How to (Almost) Ruin Your Summer (2 page)

Watch Your Parents Drive Away

On the long drive to camp, I told Mom and Dad about my moneymaking plan. Dad said it was a good idea, and Mom said she liked the fact I was focusing on positive outcomes (she's always saying stuff like that).

“We're here,” Dad said.

We turned off the county road onto a gravel drive and passed under a huge
Welcome to Camp Minn haha
sign. The fact that the
e
was missing and the sign now ended with “haha” was not encouraging.

The parking lot swarmed with boys and girls who looked my age or close to it, tugging and lugging suitcases and sleeping bags. Dad parked, and I dragged myself from the van to stretch my cramped muscles.

The scent of pine trees and sunscreen filled my nostrils. “I bet this is what Christmas in the tropics smells like.” Then, a breeze brought the stench of sawdust and manure to us—what summer camp with barn animals smells like.

My mother spoke under her breath. “Oh my.”

That didn't make me feel any better.

Where were the clear streams and the gently rolling hills? All around me were what looked like mountains. The mere thought of hiking up and down them made my legs ache. But Camp Minnehaha was my ticket to non-dorkiness.
Stay focused, Chloe!

At the top step of the registration office—actually it said
Reg st ation Off ce
—perched a woman just under five feet tall and just over three feet wide. She greeted the campers and parents grouping near her. “Welcome, welcome, welcome! Hello, hello, hello!” She could give Mrs. Claus a run for her money when it came to both size and cheeriness. Dressed in khaki from head to toe, she looked prepared to go on safari. Wire-rimmed glasses balanced on the tip of her nose. “I'm Director Mudwimple.”

She barreled down the three rickety steps toward us, amazingly fast for someone her size. I hoped she wouldn't gain too much speed and run into me. She grabbed my hand and shook it in a two-handed, crushing grip before she moved onto the next person in her path, talking nonstop. “If you have any medications, just leave them in the nurse's office. Also, you'll need to fill out some medical forms, waivers, that sort of thing. The registration office is just behind me, and they'll give you your cabin assignments, career information sheets, and the daily schedule. Orientation is at three o'clock, and here is a map of the camp.” She'd circled back around to where I stood, shoved a map into my hands, and took a deep breath before starting in again on her well-rehearsed welcome speech. I couldn't listen as fast as she could talk.

Despite the shade of the pine trees, the afternoon sun toasted me like a marshmallow. Wavy lines of heat rose from the tops of cars, and beads of sweat trickled down my back. I wriggled my shoulders in irritation. Folding the map Director Mudwimple gave me into a fan, I waved the tropical Christmas–smelly barn breeze toward my face, and we walked inside the
Reg st ation Off ce
.

A ginormous stone fireplace stood in the center of the air-conditioned room. Couches and armchairs were scattered around in small groupings, like tiny living rooms all set up in one giant space. Kind of like pictures of log cabins I'd seen in Mom's home-decorating magazines. My eyes followed the stones up the tall fireplace but stopped at the sight of three mounted heads. A deer, a boar, and…wait for it…a llama, stared back at me from the fireplace's stone wall. The llama's long neck stretched out over the hearth, its ears pointed forward. And in spite of the glassy stare in its eyes, it looked alert. Cake decorating or not, camp was creepy.

“I'm outta here,” I said, turning around.

Dad blocked the doorway. “Oh no you're not.”

“There's a llama head on the wall, Dad.”

“So? Llamas are nice.”

“Exactly my point. Who shoots a llama and then brags by hanging it on a wall?”

“Chloe, you're overreacting,” said Mom, pulling me into the line for the check-in table. “Besides, you have to stay. How else will you learn how to decorate cupcakes for Mrs. Peghiny?”

She had a point. Not that it mattered. I had no choice but to stay.

Dad gave her a peck on her nose and she giggled. Oh no. I mean, don't get me wrong—I love that they love each other, but
really
? The only thing worse than PDA is
parents'
PDA. I looked around, cringing—had anyone else seen?

The line of people waiting to check in curved around the side of the fireplace and then disappeared. A couple feet ahead of us was a girl who looked my age. She gave an annoyed huff and shifted a unicorn Zoo 'n' You from her right arm to her left. She struggled to keep from poking her eyes out with the unicorn's horn while fighting with all the folds of the fabric. When she saw me staring at her, she stuck out her tongue.
How rude!

Startled, I turned away from Rude Girl and came face-to-face with another girl.

Everything about her reminded me of a pogo stick—from the way she bounced on her toes in a never-ending rhythm to her curly hair. Based on how excited she looked, I'm pretty sure her skin struggled to keep her from exploding into millions of vibrating, springing particles.

Right then and there, I decided to call her Pogo.

Not to her face of course; that wouldn't be nice.

“Hey!” she said. “I'm Pauline but everyone calls me Paulie.”

Or Pogo.

“I'm Chloe.”

Dad elbowed me in the ribs. “See, you've made a friend already.”

“Yeah, thanks, Dad.”

“Wanna piece of gum?” Pogo held out a pack of gum.

I shrugged. “Sure. Thanks.”

Dad turned to her. “Is this your first time to Camp Minnehaha?”

She nodded. “I'm uber-excited”—jump—“about the science”—jump—“I love tinkering around and inventing things”—bounce—“so when my dad heard about this camp, he signed me up”—double bounce—“plus, it gives me a break from”—jump—“my little brothers and sisters”—grand finale jump.

“Can you hold still for just a minute?” I asked. “I can't focus.”

She stopped and smiled.

Pogo stood twitching in place, which I guess was the closest she could get to holding still. She put her hands in her pockets and glanced at the back wall. “Whoa! Look at the animals! Aren't they cool? My uncle once had a guinea pig named Captain Nemo that he totally loved. When it died, he put it in the freezer until he could have it mounted. He even had the taxidermy guy make a small submarine to keep it in.” She frowned. “Whenever we visit, I see it staring out a porthole.”

Dad chuckled. “Your uncle must really enjoy reading
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea
to have Nemo preserved in a submarine.”

“Yeah, well, he draws pictures for kids' books and says he likes to have Nemo around for ‘inspiration.'” She put up finger quotes when she said
inspiration
. “Pretty radical, I know.”

“I'll say,” Mom muttered. She probably thought the uncle needed a few therapy sessions.

Inspiration? In my experience, animals caused confusion, not inspiration. I thought back to the day when my hamster, What, escaped. The conversation I had with my parents about his disappearance is still stuck in my head.

Me: “Have you seen What?”

Dad: “Who?”

Me: “Not who. What.”

Mom: “What?”

Me: “Yes.”

Dad: “Huh?”

Me: “Never mind.”

After checking in, and armed with cabin assignments, my parents and I headed back out to say good-bye. I gave them a hug and kiss and watched them climb in the van. Driving down the dirt road toward the exit, they put down the windows and waved a final time. I smiled and raised my hand in return, but when I looked closer, I saw they were actually waving their cruise tickets in the air. I'm pretty sure I heard cheering too. I blinked back tears, turned, and stared off in the direction of the cabins. I hoped I'd fare better than the llama.

Get Run over by a Goat

“Aww, man!” Pogo grumped. “I can't believe we have counselors sleeping in our cabin. It's a total bummer. Now we can't sneak around at night and do stuff.”

“Like what?” I said, hauling my suitcase up the front porch steps to our cabin. “I mean, seriously, what would we have done anyway?”

“I don't know, but now we'll never find out, will we?” She winked.

Pogo had just about vaulted herself through the roof of the
Reg st ation Off ce
when she learned we'd both been assigned to the Dakota cabin. But you know, maybe I almost did too, because it
was
nice to already know one of my cabin mates.

Minutes later, we stood in the doorway of Dakota. Six bunk beds lined the walls of the room, leaving the center of the floor clear for what I assumed would be cabin meetings or some such thing. I did the math and couldn't see how twelve girls could possibly fit into such a small space. No matter where we all slept, we'd be packed in like sardines.

No one else was there, but some beds already had sleeping bags and junk on them. A couple bunks had Zoo 'n' Yous—one was a polar bear and the other a giraffe. The mattresses ranged in thickness from pizza box to shoebox. Stained indoor-outdoor gray carpeting was peeling up in the corners and a section near the front door looked like something had eaten it.

One bunk, with a shoebox-type mattress, had color-coordinated luggage—three suitcases plus a makeup tote, all with the same paisley pattern. I like luggage as much as the next girl, but this was a bit much. The word
diva
was embroidered in gold thread across the top of the sleeping bag, which also matched the luggage. I raised a brow at a familiar Zoo 'n' You unicorn on the bunk.

Looking around the room, I pointed to a bunk in the corner. “Those mattresses seem pretty good. How 'bout them?”

“Works for me.”

“Do you want the top or the bottom?” I asked.

“Top, if that's okay with you.”

“Go for it,” I said, plunking my suitcase onto the mattress.

A humongous pink-tiled bathroom was attached to our cabin. Even though the place was air-conditioned and appeared civilized, I did a quick spider check. The last thing I needed was some creepy-crawly joining me in the shower.

And there it was.

In the far right corner of the ceiling.

Maybe a brown recluse. Possibly a black widow. Even if it was only a wimpy daddy longlegs, I wanted it dead. I briefly entertained the idea of showering with Bug-Me-Not instead of shampoo, but decided if it got in my eyes, I'd blind myself for life. As much as I hated spiders, I didn't want to go blind. Spraying the spider was the better idea.

I dashed back to my bunk, opened my luggage, and grabbed my bug spray.

Pogo looked up from her suitcase, puzzled. “Whatcha doing?”

“Taking care of an eight-legged problem in the bathroom.”

She nodded and continued to unpack her things.

I tried to think of the best tactical approach to spraying the spider. I wasn't sure how far the bug spray would reach—I hoped all the way to the corner—but a little extra height wouldn't hurt. I went into the toilet stall closest to the spider and stood on the seat. I stretched my arm as high as it would reach and unleashed rapid-fire squirts of Bug-Me-Not onto the web. The spider scrambled around and fell. I screamed and jerked away from the wall, forgetting where I stood. My right foot slipped into the toilet and my shoe filled with water.

Supergross.

Pogo popped her head in the bathroom. “Hey, we're supposed to be in the mess hall at three. It's time for us to go.”

I yanked my wet foot out of the toilet and followed Pogo out the bathroom.

“I need to change shoes first.”

She cocked her head.

“Don't ask.” I pulled on fresh socks and then quickly slipped into dry shoes, not bothering to double-knot the laces.

• • •

Pogo whacked at the bushes and ferns with a large stick as she boinged along a dirt path. The whole world was her personal trampoline. I kicked at pinecones and noticed my left shoe was coming untied. “Do we even know how to get to the mess hall?” I said.

“Naaa.”

I laughed at Pogo. “Nice goat imitation.”

“Huh?”

“You said ‘naaaa.' Just like some goat.”

“No, I didn't,” she said.

“Yes, you did.”

She stopped. Her face turned slightly red. “I didn't say
anything
!”

I slapped at a mosquito on my neck and bent over to tie my shoe. “I thought I heard—”

“Look out!” Pogo yelled.

Something rammed into my rear end.

I launched into the air. My arms windmilled wildly, and I landed facedown in the dirt.

“Ugh.” I rolled over to see who had kicked me from behind and…came face-to-face with a goat.

With bad breath.

Really bad breath.

I yelped and scooted backward until I was up against a pine tree.

The goat lowered its head and scuffed at the ground like it was going to charge. I scrambled up a couple of low-lying branches.

Instead of charging, the goat trotted over and chomped on the grass at the base of the tree.

I scowled and jumped down. My hands were sticky with sap and my hair was full of pine needles. I'm sure my head looked like a pincushion.

“Oh my word! That was the craziest thing ever!” Pogo said. “You okay?”

“Naaa.”

I turned to the goat. “She wasn't asking you, moron.”

The goat shook his head and then leaped over a rotted tree trunk and disappeared through some bushes.

I patted myself down, searching for blood or bones sticking out.

“Stupid goat.” I dusted myself off. “Someone ought to put
that
animal on a wall. What kind of place allows a goat to run around and ram campers in the rear end?”

Pogo busted out laughing.

I didn't find it quite so funny. At least Pogo was the only one who saw. “Let's just get to the mess hall before a herd of cattle stampedes through here.”

Rounding the path, we came to another gigantic log cabin. A wooden porch wrapped around the sides. Several campers sat in rocking chairs. Others sat on benches scattered around or leaned against the porch railing. I half expected a sign out front to read
Country Store
, instead of
Mess Hall
. Surprisingly,
this
sign had all its letters.

The mess hall sat at the top of a steep hill.

“C'mon, let's check out the view from the railing,” I said.

A few feet from where we stood at the railing, the ground took a sharp dive, eventually leveling off near a building far below.

“Holy cow! Look how crazy that drop is!” Pogo said, leaning over the rail.

I joined her. “Man! Imagine sledding down
that
during the winter.”

“We call
that
Mess Hall Hill—there's a ravine on the other side you need to stay away from.”

I turned.

Director Mudwimple grasped a glass of iced tea in her chubby fingers. Tiny beads of perspiration dotted her forehead, prompting wisps of gray hair to coil. With the curls framing her face, she looked like Mrs. Claus more than ever. She took one look at me, and her free hand flew to her chest, while her other hand—the one holding the iced tea—sloshed its contents onto the wooden planks of the porch.

“Good gracious, dear! You look like you lost a barn brawl!” She pulled a twig and a couple of pine needles out of my hair.

Pogo snorted.

I dodged away from the iced tea that was swinging toward me. “Uh, about that. We were walking along a trail and—”

“Oh, that's wonderful, dear.” She smiled wide. “We have many beautiful trails here. I hope you explore
all
of them and absorb the beauty of nature.” She gestured widely and sloshed more of her tea onto the ground.

“But a goat—”

“Oh yes.” Director Mudwimple nodded rapidly. “We have goats. We also have horses, cows, and chickens—all sorts of animals here at camp.”

I gave up trying to tell her about the attack goat roaming the property. I sighed and gestured with my head. “So what's that building at the bottom?”

“That's the kitchen for the culinary arts—the cake decorating class,” she said.

“There's a separate kitchen?”

“Sure is, sweetie.” She waved her arm toward the mess hall as if showcasing a prize in a game show, spilling the rest of her drink. “This mess hall kitchen operates pretty much all day long. There's no room or time for y'all to be in here learning the fine art of frosting cakes! Do you know which elective you'll choose?” She stopped to take a sip of her tea and seemed surprised to find it empty. Then she turned her attention back to me. “When time comes to pick your elective, don't wait too long to make up your minds. There's a limited numbers of openings for each class. They fill up fast.” She turned to talk to some kids next to us, not even waiting for our responses.

I shook my head. “Do you think it's the heat that makes her loony, or is she just like that?”

“Maybe she has ADHD,” Pogo suggested.

“Can adults even have that?” I said.

“Sure, why not?”

“All campers inside for orientation!” a voice hollered.

The inside of the mess hall reminded me of our school cafeteria; just like at school, it was filled with several large, circular tables, except here, there was a large soda machine with free refills. That was a definite bonus in my book. I hoped the food would be tastier than school food. Or at least edible, which, let's face it, is not always the case with school food. Even though it was only three o'clock, delicious smells of garlic and butter already wafted through the air. I had high hopes.

“Find a table and take a seat,” hollered the same voice.

The only tables with any seats left were in the back. At the center of each table stood a flagpole with a numbered flag.

“There's a table with empty seats back there.” Pogo pointed. “Let's go before it fills up.”

Table seven. I scowled.

Most people have lucky numbers. Not me. I have an
un
lucky number.

Seven.

On my seventh birthday I got the flu.

During the seventh inning stretch at my dad's annual office softball game, I tumbled off the back of the bleachers and sprained my ankle.

On the Seven Twisters roller coaster, I sat—or rather, hung—upside down for an hour last summer when the ride malfunctioned.

I couldn't help but think this was a sign of bad things to come.