girl scout camp

I was 10. It was my first time away from home alone. The bus pulled away as our mothers waved on and we made our way to camp for the weekend. I was excited and nervous. We were meeting up with Girl Scouts from all over New Jersey. There would be games and competitions, bug juice and latrines. I secretly hoped to come home with poison ivy as proof that I had done my time in camp. I had listened to the Boy Scouts in my class brag about the tents and camp fires and bear attacks they had survived. I was ready for my first adventure in the wild.

The bus ride was long and loud. We ate junk food and sang 99 Bottles of Beer on the wall. The bus drove down a long stretch of tall trees surrounded by dark woods. We all became still and silent with anticipation. The trees opened up to a dirt parking lot surrounded by small cottages. We hurried off the bus and unloaded our bags. The noise of 200 preteen girls was thunderous. A few had already begun to cry for home and mom. A large woman with a whistle and a wide-brimmed hat directed us to our cabins. Cabins? Where were the tents we would pitch? Where were the camp fires we would roast our roadkill over?

Disappointed, we trudged to our cabins, dumped our bags onto our bunk beds and raced off to our welcome lunch. I sat at a table with the other 20-odd girls in my troop. We were supposed to mix and meet girls from other troops, but apparently our reputation preceded us and everyone was afraid to sit with the girls from "the city". For some reason, girl scouts from Hoboken were said to carry knives and chains. We wore the fear we inspired in others like a merit badge.

The day was a blur of songs and slogans, bad food and bugs. There was no camp fire. Instead, we sat around a lodge hall and learned about the history of the Girl Scouts. At the end of the night (no smores, just a bag of chips passed around) we recited the Girl Scout pledge and trekked back to our cabins in the dark.

Once we were tucked into our bunk beds, the fun began. I was on a top bunk next to my friend Carmen. Our three scout masters stood guard outside our cabin, smoking and drinking coffee. Some of the girls told ghost stories. We got scared. Others told stories of bloody periods and cramps. We got more scared. One of the older girls started giving us a lesson on sex, and we erupted into hysterics. Twice our scout masters came in and shushed us, with threats of "If you girls don't quiet down this instant...."

The noise began to die down. Carmen and I stared out the small window near our bunk. The darkness was cut in half by a flood light right outside our window. We scared each other with stories of the New Jersey Devil lurking outside in the shadows. Then, we saw something. Someone. We couldn't see his face, but it was definitely a he. Maybe an it. There was a leather jacket, lots of hair, and a broad back. We each started whimpering, but decided to say nothing, close our eyes and hide under the covers. Neither of us could fall asleep. Somewhere a girl farted and the cabin erupted in a frenzy of giggles. Carmen and I chuckled nervously, trying to push out the fear of what we had seen. Our scout masters screamed and threatened and cajoled us to be quiet. We were silenced by an urgent knocking on the cabin door. Our scout masters opened the door. The big woman with the whistle and the hat was now holding a walkie talkie and looked serious. She pulled our scout masters outside. We all waited to be told to pack and leave camp immediately.

A few moments later, our scout masters charged back into the cabin. Their eyes were wide with panic and they flipped the light on. The youngest, Kris, was crying softly. Marge, the head scout master, looked at her with disgust. She then told us all to listen very carefully as the other two scout masters began to push empty bunk beds against the door. Marge explained that no one would be allowed out of the cabin until morning. No one, under any circumstances. She held a walkie talkie and wielded it like a sword. She produced two buckets from a closet and said we could use the buckets if we needed to "make". The previously giddy group became hysterical, crying out for mommy and home. Carmen and I held hands, perched on our top bunks nervously looking out the window. Marge assured us that we were safe and that everything would be fine, but we all needed to be very quiet and calm for the rest of the night.

Muffled cries were heard throughout the night. Carmen and I stood watch at the window, straining our eyes into the darkness looking for him or it. There were whispers of devils, ghosts, Sasquatch, escaped convicts and communists. We slept little, if any, all night. Carmen and I were woken up before dawn by the crackling sound of walkie talkies. We peeked out the window and saw two policemen sweeping flashlights across the darkness.

After what seemed like days, the sun spread across the trees and erased the shadows from the night. One by one, girls tiptoed over to the bucket. Eventually, another knock came on the cabin door and our scout masters pushed away the barricade of bunk beds and let in the big woman. She explained that everything was okay, but our weekend trip was being cut short. She asked us to quickly pack our bags and make our way to the buses. Our parents were being called and would meet us back at the Girl Scout house.

We moved like lightning, forgetting our fear and hunger and bladders. Once outside, we saw several police cars spread around the camp. We raced onto the bus and cried with relief as we drove back to the highway on our way home.

The ride home vibrated with whispered conjecture. Someone heard that a Girl Scout from the shore was killed in the latrine. Another speculated that devil worshippers hiding in the woods had sacrificed an entire troop from Short Hills. I wondered if the Boy Scouts ever had to contend with devil worshippers.

Our mothers were waiting for us as we pulled in, biting their lips and sucking on their cigarettes. Most of us began to cry as we ran off the bus into their open arms. No one ever told us exactly what had happened at camp. There were rumors pieced together from overheard whispers between the mothers. Something about a motorcycle gang breaking into camp and stealing money, maybe killing a guard in the process. The murdered girl in the latrine story was the most persistent, replete with details of the girl's blood used to spell "Murder!" on the bathroom wall. Carmen and I told our story over and over. How we saw him or it lurking outside our window that night, looking for virgins to slaughter. Everyone nodded solemnly and said we were lucky to be alive.