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dropped me off in a church parking lot to catch the bus to the Shining Stars Summer Camp for Performing Arts. They were only mildly emotional about the whole thing, which I thought was weird. I had never left home for any real amount of time. After they abandoned me with my bulky duffel bag, I located Charlie in the crowd of soon-to-be-exiled Portland high schoolers. He was all clean and tan and caffeinated.
    â€œGood morning, Rivers!” Charlie bounded up to me.
    â€œCharlie.” I could never call him by his last name. It sounded too much like a term of endearment.
    He passed me his travel coffee cup. “Are you ready to nurture young souls? To expose yourself to all the diversity of the world?”
    Taking a sip, I winced. Charlie apparently drank his coffee black. “Excuse me?”
    â€œDidn’t you read the pamphlet?” He looked genuinely concerned.
    â€œThere’s no way the pamphlet says that.”
    Charlie seized my shoulders. “Did you, or did you not, read the pamphlet?”
    â€œI did not.”
    He feigned exasperation. “I need you to remember one thing, Rebecca. At the Shining Stars Summer Camp for Performing Arts, we value community over competition. Ensembles over starlets!”
    I nodded earnestly.
    â€œOur mission is to show these children the value of their authentic selves,” Charlie continued.
    â€œI thought it was theater camp,” I said.
    â€œIt is.”
    A raincoated woman began shouting orders through a megaphone. A kid nearby put a finger to his lips and shushed us, like we were going to miss vital information regarding how to board a bus.
    â€œSo nobody’s going to learn the value of their authentic selves,” I said. “They’re going to learn the value of pretending to be somebody else.” I thought this was pretty deep, for five in the morning anyway. Charlie half bowed, ushering me onto the bus.
    â€œWhy are you in such a good mood?” I asked. We chose seats toward the back.
    â€œIt’s summer. No honor societies. No speeches. No tests. No volunteer hours. No rehearsing every single night.”
    I was a little surprised. Charlie did not normally admit the awfulness of his overachiever’s schedule. “You’re about to spend the entire summer with eight-year-olds,” I pointed out.
    â€œBut I’m about to spend the next three hours sitting next to you.” His knee crashed into mine.
    The bus pulled out of the parking lot just as the sun was rising. On the highway it didn’t take long to get out of the city, but the scenery wouldn’t be terribly exciting until we got to the gorge, and even the gorge—with all of its looming cliffs and red rocks—was only as exciting as anything you’ve seen a thousand times. Most kids plugged into iPods or tried to sleep. For a while, Charlie attempted the same, leaning against my shoulder and closing his eyes. When I glanced down I could see the very top of his head, where his hair grew in a perfect spiral. He smelled like laundry soap and cinnamon gum—smells that made me ache in unmentionable places.
    But Charlie had consumed about a pint of coffee. After a few minutes he gave up on sleep and demanded we play a game.
    I hesitated. I had never really liked games.
    â€œWe will take turns saying things about ourselves, and then the other person has to guess whether the thing is true or false.”
    â€œAre you serious?” I had a pretty good idea of where this was going.
    He nodded. “You first.”
    â€œI’ve never ridden a horse.” It was the most benign truth I could think of.
    â€œGiven that you have participated in exactly one extracurricular in your entire life, I’m guessing that’s the truth.”
    I nodded. “Your turn.”
    â€œI’ve been to Sally’s Club.”
    â€œNo you haven’t.” Sally’s was the oldest, dingiest strip club downtown.
    â€œI really