Don't CC Me

A camp story that will make you nostalgic for summer days filled with floating docks, campfires, first kisses, and ghost stories that take on a life of their own.

From above the ceiling, periodic thumping stalled our slumber and initiated whispers. I listened atop my wafer-thin mattress on a twin steel bed frame.

Trapped in the bunk’s attic, their wings collided with the rafters like a loose shutter in the wind. One of us politely alerted the counselor by poking her when “The Wall” played too loudly in her headphones. 

As blind as the enemy, she led us outside, stumbling over slip-on Keds and tennis rackets to gather under the bug-swarmed lamppost. She returned inside to figure out the mammals’ freedom, but the woods behind the string of red cabins were a different breed. 

A ghost story scared us more than any bat that summer.

***

His name was “Crazy Charlie.” I overheard my summer crush and his friend talking secretly at the welcome night bonfire. “I swear, my brother told me it’s true.” 

“What’s true?” I mistakenly asked. 

“Nothing,” his friend said. “You guys will freak out.” 

“Tell us!” I demanded. 

“It’s just an old camp tale.” We wanted more, but they wouldn’t share. 

We found a bunkmate’s older sister and begged her to spill. She seemed empathetic to our curiosity and didn’t hold back! “… so if you wake up with CC written on your forehead, it means you’re next.” I had chills. 

Crazy Charlie lived in the woods but ventured out during certain moons. And our camp was the closest point of civilization. She claimed a camper was killed back in the 70s after waking with CC on his forehead. Then, the camp covered up the murder to blame a drowning or accident. She couldn’t remember which it was. Did it matter? It seemed like false advertising not to include it with an asterisk in the brochure. 

Our tween nerves were not easing while we checked the thumbtacked schedule for our showering order. In lukewarm water, I swirled the normally soothing Noxzema over my sun-kissed face, but my fingers lingered over my forehead until my time was up. 

We’d talk about Crazy Charlie at the canteen and on the volleyball court, but summer continued. 

On July 4^th, our gang swam out to the furthest floating dock, where I kissed my crush on the lips while no one was looking. Back on the beach, I snuck bites of corn on the cob and prayed his towel would be next to mine for the grand fireworks. The moon was full, painting fluorescent lines across the rippling lake. Our towels touched and so did our knees. 

That Friday, he and I French-kissed with two hockey sticks disguised as tongues in the rec hall. It was far from perfect, but the scene was close while 80s music played and paper streamers fell around us. 

My friends and I followed the crescent moon back to the bunk. We giggled and dissected the kiss. The danger in the woods fell second to the taste left on my lips. 

“My friends and I followed the crescent moon back to the bunk. We giggled and dissected the kiss. The danger in the woods fell second to the taste left on my lips.”

We woke before reverie to a chilling scream. Emily, who slept four feet from me, shrieked, “HELP!” from the bathroom. I jolted upright, rubbing my eyes as we looked around at each other. She continued yelling, “Get it off me, get it off me now!”

Friends who got to her first shouted, “Oh my God!” 

Emily had CC on her forehead. I would have died if it was me. I was terrified; we all were. It took a nail polish remover (gross) to get it off, but the dots on it remained. At breakfast, we couldn’t touch our Corn Pops or runny eggs. The camp director approached our table in the Mess Hall and squeezed onto my side of the bench. He said, “I’m going to get to the bottom of this, okay?” 

Emily answered, “I want to go home.” 

***

The bats returned during our insomnia that night. As we waited under the lamppost, we noticed a flashlight moving in the distance. We screamed. It had to be him! Our shrieks alerted security across the field, who drove up in the rickety golf cart. We showed him, so he motored towards the trees.

His headlights caught a small group of boys crossing camp sides, including my first kiss. Forbidden already, but after hours? A next-level violation. 

One of them had a permanent marker. I don’t believe it was my boyfriend’s, but I might have been the next victim anyway. 

The skies opened the following day and dumped a crazy rain. The bad boys were docked from the rainy co-ed schedule—our favorite days. I didn’t care; I was done with “hockey sticks” (the nickname we gave him since the almost bunk raid). 

So, we got to hang out in the new lodge and miss instructional swim—the best summer days. After foosball and chit-chat, a male counselor grabbed a VHS for movie time. He chose Batman. 

And that’s a true story. 

Jenni Dawn Muro is a professional survivor of a cancer diagnosis in her teens to a spinal cord and brain injury just a few years ago. Jenni also braved a career in Hollywood, working with some of the most famous talent in the world. Now a proud mother to an eight-year-old and two rescue dogs, she lives with her family in New Orleans. Most recently, Jenni was diagnosed with Lyme disease. She leads writing workshops for cancer and health organizations, is an entertainment consultant, and is currently at work on a memoir. Her writing has been featured in Newsweek, Zibby Magazine, and Beyond Words Literary Magazine (12/24).