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Going to Camp McClain every summer was the highlight of Bitty’s visits to Georgia. The kids were always nice, the wicked Georgia weather was tempered by the Blue Ridge Mountains and the large lake situated by the grounds and it was a nice place to forget about Samwell or Madison.
Although Bitty was officially on the camps roster as a RA, he spends most of his time (predictably) in the kitchen. The chef, Mrs. Anderson, was a no-nonsense older black woman who’d been working for the McClain family for years. The pair got on like a house on fire and Bitty found he could lose hours baking for the one hundred kids that had to eat every day. Mrs. Anderson was an avid watcher of Bitty’s vlog and had more than one occasion argued with him about the on the best way to make a pie crust.
More often than not the pair would slip into a gentle quiet, the only sounds coming from an old electric window fan and the low static sounds of Duke Ellington coming from an ancient record player in the kitchen.
Tonight was spaghetti night so while Mrs. Anderson started slicing tomatoes and carrots (she was a master of sneaking extra vegetable into recipes) Bitty was kneading the dough for garlic bread. It was so simple, push and roll, push and roll that Bitty got lost in it.
He thought about Jack kissing him, the pressure of his large hand on the small of his back the soft groan he made when they had to pull away. It stills feels odd; Bitty knows that it did happen (Jack did kiss him he wants him oh god Jack wants him) but it seems that every two minutes his stomach drops and he thinks ‘Dear god that actually happened’.
“Eric! That breads gon’ be dry as sand if you keep messing with it like that!” Mrs. Anderson voice cuts through Bitty’s thoughts and he jerks his hand away from the dough like it burns.
“Darn, I wasn’t adding flour either.” He says under his bread, rubbing his hands on his apron. Bitty pinches some flour from a nearby bowl and sprinkles it over the overworked dough, trying to ignore the older woman’s questioning stares. He finishes up the loaf quickly and moves onto the next, willing himself to focus. Mrs. Anderson has already turned back to her sauce muttering something about dried bread and shitty sous chefs.
#
The camp only last two weeks, but the time seems to move slowly as a heat wave passes North Georgia. Most of the kids are content with playing by the Lake and Bittle eagerly tries out recipes for homemade shaved ice and gelato much to Mrs. Anderson’s annoyance (and the counselors reliefs).
“When I was younger all we had was ice, and sometimes not even that. We’d be content sitting in the shade if we thought it was hot. You’ve got all this nervous energy and ya tearing my kitchen up for good reason!” She cried, wiping her forehead with a towel.
He understands her frustration; he’s been tinkering with new ideas all week; he burned a pie (She’d sent him to the camp on-staff nurse after that), and he’d mixed up the salt and sugar when cooking the lasagna sauce on Tuesday. Bittle could only hum his assent toward her chastisement, eyeing a peach gelato recipe that has his name written all over it. He sets his phone down and goes to find ingredients. Bitty can admit that he’s unnaturally jittery to the point that even the children are noticing. Bitty heard two of the smaller campers discussing ‘Mr. Bittle’ while sipping juice boxes on a park bench.
“Whaddaya thinks wrong wiff ‘im?” asked the smaller one, Tyrus (he had an awful tendency to announce he had to use the restroom, and then promptly pee on himself).
“Dunno. Maybe he ate too much candy. My ma says I gets hyper with too much candy.” replied Xavier slurping the last of his juice. It had overall been an adorable exchange but Bitty chided himself. It’s just a boy Eric.
Don’t get yourself all worked up because of that boy.
He takes a clipboard off the wall and flips through the inventory list, muttering to himself. Sugar, Peaches- how the heck do they not have peaches? They’re in Georgia for god’s sake, how am I supposed make anything with such limited-
“Eric?”
Bitty turns his head and looks at Ms. Anderson. She has her hands crossed over her large chest and is eyeing Bitty with such an intensity he looks sheepishly on the floor. He’s honestly surprised. Bitty suspected she would have asked what was going on with him days ago, but she’d held her tongue.
“I’ve known you for ‘bout 5 years Eric Bittle and I’ve been around a long time,” She walks over to him and grabs his hands, “But something has got you and it’s got you real good.”
#
It’s about ten o’clock when Ms. Anderson and Bittle finally finish washing the cooking dishes after dinner. Bitty had apologized earlier for his strange behavior but got tight-lipped and quiet when Ms. Anderson pushed. It’s not that he doesn’t trust her, but Jack’s pretty well known, and too there are way too many mouths and ears in Georgia. But he’s worried about a lot and there aren’t many places for him to turn.
His cell phone signal is shot (which he made sure to tell Jack) so Twitter, the Team Tumblr, and even calling Shitty or Lardo is out of the question. The camp ends in five days and Jack flies down two weeks after that and Bitty would prefer is he was not a jittery ball of worry when he got there.
Ms. Anderson taps Bitty on the shoulder and he realizes that he’s been wiping down the same spot with such force that some of the tiles are scratched. He turns around to apologize and sees that she’s carrying a bottle of Jack Daniels and two shot glasses.
“Liquid courage son,” she says softly, “We need to sit down and talk.” She pulls an old industrial crate out and sits down and gestures for Bitty to do the same. As he finds his own seat she pours.
After Ms. Anderson hands him his first shot, Bitty downs the amber liquid in one go, nearly gasping at the burn.
“Okay. Let’s talk.”
#
“I’m gay.”
It’s different the third time. Shitty hadn’t regarded it as monumental, just processed the information for general use (Bitty’s gay, he doesn’t like girls, ‘swasome now let’s get inside it’s freezing balls out here.). Ransom and Holster hadn’t even broken stride, if Bitty likes guys we’ll find him a guy. Ms. Anderson was quiet, sipping quietly on the liquor. Bitty understood, it was the South people thought differently. He just prayed she wouldn’t kick him out the kitchen forever.
“Eric. I’m not sure what you want me to think,” She breathed out a laugh then tossed down the rest of the glass, “But it’ll always be something.” She pressed he back onto the wall and sighed. “In the olden days if you were a witch you were an outcast. Then if you were Catholic or Protestant or Lutheran they’d outcast each other. Then if you were black or to dark. Then if you were rich or poor. Male or Female. Republican or Democrat.” The sigh she makes this time isn’t one of exhaustion, but of pure sorrow. “People is people, yet we continue to fight people for being people.” Ms. Anderson shakes her head and take the bottle from Bitty’s shaking hands.
“Now, I’m not sure if I totally agree with ya,” she laughs again, totally humorless, “But I didn’t pray and beg God to be black. To be segregated and demeaned.” She looks Bittle in the eyes, “and I’d bet good money you weren’t busting down doors to have people disrespect and damn you to hell for what your heart feels.”
Bitty forces down a sob, because out of all the things that could have come out of her mouth, he did not expect it to be this. It’s not pity, it’s not a reprimand, it’s real and solid and Bitty couldn’t be more grateful.
“Thank you.” His voice breaks and tears leak from his eyes regardless.
“Thank you.”
#
Bitty spills like an overturned glass of Coke. Ms. Anderson knows about Samwell the guys, so the conversation is centered on Jack. He ends up showing her a picture of Jack (oh he’s one of the prettiest lil’ white boys I’ve ever seen), relaying the events of graduation (that’s the sappiest shit I’ve ever heard Eric), and his worries about the future.
Ms. Anderson is a straight shooter and as the Jack Daniels pours her tongue becomes looser.
“I’m not sure what we are now ya know? S’like he kissed me now what?”
“Looks like he wants to court you proper.”
“Proper my ass. We won’t be able to tell anyone.”
“Fuck people then.”
Bitty buries his face in his hands. The room is spinning a bit and his head is swimming. He wished Jack was holding him right now.
“Yeah but people determine his career. If he was anything he else, sure.”
“Then love him Eric! If you can’t help your situation you can’t fucking mope about it. Love him with everything in you and let the rest of the cards fall where they may.”
Bitty nods slowly. Let the cards fall where they may.
“Welp,” Ms. Anderson grabs the half bottle of Jack from the floor and screws the cap back onto the bottle, “I think that is the extent of the advise I can give. You want to know anything about the birds in the bees you might want to call your fath-” Bitty lets out a sharp laugh as she catches herself.
“Well I suppose you can’t call your dad for this huh?” Bitty's laugh becomes more genuine as he imagines Coach giving him pointers on sex (gay or otherwise).
“Lord he’d probably take me to a locker room and explain it like a football play.” Bitty wheezes out before he falls into drunken-giggles. What should be otherwise terrifying is hilarious and damn Jack Daniels really is liquid courage. He wants to call his dad right now and tell him once and for all that he’ll never have a girlfriend, he probably won’t have biological children, and that he’d rather bake than go outside any day of the fuckin’ week.
He’s Eric Richard Bittle and doesn’t give a shit.
#
Turns out that when Bitty is no longer drunk as a skunk and the sun has risen, he actually gives several shits.
Once he’s done throwing up in his cabin’s bathroom and taken a shower, he practically sprints (or however fast an emotional hung-over Bitty can run) to the mess-hall. There is no evidence that last night’s conversation and drinking has affected Ms. Anderson, besides the fact that she’s serving cold cereal instead of oatmeal or eggs. He practically babbles his way through a plea, begging her not to tell anyone about him and Jack and about himself in general.
For about a millisecond she looks hurt then she grins a little.
“Eric, you know I ain’t no kiss and tell woman.”
“Yes ma’am.” He’s really tired of feeling like he’s going to cry every two seconds but he really just want to bawl. He opts for a sigh instead and helps her pull out the bowls for the kid’s breakfast.
#
The night before the last day of camp Bitty’s restless.
He’s ecstatic that he’ll be able to talk to Jack again but he thinks about what Ms. Anderson said.
Let the cards fall where they may.
He’s just hoping for a good deck.