Summer Camp

The last twenty minutes of the flight stretched into an hour, or maybe two. Time has a way of misbehaving when you're pressed against a window at thirty thousand feet, surrounded by strangers.

I clutched my passport and well-worn sketchbook as the plane dipped. Outside, clouds parted to reveal patchwork fields and jagged blue mountains. I wiped my sweaty lip and pressed my forehead to the cold window.

The woman in the seat beside me slept with her mouth wide open, chin bobbing with every bump of turbulence. Beyond her, a flight attendant balanced a tray of sodas with surgical precision, offering a can of Coke to a little boy who looked like he'd never tasted sugar before. The smell of burnt coffee mingled with something like lemon disinfectant and made my stomach turn, or maybe it was the anticipation, maybe it was the turbulence.

I flicked open the elastic on my sketchbook and thumbed through the pages. There, between rough charcoal smudges of horses and prickly pear and my grandmother's hands, was the faded itinerary for Campamento Estrella: arrival, orientation, three weeks of workshops, return ticket to Austin.

Outside, the landscape kept changing. Now there were white villages perched on hillsides. The plane banked, bringing a wall of mountains into sudden, alarming focus. I imagined the headlines: TEXAS GIRL DIES IN FIERY EUROPEAN CRASH, and tried to laugh at myself for it.

A familiar ache bubbled up, a mixture of pride and dread. I wasn't supposed to be here, statistically or otherwise. Two years ago, I'd tacked a faded Campamento Estrella brochure over my desk, half as a joke, half as an impossible wish. It was one of those glossy ads you found in the guidance office, all white smiles and fake diversity. I'd kept it because the campus looked like a castle and the art studios were bigger than my high school's entire gym.

Every time I tried to throw it away, something stopped me. Maybe the way the mountains in the background looked like my mother's old watercolors. Maybe just the idea that people like me got to have a "before" and "after" in their lives, too.

Somewhere over the Atlantic, between reheated chicken and the world's smallest cup of orange juice, I'd started tallying the cost of this trip. All the pies I'd baked, the lattes I'd poured, the Sunday shifts I'd picked up so that my coworkers could go to church or sleep off a hangover—the weekends I'd said no to movies, pool parties, even prom. Not because I hated fun, I didn't, or because I was an overachiever, absolutely not, but because I wanted to get out.

The pilot's voice crackled through the speakers, announcing our descent in Spanish, then, slower and more heavily accented, in English.

I tightened my grip on the sketchbook, my mind spinning with every horror story I'd ever read about customs and lost luggage and pickpockets who could sense a rookie tourist from a mile away. My travel guide—dog-eared and highlighted like a textbook—promised that Granada was "rich with history and sun-drenched charm." I wondered if there was a chapter for "How Not to Embarrass Yourself."

The landing gear screeched. My heart did, too. We thudded onto the runway, bounced once, and then rolled forever down a hot strip of tarmac. The little boy screamed, then giggled. The older woman in the next row clapped.

In Texas, the June air was thick with humidity and thunderstorms. Here, even through the sealed window, it felt different—drier, brighter, like someone had turned up the contrast on the whole world.

The seatbelt sign dinged off. Everyone sprang up at once, yanking open overhead bins, shoving backpacks into the aisle, craning necks for a better look at the outside. I stayed put, tracing the outline of the mountains with the side of my hand. I wondered if anyone could see the difference between Americans and Europeans just by the way we hovered, rushed, or smiled too much. Probably.

When it was finally my turn, I reached for my backpack and did a quick inventory: sketchbook, passport, wallet, not much cash, but enough, travel guide, five pencils, one set of watercolors, half-dried, a half-melted chocolate bar, and a sealed envelope from my grandma with strict instructions not to open it until "you really, truly need to."

I shuffled off the plane behind a parade of summer dresses and suitcase wheels, trying not to trip over my own feet.

I waited for my ride on a sunbleached bench outside the terminal, backpack on my lap, sneakers planted firm on the concrete next to my suitcase. Every couple of minutes, I checked the map on my phone, watched the painted shuttle buses whiz by, and rehearsed how I'd introduce myself at camp. "Hi, I'm Anna Bennet, from Austin, Texas." Or maybe "Annie," the way Grandma said it. Or maybe just "Anna."

I fished out my sketchbook and flipped to a blank page, determined to draw the airport as a way of grounding myself, but all I managed were a few shaky lines before my hand cramped.

Somewhere in the crowd, a man waved a sign with my name printed in block letters. I zipped up my backpack and marched toward him.

The taxi driver introduced himself as "Pepe," then spent the first five minutes of the drive rattling off the names of famous soccer players born in Andalucía. Every time he pronounced "Real Madrid," he'd tap the steering wheel for emphasis, eyes crinkling in the rearview mirror to see if I was suitably impressed. I wasn't, but I smiled anyway.

The highway wound out of the city and climbed, coiling through olive groves and clusters of low white houses that looked painted by hand.

I pressed my cheek to the window and watched the world flatten into light and shadow. The air outside shimmered with heat, but inside the car was a bubble of manufactured cool, with the faint scent of Pepes aftershave and, occasionally, the pine sneaking in through Pepe's cracked window. He slowed once to let a shepherd and his sheep cross the road, then rolled his eyes at their lazy, cloud-like pace.

"Soon you see the big money," he said, switching to a conspiratorial whisper. "The Americans, the Germans, the fútbol royalty. They pay for their hijos to train here. It's like… summer palace, yes?" He glanced at me as if expecting a reaction. I offered a shrug.

The drive took almost an hour, most of it spent winding up a narrow road that pinwheeled around the base of the mountains. The last stretch was gravel, with private security gates and a sign reading "Campamento Estrella." Pepe pointed out a cluster of gleaming rooftops in the distance—"That is the counselors' villas. Olympic pool behind. You swim?" I shook my head. "No problem. All the girls here are strong." He winked, then flicked on the turn signal for no one.

The car came to a stop at a roundabout landscaped with orange trees and a low stone wall. Beyond it was a building so perfect it looked fake, like a movie set or a billionaire's Villa.

I stepped out and nearly tripped over a suitcase the size of a coffin, its wheels piloted by a girl in head-to-toe Lululemon. My thrift store dress wilted under the comparison.

A camp staffer in khakis and a navy polo shirt, whistle already around his neck, appeared to direct traffic. "Bienvenida!" he called. "First day? You check in there, por favor." He pointed toward a broad archway framed by flowering vines.

Inside, every table was littered with maps, pamphlets, and souvenir water bottles. My sandals squeaked on the clean floor as I shuffled forward, trying not to stare. But then I did stare, because it was impossible not to. The crowd inside looked like it had been assembled by central casting: perfect hair, perfect teeth, conversations stitched together in a mix of English, Spanish, and languages I couldn't even name.

I slipped toward the registration table, where an older woman with red glasses and a silver bun checked me in with brisk efficiency. "Anna Bennet?" she read off her clipboard. "Texas?" I nodded, flushing at how foreign the word sounded here. "Villa 6, art program. You will have a roommate, Miss Ricci. She has already arrived." The woman handed me a packet and a lanyard, then waved me aside for the next person.

I clung to the packet like a life preserver. The schedule was color-coded and insane: breakfast at 7, art studio by 8, lunch at noon, free time for precisely one hour, then workshops, rec time, dinner, and lights out.

I took a step back, trying to read the map without looking like I was.

"… he's coaching at Madrid next season, but only if they close on the new house in time…"

"… they said you can't even get on the swim team here unless you've competed in nationals…"

Every sentence was like a tiny, invisible door slamming shut. I let myself imagine how I'd describe these people to Grandma: "They're all dressed like they're not trying, but you know it costs a fortune to look that casual. Everyone's skinny and tan and smells like expensive sunscreen. And me? I'm the lone cactus in a bouquet of imported roses."

A girl near me burst out laughing, loud and abrupt. Several heads turned, including mine. She was tall, with dark hair yanked into a ponytail and sunglasses perched on her head like a crown. I recognized the brand on her sneakers—impossible not to, they cost more than my plane ticket. Next to her, a boy in a crisp white polo was scrolling on his phone, half-listening.

I willed myself to blend in, but the best I could do was sidle closer to a pillar and pretend to text. Really, I just pulled out my sketchbook and started a rough line drawing of the front desk. My hands shook, so the lines came out wrong, but I kept going. It was something to do, a way to anchor myself in a room full of people who would probably never know what it meant to clean tables until midnight or take the city bus home in the dark.

A group of girls filtered in, trailing the smell of floral perfume and some expensive lip gloss.

A staffer announced, "Counselors and program leads, please gather on the patio!" and the crowd started shifting in that direction. I hung back, hoping no one would notice me. But a tall guy with a clipboard and a flannel shirt tied at his waist caught my eye and said, "Art track?" I nodded. "You'll be with Los Soñadores. We do a group tour after the orientation."

He smiled, genuinely, and it made the tight spot in my chest loosen a fraction. "Don't worry," he said quietly, "everyone's a mess their first hour." Then he was gone, absorbed by a knot of soccer players with matching haircuts.

I watched the crush of people move toward the patio, then checked my phone out of habit. No service. No messages. Grandma was probably at her garden club, refusing to turn on her cell unless it was an emergency. For the first time, I felt the full weight of being alone in a place where nobody knew me.

The patio stones radiated heat, and the shade from the cypress tree above me made a greenish mosaic on my knees.

A whistle blast snapped the crowd to attention. Everyone shuffled toward the far end of the patio. I ended up near the edge, still clutching my packet, trying to find a seat that wouldn't creak under me.

The camp director strode up with the gait of someone who'd once been a professional athlete and hadn't fully retired from the role. He had salt-and-pepper hair, dark and carefully parted, and a camp polo so crisp it looked ironed onto his frame. His accent was Spanish, his voice deep and sharp. He introduced himself as Señor Martínez, then rattled through a history of Campamento Estrella that was equal parts pride and intimidation.

He made it clear that this wasn't "summer camp" in the American sense, but a preparatory academy for future champions and world-renowned artists. He went on, laying out the rules with the certainty of a man who'd written them himself. Attendance was mandatory. Meals were communal. Phones were for emergencies only, which drew a collective moan from the crowd. There were to be no trips into the village on days we worked, no alcohol, no smoking, and, he said with a meaningful pause, "no romantic activities between counselors, campers, or staff. Romantic distractions do not belong in this camp." He said "romantic distractions," as if he expected us to take notes on the phrase.