Copperhead

A single red-gold curl against the smooth milky expanse of an inner thigh. By the middle of summer, that skin would be bronze and dotted with freckles. Right now, the echo of winter still lingered. The contrast drew my eye like a magnet, and once I saw it, I couldn't look away. It had somehow found its way free of her lime green shorts and the panties beneath to shiver in the lake's cool breeze. My gaze crawled from it to the tiny shorts now straining against her body.

"Are we going all around the lake?"

I blinked, looking up into her face. Rachel Schoenstein was gorgeous, and I could only hope she hadn't caught me checking her out. She had the build of a collegiate volleyball player, with long legs and toned muscles only hidden by the last vestiges of baby fat. Her long red hair was bound up in a French braid, and I knew the instant she set it free, it would be a wild, thick mass of coppery waves. Her green eyes had a pleasant squint to them, while freckles stretched over her cheeks and across the bridge of her nose. Her lips were soft and red, and I fought to think of them as anything other than kissable. She'd been pretty when she'd been a counselor the previous summer. When she came back this year it was as a knockout.

She wore her camp counselor t-shirt, knotted at her waist, those tiny shorts, athletic socks pulled up her calf and some old Nikes. She was the picture of style in the year of our lord 1982.

"Boone?" she prompted, and I realized that I was once again staring, but at least this time it was at her mouth. Everyone called me by my last name. I've never really known why.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah. I just want to do a once over, make sure everything's how we left it. Campers get here in the morning."

"You worried about Sport?" she teased.

"You're not?"

She laughed. "Maybe when I was like twelve. That was always the best part of camp, when we'd do the night hunts for him. Fun and scary. I really thought we'd get him a couple times."

I was grateful that I hadn't been a counselor here when she was a kid. Might be harder to see her as she was now. We had a decade between us. I didn't need a reason to feel older than I already did.

"I think the campers have an excellent chance of catching him this year," I said soberly.

"That's what I thought every year." She smiled, gazing out over the surface of the lake. My attention fell to her thigh, where the single curl of pubic hair rested, as red as her lovely braid. I forced myself to turn around, paddling the canoe. She sat behind me, and I felt her attention on my back. I had always had a lean build, but I'd spent a year doing roofs as a day job. I'd put on some muscle since the previous summer.

The summers at Camp Sunfish were the best part of the year. Three months in the outdoors, a new batch of campers every two weeks. Canoeing on the lake, arts and crafts, nature hikes, swimming, archery, it was a three-month vacation.

A sorely needed vacation after the upheaval in my life. I was looking forward to showing the kids a great time and not thinking about grown-up problems at all.

And then Rachel stepped off the bus. It took me a second to recognize her, since she'd grown an inch or two and put on some muscle mass. The red hair gave her away. I figured she had already done all the blooming she was going to do. Apparently, I had been wrong.

We made the circuit of the lake and returned to camp's the narrow dock. I hopped out into the shallow water, my bare feet sinking into the lake mud. I dragged the canoe to the shore and Rachel stepped out onto dry land, flashing me a grateful smile. She took the stern and I pushed from the back, getting the vessel all the way out of the water and onto the shore. My eyes were glued on Rachel, her long legs disappearing into those tiny green shorts. I could see the crease at the base of her ass, where the fabric tightly cupped her mound. Here, a few more of her red-gold hairs peeked out, as though beckoning to me. I realized then that I was painfully hard. I needed to go take care of myself.

We got the canoe up on shore. I grabbed my shirt from the bow seat and held it as casually as I could in front of my crotch.

"What are you up to?" Rachel asked.

I nodded to my cabin, about twenty yards down the shore. As one of the senior counselors, I had my own little one-room cabin at the edge of the trees within sight of the dock. "Thought I'd grab a nap before dinner."

"You coming to the night swim?" Another tradition, this one for the junior counselors. The night before campers arrived, they would take to the water. That was when the relationships and attractions that would span their summers would spark.

"That's more for you guys than me."

"You're like one of us."

"Never can tell." I wanted to get away from Rachel. Finish myself off and stop mooning over a college girl. I waved as I jogged up the path to my cabin. "See you at dinner!"

I let myself in to my cabin. The air could get a little close inside, and the best way to combat that was leave the lake-facing front door and the forest-facing back window open for a cross breeze, and trust the screens to keep out the bugs. But I wanted privacy even if I did cook myself a little.

I sat down on my cot, took my shorts down, and as I stroked myself to completion, all I could think of was that single red-gold hair against the smooth skin of Rachel Schoenstein's inner thigh. I could only hope this would exorcise my desire.

I sat on the tiny front porch of the cabin, leaning back in my chair. The junior counselors frolicked in the water, splashing and laughing and carrying on. The night was warm, and I wore only my shorts.

They were silhouettes by the light of the full moon. Rachel would be down there, and though the idea of her growing close to one of the guys down there turned my stomach, I knew it was the right thing for the both of us.

The longer I sat there, the more I wanted to go down to the shore, find Rachel and do something that would get me fired. What I needed was to do something else that would get me fired. I went inside and shut the door. Hidden in the bottom of my footlocker, in the back of my shaving kit, was a small bag filled with grass. A card, decorated with a very stoned turtle winked at me from the lip of the bag.

"You said it, buddy," I told the turtle. There was enough in there for a joint every two weeks, which I'd smoke on the nights after one set of campers left and the next arrived. I rolled my first one, then went to the back window. Then I lit up drawing the fragrant smoke into my lungs. The high came on me subtly, the reason I liked this particular strain. It always calmed me right down and made me feel like I was walking on my dreams. I blew the smoke out the window, where it would vanish into the night and no one would be the wiser.

A knock sounded at my door. I froze, a mouthful of smoke puffing my cheeks. I had the momentary thought of just not answering.

Nobody in here but us mice.

Wouldn't work; the light was on. Whoever was out there knew I was home. I blew the smoke out the window. "Yeah?" I croaked.

"Boone, it's me." Rachel's voice.

I cursed under my breath, licked my fingers and killed the joint, waving what smoke lingered in the general direction of the window, and then tucked the joint onto the windowsill where it wouldn't be seen. Satisfied that it was as hidden as I could make it, I opened the front door.

Rachel stood on my porch, her hair hanging wetly around her shoulders. She wore a yellow bikini, bows on the hips. I knew those weren't functional, but they made me think that if I pulled them, the scraps of cloth would fall away, leaving Rachel nude and perfect. My daydreams would be made flesh in a whisper of fabric.

"Hey! We're all down at the lake. Aren't you coming?"

I laughed, then wondered if my laugh actually sounded weird or that was the grass talking. "I told you, that's for you, not old guys like me."

"You're not old, you're..." she paused, a frown creasing her face as her train of thought made it to an entirely different station. "Holy shit, is that weed?"

I shushed her. "Not so loud!"

Her green eyes sparkled. "It is weed!" she exclaimed, keeping her voice down. "Can I have some?"

"You trying to get me fired?"

"I

could

talk to Jerry," she said, naming the head counselor. She stuck her hip out insouciantly and rested a hand on it. Her fingers brushed the bow, and I had an image of the bottom coming undone, an inch of untanned flesh at a time. "Or you could give me a drag on what you're smoking," she finished.

"Fine, get in here," I said, waving her in like I was telling her to slide into home.

She squeezed past me. The cabins were small, not really built for more than one person at a time. We weren't really supposed to have company. As she brushed past, I felt her skin, cold from the lake and prickled with gooseflesh, a relief in the sultry night. I watched her rear move under the thin yellow fabric, the cleft of her buttocks maddeningly visible, then invisible, then visible again.

She turned, cocking a hip like she was imitating a pose she'd seen in one of those old detective magazines. "Well?"

"It's..." I said, then I went to it. She turned to make way for me, and we were inches apart as I retrieved the joint from the still. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to feel the other's body heat. I fought to keep my hands from trembling as I concentrated on lighting the joint back up. I pulled a cherry back on it and handed it over. "Blow it out the window."

I watched her lips close around the thin paper cylinder, sucking the cherry bright red, the musk closing around us. Her chest puffed out, bare inches from mine. She blew the mouthful of smoke out the window and passed the joint back. "Good shit," she said.

I imagined I could taste her lips on the end as I sucked the smoke into my lungs. Now I was thinking of that damned hair. I wondered if it was there, even now, poking from her bikini bottom. Before, two layers of fabric had shielded her. Now it was just the one. Wet from the lake and stuck to her skin.

"I gotta sit down," I muttered, feeling my cock begin to strain against the fly of my cutoffs. I settled on my bed, leaning against the wall. After a moment, to my horror, Rachel settled down next to me. Her bare shoulder brushed mine. Between the two of us, we were wearing about enough cloth to make a shirt, and not an especially big one. Her long legs stretched out, but her thighs were together. I followed the curve of her body, down to the triangle of yellow cloth at the apex of her thighs.

"I didn't think I'd be getting high when I came over here," she said with a giggle.

"I'm a bad influence."

I tore my eyes from her to stare at the far wall of the cabin. The last guy had drawn KILROY WAS HERE along with the big-nosed cartoon peering over a wall. Kilroy was getting a hell of a show with the goddess on my bed. Even as I thought it, my eyes kept drifting to that triangle. It would be wet. Settling over her body. Outlining her. Displaying her.

"Oh, you're not the only one who brought grass," she said. "You're just the only one who brought good stuff."

"Best I can afford anyway."

She looked over at the corner, where my easel waited. A sketchpad, so far blank, sat on it. "What's that for?"

"I'm an artist." I blanched. It felt like a lie, and I didn't want to lie to her. "I'm a roofer who paints."

"Paints what?"

"Whatever they let me."

"Oh, that's why you run arts and crafts on painting day."

I touched my nose. "Got it in one. Where do they have you?"

She rolled her eyes. "Copperhead Cabin."

"Yeah, somebody was having fun with the assignments."

"I'm just lucky there isn't a Carrot Top Cabin."

I laughed, and the grass drew the mirth out of me in bubbly waves. Rachel looked over and broke as well. When the laughter started to die, she said, "I thought you were married."

I glanced involuntarily at my hand. The tan line still wrapped around my ring finger. It'd be gone by the end of summer, but for now, it was still there, a pale reminder. I clenched my hand, as though I could still feel the band of gold. "I was," I said.

"What happened?"

"We wanted different things...just glad we figured that out before we had kids," I said. "People change. Perils of marrying young." Wanda didn't want a roofer with delusions of an art career who wasted his summer gluing macaroni to paper plates. Not her exact words, but close enough for government work.

"She messed up. You're easily the coolest counselor here."

"Yeah, I don't think giving weed to an eighteen-year-old speaks to my fitness as a husband."

"I'm nineteen."

"I feel like maybe you didn't get the point of what I said."

She smacked my arm, taking a drag on the joint and handing it back. She scooted off the bed and stood, and I stared up at the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen up close. "You gonna come swimming?"

I had never wanted to do anything more in my life. "I can't, Rach."

"Yeah, okay," she said. "Thanks for the grass." Then she left me to my solitude. I touched the bed, where it was slightly damp from her body.

Copperhead Cabin was on the north side of camp, and it meant that Rachel and her co-counselor had to corral twenty seven- and eight-year-olds. Around that time the staff started calling her Copperhead and the name stuck, though I don't think she appreciated it. We spoke a few times over the next two weeks, but it was only in passing.

Campers leave on Saturday mornings and the new ones arrive Monday through the day. In theory, we're supposed to straighten up the camp in preparation for them over those one and a half days. In practice, we mostly rest on Saturday and get our asses in gear on Sundays. On those Sundays I've never been more exhausted than my life, but it was the good kind, when the sun pulls the strength from you, and layers of sweat are cool on your skin, when sleep comes easily and the dreams are velvet. When you've spent a day giving kids happy memories they'll carry with them the rest of their lives, you've never felt so deserving of fatigue.

The Sunday morning after our first round of campers, I rose early. The showers were at the north end of camp, shielded by trees. They were a series of stalls, the wood blocking the few of a person from knee to shoulder. The water was warmed by the sun and cold by any normal standards, but when it came time to compare that to the icy water of the lake, it felt like a hot tub. At camp, you showered once a week. The funny thing is, after a little time, you stopped thinking of body odor as inherently bad. Maybe it was the fresh air, or the nature of the labor, or simply some kind of returning to basics, but it became a natural part of life. You started to notice that everyone had a different odor, some more pleasant than others.

I arrived at the shower to find to my surprise that one was already in use. A line of red hair, slicked down, a pair of hands tanned bronze and dotted with freckles washing the soap from it. Of course it was Rachel. At the time, I marveled at the odds. At the time, I was very good at missing the obvious.

I immediately forgot what I was doing. Rachel turned to face the spray, her eyes closed. The water caressed her smooth skin and I watched the rivulets run down her neck to disappear behind the wood barrier. The showers were on a plateau by design, no way to peer down into them, unless you wanted to scale the most treacherous trees in camp. That didn't mean that someone didn't try it every year, and it never ended well though in that moment I had a crazy impulse to give it a shot.

She rinsed off, and her time with the shower was finished. She blinked away the water beading on her eyelashes and her gaze fell on me. She broke into a wide smile. "Hey," she said, grabbing her towel from where it was folded over the wooden border and dried herself off. It was maddening being unable to see her. She wrapped her hair in the towel like a beehive, and when she stepped out, she was in her camp t-shirt and shorts. The fabric clung to her damp skin, giving me glimpses, but nothing more.

"I didn't think anybody would be up this early," I said.

"Best time for a shower," she said, and made her way up the path, her hips swinging. As we passed on the path, she touched my arm. "Got any more of that weed?"

"Maybe."

She stuck her lower lip out. "What's a poor girl have to do to get high?"

I laughed. "Rach, c'mon. If I start getting known as the weed guy, I'm gonna lose my job."

"I haven't told anybody, Boone. I wouldn't do that to a friend. Especially a friend who shares his weed." I resolutely looked her in the eye even as her shirt stuck to her breasts, outlining one of her nipples.

I sighed. I couldn't refuse her if I tried. "Okay, after lights out, meet me at the Overlook, okay? Nobody will see us out there."

"Okay," she said brightening. "I'll see you then."

"See you then, Copperhead."

She groaned, but as she turned, I caught the ghost of a smile. I watched her head back up the trail. The cloth of her shorts might as well have been my attention, the way it cupped the supple flesh, lost its grip, and tried again. The bottom of her buttocks, a sweet seam at the apex of her leg, peeked in and out of view. When she was gone, I stepped into the shower. I was daydreaming that my allotment ran out before I got all the way clean.

I cleaned up the arts and crafts station and checked over the canoes, the whole time in a haze of need. I wasn't going to try anything with Rachel, but just to be around her was enough. The warmth of her presence would have to be enough for me. Let the summer end and I could forget about this schoolboy crush.

The staff of Camp Sunfish formed three basic groups. There was the year-round staff, the administration and head counselors. There was the senior seasonal staff like me, the in-the-field counselors and custodial staff. Last, there was the junior seasonal staff like Rachel, high school and college kids picking up money and experience over their summer break. In the dining hall, we all kept to our own groups. An unspoken thing, though some of it was age. I got my tray of food, carted it over to my group of friends. On the way, the wave of copper drew my eyes.

Rachel was impossible to miss, especially when her hair was down. The waves of red tumbling down her back and over her shoulders called attention without trying. She met my eyes like she had been waiting and her lips quirked in a secret smile. My heart gave a kick. I started eating, and every time I looked up, Rachel was watching me, her green eyes sparkling.

"Earth to Boone," my friend Craig said. He was a balding guy who looked like a high school football coach and was in charge of anything that could put out an eye.

"Hey, sorry, yeah. Just thinking about the next class."

"Sure, yeah," Craig said, turning his head to the direction of my attention. I put my head down and ate. He was talking about jobs when we went back to our lives, but I could barely hear him. Rachel was in my mind. Rachel on the canoe, Rachel in her bikini, Rachel in her towel.

I finished with dinner, bussed my tray, and hustled back to my cabin. I quickly rolled a joint, pocketing it, and then I was left to wait. I sat down to paint, but all I could think of was Rachel. I wanted to paint her hair, that changed color whenever the sun hit it. Copper in the dark, bright red-gold in the sun. The first person who poked their head in would see me painting a junior counselor. That would end about as well as when Sean Ryan climbed the trees over the shower and broke his arm in three places.

Instead I paced, then went outside to the little porch, staring at the water, willing the sun to set. It went with aching, perverse slowness. The lake refused to swallow it, and I momentarily had the thought that it would spit the sun itself out.