CLARISA

      MY MOM ASKS me how I’m feeling seven times on the way to camp. We have just left the house. She manages to merge safely onto the freeway before she looks over at me, eyebrows furrowed, and lets the words escape: “How are you feeling, honey?” She has been dying to ask this ever since we pulled out of the driveway, I know, and I feel bad for not being able to give her the answer she wants. But I also know that if I say anything resembling the truth—even if it’s something perfectly normal, like “a little nervous,” or “kind of apprehensive,” or, God forbid, “I’m kind of scared”—we will talk about it for the next three hours, until we get to camp. We will talk about it until we have rehashed every single conversation we have ever had about “stepping out of my comfort zone” or “trying something new.” We will talk about it until the sound of her voice makes me want to collapse and I have to put my head between my hands and count, very carefully, over and over again, just to get my heart rate back down. //

      “I’m fine,” I say, and turn my gaze to the mile markers flying by outside the window. 23 (bad). 24 (bad). 25 (good). There’s something comforting in the numbers. There’s something stable and predictable and real. There always has been. //

      I know it’s unfair for me to blow off her concern like this, but it’s hard to feel sympathy when I know that she knows exactly how I feel. How many times have I told her that the point of not having friends is that there’s never anyone dragging me out of the house to places I never wanted to go to in the first place? Or that I’m perfectly happy to stay in my room all summer rereading the Harry Potter series from start to finish for the twelfth time? I don’t know how much fun she expects me to have at this camp, but I can pretty much guarantee that it’s not going to be as much fun as Harry Potter discovering a whole other, magical world. And learning the true meaning of family for the first time in his life. And, oh, yeah, defeating Lord Voldemort, like, six times. The only problem is, I don’t think my mom considers living vicariously to qualify as, well, actual “living.” //

      “You doing okay?” my mom says when she can’t stand the quiet any longer. “Do you want some water? There’s some in the backseat.” 26 (bad). 27 (really bad). 28 (good). “I’m fine, Mom,” I say. //

      Mile 45. “Are you sure you don’t want anything to drink? Or eat? Are you feeling okay? You barely ate anything this morning.” Stop, I want to say. I barely ate anything this morning because it was 6:00 a.m. and I could barely muster up the motor function to walk to the table. //

      Mile 57. “Clarisa?” “I’m fine.” We are an hour into the drive and a familiar note of concern has entered my mom’s voice. Outside, the buildings of New York City have dissolved into endless forests of deciduous trees. They cling to each other, branches locked together, roots trawling the dirt for space. I count the number of trees in every overcrowded cluster we drive by and feel the numbers fill my head, pushing the anxiety away: eight trees, ten trees, seven trees. //

      “Drink some water, Clarisa,” my mom says. “You’re probably dehydrated. I don’t want you to get sick—” “—six, four, twelve, four, six,” I interrupt. “What?” she says. “The trees,” I respond. “They cluster together—I was counting them.” //

      My mom bites her lip, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. I watch her blink rapidly—one, two, three. I feel bad for her, I really do. “You’re going to get dehydrated before camp even starts,” she says, starting to sound desperate. “I’m fine,” I repeat. Eight, nine, four—“What the heck, Mom!” //

      My mom takes one hand off the wheel and reaches into the backseat, trying to feel her way to the water bottles. We are going sixty miles an hour on a busy highway, and I can practically see her saying, “Screw it all,” for the sake of getting me a flipping water bottle. “Mom!” I shout. I reach into the backseat and grab a water bottle myself before she can get us both killed. “What the heck are you doing? Are you trying to kill me before we even make it to camp?” The sheer terror in my voice must get to her, because my mom snaps her arm back, replaces her hand on the steering wheel, and takes a deep breath. //

      “I just don’t want you to be dehydrated,” she says, so controlled that it’s almost scary. Her eyes are blazing. “This is not about me being dehydrated, and you know it!” I respond. “Honey, stop,” my mom says. “Aren’t you excited for camp?” I stare at her for a second. She is fighting so hard. //

      “Honey? How are you feeling?” I can feel the still-unopened water bottle in my hand. There’s a part of me that wants to squeeze it until the plastic crumples under my grip and water bursts everywhere. Instead, I turn around and look back out the window—back to the mile markers, back to the trees. Back to the numbers. I can practically hear the fight go out. //

      Sixty-six miles later, my mom finally breaks the silence. “I’m sorry I snapped at you,” she says. She sounds exhausted. “Are you okay?” I tell her I’m glad she asked. I mean it, too. There is nothing comfortable about silence between two people who have too much to say to each other to speak. //

      It’s not long until the first sign for the camp appears. Camp Ugunduzi, it says, Next exit. My mom’s breath and mine catch at the same time. I put my hand on her arm, partially to reassure her, and partially to stop myself from shaking. “You packed sunscreen, right?” she says. “And bug spray? And Band-Aids?” //

      “It’s going to be fine, Mom,” I say. But that’s another one of those things that neither of us really knows how to believe. So instead of talking, we just sit and watch as the camp grounds come into view. First there’s the main housing building, directly ahead of the parking lot, painted a hideous shade of bright yellow that makes it impossible to miss. Behind it, a lake unfurls, water sparkling in the sunlight. There are picnic tables scattered across the grass in front of the building and a volleyball court in the distance. And then we’re parked, unmoving, and I should be getting out of the car, I should be grabbing my suitcase from the trunk, I should be doing something, for goodness’ sake, but all I can think of is my mother’s voice, her question echoing in my head over and over and over again. //

      Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay? And just like that, I can’t breathe. //

      “Um, Mom,” I say. My voice comes out shrill and uneven, which of course makes me feel even worse. “Oh, honey,” my mom says. She looks so touched. “Don’t be nervous. Ashley has sent someone here every year since they started the program and never had a bad experience, and Dr. Manning says the Zoloft should be kicking in over the next two weeks, too, so there’s nothing to—” “That’s not it,” I say. //

      I close my eyes. “I need you—” I start, before a wave of panic rises in my chest and crushes the sentence. “I need you to...to ask me again.” “What?” she says. Breathe, I tell myself. And then again. And again, and again, and again, and again, and again. //

      “I just need you to ask me again,” I say through gritted teeth. “How I am. You asked six times,