Camper Girl

Contents

Camper Girl

Copyright © 2020 Glenn Erick Miller. All rights reserved.

Dedication

1. Happy Birthday to Me...Not

2. Lost and Found

3. Blind Spot

4. Dolphin

5. River of Tears

6. Signs, Signs, Signs

7. What's Left Behind

8. Open Road

9. Jump Start

10. Into the Wild

11. Maps and Legends

12. Traffic Jam

13. Mountain Girl

14. Detours

15. The Road Within

16. From This Point On

17. Pavement

18. Standstill

19. Fish Out of Water

20. The Art of Letting Go

21. Two Lanes

22. Falling and Rising

23. The Long Way Home

24. You and You

Acknowledgments

Camper Girl

Glenn Erick Miller

Fitzroy Books

Copyright © 2020 Glenn Erick Miller. All rights reserved.

Published by Fitzroy Books

An imprint of

Regal House Publishing, LLC

Raleigh, NC 27612

All rights reserved

https://fitzroybooks.com

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN -13 (paperback): 9781646030088

ISBN -13 (hardcover): 9781646030491

ISBN -13 (epub): 9781646030354

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020930405

All efforts were made to determine the copyright holders and obtain their permissions in any circumstance where copyrighted material was used. The publisher apologizes if any errors were made during this process, or if any omissions occurred. If noted, please contact the publisher and all efforts will be made to incorporate permissions in future editions.

Interior and cover design by Lafayette & Greene

lafayetteandgreene.com

Cover images © by C.B. Royal

Author photo by Sara Miller

Regal House Publishing, LLC

https://regalhousepublishing.com

The following is a work of fiction created by the author. All names, individuals, characters, places, items, brands, events, etc. were either the product of the author or were used fictitiously. Any name, place, event, person, brand, or item, current or past, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Regal House Publishing.

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

To Mom and Dad, for taking us camping

1. Happy Birthday to Me...Not

The last time I saw Aunt Rebecca, she asked me to leave with her. It was my seventeenth birthday, and she’d stayed for a week like always. We hiked through the woods and swam in hidden streams. We hit thrift stores where we shopped for clothes for my senior year—a green fishing hat, a pair of yellow hi-tops, ripped jeans two sizes too big. She woke me early to drive the roads of rural northern New York before the morning fog lifted.

And on the final night of her visit, Rebecca came to my room, shot me a playful look, and climbed out my bedroom window.

I crawled across my bed to watch her.

Rebecca perched on the middle of the roof like a bird ready to take flight. Glancing back over her shoulder, she motioned for me to follow.

I shook my head.

This was classic Rebecca. Whether it was driving to Albuquerque because she liked how the word felt on her lips or jumping a fence to pet a cow, she filled her life with spontaneity and adventure. She was a magician, and I was just another kid in the crowd trying to figure out her tricks.

Come on, Shannon, she said. What if this was your last night on Earth? What better way to spend it than stargazing with your favorite aunt?

I straddled the window sill with one foot on the asphalt shingles and the other safely planted on my bedroom floor. This is as far as I go.

After a long silence, Rebecca said, Shannon, come out with me.

I laughed. No. I told you. I can see just fine from here.

She turned to face me, raising her eyebrows. My mother did the same thing when she was about to say something important.

"Not now, she said. I mean out there. She nodded toward the road and to the Adirondacks beyond. A twist of red hair fell across her cheek. Come with me on the road."

I laughed again because she sounded like some kind of touring rock star. From the postcards she had sent me over the years, she may as well have been a jet-setting celebrity. Heck, maybe she was. She could have been living a double-life, full of disguises and secrets, for all I knew.

But Rebecca didn’t smile or look away. I’m serious.

I felt bad for laughing. This was important, and I had missed the clue. I was embarrassed, too. The last thing I wanted was for the coolest aunt in the world to think I was just another awkward teenager.

I have another year of school, I said, looking past her at the dark sky. A shiver ran through me, but I didn’t know if that meant I was terrified or excited about her proposal.

There are options. I’ve looked into it. You can take classes online for free. All you need is a parent’s okay.

That’ll be easy, I said, rolling my eyes. "Mom would never sign off on something so crazy—and it is crazy. Besides, she needs my help."

Above us, pinpricks of starlight dotted the darkening sky.

Your folks tell me the craft store isn’t doing well.

There are a lot of bills.

Shannon?

I was still looking at the sky, hoping to spot a shooting star. Rebecca crawled back up the roof and settled beside me, taking my hand in hers.

The coolness of her skin was a shock. She uncurled my fingers and set a small box in my palm. She looked at me, and I looked back. We stayed that way for a long time, with her gazing into my eyes as if she were searching for something.

Happy birthday, she said, finally, her eyes glistening.

***

One year later, on the evening of my eighteenth birthday, I climbed out my bedroom window and sat on the roof shingles. A breeze blew across the corn fields, bringing with it the sweet and sour mixture of freshly cut crops and cow manure. In the distance, beneath an overcast and darkening sky, sat my little hometown of Stillridge, New York. Beyond that, a single red light blinked atop a cell tower. I grasped my silver pendant necklace, Rebecca’s gift from her last visit. It was the size of a quarter and bore the rough imprint of a compass rose.

I wished Rebecca had a phone, but she was old-school. Not even our concern about her safety could change her mind. I got one of those prepaid things, she’d told us once. Lost it the very same day. Just wasn’t meant to be, I guess. If I ever need anything, I’ll find a way to call. I promise.

That put my mind at ease; Rebecca always kept her promises. For as long as I could remember, she showed up each August. Even if she had been thousands of miles away, she made it home for my birthday.

Except for this time.

My stomach churned with worry.

In the last several months, Rebecca’s letters had become strange and cryptic. Her usual detailed stories from the road turned into abstract observations on life. She rambled about things like thankfulness and being centered. She drew spirals and strange symbols in the margins, and she dropped hints that something big was happening. There is something important we need to talk about, she wrote in January. And in March, I promise we’ll talk soon.

So, for my eighteenth birthday, all I wanted was to see Rebecca and know that she was all right.

But her absence wasn’t the only thing that had me on edge. Everything else was different, too. I’d graduated in June. While I had never loved school, each fall, I’d looked forward to being a year older and beginning a new grade; I’d looked forward to shopping for school clothes, receiving my new class schedule, and the buzz of excitement on the first day.

Now, there was none of that.

The air grew cold, but instead of heading inside, I slid farther down the roof, away from the safety of the window. I hated heights, and the thought of slipping over the edge made me tremble. But it made me feel brave, too, and that made me feel more connected to Rebecca, as if I could reach her across the coming darkness. I was a high-school grad with a murky future. I knew that talking to Rebecca would help me see things more clearly.

Unlike most of my classmates, I wasn’t going to college. Instead, I was staying home to help my mother re-open her craft shop. She’d gotten evicted from her rented storefront on Main Street, and now the plan was to renovate our garage and have a grand re-opening before the holidays. In the meantime, we had stacked bins of fabric, beads, and paints in the house.

The craft business wasn’t my dream, but I couldn’t just leave my mother to fend for herself. I was eight when she opened the store, and I had worked alongside her since. Business was brisk in the beginning, but sales dried up when the area paper mills began to close, and people moved south. Eventually, the shop barely made enough to cover the bills, and I slipped the cash she gave me every Friday back into the register.

At sixteen, I got a job at the Roadway Mart, the only convenience store in Stillridge, which allowed me to pay my own way—phone, car insurance, gas. And after my dad got laid off from the mill, I took on extra shifts, so I could help Mom and Dad with groceries and a few household bills.

All the while, college felt like a distant conversation, something other people talked about. Besides not having the money, I didn’t have a clue as to what I would have studied. While my classmates seemed to have their futures mapped out, I couldn’t see past what was in front of my face—work, bills, and more work.

A chilly gust blew, and I shivered. I hoped to see headlights in the distance, a sign of Rebecca’s arrival. I made a silent wish to a star hidden behind the clouds. As if in response, the sky opened up with a steady rain. Scrambling back toward the window, I tumbled into my room, my clothes wet. I cursed the bad weather, but it was just as well. I couldn’t just sit and wait all night.

I had a birthday party to go to.

***

Dozens of blue bins lined the dining room walls, remnants of the craft store.

Five of us huddled around the old harvest table: me; my parents; my best friend, Jess; and Kenny, my long-time friend, one-time crush, and ex-boyfriend.

I’m sorry it isn’t much, my mother said, taking a slice of pizza and dotting it with hot sauce. Things are just so busy lately, you know. She took a nibble and set the slice back on her paper plate, her gaze falling on the supply bins. My father reached over and rubbed her arm. Between moving Mom’s business and Dad getting laid off and working a bunch of odd jobs to make ends meet, they were both exhausted.

No worries, I said. I didn’t want a big birthday party anyway—just some time with friends and family.

You seem down, Jess said, leaning into me. What’s up?

I looked at the clock and hoped Rebecca was okay. She had never been this late to my birthday before. I’m fine. There’s just a lot of changes to digest.

Changes, right, Jess said.

I reached into the pizza box, grabbed two slices of pepperoni, and set them on opposite edges of my plate. In a few days, you’ll be off to Buffalo, I said to Kenny. And you, I nodded to Jess, you’ll be off to Albany, and I’ll be here… I took a chicken wing and plopped it in the center of the plate. In between.

So, you’re a chicken? Kenny chuckled.

No. Something caught in my throat. I took a gulp of Coke, hoping the carbonation would hide the real reason for my tears. It means I’ll miss you two.

Jess picked up the wing and took a bite. Come on, Shan, don’t be glum. 

I’m not. I craned my head to peer out the window. No sign of Rebecca. I fingered the compass pendant again.

Jess nudged me. Hey, this is a party, right? she asked. Cheer up. Here. From the pocket of her denim jacket, she pulled out a small envelope that she’d decorated with lyrics, floating musical notes, and her latest doodle obsession: mountains with cat faces. Her fingers were long and nimble, the nails coated with glossy black polish.

The song lyrics kind of give it away, but I wanted to spruce things up.

Thanks. I’m going to guess it’s either an iTunes gift card…or a baby elephant. That got a few chuckles.

No problem. It’s about time you broke your Taylor Swift habit.

Hey! I exclaimed with mock surprise. You used to like her, too.

Yeah, when I was eleven. Jess laughed. But it’s your birthday present. You download whatever you want. She turned to Kenny, who was rummaging through the pizza boxes. Who’s next? she asked. When he didn’t respond, she cleared her throat.

What? he said. Oh, right. My turn.

Kenny pushed a small bag my way, and I studied his face. When did he start growing a beard? Sometimes when I looked at him, he felt more familiar than anyone I knew, and other times, like now, he could have been a total stranger—some random kid who’d wandered into our house, drawn in by the scent of pepperoni.

When I reached for the box, our fingers touched. I won’t say there were sparks or anything corny like that, but I felt a sort of echo of Christmas, of holding hands and kissing. We had gone on three official dates—two movies and the winter formal—before we (okay, he) decided it was best if we went back to being friends. I said okay.

What else could I say?

The side of the box read Fit-bit.

For keeping track of your exercise and…weight.

Jess sighed, and my folks fidgeted.

Not that I think you need to lose weight. I mean, hey, look at me. Kenny patted his stomach, which he had turned from flab to a six-pack in the last eight months. I’ll help you install the app later. You’ve been saying all summer that you want to start working out.

You’re right, I have. Thanks.

Something inside of me soured.

Before we’d tried dating, Kenny had been the kind of friend who would ride his bike five miles to see me when I was sick, who would bring flowers to school after stuck-up Amber creamed me in our school elections, and who would keep me company when I worked a full Saturday at the deadly dull craft store. This gift seemed different. On other occasions, he had been trying to make me happy—now it felt like he was trying to make me different.

Shannon? My mother slid a wide, shallow box toward me, decorated with her signature hand-printed paper. I smiled as she reached across to squeeze my arm. I hope you like it, she said. Eighteen is a big milestone.

The box made me nervous. Money wasn’t just tight, it was non-existent, so I expected something small. Something handmade. Definitely not something worthy of a milestone or of an elaborately wrapped gift box. I opened the box to find a framed certificate, with the words Certificate of Ownership printed at the top in big letters. I’d seen this before in the craft store, hanging behind the cash register. Mom would polish the frame’s glass while everything else in the shop gathered dust. There had always been one name on the paper: Laura Rose Burke.

Now, there were two names: Mom’s and mine.

"I know the business is in trouble, but we can turn things around, you and me. We’ll get a website and