When I was thirteen years old, I went to my first classic American summer camp. A year or so before, I had watched Meatballs with my father, and I remember being fascinated by the easy-going, fun-filled experience the campers had enjoyed in the movie. I begged my parents to send me somewhere like Camp North Star, where I would be able to have an amazing movie-like experience learning how to kayak and making dream catchers. I had been to overnight camps before, all soccer training camps, but I was convinced that nothing would compare to the fun times I would have at a good, old-fashioned summer camp.

The camp was called Junior Nature Camp, and my younger sister, Emma, had gone there a year before. It was supposed to be an old-timey summer camp that focused on educating campers on the natural world around them. This did not thrill me. I wanted to spend my time swimming in a crystal clear lake or weaving friendship bracelets with my cabin mates, not learning the difference between coniferous and deciduous trees. But my parents convinced me that I would have fun, so I decided that I’d have to settle for slightly less perfect camp experience than in my fantasies.

When I got to the camp on the first day, I was more than a little nervous. My parents Honda Pilot rolled over a suspiciously creaky wooden bridge and into the camp ground’s gravel parking lot. A tall, grey-haired man, sporting an outdoorsy tan and a friendly grin, greeted every camper at the end of the bridge. His name was Jeff, and I could tell instantly that he was trustworthy adult who would make sure I wasn’t eaten by bears or slashed by a chainsaw murderer in the woods. Still, Jeff was not enough to ease my apprehension at spending a whole week in this secluded camp ground. The camp was two weeks long, but I was only signed up for the second week. This meant that a lot of the other campers had already been at the camp for a full week, so they had a huge head start on making friends and figuring out where the bathrooms were.

Fortunately for me, this had little impact on my ability to have a good time at Junior Nature Camp. I had worried that I’d end up spending a boring week tagging along with my little sister and her friends, who had all been to camp before, but I was delighted to find that my soccer friend, Maria, was also at the camp that week. We ended up sharing a platform tent with two older girls, both going into their sophomore years in high school. Being a mere eight grader, this was extremely titillating for me. I was a fairly sheltered kid, so I was fascinated by these girls and their descriptions of bad make-out session they’d experienced (I had never been kissed) and the times they had gotten super drunk and totally acted like a skank (I had only ever had a sip of wine during church communion). You can imagine how games of “Never Have I Ever…” went in this cabin.

I had a great time my first year at camp. It was a little nerve-wracking at first because the camp had a lot of arbitrary customs and traditions, like singing the special camp prayers before every meal and sanctioned bathroom times for boys and girls showers. But I made some great friends that year, kids from all over the country.

Now, of course, come the question you’ve been dying to ask since you started reading this essay: What about the guys at the camp, Abbey? (Insert over-the-top wink here.) Well, sorry to disappoint, but my first year at camp was relatively uninteresting in terms of romance. There wasn’t a particularly large concentration of eligible bachelors at JNC, and the prospect of summer romance, a huge and essential staple in every teen movie I’d seen, from Grease to High School Musical, looked bleak. However, there was one boy who did catch my eye. I’ll call him LA because his actual name was also the abbreviation for an important American city.

LA was my age and was definitely the closest thing I could find to a Romeo-type at camp. He was very pale—the kind of pale that hurts to look at—and had short, white-blonde hair. (Side note: For some reason, I always find myself being drawn to very, very pale guys. Most of the boys I’ve had crushes on or dated look like they’ve been trapped in a dark basement for 10 years. Perhaps this stems from the dozens of hours I’ve invested in watching The Vampire Diaries. It is probably my subconscious nudging me towards partners who look most likely to be mysterious, blood-sucking demons.) Anyway, I thought LA was pretty good looking. He was tall and athletically built, and he was really cute in a way that reminded me of a turtle. This may sound super weird but trust me, he was a catch.

Unfortunately, my half-crush on LA went nowhere that year. We probably spoke once in that entire week, and that was just him asking me to pass the syrup at breakfast. Coincidentally, he seemed to be interested in one of the cool high school girls in my tent, and I listened, rapt, while this lucky girl complained about his affection. (She had a boyfriend, but that didn’t stop her from letting LA hold her hand at the campfire. I was a smidge jealous.)

My first year at camp was great, and the next summer, I was more than happy to sign on for another week. My sister wouldn’t be in attendance that year, but Maria would be going and so would most of the friends I’d made the previous summer. I wouldn’t be the new kid any more, and I’d be able to nervous, shy stage I’d gone through the first day or so the year before. I seemed to be in store for an awesome and fun week.

I arrived at camp and got settled, delighted to find that Maria was once again in my tent. We finished unpacking and decided to go for a stroll down to the mess hall to hang out before dinner. That’s when I saw him: LA in all his pale, blonde glory, walking up the hill towards the boys’ tents, toting a duffle in his wake. He was just as cute and tall as I remembered. I silently rejoiced that last year’s eye-candy was back.

That night, the campers were all sorted into groups for the week. You stayed with your group during morning sessions, which were lessons on things like different types of wild flowers or river ecosystems. Dorky, yes, but often very interesting and sometimes even fun. LA was in my group. This, of course, was pretty good news. Very good news.

The first morning of camp, my group and I embarked on our first of the daily morning bird walks of the week. I am not remotely knowledgeable on anything related to birds, so my usual routine was to stand quietly while other, more enthusiastic campers identified bird calls.

My group was trekking down a large hill on the outskirt of the camp grounds, our shoes covered in morning dew, when it happened. LA spoke to me. I have no idea what he said, proabably some sort of joke about getting out feet wet or something. What I do remember is that he went out of his way to get beside me and start a conversation. Something in my chest stirred.

We ended up sitting next to each other at morning session that day. And again that afternoon at the camp-wide lesson. He was nice and relatively easy to talk to in addition to his good looks, and I felt the beginnings of a major crush developing as we sat side by side at the campfire that night, our knees almost brushing.

Throughout that week, LA and I got closer and closer, always choosing to sit next to each other at meals and at sessions, sharing furtive glances and subtly brushing elbows whenever possible. I was finding more and more reasons to like LA. He knew how to shoot a bow and arrow—how hot is that? He was smart and interesting, and he had some rockin’ abs for a fourteen year old boy, as I discovered when we went swimming one lazy afternoon.

At Tuesdays campfire, our relationship got even more serious. We were sitting next to each other on my blanket, watching the fire and listening in amiable silence to Lenny, an old, balding counselor, play his guitar. I felt LA’s hand brush against mine. My heart quickened. Was it a mistake or did he do it on purpose? My question was answered moments later when his fingers clumsily intertwined with my own. We were holding hands! It was by far the most romantic moment I’d experienced, even more romantic that the slow dance I’d shared with my sixth-grade boyfriend. I was on cloud nine the entire night, and I barely got any sleep, thoughts of LA and what other adventures lay in store for me that week.

The next few days were absolute bliss for fourteen-year-old me. I was in the midst of a steamy (steamy for someone fresh out of middle school) summer romance with arguably the cutest guy at camp. I had it made. We held hand at campfire, walked together during bird walks, and I was convinced that this would be how I lost my kissing virginity. Everything was perfect.

And then it suddenly wasn’t. It was Friday night—the last campfire of the summer. The next day, everyone would be going home. It was my last night with LA and I was determined to make the most of it. Before everyone headed up to campfire, I made sure to brush my teeth, sure LA would kiss me right after the campfire was over, when we were alone in the dark. I was extremely nervous and excited at the same time.

But when we walked up to the campfire from the nightly poetry reading, LA didn’t sit by me. He sat on the complete opposite side of the campfire circle next to some of the guys he hung around with at camp. I sat by Maria, hurt, and spent the entire night wondering if I had done something wrong. How had things gone from passionate hand-holding to the cold shoulder so quickly? I was so confused.

That night in my tent, I lay in my bunk, tears in my eyes, feeling like I had my heart stomped on. Was I being dramatic? Absolutely. But I had been having so much fun with LA and I was upset at how quickly things had gone wrong.

The next morning, I still sat by him at breakfast, but things felt oddly tense and awkward, much different than the former ease of our conversations. Everything felt wrong, and I didn’t know why. The rest of the morning was spent packing up and getting my stuff loaded back into my parents’ car.

The last romantic moment I had with LA happened right before I left. He was standing alone, a few yards away from his parents’ car. I approached him and gave him a good-bye hug. In the middle of the hug, I got brave and planted an embarrassingly loud kiss on his cheek. The awkwardness of that moment still haunts me to this day. I got in my own car and left, leaving behind my brief summer romance.

I saw LA the next year when I came back to the camp for a third year. Things between us where friendly, but there was clearly no romantic feelings left between us. Whatever spark was between us that last summer was gone, but oddly, this didn’t really upset me.

I sometimes think back to my time with LA at Junior Nature Camp and wonder what happened that last night. Maybe LA was tired of what we had, or maybe he just wanted to spend the last night at camp with his friends instead of me. Either way, it didn’t matter. There’s no need for curiosity because I’ve moved on. I’ve had plenty of other crushes and even a few boyfriends since that summer. There is no room in my life to dwell on the complexities of my middle school summer romance.

I guess that’s the point of summer romances. They aren’t supposed to be serious or have a large impact on our life stories. They are just fun and mildly embarrassing footnotes in a much longer and more interesting plot.