no,” the girl said. “That’s mine.”
Rebecca stared at the large trunk. “How in the world did you carry it all the way from the train station?” she asked, setting her bag on a bench at the foot of the bunk bed.
“My mother had it sent,” the girl responded.
Rebecca flapped open her bottom sheet and tried to reach up to make her bed. The girl below scooted out. “You can stand on the edge of my bed,” she offered. She was dressed in a long, oversized jumper that nearly covered her feet. Rebecca tried not to stare at the ill-fitting dress.
“I’m Rebecca Rubin,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“Christina,” the girl said in a soft voice. “Christina Pfeffer.”
“Now that we’re bunk mates,” Rebecca said, “we’ll get to know each other really well.” Stepping carefully onto the edge of Christina’s bed, she tucked the bottom sheet tightly around the edges. Christina handed her the top sheet and then the blanket. The girl’s wrists were as thin as straws, and bangs nearly hid her eyes.
“I can’t wait to get out of this dress and put on my bloomers,” Rebecca announced when her bed was made. There was a chorus of agreement from the other girls. They pulled bloomers and blouses from their bags. Christina untied a thick piece of twine that fastened the latch on her trunk. She opened the lid a crack, reached her hand inside, and pulled out her camp clothes.
The red-haired camper glared at her. “Hey, you’re in the wrong tent. Beaver is for eleven-year-olds.” She put her hands on her hips. “Sure an’ you look like you belong with the Turtles!” The other girls chuckled, a bit nervously. Christina didn’t reply but started to leave the tent, holding her clothes.
“Wait, where are you going?” Rebecca asked.
“The privy,” Christina answered quietly. She clumped down the steps, her hand sliding down the railing.
While the girls changed and put away their city clothes, Virginia checked each bed, helping to smooth and tighten covers and demonstrating the technique. Rebecca glanced up when Christina returned wearing long, baggy bloomers that reached well below her knees. Her stockings sagged against her thin legs. She was so small, Rebecca reflected, that all her clothes were probably too long for her.
Virginia called the girls together. “Let’s get acquainted. We’ll become friends a lot quicker once we learn each other’s names.”
The red-haired camper started off. “I’m Mary Margaret Bridget McBride,” she announced. Christina was next and gave her name timidly.
“Christina?” Mary Margaret Bridget repeated. “We’ll call you Teeny Tina!” Christina opened her mouth in a wide O, as if to protest, and then clamped it shut without a word.
“Nicknames are fine,” Virginia said, “but everyone should be pleased with what she’s called. Perhaps Christina wouldn’t mind if we shortened her name to Tina.”
All eyes turned to the girl, and she nodded faintly. The girls completed their introductions, and Rebecca tried to remember each name.
“You know,” said Virginia, “the animal names for each tent are taken from the names of real Indian clans. The people in a clan were just like family, even if they weren’t related.” She smiled warmly at the girls. “Your tent mates in Beaver will be like a family, too.”
Rebecca was delighted. This was exactly what she had hoped for—new friends who would be as close to her as sisters.
Mary Margaret Bridget tossed her curly red hair. “Let’s all have similar nicknames to make Beavers special.” She thought a moment. “I’ve got it. We’ll pick names with matching endings!”
“Oh, that would be cute,” another camper agreed.
Mary Margaret Bridget pointed to each girl in turn, dishing out nicknames lickety-split, as confidently as she had assigned each girl to a bunk. “Rebecca, you’re Beckie,” she announced, and Rebecca nodded. Her family often called her Beckie. Mary Margaret Bridget kept going. “Sonia, you can be called Sunny. Camilla, you’re Cammie. Josephine—Josie! Roberta, you’re a bit harder. How about Bertie? And Dorothea, you can be Dottie.” She laughed and added, “Just don’t act dotty!”
Rebecca was amazed that Mary Margaret Bridget had remembered every girl’s name. She noticed that she had skipped Tina, though. Rebecca glanced at the redhead’s mischievous green eyes and could tell that she wasn’t going to stop calling Christina “Teeny,” at least when Virginia wasn’t around.
“What about you?” Bertie asked. “Are you just Mary?”
“She can’t be just Mary,” said Cammie. “She’s a Beaver, so she needs a nickname that matches ours.”
“How’d you get so many names, anyway?” Sunny asked.
“My mother says I’m named for a long line of sainted women from County Cork.” Mary Margaret Bridget tilted her chin up proudly. “Just don’t you dare call me Red, like they did last year!”
“How about Rusty?” Josie suggested.
The girl made a sour face. “That’s just as bad.”
“I’ve got it,” Rebecca said. “Since your names all come from County Cork, we’ll call you Corky.”
The girl’s green eyes sparkled and she smiled at Rebecca. Then she turned to Virginia. “As for you, how about if we call you Ginny?”
The counselor laughed. “Why not? That’s what my brothers call me.”
Rebecca thought Corky had picked nifty nicknames. Everything at camp was relaxed, and now their names were, too.
“I’m going to let you get settled,” Ginny said, “and check back in a little while.” She pointed to a tent near the main lodge. “I share that tent with a few other counselors, so you can find me there if you need me.”
As soon as Ginny was out of earshot, Corky sidled up to Tina and said, “See? You have to be called Teeny or your name won’t fit in with the rest of the Beavers.” Tina frowned and turned away.
If we’re to become fast friends, thought Rebecca, this isn’t a very good way to start.
2
Windigos in the Woods
Rebecca finished her last mouthful of fried chicken and stared at her empty plate. “I can’t believe how hungry I was,” she said.
“You weren’t alone. I’ve never seen so much food disappear so quickly,” Ginny marveled.
The dining room was just through a door off the covered porch on the main building. Inside, a long table served as a buffet, and on the back wall there was a massive stone fireplace. Maybe they would roast marshmallows there!
Noisy chatter filled the hall until the camp director clinked his spoon against a glass. The room fell silent. “Welcome to Camp Nokomis,” said the slightly built man, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses higher on his nose. The spectacles
