I claimed a cot inside a canvas hut. I decided to quickly shove my stuff under it and shoo mom away by assuring her I was fine now. But she lingered. She spread out my sleeping bag and fluffed my pillow and gushed over how quaint everything was and how my counselor was cute. This was embarrassing.

After she said goodbye, and she would miss me, I began to look around. My hut mates were all supposed to be my age, but one looked old enough to shave. There was the Boy Scout, who had state-of-the-art gear, the Farm boy all in plaid, the City Slicker with 4 pairs of shoes and an RL polo. The Hairy one, full of testosterone. And me. The Sarcastic.

Our counselors gathered us for a welcome activity and rules speech. We were supposed to make name signs for our cots that reflected our likes or interests. I doodled in black sharpie around my scrawled name. It was illegible, but no one cared.

There were not only 5 guys in our Family Group, but 5 girls. I had time to check them out while doodling around my name. Yikes.