In the bathhouse at Delia Hill Summer Camp for Girls my tan is washed away.  It wasn’t me after all, just mud.  It traverses down my leg hair and launches off my chipped Skittle painted toes.  The gritty water swirls like a tornado in the strainer before going down the drain.  

Bubbles carry away parts of me I didn’t know I had; the I’ve never slept under the stars part, the I’ve never kissed a boy part, the I’ve never stopped a bully part.

In the trash is the green bandana that held my unwashed hair for ten days of hiking, canoeing and climbing.  The wildflower shampoo smells like chemicals now.  I’ll try to remember that dirt is the real clean, that being outside makes my inside feel whole, that adulting is a trick, don’t fall for it.

My laughter floats up in the steam and I dig deep to my scalp.  It’s there that I find them, over a dozen.  They feel like squishy freshwater pearls, their mouths attached to my head, sucking.  The ticks have been there for days, witnessing my transformation.  

Some are too full of me to hold on.  Engorged they fall off with my touch and plunk onto the tile.  Others clench tighter, they don’t want to let me go.  But I’ve grown a lifetime this summer so I squeeze their bodies like blueberries until they pop.  The juice of me runs down my back, into the dark pipes below, forever gone.  

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Part of our Winter 2025 Issue. New stories, poems, and essays now through February 2025.

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