Bear Attack at Band Camp

The vitamin water sat untouched on my nightstand, a neon-orange testament to my mom's obsession with my hydration. I grabbed it anyway — senior year dehydration was real, and band camp was no joke.

"You bringing the HDMI cable?" Marcus called from downstairs, his voice carrying through the hallway. We'd barely survived junior prom as friends, and now we were co-counselors at the district's jazz camp. The tension was thicker than the humidity.

"Got it!" I shouted back, shoving the cable into my backpack alongside my saxophone reeds and way too many protein bars. My stomach did that annoying flip-flop thing whenever I thought about spending two weeks in a cabin with him. Two weeks of pretending I didn't almost kiss him after last year's winter concert.

The bus ride was three hours of Marcus tapping rhythms on his knees and me pretending to be deeply fascinated by the tree blurring past my window. The camp was exactly what I expected: rustic cabins, a lake that looked suspiciously green, and the overwhelming energy of fifty jazz band kids who'd been practicing their scales all summer.

First night, the counselors staged a bonfire. Someone brought a guitar. Marshmallows were roasting. It was all very wholesome until Maya from the trumpet section decided to tell the infamous story of Camp Wabanaki's bear incident.

"So my cousin's friend was here like, three years ago," she said, her eyes huge in the firelight. "And a bear actually broke into the kitchen, ate all the fruit snacks, and left without touching anything else. They never caught it."

"Bears have excellent taste," Marcus deadpanned. Everyone laughed, but I noticed how his knee pressed against mine on the log we shared. My heart did this embarrassing little skip thing.

"You okay?" he whispered later when we were walking back to the counselor cabin.

"Fine. Just thinking about... everything."

"Everything?" He stopped walking. The moonlight caught the ridiculously endearing cowlick in his hair. "Everything everything?"

I almost told him right then. About the almost-kiss. About how I'd been crushing on him since we got paired for that duet freshman year. About how my mom kept asking if "that nice Marcus boy" was going to be my date to homecoming, and I kept saying I didn't know what she was talking about, which was a total lie.

But then someone's phone started blaring that TikTok song everyone was sick of, and the moment broke like that.

The next morning at breakfast, some freshman accidentally knocked over a massive jar of vitamins the kitchen staff kept out for health-conscious campers. The sound was like a cartoonish explosion — tiny colorful pills rolling everywhere across the wooden floor.

Marcus and I both reached for the same bottle at the same time. Our hands brushed. He didn't pull away.

"So," he said, not moving, "there's this spot by the lake where you can actually see the stars. No light pollution or whatever. Want to check it out tonight?"

The vitamin between us crunched under my sneaker. "Just the two of us?"

"Unless you're scared of bears." That grin. I was absolutely going to kiss him before camp ended. "I've heard they're excellent wingmen."