Getting Over Jack Wagner by Elise Juska Read Free Book Online

calmly trapped it under a plastic shower caddy and set it free.
    Even Hannah’s enthusiasm couldn’t convince me to like Camp Mohawk. This wasn’t necessarily Mohawk’s fault; I just wasn’t all-girls camp material. I despised team sports. I preferred walking to running. I’d always been suspicious of marshmallows (what are they, exactly?). I missed boys and TV. I was painfully aware of the fact that Jack Wagner could have a hit single and I would have no idea. Perhaps it was only fitting that the single part of Mohawk to pique my interest was Dave: head swim instructor/rock star.
    Dave was the son of the Camp Directors: Flo, and a man who went by the name of Buzzy. Flo and Buzzy looked approximately alike: short, round, and pudgy, with matching visors and peeling noses. Somehow, they had managed to produce a son who was blond, tan, and rock hard, with hair that hung a little long and curled at the back of his neck like something dangerously pubic. Dave wore a tangle of rope and bead around his neck, nestling in the hollow of his brown throat. In general he, like me, exuded utter disinterest in and disdain for all things Mohawk, which only reinforced my growing conviction that we were totally in synch.
    The exception to my anti-Mohawk rule was the Saturday night bonfires. Each week, the entire camp gathered in a giant circle on the soccer field to eat s’mores and sing folk. The song list was carefully chosen to evoke premature nostalgia, a sadness that would mount over the weeks and come to a crazed, crying head in the last few days of camp. “Leaving on a Jet Plane.” “You’ve Got a Friend.” “Desperado” (for the mood, not the lyrics). The singing was led by none other than Dave, who played a mean six-string. When he sang he closed his eyes and, occasionally, bit his lip.
    Though most of my Rest Hours were spent scribbling madly in my diary about Dave, chances were slim he would have been able to pick me out of a lineup. It was difficult to single yourself out at a camp where everyone moved in herds and wore regulation orange T-shirts. It wasn’t until the last week—Day 23, to be exact—at Bunk Cherokee’s daily swim lesson, that I saw my chance.
    â€œListen up,” Dave said, with no emotion in his voice whatsoever. He was wearing his signature black shades, so it was impossible to tell if he was looking at us, through us, or was even awake. “Today we’re doing lifesaving.”
    This was the final phase of our month-long swim course, the culmination of three weeks of doggy-paddling and freestyling and listless dead man’s floating (a sport for which I’d discovered I had real talent).
    Then Dave yawned the magic words: “I need a volunteer to play the drowning victim.”
    Let me be clear: under normal circumstances, the word “volunteer” would have sent me running in the opposite direction, especially if it meant being on flat-chested, half-naked display in front of all my fellow Cherokees. But I knew this was a golden opportunity. I was pretty sure even fake drowning would involve some sort of fear and concern. Definitely, there would be physical contact.
    Casually, I offered my services: “Me! Dave! Over here! Pick me!”
    â€œFine.” He jerked a blond thumb in my general direction. “You.”
    Within seconds, I found myself plunged into the deep end of the Mohawk pool while the rest of the Cherokees ringed the edge to watch. I looked to Dave for instruction.
    â€œAct like you’re drowning,” Dave said.
    For several minutes, I splashed and flailed to the best of my ability, even croaked “Help! Help!” a few times for added effect. I was working on rolling my eyes back into my head when I saw the end of the metal lifesaving pole heading swiftly in my direction. I grabbed onto it with both hands, then went limp, flopping from the end as Dave towed me in toward shore. When I