I was at music camp. I felt like a nerd for going to camp at fourteen years old, but Camp Red Acorn Palm was so much fun. It got its name from all the red acorn palm trees that grew there. I’ve encountered so many people at that camp. I met my best friend, Corey, at CRAP almost five years ago. “, letter,” mumbled my camp counselor. She always seemed displeased when we got notes from our family back in Tucson. It’s like she never had kids so she’s adopted us. Her children mustn’t have their real parents budding in. Tut tut. I’m scared she’s going to kidnap me and force me to make her mother’s day cards or something.

I quickly grabbed my letter and plopped back in my seat. I hate getting letters. You have to walk the length of the cafeteria, the whole thing, with everyone staring at you. With everyone analyzing every inch of you. I can’t handle it. Rebecca Rennison. The letter’s from mom.

Dearest Charlotte,

            Camp is going well I assume. Your father and I are redecorating the upstairs and I really do need the color palette for your room. I know we asked you last time I wrote, but you haven’t responded yet. A lemon yellow and Lime green would be best. Or maybe chocolate brown and strawberry cheesecake pink? We could…

It continued to go on about God knows what. The one good thing about camp is being able to utterly ignore my parents. All my mom cares about are paint colors named after food and potpourri and lacey pillows. I can’t talk to my dad either. All he cares about are stocks and Armani suits and leather briefcases. My life is utterly pathetic.