of my s’more, how during the ghost stories I stared off into the darkness? Later that night, back in the cabin, when all the other girls had fallen asleep, you noticed I was tossing and turning. You asked me if everything was OK. I almost told you then. I wish I had. I blamed the cot and the older campers who told stories of animals that wanted to eat little girls like me, and you laughed and told me there was nothing to be afraid of.
I’m writing now because I want you to know. You were wrong.
Sincerely, Melissa (from Camp Merrywood, summer of 2012)
Sally Simon (ze/hir) lives in upstate New York. Hir writing has appeared in various journals. When not writing, ze’s either traveling the world or stabbing people with hir epee. Ze dreams of the day we no longer have to worry about child abuse. www.sallysimonwriter.com @ReiserSimon (Twitter)