After the end of the fifth grade, Wynne Coleman attended a week long summer camp in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. Wynne eagerly accepted the traditional Camp T-shirt that everyone received at the beginning of the week. But he quickly discovered that just because everyone had the same shirt did not mean everyone was treated the same.

Popularity and therefore all self-worth was reflected by how one wore this T-shirt. With the right shorts, cool jewelry, and latest shoes, some boys and girls could transform the homogenous cotton monotony into a hip, new style. The standard, practical camp clothes became uniforms of coolness. And if you were cool, you were kissing.

The camp counselors tried their best to prevent this practice, appealing to something called "God’s Word" whenever possible. Apparently, the word "kissing" was not found in God's Word. But, like other aspects of puberty that adults find damning, adolescent lip-locking in public places is a force that cannot be stopped. This was the Truth, regardless of anything that an adult or God had to say to the contrary.

Like a play, the cool people in their pretty T-shirts acted out dramatic romances on the blacktop in the full spotlight of the sun. Because Wynne was kissing no one, he forged his one friendship over the idea of escaping this practice. With Rusty, he built forts in the woods behind the far basketball goal, far off-stage in what might as well have been a janitorial closet. Scrambling up and sliding down muddy embankments collecting construction materials for their fort rendered their T-shirts torn and filthy. Rusty repeatedly boasted of how much fun he was having with rocks and trees and, Wynne might have believed the bravado, if only he was not privy to the occasional viewing of the lip-locking glamour underneath the far basketball goal.

Kissable beauties and wood-dwelling hermits all ate meals together three times a day in the camp cafeteria. Wynne hated meal times. He would have rather hunted small game or even eaten dirt for sustenance, because of this practice known as “calling out.”

Through some sort of telepathy, the elite group of the most popular kids would suddenly and simultaneously burst forth in chant, singling out one male camper with a sing-song chant:

"Kiss a girl, Bobby Taylor, kiss a girl!
Kiss a girl, Bobby Taylor, kiss a girl!
We won’t shut up, ‘till you pucker up,
Kiss a girl, Bobby Taylor, kiss a girl!"

Those who were perhaps not clued into the initial psychic communication tried to compensate for lack of superpowers with unbridled enthusiasm. Wynne never knew the boy being named, but it didn’t matter; he was sure what he should do:

KISS A GIRL, BOBBY TAYLOR, KISS A GIRL!

The chanting grew louder, the refrain spreading across the cafeteria. To the score was added the pounding of fists on tables and feet on the floor:

KISS A GIRL, BOBBY TAYLOR, KISS A GIRL!

Finally, this Bobby Taylor would stand up and do his thing. Like the gladiatorial contests of old, this public display of individual prowess was sanctified by the masses with much clapping and cheering.

After the first meal, Wynne lived out the rest of the week in perpetual fear of being “called out.” In the cafeteria, the spotlight could potentially shine on anyone. There could be no hiding off-stage in the dark woods.

Wynne began to “practice” the kissing form by smooching the backside of his arm while safely locked in a bathroom stall. He didn’t speak a word of this practice time to anyone, not even Rusty. When Mom called after a few days, Wynne could only mumble that he was doing “Fine” trying to be brave and choking back tears.

He was slogging through the week; each meal seemed like a day in itself. Wynne needed a mental vacation. By faking an illness, he managed to remain in the cabin for one of the dinners. Lying on his sleeping bag, he could still faintly hear the chanting in the cafeteria. He looked down at his ragged, dirty shirt. Closing his eyes, he pictured the triumphant first kiss, a moment of vindication in which the popular were left playing with their food, while he skipped out of the cafeteria, hand in hand with the Most Beautiful Girl in the World. He kissed the backside of arm and felt the warm, salty tears on his cheeks.

The next day, Rusty cajoled and coerced him out of the cabin and out to the lake for a canoe ride. Wynne whined about a phantom headache, but Rusty was persistent. Somehow, Wynne found himself paddling behind a girl with white, blond hair that glowed in the sunshine. Rusty also had a female co-pilot, and the four raced around the lake, splashing cold mountain water at each other with the oars. Wynne was still laughing as they pulled their canoes up on the sandy beach, as gleeful as he had been all week.

The wood-dwelling hermits' alliance with the water-splashing canoe girls strengthened over the last few days. The dread of the cafeteria chant still existed, but Wynne’s allies helped to keep his focus on the games and crafts. The remaining days passed slowly but surely until the day of departure finally arrived.

Wynne walked into lunch with a bounce in his step. Soon he would be going home, back to baseball in the backyard with his brother and walks around the block with his dog. He missed Mom, cartoons, his ten-speed bike, and the magnolia trees in the neighborhood park. But most all, Wynne yearned to escape the calling out chant; lying in his own bed in his own house, he did not have to pretend to be sick. Smiling, he got his food and sat down next to Rusty.

"Kiss a girl, Wynne Coleman, kiss a girl!”

His first thought was that he hadn’t heard the name correctly.

“KISS A GIRL, WYNNE COLEMAN, KISS A GIRL!”

Then, he dropped his fork with a clatter on the lunch tray.

“WE WON’T SHUT UP, ‘TIL YOU PUCKER UP,
KISS A GIRL, WYNNE COLEMAN, KISS A GIRL!"

Wynne looked at Rusty. Rusty’s eyes held the truth, not only of shock, but the reality that something horrible was expected of him. At 12 years of age, Wynne saw in Rusty’s face his first, definitive "oh shit!" look.

So, he looked past him to the source of the chant a few tables away. His former ally, the canoe partner and craft buddy, sat pounding the table and chanting, grinning wildly. She was so eager and excited, as if this was the part of the movie in which the wood-dwelling hermit was transformed into popular adolescent. She was laughing, as she led the chant for the third time:

“KISS A GIRL, WYNNE COLEMAN, KISS A GIRL!”

Wynne felt his face grow hot and his eyes burn with tears. He looked down at his tray and poked at something on the plate with his middle finger, stalling for more time, as his tears came precariously close to spilling. He stopped playing with his food upon realizing that his hand was shaking.

"WE WON'T SHUT UP, 'TIL YOU PUCKER UP!"

This was it. He took a deep breath, and slowly pushed away from the table, intending to stand up and walk over to her...

Suddenly, the chanting gave way to cheers! Another boy had taken the opportune time to go and kiss a girl on the other side of the cafeteria. Slowly, the normal sound of cafeteria chatter resumed. Wynne left the table without even saying good-bye to Rusty.

The camp experience was over for Wynne; each consecutive summer, he resolutely refused to go back. Yet, he never forgot how quickly his breathing returned to normal after the chanting died away.

Five and a half years later, Wynne Coleman was lying half-naked in a hotel bed, kissing some girl he barely knew. Then, she said that she couldn’t do this and asked him to stop. Wynne went back to his own bed and fell asleep like an exhausted fifth grader, finally home after a week of camp, finally feeling safe.

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