Free By the Time You Read This by Lola Jaye Page B

“Walk” alerting pedestrians to cross. Every corner you turned, shops. So many different places to eat. A man walking his dog; an old lady pushing a wonky cart. Everyone pushing forward.
    The driver announced “Welcome to the Big Apple” and the bus full of those inches away from an adventure burst into rapturous applause.
    I had never felt happier.
    I knew I wouldn’t be making enough money that summer to sample much of New York’s delights, but just being a part of something only ever glimpsed on TV shows would be enough. For now.
    Jump America placed me and a few others in a swanky Manhattan hotel, throwing in a hearty breakfast of pancakes and waffles the following morning. Naively, perhaps, I assumed the remainder of my three months would be spent identically—in pure luxury on the edge of a fast-paced metropolis. But the next day we were ferried by an incredibly hot coach, over the Hudson River and into New Jersey. Which was hours away from New York and itsstriking skyscrapers. Instead, I was faced with the stench of cow manure and masses of greenery. A tiny woman with the teeniest glasses perched on a button nose, and a pair of khaki shorts that sat just above her knobbly knees, walked toward me as I got off the bus.
    “Well, hi there. Welcome to our farm!” she squeaked, as if announcing my million-dollar win.
    “Thank you,” I said as the driver dumped my cases beside me. I struggled up the endless “driveway” as she babbled in a Michael Jackson on helium voice. The history of the “farm” (a lump of wood set in a trillion acres of nothing) was that it was home every summer to around a hundred kids sent over by their parents. Summer camps were really common in America, but as she showed me around what was to be my home for the next three months, my heart sank a bit.
    The “dorms” were dark, functional, and the bed felt like the bark of a tree against my backside.
    “That okay for you?” she squeaked.
    “Yes. Thanks.” I stifled a yawn.
    “You’re the last to arrive,” she said in her high-pitched voice as I opened my suitcase. “I’ll leave you to unpack, but make sure you’re downstairs in fifteen to eat dinner.”
    I gazed around my new surroundings: simple décor and a light musky smell that I was sure would soon begin to irritate me. I lay back on the world’s most uncomfortable bed and looked to the ceiling, noticing at least two cracks. I pulled out The Manual from my hand luggage and, hugging it close to my heart, I instantly knew I’d be all right.
    Actually, I was wrong.
    The first morning was awful. I had to stand up among twenty or so others and say my name, my favorite animaland why I’d chosen to come to summer camp. Some of the answers (especially from the Americans) were so detailed, so “feely,” I felt totally embarrassed with the clichéd “spreading my wings” bit. Worse still were the introductions to the children, ninety-nine percent of them rich brats whose parents had dispatched them to the camp for a bit of peace—and I was soon able to see why. The constant bickering and tantrums the camp “counselors” had to deal with were endless. Luckily, my unique role was confined to the admin office, my days spent away from the mayhem, answering calls, placing orders for food, that type of thing.
    From the nineteen or so camp counselors the only two that I bonded with were Greg from Bolton and Erin from Seattle.
    Two weeks into my stay, Greg and I were on washing-up duty.
    “Is this all you thought it would be?” he asked, in that weird northern twang I’d quickly grown used to.
    At first a bit stunned at this question, I gave it some thought as I scrubbed a pot. “Not really. For a start, I hadn’t expected all the cleaning! But it’s all right!” Actually, if I were honest, I’d been having the time of my life while at the same time secure in the knowledge I was following Dad’s advice by doing stuff many people my age (scrubbing pots excluded) only