Before the fire, there is glit­ter. There’s glit­ter on the sign out­side the girls’ cab­in—G‑3 So Free! And in the wood grains of their cab­in floor. They glue glit­ter onto paper chains and tape them to the slats under the top bunks. The girls wake to glit­ter on their pil­lows and in their sheets, sparks of gold and red catch­ing in the cor­ners of their eyes. They roll glit­ter oil across their pubes­cent skin so their arms and legs glow at dusk. They brush glit­ter onto their eye­lids — fine and frosty and ris­ing to their brows. They have glit­ter jel­ly san­dals and Lip Smack­ers and milk pens. Their moms send them glit­ter head­bands that prop their short, thick hair back — hair they will lat­er learn to singe with four-hun­dred-degree flat irons. But now it’s 1999. And they are twelve, and at sleep­over camp, and believe they are on the precipice of a life that, at the very core, sparkles.

They go to Camp Aha­va, a Jew­ish camp in the San­ta Mon­i­ca Moun­tains, where peaks rise three thou­sand feet high, their faces bare and crag­gy like wet sand dripped from clenched fists. Below, dense brush cir­cuits the slopes. And neat squares of charred earth are knit into the scrub from the con­trolled burns of that winter.

The camp was found­ed in the 1950s for the chil­dren of immi­grants, sur­vivors, and sec­u­lar-lean­ing Cal­i­for­ni­ans who believed their reli­gion was best learned through hik­ing, singing, and an oil-sopped schnitzel. Thir­ty years lat­er, their grand­chil­dren sleep five or more to a cab­in — the bravest next to the glass win­dows that rise to the rafters.

The girls’ cab­in has not been updat­ed since 1956. So it is old and wood­en and built on the slant of a creek val­ley. It is made lev­el by a large plat­form, under which sleep rac­coons and squir­rels and, on very hot days, rat­tlesnakes. When­ev­er the girls hear one hiss­ing into their gap-toothed floor­boards, they keep the snake’s pres­ence a secret. They have seen all too often the male coun­selors hik­ing to the creek bed with a shov­el. They have heard the crunch of a rep­til­ian neck being sliced clean.

The girls know the names of the bugs: aphids, ear­wigs, mealy­bugs, and crane flies. They know the names of all the plants and trees, too: sage scrub, coy­ote bush, chap­ar­ral, coastal live oak, sycamore, and maple.

They stick their noses into the brush and inhale the flo­ral spice of the shrubs, the sweet ashi­ness of bark. They have for­got­ten the smell of their Los Ange­les sub­urbs fif­teen miles away — the tar­ry exhaust of lawn­mow­ers, the sting of mulched grass. 

They make friend­ship bracelets for the oak trees out­side their cab­in. They tie them to the edges of the peel­ing bark, but always in loose knots, in case the trees have sen­si­tive skin. They sweep up the fall­en leaves into mounds and sing their favorite prayer—Hashkeveinu … Shel­ter us beneath your wings, guard us from all harm­ful things—which they are cer­tain is about the trees. They dig a wide hole at the base of the oaks and slide the leaves into it and feel bet­ter all at once.

Their coun­selor, Marnie, sings to them while they’re walk­ing to activ­i­ties and when they’re get­ting up in the morn­ing or brush­ing their teeth. She insists they are spe­cial — the small­est cab­in in the whole camp. Five campers instead of eight or twelve like the oth­er bunks. Five out of two hun­dred chil­dren, so they must stick together.

Marnie teach­es them to spell woman with a ​“y” and to dab vanil­la per­fume on their wrists and in the crooks of their necks. She has a habit of stalling in the sun thrown down through the trees and turn­ing her face up to the gold­en light. When­ev­er Marnie stops walk­ing, the girls pause, arms flung across chests. They halt each oth­er mid-stride, cer­tain that any sud­den move­ment might cause Marnie to beam up to the sky.

When Marnie leaves at night for her staff meet­ing, the girls sit on a top bunk. They prop their flash­lights in their laps and con­tort their faces. They open their mouths wide until they become gap­ing shad­ows that seem end­less. They bow their fore­heads into the light until their pupils become glint­ing sil­ver ovals.

Their pubic hair, which they have now — four tufts of black, one auburn — glis­tens under their flash­lights. They cup their hands over their hair until the heat ris­es into their palms. They slide their fin­gers through the mossy strands and gig­gle when it curls over their knuck­les. They pull each hair taut, in search of the gold and sil­ver veins they’ve seen. They swear they all have some qual­i­ty in them that makes them sparkle — that they will go on in life to get every­thing they want: a hus­band who will let them run their noses through his cheek stub­ble like their dads do, and chil­dren who will go to this very camp, and dogs who will live until they’re thirty.

Behind the din­ing hall lies Boys’ Side, where squat rus­set cab­ins hud­dle in a cir­cle. Errant bathing suits, box­ers, and socks are strewn across the packed dirt, oak leaves cling­ing to mesh and cot­ton. The girls must cross Boys’ Side to get to the amphithe­ater and the ropes course and the hik­ing trails. More than once, the boys’ sep­tic tank busts, and the girls must wade through the rivulets of sewage. Oh, the muck swal­low­ing their jel­ly san­dals! And the rot­ten egg smell! And the knowl­edge that, yes, this is, in some part, human waste. But these girls are clever. Every prob­lem has a solu­tion. They find a way to cir­cum­vent the sewage, tak­ing the fire road above the boys’ cab­ins instead.

They didn’t plan it this way, but from up here, they can see into the boys’ win­dows — only the top bunks. They see sleep­ing bags balled up on the white and blue pin­striped cots. The back of a boy scrunched, shrimp-like, on his bed.

They have a crush on a boy with black hair. They love how his bangs gath­er into a crest and fall across his eyes, which are so blue, they must be made of glit­ter. They love his Teva san­dals and car­go shorts and the baby blue shirt he wears that says, ​“No Duhhhhhhh.”

They do not know how to talk to him, but they want to know every­thing about him. What does his neck smell like, and why does he have two crooked teeth? Did he nev­er get braces? Do his coun­selors sing him to bed at night, and does he know how to kiss? Will there ever be a time when they can be alone with him? Will he know what to do? Will they? When he for­gets his back­pack at Arts and Crafts, they find his rasp­ber­ry Chap­Stick and lick the face of it clean.

The girls think God is in the moun­tains. They think God smells like the sun­set — wild mint and sage. They aren’t told what to believe or not to believe. They are told to find God for them­selves, and so they decide God is, in fact, one body of glit­ter, and that at night, she spreads her­self out across the sky.

At dusk, they go to Banana Point and peel off their shirts and socks and shoes. They lie on the cliff, the rock warmed from the day. The moun­tains become shad­ows of crests and val­leys pitched against the sky, like giants sleep­ing above them. They hear the squeak of bee­tles in the cool dirt and the qui­et inhale of their breaths next to one anoth­er. They hold hands and watch the sky fill with stars.

They change their def­i­n­i­tion of God. It’s more mature! Wis­er! God is in the stars, yes, and also in the ani­mals skit­ter­ing in the bush­es, the pulpy flesh of their palms, the swell of glee in the girls’ stom­achs. They decide that no mat­ter what, their lives will always be this mag­nif­i­cent. That even when they grow up and get hus­bands and have babies, they will hold this well of joy in them. They will always be, in this way, alive.

The heat arrives in the morn­ing — eighty-five degrees in the shade but nine­ty in the sun. The grass on the low­er ball field yel­lows. The oak trees shake off their weak­est branch­es. The ground sucks in the water from the creeks, leav­ing the flies and bugs to find oth­er things to stick to, like the girls’ skin.

Marnie stays naked after her show­ers for longer than usu­al. She’s naked as she runs gel through her hair and applies lotion to her face and arms and legs. She reads books and writes let­ters naked. She puts on her socks and shoes to walk on the dusty floor of the cab­in, but nev­er a bra or a shirt. The girls know they aren’t sup­posed to look at her body, but they do. 

They see nip­ples the size of Hershey’s Kiss­es. The soft fuzz below Marnie’s belly­but­ton. The moles on her col­lar­bone, beneath her breasts, on the lip of her waist. They ask her why her pubic hair is gone and, in its place, bare skin. Marnie shrugs. She says she doesn’t like it when the hair reach­es past the seams of her biki­ni. Or falls onto the floor, shriv­eled, stick­ing to her feet. The girls want to know if boys like her this way. Waxed. If one day, they too, will be expect­ed to be calm and unaf­fect­ed, their bod­ies smooth and shiny. But Marnie only grins and says they are per­fect the way they are.

The next time the girls show­er, they shave their pubic hair, bronze and black clumps slid­ing down their thighs. They can’t believe how quick­ly their hair col­lects over the frothy drain, how fierce­ly it stitch­es togeth­er. They pluck up their fall­en hair and cup it in their palms like a kid­dush cup filled to the brim. They’ll throw it in the trash can next to the sink. Or they could waft it into the bush­es! No, no, they will give their hair to the trees so that this essen­tial part of them may be absorbed and reborn and live in the cir­cuit of nature.

The next morn­ing, a rash spreads across their pubic bones and labia — small red bumps with hard tops. They have nev­er seen this before — not on their moms or the old­er girls or Marnie. Why is their skin so strange? Why does it burn? Marnie says it’s only a mat­ter of time until they get used to shav­ing down there. Bet­ter to start young and train their skin to tough­en up!

The girls press unopened Otter Pops to their inflamed skin and for­go swim­ming to avoid the sear of chlo­rine. They miss their moth­ers ter­ri­bly. They want noth­ing more than to wedge their heads beneath their moth­ers’ chins and feel the vibra­tions of their cooing.

They try not to touch the rash. They know what hap­pens when they poke skin that itch­es. So, they busy their hands, mak­ing friend­ship bracelets, play­ing Cat’s Cra­dle and Spit and Mad Libs. Marnie tells them to try slap­ping their necks, their arms, their bel­lies — any­where but the sores between their legs.

But at night, they slip their fin­gers below the elas­tic of their under­wear. Nev­er mind the fine line of dirt below their fin­ger­nails and that the bath­room ran out of soap. For­get the Deet that leached into their hands. They scratch and scratch.

The next day, a heli­copter cir­cles over camp. The girls fol­low it up the rut­ted trail to the top of a water­fall, where a creek trick­les over a cliff and slips between two boul­ders many feet below. The coun­selors are already there, hud­dled at the edge, their chins tipped to the sky. The girls shout hel­lo to the heli­copter and wave with both arms, and hope, if at all pos­si­ble, the pilot will give them a thumbs up. Except the coun­selors tell them to stop. To go back down, where they can be watched. It’s not safe. Not right now. But the girls were just here yes­ter­day! They know these trails! They can help! What is going on?

Lat­er, Marnie tells them to sit in a cir­cle on the cab­in floor. As long as the girls promise not to ham­mer her with ques­tions, she will reveal what she knows. The girls pinky swear to stay silent, which is how they learn that a coun­selor from G‑9 fell from the water­fall. She had been walk­ing along the cliff when she slipped, plung­ing between the boul­ders. And her body — wrig­gling, sweat­ing, and then very still — became jammed. But the fire­fight­ers freed her and flew her

to the hos­pi­tal. And she is strong and she is brave and that is how they are, too! 

But the girls want to know if she is going to be okay. How did they get her out? Was it like when their heads would get stuck between the ban­is­ter rail­ings above the stairs? And their par­ents would rub mar­garine in their hair to help them slip out? And is she com­ing back to camp? But Marnie reminds them they swore they wouldn’t ask ques­tions, and they qui­et down, know­ing that if they can’t keep this promise, they won’t be trust­ed to make others.

Still, the girls are for­bid­den from going to the water­fall. Or to any oth­er water­falls, includ­ing one Marnie had tak­en them to the week before. The one that spilled over three cliffs, end­ing in a fifty-foot drop. So the girls insist. Let them go, just this once. That water­fall is out­side of camp bounds. No one will know. But Marnie says that for now, they have to fol­low the rules.

The girls, though, can’t leave nature all alone. That night, they take their flash­lights into the wild mus­tard behind their bunk and scram­ble up the hill. They dig a hole at the base of the largest tree and place notes in it. Don’t miss us, we’ll be back. We are sor­ry we couldn’t vis­it you today. We don’t blame you. We’re not real­ly that far away.

The next day, they slip out of camp just as Free Time begins. They fol­low the fire trail behind Girls’ Side and then the sin­gle­track cut­ting up the moun­tain. They hike to the base of Marnie’s water­fall and count the tad­poles skit­ter­ing in the sepia-toned shal­lows. They cup their hands over the frogs until the girls can no longer stand the wet tick­le on their palms. They take turns watch­ing the water­fall drip at dif­fer­ent angles. They are delight­ed by the col­ors flit­ting through

the spray — opal, turquoise, and magenta.

They write poet­ry. They write songs. They scream as loud as they can and hear their voic­es echo off the boul­ders. They promise they will build match­ing hous­es in these moun­tains and live out their days togeth­er, laven­der grow­ing wild in their backyards.

Return­ing to camp, they walk along Mul­hol­land High­way, a nar­row road made up of switch­backs descend­ing to the coast. The SUVs whizz by them, going fifty, their winds tug­ging the girls’ small frames. They brace. They hold hands. They swear they will not, by any means, get swiped under a piece of machinery.

They dip down to a trail that takes them to the upper ball­field, a dirt lot at the top of the camp val­ley. From there, they’ll trek down the bare slope behind the pool and onto the road lead­ing back to the cen­ter of camp. But on the upper ball field sits the secu­ri­ty guard on a plas­tic fold­ing chair. He’s wear­ing a bathing suit and read­ing a magazine.

The girls know this could be the end of their adven­tures. A shuf­fle down to the camp director’s office. A stern talk­ing to. Super­vised for the last ten days of camp, no can­teen either. But if they can hold their breaths, and if they can freeze, step, freeze, step, like coy­otes stalk­ing their prey, they won’t get caught. And so they do, tip­toe­ing along the rim of the field. They are Jew­ish women, return­ing from the wilder­ness. Kol ha’olam kuloh, they hum under their breath, keep­ing their eyes set on the water tank pressed into the moun­tain beyond, gesh­er tsar ma’od.

That’s when a low voice calls out to them. Where have you girls been? Why are you all the way up here? What’s going on? They tell the secu­ri­ty guard they’d only just arrived there by acci­dent. They had mean­dered up from the bunks, the lie its own deli­cious reward. The guard keeps his face turned to the sky and rais­es two fin­gers — a peace sign — and the girls hur­ry off.

It becomes the hottest sum­mer on record — one hun­dred and ten in the sun. The girls take long naps dur­ing Rest Hour. They slink into the shade dur­ing activ­i­ties. They can find it any­where, these girls. Dur­ing Israeli Danc­ing, they slip beneath the ping pong tables. They sit with their backs against one another’s to prop each oth­er up. They plunge their fin­gers into the cool dirt.

They are told to drink water every ten min­utes. To sing ​“Hap­py Birth­day” in their heads as they’re doing it. To apply sun­screen before break­fast and after lunch. To watch for signs of dizzi­ness or con­fu­sion in their friends. As water becomes scarce, they promise to spend only two min­utes in the show­er. To sleep on top of their sleep­ing bags lest they sweat too much and lose what lit­tle water their bod­ies can hold. They write down all these pre­cau­tions and take turns car­ry­ing the list in the cuffs of their socks.

The only thing they love more than shade is the camp hose unwound on the low­er ball field and sput­ter­ing water, which the camp allows once a day. They grab the head of it and spray water into the air, tak­ing turns run­ning through the flash of cold. The ball field becomes a thick swamp, small bees float­ing in the muck. The girls get stung on their toes and ankles and even on their heels. They spend the after­noon in the infir­mary icing their swollen feet, which have grown so itchy that their mouths water at the notion of scratch­ing them.

One morn­ing, they wake up very ear­ly, and Marnie is not in her bed. They don’t know where she is and if she’s okay. Did she get in trou­ble, or is she sick? Did she find a water­fall that held her in its nar­row jaws? But before break­fast, she returns.

The girls ask her where she’s been, and Marnie pulls down the col­lar of her shirt to reveal a pink disc flex­ing on her neck. The girls know what that is — they’re no fools. They touch her raised skin, the warmth a sur­prise on the fin­ger­tips. They ask if hick­eys hurt. Of course not! They feel great! You should have seen the guy, how long he stayed on my neck, how loud­ly he moaned. One day, the girls will be old enough to get a hick­ey them­selves. One day, they’ll be want­ed so bad­ly, they won’t come home.

That evening, the tem­per­a­ture dips and clouds gath­er above them. The girls hear the rain before they see it. The sound of soft clap­ping, small fists on glass. The smells find their noses — the musk of damp­ened dirt, the tang of mus­tard, the smok­i­ness of oak wood. The life that returns and returns.

They run out­side bare­foot and head to the wide trail that runs along the side of their cab­in. They sling their arms around each other’s shoul­ders. They jump up and down togeth­er as if greet­ing the water. The rain tum­bles onto their hair and skin, a cool del­uge, a sud­den relief.

Marnie stands on the deck of their cab­in, beneath the warped roof, its edges smirk­ing in the rain. She leans against the rail­ing. Her naked fig­ure chalks the night. She lifts a boom box to the ledge and blares tech­no music at the girls.

The bass vibrates up the girls’ legs and into their chests, knock­ing their ribs. With­out think­ing, they weave their arms through the air around their bod­ies. They toss their heads back. They are oak trees quiv­er­ing in the wind. See? Nature always has a way!

The next day, the girls sense the boys watch­ing their mouths when they’re eat­ing and their breasts when they play Ga Ga. They do as Marnie told them and let their eyes linger on the boys longer than expect­ed. Until their bod­ies swell against the seams, their veins and lig­a­ments and bones hum­ming beneath the skin that sep­a­rates them from the boys.

In the pool chang­ing room, the girls dis­cov­er eyes blink­ing at them through the thin gaps in the wood. They grab their tow­els and bur­ri­to their bod­ies. They hud­dle. They take turns peer­ing over their shoul­ders to see if the eyes have been replaced by glint­ing pool water. They notice a lid close over a hard brown eye­ball and snap open again. A wink?

They aren’t sure whether they like the atten­tion or not. They want to dance or run or scream. What is hap­pen­ing? Why are they so ner­vous? Why are their bod­ies not lis­ten­ing to them? Be still, relax, stay calm!

They push their biki­ni bot­toms over their knees and let them fall to the ground. They wrig­gle their toes on the damp con­crete. They lift their tow­els so the boys can see their butts, and then they swing their hips. They push their fore­heads togeth­er and laugh loud­er than they ever have. Their bod­ies no longer belong to them, and some­how this feels good, this shucking.

They spend more time in the bath­room than they used to. They learn to straight­en their hair with­out burn­ing their necks and how to shave their legs in the sink troughs when the show­ers are full. They learn how to use mat­te eye­shad­ow instead of glit­ter and apply black and gray tones to the creas­es of their eye­lids to pro­duce a smoky appearance.

They lie on wood bench­es pressed to the walls of the bath­room and pass Judy Blume’s Sum­mer Sis­ters between them, read­ing out loud the part where Vix and Bru make love. They want to know every­thing about sex. What does it feel like? What should they do? When will it hap­pen? Why do they want it, and why are they scared of it, too? They bite their lips and arch their hips toward the flu­o­res­cent pan­els on the ceil­ing, whis­per­ing Bru’s name over and over.

The next day, a dry wind picks up. It car­ries a silt that lodges in the creas­es of their necks and in their nos­trils and eyes. They hear all sorts of rumors from the boys: There’s a fire in San­ta Bar­bara! No, Agoura Hills, a few miles away! It’s in Thou­sand Oaks, just over the moun­tain! It doesn’t mat­ter how far away it is! The boys tell them a fire can trav­el five foot­ball fields a minute.

A fire is attract­ed to body heat. The more peo­ple in one place, the greater the chance a fire will get them. The boys even whis­per that all of their par­ents signed a waiv­er say­ing that if they died in a fire, their fam­i­lies couldn’t sue the camp.

Marnie tells them that’s B. S. They’re in good hands. Let the adults deal with it. But they’re in a canyon. There is only one school bus and three SUVs for two hun­dred campers. If the fire comes, how will they get out? Why won’t some­one tell them the truth? They’re smart. They’ll get it.

Dur­ing Rest Hour, they hear the fran­tic ring­ing of the gong. The blunt end of a ham­mer, two beats per sec­ond, pound­ing met­al. The girls clutch hands and walk sin­gle file from the cab­in. Marnie counts heads as the girls pass her and instructs them to stay silent as they had prac­ticed. To think of their favorite song, but their thoughts stall on a sin­gle word, synced to the rhythm of the gong — where, where, where. They join a longer line of silent campers, their eyes fixed on one another’s, ask­ing the same ques­tion. They are told to cir­cle on the bas­ket­ball court, and then to sit, at once.

The camp direc­tor holds his mouth close to the micro­phone when he talks, mak­ing his voice deep and muf­fled as if he were whis­per­ing into their ears. He tells them this is just a drill. The fire is far away. It’s many towns over. Also, he reminds them that it just rained. A rare mid­sum­mer weath­er event. The ground is sat­u­rat­ed, and the creeks are ris­ing. They will be safe here.

But the next day, the air smells like a camp­fire. Smoke gauzes the sky, and the sun becomes a Ritz crack­er. Par­ents begin to pull their chil­dren out of camp. First, a girl in cab­in G‑1, then two in G‑2, fol­lowed by three girls in G‑6. Their mini­vans appear in the cen­ter of camp, wheels churn­ing dust. The par­ents open the doors. Cool air skates toward the girls.

They imag­ine press­ing their noses into the air vents, dri­ving to the deli out­side of the canyon and order­ing matzah ball soup. They want to be kissed good­night by their moms and bound tight­ly in their sheets. They want to wake up to their dogs click­ing across their hard­wood floors.

The coun­selors roll their eyes. These par­ents are over­pro­tec­tive! Just because you can smell a fire doesn’t mean it’s near­by! They’re not even in a vol­un­tary evac­u­a­tion zone, let alone a manda­to­ry one!

Still, the girls decide they must pre­pare for the worst. They fill up their Nal­genes with water and hide them below their beds. They take their boy band posters down. Won’t they catch on fire? They take their hair­spray off the shelves — can’t it explode? And their bug spray, too. Bombs! All bombs!

At night, they place their shoes next to their bunk beds with their flash­lights inside. They sleep in their sports bras and under­wear, their clothes fold­ed neat­ly below their pil­lows. They take shifts stay­ing awake so they can hear the warn­ing ring of the gong and wake the oth­ers. This makes them feel bet­ter, this rou­tine. The notion that, yes, if they just fol­low pro­to­col, they can cir­cum­vent dan­ger. Is that not what they learned in school?

There is a strange ener­gy in them now. They fid­get with their prayer books dur­ing ser­vices, creas­ing and flat­ten­ing the pages. When they sit cross-legged, they flap their knees up and down. Marnie doesn’t like see­ing them this way. They’re just girls. They’re scared. Come on, babies, I’ll take care of you! I’ll show you what’s right and how to be.

Marnie takes them on hikes — nev­er too far and always at dusk. She tells them to focus on what’s in front of them. Real­i­ty will present itself if they just let it. But the bush­es are too still. Ani­mals no longer scur­ry through the branch­es. (The girls used to call out greet­ings—Shalom finch­es and gophers and snakes! Ma nish­ma?!) Now, they can’t even find the stink bugs. Where have the bees gone? Why aren’t they suck­ling the pur­ple sage?

They arrive at a clear­ing with a small pond, where cat­tails rim the shore, their auburn tufts torn open by the wind. A boul­der ris­es from the reeds, and the girls and Marnie scram­ble to the top. They find nooks into which they can bur­row. In front of them, the moun­tains fall into a nar­row val­ley, giv­ing way to the smudged hori­zon of the Pacif­ic. Above them, the sky glows peri­win­kle and coral. And Marnie wants to know — would the sun­set real­ly be that beau­ti­ful if some­thing were so wrong?

Marnie stabs the side of an apple with a pen and clears out the fruit from the wound. She plucks the stem and bores a hole down the cen­ter of the apple, then fills the div­ot with brit­tle leaves from a Ziploc bag. Marnie tells the girls it’s gan­ja, Mary Jane, mar­i­jua­na. Do they know what that means? Of course they do. Some of them have old­er sis­ters and broth­ers. They watch TV! But is she real­ly going to do that? Right now?

Marnie thumbs the lighter until the leaves spark orange. She places her lips to Marnie thumbs the lighter until the leaves spark orange. She places her lips to the open­ing she’d carved with the pen and inhales, her eyes clos­ing gen­tly. Her chest blooms. Her body becomes still and silent and held. And then she exhales a rib­bon of smoke that coils around the girls. But won’t she get in trou­ble? And won’t the drugs make her sick? Will she become a burnout, like the drug addicts they see on TV, for­ev­er in a veiled room, the blinds closed?

Marnie laughs and says they’ll love weed soon enough. They’ll love every­thing about it. They’ll love being old­er. They’ll love hav­ing sex. She tells them their vagi­nas will expand, bring­ing the base of her thumbs togeth­er, her palms wing­ing out.

She tells the girls to ask her any­thing, and the girls want to know how, exact­ly, they’ll know when they’re ready to have sex. Won’t they be scared? And won’t it hurt? Should they tell their moth­ers? And Marnie says that their desire will arrive as instinct and that no moth­er has to know about it.

They look behind them to the moun­tains beyond the camp, divid­ing the wilder­ness from their hot con­crete sub­urbs. Strange clouds are form­ing on the ridge line. They have thin bases that shoot into the sky and grow into gnarled fists. The girls have nev­er seen clouds so tall or so dark. They know not to ask what’s beneath those clouds. Marnie tells them to try the weed. Just one puff. They’ll be okay. So, they inhale and hold. They let the burn sear their throats, and then they cough.

The girls take off their clothes and wade into the pond, up to their calves. They splash each oth­er with the sour water. They make wigs out of the algae, pre­tend­ing to be their moms. Oh, how we missed you! Camp has been good to you, my dear. Oh my! Did you lose weight?

The girls hadn’t real­ized how dif­fer­ent they’d become from one anoth­er. Some of their stom­achs have slack­ened and rip­pled; oth­ers are now pulled taut against their ribs. Acne crawls over the backs and shoul­ders of two of them. And their nip­ples! One girl’s look like fin­gers point­ing. Another’s resem­ble Tic Tacs, hard­ly break­ing skin.

They call out for Marnie to come down to the water. To join them. But Marnie smiles at them from above, her legs tee­ter­ing over the edge of the rock, her lips latched to the apple. An ember glows and lifts into the wind. 

The girls push deep­er into the pond. They float on their backs. Their stom­achs whirl into their throats. Their skin will soon peel off. Their blood and tis­sue and all the liq­uid con­tents of their bod­ies will dis­solve. They will become one with the water.

But after twen­ty min­utes, they grow bored and pad onto the shore. They part the reeds and climb the boul­der again, their mus­cles loose, let­ting them go far­ther up than before. The girls find new hol­lows to set­tle into. The warm stone dries their skin.

They can’t wait to tell their friends back home how much they’ve grown. They’ll explain how far they hiked — sev­en miles! — how far into the smoke they went, how they tried weed, how they swam and laughed, how they stayed unafraid. Isn’t that what it means to be Jew­ish? The whole world is a very nar­row bridge.

The wind rakes through the brush, cho­rus­ing like a free­way. The 101! The 405! The 5! An orange line swoops across the crest of the moun­tains. It flick­ers in deep tan­ger­ines and ambers and golds. How beau­ti­ful, the girls think, like the moun­tains are wear­ing glit­ter. How far away, of course, like Marnie said all along. And mea­ger. That will be easy to put out — one heli­copter, a short del­uge. The flames will dim into the dark­ness of the moun­tains. They should stay to watch it! Yes, nature is strong, but not as strong as fire­fight­ers and care­ful­ly laid plans.

Smoke buries the stars. When the wind turns, the girls cough, and their eyes water. They can no longer see Orion’s Belt. But if they look very hard, they can see three stars — two along a diag­o­nal, the third at the end angled sharply above. They tell Marnie to look. Just squint your eyes and hold your breath and, now, don’t you see it? The han­dle of the Big Dipper.

They con­fide in Marnie that they used to think the stars were God. Marnie winces. God! Please! Do they know what stars are? Do they know? Dead gas! Big ol’ space farts! They’ve been manip­u­lat­ed by their reli­gion. It’s all just a farce, one big show, to appease the mass­es. Don’t they see it? Don’t they see it now? The world’s a lie! And there’s noth­ing they can do about it!

They cack­le like coyotes.