Chapter VII: Whittling Woes

I sat at the arts and crafts table, surrounded by campers engrossed in their woodwork projects. The scent of freshly cut wood filled the air, mingling with the sounds of scraping and carving. Today, we were all tasked with creating our own custom bows for the archery activity later. Let me be honest and just say this: I am an artist. I paint, I sketch, I can do pastels. But woodwork, artistic as it may be, was not my forte. I was definitely bad at this.

As I picked up my carving knife, I couldn't help but feel a wave of frustration wash over me. Woodworking was never my strong suit, and it showed in my clumsy attempts to shape the bow. Splinters pricked at my fingers, adding to my growing irritation.

What's-her-face wasn't the counsellor in charge of this activity, so hooray for that. Instead, it was some black-haired, doe-eyed girl that looked about as thin as a popsicle stick but with the energy of a hamster on a wheel. She was pretty nice though, not over the top like Bubblegum, not creepy like Glasses, just...nice in general.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed someone approaching me. It was guitar boy, one of the more skilled campers when it came to woodworking. He wore a friendly smile as he offered his assistance, but my pride got the best of me. I shook my head stubbornly, deciding I would decline his help. I was determined to prove that I could do this on my own.

"Having a bit of trouble there?"

I groaned. Worse than having to do woodwork, was sitting next to Mr. Know-it-All, guitar boy who thought he could sweep all the girls at camp off their feet. I didn't know what his problem was but since we got to camp, he'd been bugging me. And failing. As if I didn't have enough pests already. I slapped a mosquito off the back of my hand.

"I'm doing just fine."

"Doesn't look like it." he placed his carving knife aside and gently pried my bow out of my hands. "You know the trick to this is you've got to be patient with yourself."

"I don't know who you think you are boy scout," I snapped. " But you've got it way wrong if you think you're going to hijack my crafts project to sweep me off my feet."

I stood up, grabbed the bow and knife off the table and retreated to a more secluded part of the field. With each failed attempt, my anger swelled inside me like a storm ready to burst. Frustration turned into disappointment as I watched others effortlessly carve their bows into beautiful works of art. As if sensing my distress, Dwight quietly settled down beside me.

He didn't say anything at first, just sat there calmly as if waiting for me to speak. And eventually, I did. My words tumbled out in a mixture of frustration and self-doubt. He listened attentively, his presence a soothing balm to my wounded pride.

"I hated woodworking. It was one of the few things my dad wanted me to take up. He started out making shelves and bookcases." I sighed a wave of nostalgia washing over me. " 'You gotta learn how to use a hammer Jordie, take helm of the family business,' "

I laughed a bit at the memory. My sister spent more time with my mom while she was around. Then when it was just me and her and bro and my dad, the dynamic changed. Dad was elected town mayor, my sister started going out more. She didn't want to spend her days at home anymore and my brother was the only one left to keep us sane. Dad stopped making his little projects and I guess I was relieved I'd never have to pick up a carving knife ever again.

"I'm not picking sides or anything," Dwight said. "But it's like...a universal code when a guy bugs you, he likes you."

I looked back at guitar boy, his downcast demeanor made him looked like a puppy. Not in a cute way, in a...helpless 'I want attention,' kind of a way.

"...He's not my type."

"You know," he finally said after a moment of silence, "woodworking isn't about being perfect or getting it right on the first try. It's about enjoying the process and learning from each mistake you make."

His words resonated within me like a gentle reminder that failure was just a stepping stone towards growth. With renewed determination, I picked up my carving knife once again and started afresh.

As the afternoon sun cast a warm glow over our worktable, Dwight and I carved side by side. He offered tips and encouragement, reminding me to be patient with myself. With each stroke of the knife, I felt my frustration melt away, replaced by a sense of accomplishment.

"Do guys read from the same handbook or something?" I shook my head because I swear he said the same thing."

He chuckled.

"I'm saying it out of experience," he pointed out. "He was just trying to flirt with you."

"Don't rush it." he reached for his bow. Perfectly curved and arched and already strung. "You've got all summer to figure it out."

I was going to ask why he'd abandoned his friends to sit here with me but looking back I caught the whispers of the other girls, the glares from some of them and a few others chiding. The one place I want to be invisible and I was already a laughing stock. Felt like high school all over again.

"We don't want you looking like the camp creep, now do we?" he answered.

Hours passed, and as the sun began to set, I held my finished bow in my hands. It may not have been perfect, but it was mine. A testament to my perseverance and the support of a friend. 'Friend' the word was still foreign to me, but the idea was becoming more and more welcome. Especially if my friend was a dork who was all smiles and jokes and pranks.

He reached for my arm.

"Hey, don't hate me for this," he whispered sharply. "But I kinda spilled some wood glue on one of the girls' benches."

"Kinda?" I looked towards the unsuspecting girls who were just finishing up on their own projects. "But if she gets up—"

"We might not want to be here for that." he smirked. "And believe me, she deserved it."

We shared a laugh as we packed up our tools and headed back to camp, I couldn't help but feel grateful for the experience. Woodworking had taught me more than just how to carve a bow; it had taught me something. You know how they say Rome wasn't built in a day? Well, the perfect bow wasn't created in one either.

And so, with a newfound confidence in my abilities, I walked away from the arts and crafts table, ready to take on any challenge that came my way.