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I was five the first time I played piano. Of course, all I was doing was hitting the keys randomly, producing a horrible sound, but that didn't discourage my parents from getting me lessons. When I was ten, my parents hired a local piano teacher, dusted off our old Grand piano, and told me I had to practice three times a week after school.

At first, I didn't mind it. I liked the way that I picked it up so easily, and I was really good at it without trying too hard. My parents went from a cheap local teacher to an expensive, renowned pianist when I started getting better. Practice went from three times a week to every day, changing from a half hour to an hour and a half.

When I was fifteen, I decided that I didn't want to play piano anymore. Sure, I was good, but my parents put way too much pressure on me. If they weren't hounding me about my schoolwork, they were demanding that I practice piano. They rarely let me see my friends, saying that practice was more important than going to the mall or having a sleepover.

Of course, they said no. They told me I had a gift, that I could play better than nearly anyone else at my age. They told me that I was letting them down if I didn't play, that I was doing myself and others a disservice by denying my abilities. They threatened that my importance in the world would decrease, and that I would just be a boring person with a wasted talent.

At fifteen, that scorched me like you wouldn't believe. My parents had become more emotionless rule enforcers than actual caring parents. I believed every word they said and, although begrudgingly, I continued to play. I didn't want to disappoint my family, and I didn't want to become less of a person, so I practiced longer, participated in every recital, and in the end, I got better.

"Good work today, Amelia," Mrs. Brady commended as I finish the composition and remove my hands from the keys.

I give her a small smile. "Thank you."

As I begin to stand, Mrs. Brady informs me, "Your parents called me yesterday to see how you're doing in practice. I told them that you were coming along marvelously, as usual."

This didn't sound unusual. They told me that they'd call every week, and I knew that also meant they would call my piano teacher to make sure I was still on track. I nod, a tight lipped smile on my face, and say quietly, "I'll see you tomorrow, Mrs. Brady."

Practice went longer than usual today, which meant that I had to leave the auditorium immediately to go to the cafeteria. I scowled my whole walk to the dining hall, annoyed that instead of a nap, I was now bound by Marcus to serve a punishment for an act I didn't commit. I shook my head just thinking about the whole bra fiasco, and wondered why I didn't just let Carter take the fall for the whole thing.

When I got to the dining hall, I put my head down as I passed through the campers eating breakfast, not wanting to be noticed as I slide into the back of the kitchen area. The first person I saw was the lunch lady that yelled at me a few days ago when I caught Carter stealing those boxes, and she narrowed her eyes at me. I almost thought she was going to yell at me for being back there again, but instead she shakes her head.

"You're late," She scolds, and I glance at the clock to see its two minutes past ten. "You'll be on time for now on, do you understand?"

Damn. I felt like I was in preschool getting yelled at. Despite my numerous pranks here at camp throughout the years, I've never gotten punished, and only really got caught a few times. Standing in front of the intimidating lunch lady, who was watching me with narrowed eyes and a spatula in her hand, I suddenly realized that this is what Justin and James felt like every tim they were punished for their foolish actions.

"Sorry," I mumble.

"Follow me, I'll show you around." She ignores my apology and puts down her spatula before she begins moving about the kitchen, which was only occupied by a few other workers. "This is the freezer. Don't go in there. It locks from the outside when the door closes, so if you're in there and there's no one else here, you'll likely freeze to death." I looked at the freezer and winced. That was a nice thought. "Here are the cabinets, where we keep the cans and nonperishable items. That's the counter where we keep all the prepared foods for the next day. The only thing you need to know, though, is where we keep the cleaning supplies."

"Cleaning supplies?" I echo lamely, a frown etching on my face.

I hate cleaning.

Sensing my discomfort, the lunch lady smirks a little, the devil. "You'll have the cleaning shift after dinner at nine o'clock at night sharp, every night for the next two weeks." She opens a metal cabinet filled to the brim with cleaning supplies, and I frown deeper. "You'll find everything you need in here. I expect you to wash the tables, mop the floors, and take out the trash every night."

I stare at the mop and broom leaning against the walls of the cabinet and want to laugh in her face, to tell her that there's no way I'm cleaning the entire dining hall for the next two weeks, but I bite my tongue. Reluctantly, I nod, and she shuts the cabinet doors, the spray bottles of cleaner disappearing from my sight behind the metal doors.

"My name is Ruth if you need anything," The woman says, and then gives me a flat look. "Try not to need anything."

I nod. "Got it."

"I'll see you at nine o'clock tonight." Ruth instructs.

Again, I nod, and hightail it out of there. Once I'm outside, I groan loudly, letting my annoyance out of my system. These next two weeks were going to suck. As I trudge back to my cabin, to make matters even more stressful, my phone begins ringing. I immediately tense up, considering there's no one that would be calling me besides my parents or Jake, if he somehow decides he thinks he can boss me around again.

When I glance at my phone, my thoughts are confirmed when I see my mother's name dance across the screen. Taking a deep breath, I give myself a short moment before answering the call. "Hi, mom."

"Amelia," My mother greets, her voice void of any emotion. "I spoke with Mrs. Brady yesterday."

"She told me," I say calmly, knowing I had nothing to worry about.

"She said that you were only practicing for an hour each morning. I thought we decided on two hours a day while you're... at camp." She says the word 'camp' like it tastes bad in her mouth, which I'm sure it does.

Every year it takes a village to convince my mom to let me go to camp. She knows Mrs. Brady is one of the best teachers on the East Coast, but she thinks that camp is a waste of time. I always end up making a deal with her to be able to go; like I promise to spend an extra hour on piano, or I promise to learn a really difficult composition.

I shut my eyes tightly when she says this. I thought I had gotten away safely when Mrs. Brady told her that I was doing well, but apparently the smallest detail didn't slip from my moms attention.

"I've been getting there early every day to practice before she gets there," I say, and it's only a half lie. "I promise I've been doing well, mom."

She's silent for a painfully long second before she sighs. "Don't make me regret letting you go this year. This is the last summer at camp."

Her words hurt as much as they did when she said them to me during the school year. I had known that this would be my last summer as a camper, but I always wanted to try to be a counselor once I was out of High School. Unfortunately, after a long sit down conversation with my parents during the school year, they crushed this dream immediately.

"I know," I say quietly, leaning against a tree for support. "I won't."

"Good. Have you been reading your summer reading?" She questions next, her voice almost accusatory.

"I'm almost half way through already," I lie through my teeth, unable to tell her the truth without having her freak out. "You know, mom, you caught me at a bad time. I was about to hop in the shower. Do you think I could talk to you later?"

I was desperate to end the phone call. My mood was in a free fall downward, and I was exhausted, in need of a long nap to regain my sanity.

Thankfully, my mom agreed. "Okay, go take a shower. I'll speak with you sometime next week."

The formal way she was speaking to me almost made me cringe, but I was too used to it to be affected. Instead, I felt relieved that our conversation was over.

"Okay. Bye, mom." I say quickly.

"Goodbye, Amelia." Click.

No 'I love you', no 'have a fun time'. Just goodbye. I let out a breath when I hung up, feeling ten times more drained than I did when I woke up. After a moment of leaning against the tree with my eyes closed, I trudged to my cabin with my head down and feet dragging.

"Hey Amelia," I hear the last voice I wanted to hear call my name. "Wait up!"

I don't stop walking, but instead keep trudging toward my cabin. I was far too exhausted to deal with whatever Carter was going to do or say. Unfortunately, my lack of response didn't deter him, and he jogged until he caught up to me.

"What do you want, Carter?" You could hear the pure exhaustion in my voice when I asked, and I looked at him with an emotionless expression.

"What, you're not happy to see me?" He grins cheekily.

I keep looking at him flatly, clearly not in the mood. His grin fades almost immediately, and he sighs, running a hand through his hair. I've never seen him do that before. His brown hair is pushed back by his tanned hand, being messily pushed away from his forehead, and his hazel eyes look in front of us before they land on me. I keep looking forward, watching as I get closer to my cabin, but I can feel his gaze on me.

"Listen," Carter says, his voice low and holding a rare seriousness that compels me to look at him. "I'm sorry about last night. You're right. I shouldn't judge you based on what other people say. I should know not to do that, considering I fucking hate that everyone does it to me."

I stop walking, but I'm not sure if it's because we reached the cabin or because I'm so surprised. My flat look fades into one of wonder; my lips part in shock, my eyes widen just a little, and my gaze darts across his face in an effort to see if he's being serious. Based on the somber expression he wore and the genuine look swimming in his eyes, he was.

After staring at him for a moment, I nod slowly. "Thank you." He shifts a little when I say this, like he's not used to apologizing. "You're forgiven."

His awkwardness is washed away by a small smile. "Good."

And with his apology, I suddenly didn't feel as drained. Something about the small smile he was giving me that was so obviously genuine took away some of the tiredness I had felt.

"You look like you're going to fall asleep," Carter chuckles at his own words. "Did they really work you that hard at the dining hall this morning?"

At the mention of the dining hall, all previously lost exhaustion hit me like a truck all over again.

"I don't work until tonight," I scrunch my nose up just thinking about the work I have later. "I have cleaning duty."

He makes a face of distaste. "Cleaning duty for two weeks? That blows."

I narrow my eyes at Carter when he says this. "Yeah, it should be you cleaning up after everyone else for two weeks."

Carter grins sheepishly. "I'm going to take that as my cue to leave," He takes a step back for emphasis, and I narrow my eyes at him even further. "I'll see you later, princess."

He turns around to walk away, and I say (for what feels like the hundredth time), "I told you not to call me that!"

"Do you like sweetheart better?" He calls back over his shoulder.

"No!" I shout.

"Then princess it is," Carter says, finally turning around to toss me a wink before disappearing among the rest of the campers.

And, despite my previous detest for Carter, I can't help but find myself smiling.

+ + +

"You know where the cleaning supplies are," Ruth says as she tugs on her jacket, and then tosses me something. I look down at my hands and see a set of keys. "Lock up when you're done and leave the keys above the back door. I did inventory earlier, so I'll know if you steal anything."

I nod, but before I can even say anything, she's out the door. I sigh, mumbling, "Nice to see you too."

Silence responds to me, as expected. Taking a deep breath, I look around the empty tables, clad with sauce spills and food crumbs, and size up the amount of work I'd have to do. I disappear into the back supply room, where the cabinets containing the cleaning supplies are, and pull out a broom and dust pan to start.

As I'm walking back through the kitchen, an old black radio on the bottom rung of a shelving unit catches my eye. I lean the broom against the counter and bend down to grab the radio, which has a thin sheet of dust on top of it from the lack of use. I haul it up onto the counter and dust off the top, then click on the power button.

I smile when the light becomes green and the radio turns on. Carefully, I sift through the stations, most of them coming up as static. I almost gave up, but on my last try, a song started floating through the speaker quietly. I turned up the volume and listened closely, my smile widening when I realized what song it was.

"...laughing and a-running hey hey, skipping and a-jumping, in the misty morning fog with our hearts a-thumping..."

Brown Eyed Girl was one of my favorite songs when I was younger. My Uncle used to play it on guitar for me when I was little, and change the lyrics to say "blue eyed girl" instead. Grabbing the radio with one hand and the broom and dust pan with the other, I shuffle back out to the dining room.

I set the radio on one table and kicked my shoes off, deciding that if I was going to clean, then I might as well make it fun. I tugged my hair out of the ponytail it was in, letting my brown hair fall in waves over my shoulders. Turning up the volume on the radio, I grabbed the broom and began sweeping crumbs and day old dust bunnies off of the floor.

"...standing in the sunlight laughing, hiding behind a rainbow wall, slipping and a-sliding, all along the waterfall with you, my brown eyed girl; you, my brown eyed girl..."

I sang along with the song, sliding across the floor with the broom, using it to spin around occasionally.

"Do you remember, we used to sing sha la la la la la la la la la la dee dah," I sing, a large smile on my face, my job long forgotten as I instead twirled around, using the broom as my microphone. "Just like that, sha la la la la la la la la la dee dah, la dee dah."

I spin around again, and when I do, I catch the silhouette of a person standing there. I come to an abrupt halt, and when my gaze lands on Carter Miller standing there with his arms crossed and an amused expression on his face, it widens. The broom slips from my grasp and falls onto the ground with a loud clatter, but I ignore it.

"Please, don't stop on my account," Carter muses, a boyish grin on his lips.

When I regain some type of composure, I bend down and pick up the broom, then rest my gaze on him again. "How long were you standing there?"

"Since the chorus," He admits, and my cheeks flush in a deep shade of red. "You're good."

I ignore the compliment and instead inquire, "What are you doing here?"

Carter glances at the broom in my left hand and then meets my gaze again. "I came here to help."

My embarrassment fades when confusion instead takes over. Carter Miller, the one that got me into this mess of a punishment, was here to help? I eyed him suspiciously for a moment, waiting for him to laugh in my face and say "just kidding!", but he looked completely serious.

"Really?" I ask, trying not to sound too hopeful, but the smile was already stretching across my lips.

He grinned, too. "Really." And then his grin turns mischievous and he adds, "Only if you keep dancing, though."

I roll my eyes and even allow myself to laugh. "Shut it, Miller. Grab a broom."

And that's how I ended up sweeping up the dining hall with Carter, occasionally being poked by the tip of his broom while he looked away as if it wasn't him, with classic rock songs filling the space in between our laughter and conversation. It was actually nice, spending time with him, and it ended up helping the whole process a lot. We finished in half the time it would've taken me to sweep the floors, and then he even mopped while I wiped down the tables.

While I was wiping the once white rag along the sauce stains from tonights pasta off of the table, the song changed, and Carter gasped. I turned around to see him standing by the radio with a grin on his face, turning the dial up on the radio. I recognize the beginning chords of Teenage Wasteland by the The Who, and smile myself in appreciation. Carter looks up at me, and theres something boyish about the way his eyes were lighting up, like the song was a fond memory.

"I take it you like The Who?" I raise my eyebrows in question.

"Are you kidding? Who doesn't?" Carter replies with that same boyish grin on his lips. "This was the first song I learned how to play on guitar."

The piece of information surprises me. Who knew the bad boy could play guitar?

"You can play guitar?" I question, trying to hide my surprise.

His smile turns secretive, and I know that he caught me out despite my attempt to hide my true emotions. "You're not the only music prodigy, you know."

I roll my eyes. "I didn't think I was."

"I saw how surprised you were that I play an instrument," Carter challenges.

"But that's because you're you," I say, before I can think better of it. "I don't know. You don't seem like the type of guy to bother."

Instead of being offended, like I feared he would be after the words left my mouth, he just took his turn at rolling his eyes. "Now Mina, what did we say about judging each other?" He mocks, and then shrugs. "Besides, a guitar is a natural ladies magnet."

Even though he was saying that to make light of the fact he played an instrument, I could tell that there was something else. He didn't just play the guitar to attract girls. No, I could see the way his eyes lit up when he heard the song, when he mentioned his guitar; he enjoyed it. It was the same way I used to look when I talked about playing piano.

"Did you bring your guitar to camp?" I question next, suddenly eager to hear him play.

Carter smirks a little, giving me a look. "See what I mean? I mention that I play guitar, and now you want to hear me play, and then it will only be a matter of time before we start hooking up."

My wish to hear him play his guitar ended right there.

"In your dreams, Miller," I say with a shake of my head, dismissing the idea and picking up my rag to move to another table.

"How'd you know?" Carter asks in mock surprise.