Free Wifey by Judy Blume

shouldn’t have listened to Norman. Just because Enid sent
him
off to camp when he was five didn’t mean Jen was ready. Poor little Jen. Sandy had a mental picture of her behind barbed wire, crying. Painfully thin. A concentration camp for overprivileged youngsters.
    Oh, God.
    But wait. She had visited Camp Wah-Wee-Nah-Kee last summer. Had seen how lovely it was. Across the lake from Bucky’s camp. Iris Miller, the director, had shown them around. Pretty little bunks lined up at the crest of the hill. Manicured lawns. Flower beds. Modern bathrooms. Tennis courts. A dining room with a view of the mountains. And certainly no barbed wire. Jen would be all right. She had to be.
    Sandy picked up the phone and dialed.
    “This is Camp Wah-Wee-Nah-Kee in the heart of the Berkshires.” A cheery voice sang out.
    Sandy asked for Iris Miller, then waited while she was paged.
    “Yes, this is Iris Miller.”
    “This is Sandy Pressman, Mrs. Miller . . . from New Jersey . . . Jennifer’s mother . . .”
    “Yes, Mrs. Pressman. I saw Jennifer at breakfast. She’s doing beautifully.”
    “But, Mrs. Miller, I just received a very disturbing postcard from Jen saying that she’s starving.”
    “Really Mrs. Pressman,” Iris said, laughing, “I promise you, she’s not starving.”
    “Something about no steak and no roast beef.”
    “She’s been here less than a week . . . she’s a first-year camper . . . there’s always a period of adjustment . . . and as it happens we had steak on our first night. But we refer to it as beef here. We certainly give our campers the very best, believe me.”
    “Well, I hope so, but you can understand how upset I was when I got Jen’s card.”
    “Of course. But don’t worry. She’d have written a letter if she was really unhappy. The postcard is a sign that everything’s fine.”
    “I’d like to talk to Jen.”
    “You know that’s against the rules, Mrs. Pressman. No phone calls before visiting day. Write her cheerful letters. Believe me, she’s well cared for here.”
    “I guess it’s just that . . .”
    “See you on visiting day and don’t hesitate to call whenever you’re concerned.”
    “Yes . . . well . . .” Sandy began, but Iris had already hung up.
    She’d have to write to Jen tonight, explaining about the beef, suggesting that if she was hungry to demand peanut butter and to promise that on visiting day she would bring her all sorts of goodies. Pepperidge Farm cookies, fruits, potato chips, candy. No, that was wrong. Jen had to learn to get along without her. That was what camp was all about, wasn’t it? That’s what Norman said. Sandy didn’t know. She’d never gone herself. Mona didn’t trust camps. “You want polio, that’s a good way to get it,” Mona had argued when Myra begged to go to sleep-away camp. “But it’s hot and I want to go swimming,” Myra whined. “You’re hot, go sit in the bathtub,” Mona answered.
    S ANDY BARELY MADE THE NINE-THIRTY-TWO and found a seat in no-smoking. She’d been looking forward to this visit with Lisbeth. They hadn’t seen each other in months, not since January, when Sandy had returned from Jamaica. And on that day Sandy was sporting a full-blown herpes virus on her lower lip.
    “You still get those things?” Lisbeth had asked.
    “From the sun.”
    “So why don’t you wear something to protect your lips, like zinc oxide?”
    “Zinc’s so ugly, all that white goo.”
    “No offense, San, but it’s not as ugly as a fever sore.”
    “I know, and from now on I’m going to cover my lips before I go out in the sun. I’ve made up my mind, it’s crazy to suffer this way.”
    “Didn’t you have one when you and Norman were married?”
    “Yes, a very small one.”
    “And when your father died?”
    “Yes, at his funeral. I had the tail end of one at my Sweet Sixteen Party too.”
    “Do you think they come from emotional upheavals?”
    “No, from the sun.”
    “But your father died