I started writing this summer adventure from the point of view of a secondary character in the book I just finished. The voice, though, took on entirely different nuances here. That happens sometimes. Who knows? Maybe I've begun getting to know a whole new character. Happy summer!
So this year I brought an old backpack that I wouldn’t be caught dead carrying. It was genius. We’d put everything in there and – pow! – we’d be ready to roll when the time was right.
We amassed a great collection: toilet paper, string, feathers, honey, plastic wrap, even a whoopie cushion, plus a few other secret weapons. We could barely get the zipper around it all. But we did. And everything would have been fine if Jesse and Taylor had sucked it up. The backpack wasn’t sagging that low into their bunks and it was the only place to hang it from the rafters where the counselors wouldn’t notice.
Still, they blamed me. Was it because I listened to Jesse who
complained the loudest? Or Taylor would wouldn’t stop bugging me? Is it
because I suggested that the only other place to hide it was underneath
one of our bunks where it’d be out of sight, easy to grab? So honestly.
It’s not my fault the thief stole the entire backpack. Tore holes in the
cloth, supplies strewn from here to the woods. We could have gotten it
all back—at least most of it—but a counselor from Cabin #4 stumbled over
a jar of flour. And now we’re on double kitchen duty and everyone is
glaring at me. But it wasn’t my fault. It was Jessie’s fault. It was
Taylor’s fault. And that stupid raccoon’s.