Mullet Head, I could see, was going to be what Pamela had referred to during counselor training as a challenge.

"I'm sorry," I said sweetly to him. "I know I look like that girl who was on TV and all, but it wasn't me. Now, why don't you all go ahead and—"

Mullet Head interrupted me. "It was, too, you," he declared with a scowl.

Mrs. Mullet Head went, "Now, Shane," in this tone that showed she was proud of the fact that her son was no pushover. Which was true. Shane wasn't a pushover. What he was, clearly, was a huge pain in the—

"Um," another one of the parents said. "Hate to interrupt, but do you mind if we go ahead and go inside, miss? This tuba weighs a ton."

I stepped aside and allowed the boys and their parents to enter the cabin. Only one of them paused as he went by me, and that was the little French Guianese boy. He was lugging an enormous and very expensive-looking suitcase. I could see no sign of an instrument.

"I am Lionel," he said gravely.

Only he didn't pronounce it the way we would. He pronounced it Lee-Oh-Nell, with the emphasis on the Nell.

"Hey, Lionel," I said, making sure I pronounced it properly. We'd been warned at counselor training that there'd be a lot of kids from overseas, and that we should do all "we could to show that Camp Wawasee was cultural-diversity aware. "Welcome to Birch Tree Cottage."

Lionel flashed me another glimpse of those pearly whites, then continued lugging his big heavy bag inside.

I decided to let the boys and their parents slug it out on their own, so I stayed where I was out on the mosquito-netted porch, listening to the ruckus inside as the kids tore around, choosing beds. Off in the distance, I saw someone else wearing the camp counselor uniform—white collared short-sleeve shirt with blue shorts—standing on his porch, looking in my direction. Whoever he was lifted a hand and waved.

I waved back, even though I didn't have any idea who it was. Hey, you never knew. He might have owned a convertible.