You can have a million friends and not have one with whom you really have a connection. When I was in elementary school, I neither had a million friends NOR one with whom I had a deep connection. The only time things were different was the summer before sixth grade. That summer, I went to Happy Time Day Camp, which of course was referred to by the kids in the area as "Crappy Time." (Note: This is not to be confused with Camp Happy Times, which is for cancer patients. OK, moving right along ...) Getting on the bus the first day, I had the requisite butterflies in my stomach, as I didn't know whether the girls who picked on me in school would also be in my camp. If so, they would surely make my summer hellish, and there wouldn't be any teachers around to stop it. When I got to camp, I filed into the main pavilion with everyone else for what was known as "morning pow-wow." I sat on one of the picnic tables, my sandals firmly planted on the concrete and my body striped with bands of light from the sun shining through the wooden rafters. The camp director told us there would be three pow-wows per day, and they would be announced over the camp loudspeaker. Unfortunately, the rest of the day was not as structured, at least for sixth graders. Us sixth graders, since we were the most mature in camp, were given the most free time. After pow-wow that morning, all of the sixth grade girls met at our cabin. I immediately saw that Alyssa Mettler was in the group. She was one of the most popular people at school, and of course, she didn't like me. Alyssa seemed right at ease, laughing with her friends and sassily interrupting the counselors. I should have known. I looked for someone else who seemed shy like me. There was one girl, Greta-Jean Goodfear, who had short, straight hair and demonic eyes. She was staring into space. The counselors released us to run around camp and do what we wanted. I didn't know what to do. Greta-Jean was wandering, so I strolled over to her and we found her younger sister and went to have a catch on one of the empty ball fields. A group of three popular boys approached the field and stared at us until we left. I would have stayed to fight for the land, but Greta-Jean left as soon as she saw them coming. That was usually the problem with the friends I found back then: if they were shy enough to be my friend, they were also wimpy and unimaginative. Nevertheless, I tried to stick with Greta-Jean and stay away from the popular kids, but they would still find us and call us geeks. The only joyful part of Crappy Time was that every Friday we got ice cream cones after third pow-wow. I guess it was our reward for suffering through another week of camp. If we'd won some kind of contest during the week, our counselors would tell us we were entitled to ask for two scoops. But I never won anything. During the second week of camp, I happened to sit on the bus next to a girl with short hair named Cory. As the bus swung out of camp, a bunch of kids started yelling out the window at an old lady who lived in a shack near the entrance road. Cory turned to me and said, "I don't really think it's fair to make fun of her, but sometimes I do it just because the other kids do." We started talking about people who picked on people, how that was wrong, and lots of other things. She was really outgoing and friendly, but she was also nice. She was a year behind me in school. We had so many things in common that I started quizzing her on some of the things I liked. My favorite show at the time was the A-Team, and I worshipped Hannibal, played by George Peppard. "Do you like the A-Team?" I asked Cory. Her eyes opened wide. "I love it!" she said. "I loved the one where Hannibal looked straight at the bad guy and said, 'Hickory dickory doc. The mouse ran up the clock. The clock struck one, the mouse ran down, and you smell like a pair of old socks!'" Then she threw her head back and cackled. What a friend. But she wasn't in my grade, so she wasn't in my cabin. Still, each morning and afternoon, she saved me a seat on the bus. It was the only time that summer where I felt I belonged. It didn't seem fair that the best person in camp wasn't in my grade. After three weeks, I dropped out of camp. I couldn't take it anymore. My father didn't blame me. He hadn't been too impressed by the fact that we were asked to bring our own hot dogs and hamburgers to the camp picnic. Pretty cheap. Dad and I went in to talk to the director about why I was leaving, and to get a refund for the unused weeks. My dad told Mr. Nelson that the counselors hadn't done enough with my group. Nelson said that it was that way because the sixth grade girls usually liked to have more free time. He also said that the counselors were shocked to hear that I had been having a problem, since I hadn't told them. But what good would that have done? Would they have asked Alyssa and Company to be my friend? That maneuver has backfired since the dawn of time. So Dad and I walked out of the director's office. On the way out, I noticed an open door with a microphone inside. I raced in, picked it up, pressed "on," and announced a pow-wow. My dad grabbed me and pulled me back outside. In my final act of defiance, I saw that kids were lining up for their ice cream cones, so I stood on line for mine, and when I got up to the counter I lied and said I was entitled to two scoops. It was a bold move for me, but I realized that the people behind the counter couldn't care less. I could have been scamming them all summer long if I'd wanted to. I never saw Cory again, especially since she went to school on the other side of the township and was in a different grade anyway. But she was the only person who had made camp tolerable. So here's to you, Cory, wherever you are. You kept that summer from being a total disaster. And may George Peppard, who still holds a warm place in my heart, rest in peace. - Caren Lissner