The Bear at Blue Lake

The vitamin gummies were supposed to be my mom's way of ensuring I didn't, like, literally die during summer camp. But staring at the bottle now, jammed into my backpack beside my emergency stash of Pepperidge Farm Goldfish, I realized nothing could prepare me for this.

"You good, Maya?" Jordan asked, flopping onto the log beside me. His hair was doing that thing where it curled at the ends—totally unfair how good he looked after a three-hour hike.

"Yeah, just, you know. Contemplating my mortality." I gestured vaguely at my backpack. "Mom packed enough supplements to last a small army."

Jordan laughed, and I felt my face heat up. Great. Another opportunity to be awkward around the one person who'd actually talked to me since we got to Camp Pinebrook.

The camp counselor, a dreadlocked guy named River who insisted on going by his "spirit name," stood up. "Alright, fam! Time for our solo reflection walk. Follow the trail to Blue Lake. Find your inner self. No phones, no talking. Just vibes."

I internally groaned. Solo walks were my literal nightmare. What was I supposed to reflect on? My inability to make friends? My seasonal depression that hit even in summer?

We started walking, everyone spaced out along the trail. I ended up behind Jordan, watching the way his t-shirt clung to his back. Suddenly, he stopped.

"Yo, Maya. You wanna, like, walk together? I mean, not together-together. But, you know..."

My heart did this embarrassing flutter thing. "Yeah. Sure. That would be... chill."

We walked in comfortable-ish silence for a few minutes. The forest was actually kinda pretty—sunlight filtering through the trees, the sound of a nearby stream. I took a sip from my water bottle, trying to look casual and not like I was hyper-aware of every brush of his arm against mine.

Then Jordan stopped dead. "Bear."

"What?"

"Bear. Right there." He pointed toward a cluster of bushes.

I squinted. "That's a rock, Jordan."

"No, for real. I swear I saw—"

The bushes rustled. Something huge and brown emerged.

"BEAR," Jordan whispered, grabbing my hand. "Actual bear."

My brain short-circuited. This was it. This was how I died—mom's vitamin gummies uneaten, my biggest regret being that I never told Jordan I thought his hair was cute.

"RUN," I hissed.

"We're not supposed to run! That's what you do with bears!"

"Jordan, I literally don't care what the rules say, I am not becoming bear food!"

We took off sprinting, hands still clasped, crashing through the underbrush like our lives depended on it (because they did). Behind us, the bear let out this surprisingly unthreatening sound.

"Wait," Jordan panted, skidding to a halt. "That sounded... fake?"

We turned. Standing there, looking incredibly guilty, was River. He held up a very obviously stuffed bear head on a stick.

"My bad, fam. It was supposed to be, like, a metaphor. For facing your fears and stuff."

Jordan and I looked at each other. Then we started laughing. Not polite laughter, but actual, doubled-over, can't-breathe laughter. The tension, the fear, the weirdness of everything—it all came pouring out.

"Metaphorical bear," Jordan wheezed. "Of course."

When we finally caught our breath, Jordan didn't let go of my hand. "So... friend?"

"Yeah," I said, feeling lighter than I had all summer. "Friend."

And when we got back to camp and I finally took one of those vitamin gummies, it didn't taste like chalk. It tasted like possibility. Or maybe that was just the residual adrenaline from almost being metaphorically mauled to death. Either way, I'd take it.