Almost Crimson. Dasha Kelly

through the heavy tension of their small group with a discussion on “trust.” The open forum devolved into a sharp indictment of CeCe’s deliberate trick to scare Tonia.

      “You know she’s scared of spiders,” one girl barked.

      “You were just on that pathway, so you knew the spider web was there,” insisted another.

      “What if she had been bitten?” Hoot even asked.

      “That’s why don’t nobody even like your weird butt,” concluded another.

      CeCe claimed her innocence once more and absorbed the rest of their accusations. She didn’t bother mentioning Dwayne’s request. She didn’t see how it could help her plight. She spotted him outside the cantina when their group finally arrived for dinner and he waved a dismissive hand at her. CeCe was irritated with the girls for swelling the incident and angry with herself for being hurt by Dwayne’s disappointment.

      CeCe ate her dinner alone, as expected. She scraped her tray and went outside to sit in the grass. Staying with the group before and after meals was Hoot’s only restriction to CeCe’s camp haunting.

      Sitting by herself, pulling blades of grass between her fingers, CeCe watched Tonia emerge from the cantina with Tall Tonya and a collection of other girls. They approached CeCe in a buzzing swarm.

      “I heard you let my girl almost crash into a tree,” said Tall Tonya.

      “Tried to scare her,” someone else said.

      “Almost got her bit by a spider,” called another voice.

      “I already said it was an accident,” CeCe said, willed her legs to lift her from the ground.

      “I think you lyin’,” Tall Tonya said. She was gangly, with long arms and sharp shoulders.

      “I don’t care what you think,” CeCe said, her good sense betraying her. She looked at the underside of the girl’s chin, the color buttermilk, as she approached CeCe with a threatening stance.

      “Don’t jump bad,” Tall Tonya said, eclipsing the space between them.

      “Don’t get in my face,” CeCe said, mimicking the girl’s neck roll.

      “Don’t make me whoop your butt, Crim-Son!”

      CeCe cringed at the way her name curdled inside Tall Tonya’s mouth. CeCe’s irritation ignited into fury, swelling every cavern and vessel inside her small body.

      CeCe jammed the heel of her hands into Tall Tonya’s shoulders, knocking the girl backwards. Tall Tonya recovered her balance and charged at CeCe with balled fists and flying curses. CeCe responded with flailing arms and a stutter of feet and knees. She was distantly aware of the shrieks and cheers, growing louder and thicker as more campers came out of the cantina to watch them fight. CeCe flung herself at the girl’s neck, mouth, thighs, and felt Tonya’s returning rain of pounds and smacks.

      CeCe felt weightlessness between her feet and the ground as muscular arms clamped around her waist. Blaze, one of the counselors for the teen boys’ groups, lifted CeCe and carried her rebellious limbs away from the fracas. He carried her to the far end of the field and dropped her to the ground.

      Blaze hovered before her like a barricade, but CeCe had no intention of rushing back into the fray. As her breathing steadied, the brew of campers and counselors slowly dissipated. CeCe took in the aftermath like a spectator, as if she hadn’t been the one to bloody Tonya’s lip. As if she weren’t the one all the counselors were shaking their heads and tsk-tsking about.

      “I don’t even know what to say, CeCe,” the camp director said, ending her reprimand. By CeCe’s count, she had been pinned with the word “disappointed” nine times that day.

      The adults decided to move CeCe into the six-year-old units for her remaining two weeks. She could be a helper to the counselors there, if she chose, but was not to interact with her age group any longer. As Hoot helped carry out CeCe’s duffel bags while the other girls painted pinecone owls, CeCe looked forward to the preschool chatter and, hopefully, being ignored for the rest of her time at Camp Onondaga.

      CeCe also welcomed the fluidity of her anger. She sat on painted rocks behind the archery field where the six-year-olds tumbled and raced in the hot sun. CeCe allowed the rush of bitterness to course around inside her. CeCe didn’t hold her breath to stop it. She didn’t resist its steady leaning against her thoughts. She didn’t reject the way her rage sated her. By the time she boarded the yellow bus departing Camp Onondaga, CeCe had fury tucked beneath her tongue.