I went camping with a girl from school when I was twelve. Her mother had a lot of Native American blood and despite maintaining a glamourous existence as a something-or-other with painted fingernails and perfumed dresses with tie-in-back bows, she boasted she could catch, clean and cook fish on an open fire and pitch a tent.
There were communal showers at the campgrounds and she had us use dish soap to wash our hair. When no one was supposed to be looking I saw her put on Clinque foundation in the mirror.
“It’s moisturizing,” she told me, stepping in to waders. But she did catch fish—four, and we sliced them open and taunted one another with their pearly, slimy guts and reeked of campfire when we went to bed at sunset.