You know what’s worse than being caught by your little brother singing “Beat It” at the top of your lungs while you do a little corn-weeding? Having him follow you down the row singing, “Showin' how funky and strong is your fight. It doesn't matter who's wrong or right,” doing a little dance and stopping only to say, “Come on, Gen, you know you’re feeling it.” All morning long.

Have I mentioned that my dad is really freaked out by bears? Apparently one came into one of the cabins last spring.

My dad and Gavin went back to the house to get water. ARE there really bears out here? My dad said if you’re all by yourself you should sing to keep them away.

I think I might try that singing thing to let them know that I’m here. But the way I sing, a bear might attack me just to make me stop. And the only song I know all the words to is “Beat It.”

Okay, get this: I am standing in the middle of a cornfield. I am holding a hoe. As my mom said when we were setting off to work in the field, we are farmers now.

Here’s the thing: being a farmer is BORING. I am halfway down one row, there are ten rows to go, and it’s already taken TWO HOURS.

Now guess what? None of us could go outside this morning because we forgot to feed the chickens and they were now waiting to attack us every time we took a step out the door. We were prisoners for, like, an hour. Until that girl my age whose parents own the camp came by with some food.

That girl’s name is Nora by the way. She still doesn’t like me. Or anyone. She was really snotty about the fact that we barely had anything to eat and hadn’t figured out how the pump worked.

It’s the middle of the night now. Guess why I can’t sleep? Because I have to share a bed with my little brother. He’s ten! He’s a boy! He steals the covers! How is this even possible? I’m going to die.

This is what it’s like to sleep with Gavin: right now his pillow is soaked in drool. He mouth breathes and I can smell his nasty breath.

Not to mention he tosses around all the time and has pulled the quilt we are sharing onto the floor.

And that the mattress is hard and thin and laid on top of a hammock woven from rope that digs into me at every time I move.

Is this really going to be me for the rest of the summer––someone who pees standing on the outhouse bench, guessing where the hole is?

Oh, my God. Oh, my GOD. I just used the outhouse. For the first time. It was dark. I was feeling around for the seat with my hand and it was slimey! EEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWW!!!

There are a lot of little girls. Carrying dolls. It’s like some sick zombie Doll Club. Kind of gives me the chills, to tell you the truth.

Oh, and I forgot. There’s a totally funny girl named Ka who is a little younger than me. It’s hard to tell what anyone’s like when we’re all dressed in these costumes, and her makeup’s mostly rubbed off, but under her sunbonnet there’s a lot of white. She might be goth.

I met all the other families at the camp at the first day picnic. There’s a girl and a boy my age. The guy is really cute. He’s wearing the hat all the men have to wear here, but you can tell he thinks it’s funny.

The girl––she’s the daughter of the family who runs the camp. I haven’t even really talked to her, and she already hates me. I guess that’s because I laughed at her for having made a bunch of dolls.

I feel I have to tell you that my mom and I are wearing almost exactly the same thing, which reminds me of the matching mother-daughter dresses she tried to force me to wear on Christmas when I was ten and already way too old for it. Do you think if I’d just sucked it up about the mother-daughter dress back then, my mom would have gotten this kind of thing out of her system and let me to spend the summer hanging out at the rec center pool where I belong?

I can’t remember when this one came in. (MR. S., can I stop introducing them? It’s getting hard to think of anything to say.)
Ron’s wife Betsy was dressed in this crazy Pillsbury dough boy outfit. A long dress and an apron. She had this big smile spread on her face. She said, “Welcome to 1890.” When I said, “So 1890 is the year we’re pretending it is?” she looked at me like I was crazy. “Oh, no,” she said. “1890 is the year it is.”

She sent this one later that first day:
When the camp director Ron met us at the airport, all of that Amish stuff we learned about in sixth grade came flooding back. Ron looked Amish, except the Amish are usually driving buggies and making pretzels, and Ron was holding a sign that said, “The Welsh Family”––that’s us––as if he were some kind of celebrity limo driver gone wrong.

My computer teacher––hi Mr. S!–– told me I have to talk about who Gen is before I slack off on doing the actual writing for this assignment. So let me see: Gen is 13. She and Ashley and I are best friends. We all just finished eighth grade. Gen and I are on the soccer team together––we’re full backs. Ashley doesn’t play soccer because she’s scared of balls flying too close to her face.

Mr. S. said that wasn’t enough, so okay, here’s more about Gen:
Birthday: September 18
Sign: Virgo, but I will tell you she thinks signs are a little dumb
Hair: Brown, long, mostly in a ponytail
Eyes: Brown
Style (Ashley is fashion-obsessed so she made me put this in): But Ash, Gen doesn’t even have a style!! Just kidding, Gen, in case you ever read this. Gen wears jeans every day and t-shirts she thinks are funny. She’s pretty but doesn’t wear make up or anything.

Okay, more about Gen:
Music: She isn’t that much of a music person. She really loves the Beatles. She has a lot of classic rock on her iPod.
Favorite joke: Gen still thinks it’s really funny in soccer practice when out of nowhere someone pulls someone else’s shorts down. (FYI she gets really mad when someone does it to her.)

Favorite subject in school: Gym. After that, English.
Favorite movies: High School Musical 3. Just kidding! She loved Bring it On. Blue Crush. Twilight.
Favorite show: Veronica Mars
Relationship status: Single
Siblings: Gavin. He’s 10. Pasty and pale. A video game addict. When we have sleepovers at Gen’s he sits outside the door, eavesdropping.

Gen’s most inspiring moment: This past spring our soccer team was looking like we might go undefeated, but in the last game of the season, at halftime, we were down 2-0. Gen looked at us each in the eye. She gets this face on when we’re in a game, and she had it on now. “Let’s DO this,” she said. And that was it. But I felt so pumped up––everyone did––and then we won!

Last time I saw Gen before she left for Camp Frontier:
The night before she left––school wasn’t even out yet. She was packing. Her blue Speedo bathing suit hung on her closet doorknob. When I said, “Don’t forget that,” she burst into tears. Apparently, at this camp, if she was going to swim, it would be in some kind of a stream and she’d have to go in her underwear as bathing suits hadn’t been invented in 1890. Whoah.

Here's the first post I got from Gen. It came on the first day they were at camp:

Help! I'm dressed up like an American Girl Doll minus the fashion sense. My sleeves are so tight I can't lift my arms above my head. Is this the new me?