TROLLEY

I lost my skirt at camp. It was brand new and though longer, less accent-stitched, and cheaper than the other girls’ identical Wrangler-version — the model had taken Denmark by storm that year — I, too, followed the latest denim trend. Well, I’d hoped to. 

By the third morning, my crush on the boy with the squinty blue eyes was in full bloom. The previous two days, he’d walked next to me part of the way to the beach, and we’d sort of chatted. I needed to look my best. But my skirt was gone.

Wearing the same green shorts as the day before, I circled the courtyard adjacent to our sleeping quarters — converted, thatched cow barns — eyeing my fellow campers, who seemingly innocently waited for the counselors to walk us the three kilometers to the beach near our camp, Asserbo, on North Zealand island’s shore with its deep dunes and dusty-blue seagrasses that cut like steak knives if you weren’t careful. 

All of us fourth and fifth graders from Herlev — an inland suburb of Copenhagen — reveled in daily dips in the ocean. That day, we were also to collect plant specimens. I had nothing against flora and fauna lessons, but for the next two weeks, I studied misconduct beyond the girls’ teasing and the boys’ mischief, which included throwing water balloons, drizzling sand down shirts, and lifting skirts. Or they snatched sunglasses or hats, but while the girls wore them. And both those items I had.

Every afternoon, I’d get behind a different kid in the line for the camp’s candy store to talk about my loss and watch for reactions. Then, waving salty licorice like Heksehyl (Witches’ Scream that consisted of soft salmiac ammonium chloride — filling rolled into a thin licorice tube) under people’s noses — few Danish kids can withstand the scent of salty licorice — I’d chat up their potential guilt. No one acted particularly dubious.

Every night, awake in my big brother’s old sleeping bag, my head resting low and hard because my mom hadn’t packed a pillow, I agonized over the sixty-three potential defendants (seventy-four, including counselors and staff) and over that night’s scary story read by the head counselor as we sat around the fire and burnt our bonfire breads — simple yeast bread rolled thinly and unevenly, then wrapped around a branch broken off the nearest tree, and cooked over the campfire, flavored only by a severely scorched crust yet rarely baked enough.

The second to last night, I was again awake, wondering about the theft of my skirt and annoyed with everyone’s soft snores, when the door slammed open, and a counselor stormed in agitated. The police had called. Burglars who’d robbed both a candy and a jewelry store had escaped into the woods behind our camp. The officers could really use our help. The robbers were believed harmless and, in their haste, had likely dropped candy.

They probably stole skirts, too!

We ran pell-mell — I, fretting and teeth-clattering — following the bobbing cones from the grownups’ flashlights. At intervals, we found small piles of bonbons in metallic wrappers. We were allowed to pick from the evidence. Many of us went for the burnished pink Anton Bergs (dark chocolate-covered marzipan considered very grownup to eat). An owl hooted loud enough to overrule our excited-scared voices. The chilly night air closed in. Sick with worry, I threw up little lumps of sweet almond paste.

The counselor who walked me back explained it was just a treasure hunt. Fun and games. So, did I not want to return and enjoy the cake at the end of the run? No, I couldn’t shake my nerves and shame.

Around 1 a.m., my bunkmates returned all geared up. At breakfast, some kids gave me candy they’d saved. The blue-eyed boy was especially generous.

I forgot about my skirt.

Packing, the next day, I found it. Only then did I remember how, in the commotion when we arrived, I had grabbed it because of its bulk and tucked it under my sleeping bag as my substitute pillow.

It was like getting a new skirt all over again, and I hoped another opportunity to look my best would come soon.