Rob and Nick had just finished setting all of the tables for Sunday dinner. Work-week was over. The campers were coming that afternoon. The junior counselors walked toward the flag tower, a small square castle made of stone, the highest point in the camp. On their way up the stairs to watch for the incoming busses, Rob teased Nick, “You’ve been here a week, now. Maybe tonight’s the night.” 

Nick wanted to say, “Cut it out – or I’m telling.” But he stopped himself, realizing that he would sound like his younger brothers. Anyway, he asked himself, who would I “tell”? Everyone is in on hazing the new guy. This is a camp tradition. 

He turned to face Rob, a step below him. Their eyes were even for once. Nick might have to face initiation but he wasn’t going to be bullied. “I told you before, do what you gotta do. Just skip the hype.” 

A number of expressions played across Rob’s face in a split second: shock, unfamiliar respect, and finally, a predictable sneer as he sing-songed, “Tonight’s the night.” 

They both faced the arched gateway off the highway waiting for the busses to appear. Rob broke the silence. “The busses should be here any minute now. I wonder which senior campers will be back. A couple of them have been coming here everysummer for eight years and boy can they ride.” 

“I feel weird being a counselor to kids older than me,” Nick said. 

“We may be called counselors, but we’re just the kitchen help. Look at it this way. Those guys pay to go to camp. We get paid to go to camp. I know I’d never get here anyother way. I’ll wash dishes if that’s all it takes.” 

“Me too,” Nick agreed. 

A white Cadillac Seville wound its way up the sandy hill. 

“I bet that’s the Vogel brothers,” Rob said. “Lenny and Bruce – real pains.” 

Two boys, about ten and twelve respectively, shaped like fire hydrants, leaned against the car while their father lifted suitcases from the trunk. 

“Look at Bruce’s haircut,” Rob said. “Looks like a bird’s nest. Every summer their father drops them off on the first day, picks them up on the last, and they wet their beds every night in between.” 

Music blared over the loud speaker as the first bus pulled into the gate. Five mounted senior counselors escorted the caravan to the main parking lot. 

As the returning campers poured out, Rob provided a running commentary. “There’s Bobby Petzer,” he whined in a mocking voice, pointing to a narrow faced, slightly stoop-shouldered senior camper wearing a cowboy hat with the brim snapped up on one side. He seemed alone in the crowd.  

“Looks like he’s going to be wearing an Australian bush hat this summer,” Rob commented. “He’s the only guy who can ride Cutter bareback. Hell of a rider – but that’s all he can do. You can always count on him to find a way to mess up – never gets things quite right.” 

“Hey, Frank!” Rob yelled and waved at a camper wearing a buttoned down, starched shirt. Frank made a gun of his thumb and forefinger, and pointed it at Rob. 

“Frank O’Donnell,” Rob said. “Everybody’s friend – great rider.” Then he jumped down to help unload the bus. 

Nick followed Bobby Petzer’s bush hat as he separated from the crowd and headed down the hill toward the stable. If he was as good a horseman as people said he was, Nick wanted to meet him, learn from him. 

“Going to see Cutter?” Nick asked as he caught up to Bobby. 

Petzer’s eyes, which were the color of a faded blue shirt, seemed out of focus, as though he had been roused from a day dream. “Huh?” he asked. 

“I’m Nick Finazzo. A new junior counselor. I heard you can ride Cutter bareback.”  

Bobby mumbled unintelligibly, stooped to pick a wild strawberry, popped it into his mouth and continued walking. 

Nick stared after the short, blond ponytail as Petzer continued down the path. I guess he just doesn’t have time for lowly junior counselors, Nick thought. Well, we’re both going to be here all summer. There’s no rush. 

A couple of minutes later, dust and sand sprang into the air as Nick scrubbed the curry comb against the grain of Prince’s coat. Nick loved the powerful feel of massed muscle in the gelding’s withers. His left hand followed the path down the inside of the horse’s neck to his deep meaty chest. His right hand traced the curve of Prince’s back as it flowed into his prominent, quarter horse rump. Absorbed in the rhythm of brushing and stroking, he was surprised by a voice, two stalls down, talking softly. 

“Hey, girl. How you doing?” 

He saw a bush hat partially blocked by Cutter’s head. 

“Ooh, that saddle sore from last summer left a big scar. We gotta make sure they get all the wrinkles out of your blanket or you’re gonna be hurting again. Were you bored last winter? Huh? Did you miss me? Nobody to pay attention to you? I know how it is.” 

Petzer glanced up to find Nick watching. Both boys looked away, embarrassed. 

Nick gave two quick strokes with the brush, looked up to find Bobby staring at him. Not challenging. Simply standing tall, chin high, arms folded, implying “here’s me – what makes you so great?” 

Nick held eye contact, not allowing himself to blink or look away. I like this guy, he thought. He’s probably a year older than me and knows more about horses than I’ll ever learn but there’s something about him that says he needs help – someone to cover for him. A smile grew on Nick’s face – so what if he talks to horses?  

Junior counselors took turns riding shotgun on camper trail rides. But on the off chance that one of the JCs was late or didn’t show, Nick made sure he was around the stable grooming, bridling, saddling and generally getting in Mack’s face so he would just happen to be around to fill the empty slot. He picked up a few extra turns that way. 

One morning, Nick got to the stable just as a senior camper ride was coming in. Bobby Petzer and Frank O’Donnell trailed the group and took a quick turn into the corral. 

Bobby started doing figure eights with Cutter. Frank had Tara going in the opposite direction. Nick rested his arms on the top rail, fascinated by the beauty of two horses cantering at the same speed and passing in the middle. 

He listened to their chatter as they walked their horses through cool-down. “So we were tearing through the woods between the trails – remember?” Frank asked. “I was on Kip and – who were you riding?” 

“Scout, maybe, or Rosie,” Bobby responded. His snake-skin cowboy boots loomed large as they passed in front of Nick who buried the scuffed toes of his garagesale shoes in the sandy dirt. Nick thought about the seven or eight summers the two veterancampers spent learning about horses. He envied their opportunities. 

Frank caught Nick looking at him, pointed his finger gun at him and nodded. Nick nodded back as he watched the next round of campers straggle down the hill for their ride. Enjoy yourself, big guy, he thought. Some of us have to work around here. I’ve got to ride shotgun on the next trail ride. I’ve got responsibilities here. Got a job to do. 

A short, round camper with a bird’s nest haircut lagged behind. 

Nick saddled Apache, a gray pony just the right size for Bruce Vogel. As he pulled the cinch strap tight, Apache puffed up his gut. Bruce, in the meantime, leaned on the stall divider and whined, “Counselor took my 3DS and won’t let me play with it until rest period.” 

“Here,” Nick said, handing him the reins, “back your horse out.” 

Bruce grabbed the bridle roughly and Apache shied. 

“Hey, pay attention,” Nick scolded. “You know how to back a horse out of the stall. Now do it right.” 

With Apache in place, near the end of the line, Nick said, “Here, let me adjust the stirrups.” 

“No, I can do it,” Bruce whined. 

“All right, have it your way. See if I’m going to help. And put on your helmet.” 

The youngster fumbled with the buckles while Nick helped two other campers tighten cinches and mount up. Bruce was still struggling when Mack shouted, “Okay, guys, time to head out.” 

Nick unceremoniously boosted Bruce into the saddle, adjusted the stirrups, and hopped on Prince at the end of the line.