: "The Lion Tamer"

Fiction
By Susie C., Lincoln, NE

It was a serene, muggy, Midwestern Tuesday night in mid-July at the summer camp I work at, and it was also Staff Night Out. For counselors, SNO means a well-deserved break. But as junior counselors in Sioux cabin, my friend Erica Matthews and I would be thrown to the lions. The lions, in our case, were twelve 8 and 9-year-old girls.

A punk-rock loving, laid back, sarcasm queen called JoJo was assigned to help us with the girls' night activities. Besides some wet clothing from a squirt gun fight and a bruised forehead from a flying pillow, the lion taming was going surprisingly smoothly. JoJo even convinced the girls to get showers early. Patting ourselves on the back for our counseling skills, Erica and I told JoJo that we could handle putting the angels to bed without her help.

Before she left, the girls' official counselor, a petite, blond, practical joker named Sam, had suggested reading a story aloud to calm our campers down before bedtime. Sam always knew what to do, and didn't seem capable of mistakes where the girls were concerned.

Slowly, 10 o'clock rolled around. In a voice I hoped was authoritative, I commanded the girls to climb into their closely stacked wooden bunks. By washing her face and getting herself ready for bed, Erica made it irritatingly clear that I was alone in my struggle. Whispers and groans of, "When's Sam coming back?" drifted from corners of the now-darkened single room cabin.

I stood chewing my lip in the pool of artificial light falling through the cabin door from the porch beyond. JoJo, sitting at the picnic table just outside the door, could hear every word I uttered and every nervous response I stammered. I heard her giggle as one of camp's many insect inhabitants fell to a fiery death in a Citronella candle. As I sized up the whispering and whining girls, I would've given my right leg to be that mosquito. I could practically hear the lions mentally debating how far they could push me. Vivid memories of my own days harassing my counselors when I was a girl smacked me in the face. Paralyzed, I prayed that these girls weren't as clever and mischievous as my friends and I had been.

If I bolted and used the excuse that I had to use the restroom, would Erica take charge? Would JoJo scoff at my obvious cowardliness? My legs were lead weights and my knees quivered. The sound of my rapid heartbeat filled my ears and ragged breaths escaped my lungs. I thought to myself, "They can smell fear like rabid dogs."

Slowly and silently, I lowered myself Indian-style to the unforgivingly hard mauve carpet. It felt as thought I was facing the firing squad as 24 calculating, wide eyes followed my movement. I focused on my breathing as I flicked the switch on my pink flashlight. A small beam of light spread over a Berenstein Bears book about eating right. Blocking out the sounds of the lions breathing so close to me, I concentrated on my word formation.

Just as I was beginning to breathe steadily, I was interrupted mid-sentence by a whiny request to get a drink. My heart plummeted. Visions of a parade of girls in nightgowns delaying their bedtime by tramping to the sink filled my mind. If I gave this girl permission, I couldn't deny the others the privilege. Helplessly glancing up at my silent partner Erica, who shrugged her shoulders and yawned, I squeaked, "Quickly," and continued reading.

Except for the sound of her footsteps and my shaky voice, the room was quiet. This only meant the lions would attack silently, but I would be ready. My guard stayed up.

Finishing the story, I cautiously raised my eyes, squinting suspiciously. My eyes relaxed and I exhaled loudly. Just three pairs of eyes met mine; the others' eyes were tightly closed, lost in a dream world. I don't remember my exact words to the three homesick sweethearts, but I do remember giving each girl the separate attention and reassurance she craved.

Feeling like Superman discovering a Kryptonite repellant, I checked each sleeping girl and crept through the screen door. Sitting in the fake orange light from the hanging fixture on the porch, Sam looked up as I exited the lion den.

"How'd it go?" she asked with a knowing smile.

"Great," I chirped with a grin. "I could do this every night."