I protected my ears and took a deep breath as their high-pitched squeals echoed through the hallway. They were like a pack of little penguins, waddling in their hot pink flip-flops or light-up Sketchers. Their giant, sequin backpacks hung over their shoulders as a breadcrumb would over an ant. Pink polish glossed over their nails, matching the nuance of magentas in their t-shirts. Wide smiles with missing teeth revealed that they were excited about the day’s activities.

As they continued their journey down the hallway, I stood holding the classroom door open, waiting for their arrival. I glanced at the clock on the wall. Fifty-five minutes since I entered the school. Seven hours until I get to leave. I tapped my foot impatiently and let out sighs of agitation, wondering how long it would take them to reach the classroom. “Oh my gosh! I heard we were making those cupcakes with the sparkly sprinkles in them,” said one of the campers. This news generated a variety of screaming and giggling among the rest of them. Some even began dancing in excitement; apparently, sprinkles were a crowd favorite. Soon, the hallway became a parade ground with performers no taller than four feet.

“Okay guys,” I shouted above the frenzy, “I have a basket of different colored slips of paper. Just pick a color and sit at the same-colored table inside.”

Suddenly, an aura of seriousness fell upon the campers: Which color to choose? This decision seemed like a matter of life or death. Choosing the wrong color would certainly ruin the rest of the day’s festivities.

“Abby, which color are you picking?” asked one set of pigtails worriedly to her friend. They furrowed their eyebrows and bit their nails as they examined the five colors.

“Guys, it’s really not that big of a deal. Just pick a color and sit down please,” I explained, letting out a sigh of frustration. Just as I was about to assign them colors, Mrs. Dabdoub, the camp instructor, lured the campers in the classroom, with a giant bowl of rainbow frosting. Their eyes dilated at the sight of colored sugar. Then, like a bunch of mice, they all scurried to their respective tables.

Watching their little chins scrape against the edge of the tables, I grinned at the thought that I was just like them just a few years ago. The way their legs dangling in their chairs or their eyes lit up at the sight of frosting made me wonder where my pigtails had gone. Arms folded in the back of the classroom, I slouched against the wall as Mrs. Dabdoub lectured to an eager sea of pink hair bows.“4:00 cannot get here quick enough,” complained another counselor under her breath. I felt the need to examine my own outfit: black tennis shoes, black shorts, grey shirt. Compared to these sugar addicts, I was a weed in a field of fuschia flowers. I always liked the color pink. Suddenly, I felt a little finger tapping against the side of my leg: “Is it too late to switch my color?”