Camp Deerfield

It took me almost a month to realize that I was actually attending boarding school, and not year-round camp with classes. To this day I find it odd that neither parent motioned to inform me. We drove the two-hour ride on a Sunday morning in early September, our dark-green minivan surprisingly empty for so monumental a move. I packed for this new school like I’d always packed for camp: a trunk of clothes, a bag of linens, a shoebox of cherished pictures.

Ironically, the first person I encountered at Deerfield was an older girl from Teton Valley, further cementing my assumption that this was camp with homework. Camp was fun, homework was easy. Deerfield, I bragged to my parents, was going to be a cinch. Again, rather mysteriously, my parents simply nodded and helped transport luggage from car to dorm.

In retrospect, I think a simple, “Hey, Liz, this might not be just like camp,” or, “You know, high school is usually pretty hard,” might have helped in the grand scheme of things. While that first day progressed comfortably with a stream of orientation groups, and a school-wide sit-down meal, and an awkward hour of name games in the student center, Deerfield started in September for a reason. And I understand why we are urged not to consider first impressions absolutely; the succeeding week from this arrival day was an unequivocal omen that I would feel bruised, tangled, and exposed at this place.

Day One was a Monday, the first day of classes. Summer sunny, girls in skirts, boys sweltering from jackets and ties, chicken cutlets for lunch. I felt good about the contacts made thus far, and when I saw two girls walking slightly ahead of me after Spanish class, I hurried to catch-up. They greeted me and I broke into a story. Nothing new there.

Why I felt the need to wave my hands ferociously at the top of the stairs I'll never know, but unsurprisingly my ankle rolled and I tumbled down the stairs. The fall felt like it happened quite quickly, but when I opened my eyes on the ground floor, the students hovering around me looked like they’d had ample time to collect in a circle. The Classroom Building stairs wrap around a brief landing before a final flight delivers you to the front door. My body flew down the first flight with such force that I slid across the interim landing and continued to fall, only stopping once I surpassed the bottom step.

When classes let out at 3:05pm sharp, everyone tends to socialize in the building’s main foyer before walking outside. I think those kids who stood closest to me tried desperately not to stare at my now exposed bottom half. The khaki skirt I’d picked specifically for my first day of school was now wrapped around my shoulders and reached up to my chin (ask about my underwear and I'll let you know I was wearing minimal coverage garments). My black heels were nowhere in my vicinity, but a well-known senior boy emerged from the crowd to hand them to me. Someone asked if I was okay, and if it was permissible to laugh. I limped out of the building and my respondent laughter was the pride stifling my confession that I thought my hip was broken.

Day Two: Tuesday, soccer tryouts. I felt both determined and confident about making the team. I’ve never been one to back-down from competition, and when our last drill involved a two-person race from midfield to goal, I sprinted with my head tucked down, mind and body absolutely dedicated to winning. The fields were directly below the athletic complex, and often the school’s trainers would sit on a porch overlooking the various practices.

I reached the goal sooner than expected, my head still tucked down in track star form. When I finally looked up to compare my location with the other girl’s, my head shot through the soccer net. In an effort to free my now-stuck head, my left arm and right leg became caught in the net as well. I dangled a few inches above the ground, the net surprised at its own ability to render me immobile. It took a few minutes for the coach to realize my lingering by the goal was not a choice, but an imprisonment. The team gathered by the goal in a combination of guffaws and awestruck stares. I resembled a crustacean, claws connecting body to net.

Mr. Williams introduced himself as the head trainer and cut me out of the goal with a pair of dulled medical scissors. In an effort to pretend this was not happening and to avoid eye contact with the other athletes walking back from practice, I closed my eyes. And dropped to the grass with an even thud.

The next day at biology class, I overheard the teacher ask a girl sitting in front of me if she knew who had gotten their head stuck in a soccer net.

Day Three: Saturday of the same week, mid-afternoon, “free swim” (I realize this is in and of itself embarrassing). A group of new friends and I had discovered the pool, and especially loved the springy diving board. I somehow convinced myself, and these other unknowing acquaintances, that I could perform a back flip. I figured I’d dove a little in elementary school, and diving was sort of like riding a bike. You just take a deep breath and go.

High school, like camp, was all about taking chances. “Seriously, your body basically does the flip for you,” I reassured a fellow swimmer after he asked me if I could really do one. I should have known: justifying your ability to do something is life’s way of begging you to think twice.

My friend James was leading a tour-group through the Natatorium when I flailed my arms and attempted the dive. Upon completing the flip, I hit the board head first and rickashayed into the water, completely knocked-out. The tour-group stood watching as lifeguards and swimmers catapulted themselves into the pool, my body floating back up in the now-crimson liquid. James turned to the group and said, “We are proud to house an extremely capable medical staff here at Deerfield. Hopefully she’ll be just fine.”

“Hopefully,” agreed a sarcastic woman in large black sunglasses.

When I came to at the side of the pool, all I could muster was: “My head hurts. A lot.”

The school physician diagnosed me with a moderate concussion and used eight stitches to sew an even line perpendicular to my hair part.

Two days later at sit-down lunch, the athletic director made an announcement that due to unforeseen circumstances, the diving pool had been drained over the weekend, and water polo practice would resume by Wednesday.

By the second week of class, I was impressively well known for a freshman.