The Fight

David avoided me from then on. Embarrassed or angry, I didn’t know, but he moved his cot to the other side of the bunk house. The last day at camp, he approached me on the front porch.

“It’s your fault. You did this to me!” he spat.

As I’ve told you, I was never a fighter. Never will be. But before I knew what was happening, the two of us were rolling on the plank floor, each trying to prevent the other from  throwing the first punch. After a minute or two, we were both gasping for breath. Out of energy. Thoroughly spent. David started to cry. So I started to cry. We both stood and noticed Joel leaning on the porch railing, arms crossed but face smiling.

“Okay, it’s over,” Joel said. He looked at David expectantly.
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“I…I’m sorry…I did it,” David admitted, looking at me.

Now Joel looked at me.

“I accept your apology,” I answered.

“See you next summer?” David asked.

“See you next summer,” I agreed.

And that was how my first overnight camp experience ended.

​With a handshake and a smile.
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