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you’ll move on. You’re still young.”
    “Maybe you could give me some pointers.”
    I laugh. “I’m really not the person to ask for that sort of thing. Allison might be a better bet. Maybe that’s what you could learn from her.”
    Karen reaches for another tomato. “I’ve just always wanted to do things the right way, you know? I play by the rules. I guess that was kind of drilled into me by my parents, too. I’ve never even had a beer before. I’m waiting until I’m twenty-one. Seven more months.”
    She’s lucky in a way, I think. She’s got a totally clean slate. No baggage from past relationships. That sounds pretty good to me right about now.
     
    *
                 
    Down on the beach, Bill and a few of the campers have built a fire and they’re grilling burgers. I go around and help the kids that need assistance with their tents—some of them can’t get it staked in right, and a few—including Brett—are chasing each other up and down the beach with the rods, jousting. Then I go pitch my own tent a little further down the beach as a way to patrol the parameters after everyone’s supposed to be turned in for the night.
    We all eat, and sit around the fire while Lorrie tells a ghost story that I’ve heard every year but always still scares me the same. Bill gets his guitar out and a few of the guys get up to try their hand at night-Frisbee.
    By the time full dark has settled and the fire is throwing long shadows across everyone’s faces, I notice Brett and one of the other guys sneak off back toward the trail leading to the ranch. It’s not so much that I want to be known as the cool counselor; rather I get that some things are just more fun with alcohol. So yes, I turn a blind eye when they not-so-covertly haul a thirty-rack down to the beach and haphazardly try to stash it under an old quilt.
    Karen comes up behind me and taps me on the shoulder. “They’ve got beer,” she mumbles. “How did they get beer?”
    “Who knows. They figure out a way every year. Allison probably got it for them with her fake I.D.”
    “They’re underage! I should tell Bill.”
    “It’s okay.” I give her a look. “Why don’t you supervise the marshmallow roasting; let me worry about the beer.”
    I decline to add that when I say worry , I really mean help myself to one or two.
    I watch as the kids covertly go over to the quilt and help themselves to a can. They go in twos or threes, like they’ve got this whole thing coordinated, leaving some of them by the campfire while others have wandered down closer to the surf. There’s giggling and shouting and everyone’s having a good time. Bill is playing “Teach Your Children” and a few of the kids are even singing, the chorus part anyway.
    “I wish we had some fireworks!” someone shouts.
    “Let’s make some!”
    They dissolve into giggles like it’s the funniest thing ever.
    I walk over to the quilt, which Brett is sitting near, Allison next to him.
    “I’m not going to bust you,” I tell him as he hurries to hide the can, “on the condition you give me one.”
    He grins. “I knew you were down,” he says, and tosses me a warm can.
    “Actually, I’ll take two. And I better not find the beach covered in empties in the morning.”
    “Yes, Mom,” he says.
    I drink one of the beers in the shadows by my tent and then go help make s’mores. I’ve got the technique for toasting the perfect marshmallow, and I end up making a dozen or more s’mores and passing them out to the campers who seem only capable of burning the marshmallows or dropping them into the flame.
    “Is there anything you can’t do?” Simon asks dreamily from next to me, after I hand him what is probably his fourth s’more.
    “There’s plenty,” I tell him. “You should go sit next to Heather,” I add. Heather is a little mouse of a girl who has alternated between following Simon and Allison around, contenting herself with the scraps of attention they throw