The Gospel of Summer Girls

The first time I heard someone say, “Ew, they’re being gay,” it floated down from the balcony of the main hall like a heckle at a basketball game.

It was summer at sleep-away camp—an all-girls camp for teens where the days smelled like sunscreen and grass, and the nights belonged to us. The main hall was our kingdom after dark. It sat close to the bathrooms and held all the games, so we’d gather there in pajamas and slides, braids and bonnets, laughter echoing against the rafters.

My roommate was what I called a “movie” teen. The kind of girl who looked like she’d been cast on purpose. Tall, brown skin glowing even under fluorescent lights, perfect

teeth, thick curly hair, and lips the internet would later try to copy. We were close from the start. While other girls gossiped inside, we were the “active” ones—shooting hoops, racing across gravel paths, play fighting until someone tapped out.

That night, it rained.

The kind of summer rain that soaks you before you can decide whether to run. We were in our cabin, restless, listening to the drops drum against the roof.

“I’m bored,” she said.

So we walked to the washroom, then on a whim decided to race to the main hall. We sprinted through mud and puddles, shrieking, slipping, breathless by the time we reached the court outside. Our pajamas clung to our skin. My “I Love Ashton Kutcher” shirt was drenched and heavy.

We played H-O-R-S-E under the misty glow of the outdoor lights. The ball was slick, our hands clumsy. On the last round she fouled me, and I called it out dramatically. She laughed and shoved me. I shoved her back. Play fighting, like always.

Until it wasn’t.

In the scramble for the ball, my hand brushed against her breast. We both froze, the rain filling the silence between us.

“I knew you were gay,” she said.

My stomach dropped. I didn’t know what scared me more—that she thought so, or that she might be right. I imagined losing her friendship in that instant.

She smiled.

“Relax,” she said softly.

We stood face to face in the rain, wet fabric clinging to our skin, breaths uneven. Then she asked, “Do you like girls though?”

I swallowed. “I… guess I don’t know.”

And it was true. At home, I’d sneak around the family computer, searching for fragments of something I couldn’t name. Episodes of The L Word. Late-night AOL chatrooms labeled WLW. It all felt distant, like fantasy. Something that happened on screens, not in puddles under camp lights.

She picked up the ball and tossed it lightly against my chest.

“Wanna play for a kiss?”

Time slowed. My feet felt stuck in quicksand, but my body burned like lava under my skin. Nervous. Curious. Alive.

“Yeah,” I said.

I was never good at H-O-R-S-E. But that night, I couldn’t miss. Every shot felt guided by something bigger than muscle memory. When the final basket swished through the net, she didn’t hesitate.

She grabbed the collar of my soaked shirt and pulled me toward her.

Eyes open—because I couldn’t believe this was real—I felt her top lip brush mine. Then our bottom lips met. Small pecks at first, tentative and electric. The rain cooled our faces while heat bloomed everywhere else.

It deepened quickly. Hands at waists. Fingers gripping fabric. We nearly slipped into the mud, laughing into each other’s mouths before finding our balance again. She tightened her hold on my shirt, and I wrapped my arms around her like I was afraid she’d disappear.

She bit my lip. I pulled back, surprised. We locked eyes. She looked nervous now.

I smiled.

When we kissed again, I added tongue—something I’d seen once on The L Word, mimicking a move like I was studying for a test. Our heads swayed clumsily, rain

slipping between our lips. It was messy and perfect and entirely ours.

Our hearts pounded so loudly I was sure the whole camp could hear them. Every touch felt urgent, like we were discovering fire for the first time. We didn’t know the rules, didn’t know the destination—only that we didn’t want it to end.

“Ew, they’re being gay!”

The shout cracked through the night.

We broke apart and looked up. Four girls leaned over the balcony, wide-eyed and whispering. For a second, shame tried to creep in.

I looked at her.

She looked at me.

Then she laughed—loud, fearless—and flipped them off. We ran back to the cabin, giddy and breathless, racing again just because we could. Mud splashed behind us like

applause.

Inside, in the dim glow of a flashlight, I felt braver than I ever had.

“Did you like it?” I asked.

“Yeah. Did you?”

“Yes.”

And that was enough.

We kissed until sleep claimed us, soft this time. Fingers tangled in curls. Hands resting at waists like anchors. We cuddled carefully, listening for counselors’ footsteps, not wanting to be caught—not because it was wrong, but because it was ours.

We didn’t go further than that night. Summer ended. Life moved on. We never really talked about it again.

But I know we both carried it with us.

Because sometimes, becoming who you are doesn’t happen in a grand announcement. Sometimes it happens in the rain, on a cracked basketball court, with a wet T-shirt clutched in someone else’s hand—while the world watches from a balcony and you choose to kiss anyway.

I am a creative who is pushing myself to do the things I am passionate about. Learning to share my talents with others while respecting myself crafts.

This piece is a thought back in time. The first time I kissed and girl. The first time I felt complete. An ode to womanhood and a guide into lesbianism.

Insta: Kno.xerox

Artwork credit: Lucie Arnoux @luciedrawsthings