Nothin But Net (3 page)

And Tim did shut up. However babyish Billy was being, what Tim had done was to him far worse. What kind of friend was he,
anyway?

B
illy didn’t say anything to Tim about the incident the next morning — not while they were getting dressed, not while they
were making their beds and cleaning their room, not while they were lining up outside for flag salute — not even at mess hall
during breakfast.

The morning activity this first full day of camp was basketball, of course. They started out by doing drills on one of the
outdoor courts. Jody ran the session, and the first thing he had them all do was run ten laps around the court. By lap number
seven, Billy was dragging behind badly, along with one or two other campers who looked equally out of shape.

Tim was pretty winded himself, but he was determined to show the counselors, and most of all, the other campers, that he could
keep up with any of them. Midway through lap nine, Billy stopped running
altogether and sat down cross-legged on the edge of the court, looking distinctly green.

As Tim came around the court on lap ten, he wanted to stop and ask Billy if he was okay. But he knew if he did, he’d finish
way behind the others, with the two other slacker kids. Tim was torn, especially after what had happened last night.

As he came up beside Billy, he saw that his friend was panting hard, staring at the ground. Oh well, thought Tim, he won’t
notice if I don’t stop.

So he kept on going and finished right in the middle of the pack. When they’d all caught their breath, the other kids started
hooting and hollering at the three who were still not done — most of all at Billy, who couldn’t have cared less.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” Jody urged the three lagging campers, clapping his hands together. “Gotta get in shape, you guys! Gotta
keep up!”

Billy and the other two kids finished, collapsing on the ground to more hoots and applause from the others. “Come on, you
slackers, get up!” shouted one of them, a slim, athletic-looking blond-haired kid.

“Zip it, Gruber,” Jody warned. “Mind your own business.”

They went on to do some drills — layups from both sides, fast breaks, five-man weaves — with Jody and Dick Dunbar giving coaching
pointers along the way. It was Tim’s first chance to get a look at the other kids’ basketball skills and compare them with
his own. He thought he stood up pretty well, but a few kids were way better than him or anyone else — especially Don DeGeronimo
and the kid named Gruber.

Of course, they hadn’t started shooting from the outside yet — Tim’s weakest area. He was dreading the moment he shot his
first brick at the hoop.

Billy looked like he was having a miserable time, but Tim tried to keep his distance. He didn’t want to be looked at as Billy’s
nursemaid, first of all. And second, he wasn’t sure if Billy was still mad at him over last night’s prank.

After drills and a short water break, Jody announced, “Okay, Donnie and Gruber, you two are captains for the scrimmage. Donnie,
your team is the Skins. Mike, you’re Shirts, and you pick first.”

While Donnie removed his shirt, Mike Gruber looked around at the assembled campers, considering whom to pick. “I’ve got Last,”
he said, picking the tallest kid of the whole bunch. Donnie picked
next, and they took turns until all sixteen campers were picked. Tim was picked twelfth — he guessed because none of them
knew how well he could play — and Billy went dead last. Both of them were on the Skins. Tim winced at the sight of Billy’s
shirtless, flabby frame. Nearly everyone else looked buff by comparison.

The scrimmage began, and Tim watched from the sidelines as the starters went at each other. He was determined to show them
all that he deserved to get picked higher than twelfth out of sixteen. He just hoped he got enough playing time to do it.

He could see that some of the kids could really play the game. Well, no wonder, he thought. They’ve been coming here for,
what, seven years? Bob Last was pretty good for a guy his size. He had a nice, soft jump shot, and boy, could he block shots
and haul down rebounds. But Donnie, who was maybe two inches shorter, could jump higher and dribble rings around him, and
he had amazing moves, not to mention being just as good a shooter.

Mike Gruber, that blond-haired pip-squeak, was amazing at handling the ball. He was even shorter than Tim, but nobody could
stop him, not even Donnie.
He played — and shot the ball from the outside — the way Tim wanted to. Tim determined to make friends with Mike Gruber and
learn everything he could from him.

Ten minutes into the scrimmage, Jody yelled, “Subs in!” On each team, three kids headed for the sidelines, and the three who’d
been standing around went in to replace them. Billy was subbing at center for Don DeGeronimo. Tim went in for the Skins starting
point guard, Merrick Jones — an African-American kid with a shaved head whom the other kids called Cue Ball. In fact, every
kid here seemed to have a nickname. He wondered what his and Billy’s would wind up being.

Despite the fact that he was the Skins point guard now, Tim hardly even got his hands on the ball the whole time he was in
the game. He would pass the ball, only to find that it never came back his way. Sometimes, it was because the other kids were
hogging it, taking wild, forced shots just to impress everyone. But Tim got the uneasy feeling that some of the time, kids
were just passing it to their friends, ignoring the kids they didn’t know. All the more reason to make new friends fast, he
thought.

Billy actually blocked a shot by Bob Last’s replacement — Rich Dauer, one of the three kids who’d pulled the prank the night
before — and got a round of applause and amazed laughter, both from his teammates and from the Shirts. There were whispered
comments and giggles, but Tim was proud of his buddy. He only wished he had the chance to show the other kids what he could
do, too.

Determined to make an impression, Tim decided that if he got the ball again, he was going to make the most of his opportunity.
Not two seconds later, he saw an opening. He leaped into the passing lane to steal the ball from one of the Shirts. He raced
downcourt, ignoring the shouts of his teammates for him to pass it to them. Two Shirts came over to double-team him, but Tim
didn’t care. He tried to force his way through and lifted a long jumper that caught nothing but air. He felt his face get
red at the sound of the groans he heard, but did his best to ignore them.

Tim touched the ball exactly once more that morning, picking up a loose ball. But instead of passing it upcourt like he normally
would have done, he maniacally kept dribbling around the defenders who swarmed him. Before he knew it, the whistle had
blown — he’d failed to get the ball up to half-court in time. He’d turned the ball over!

The scrimmage ended with the Shirts ahead 21–17. Nobody came up to Tim afterward to say, “Hey, you’re really good,” or “Nice
game,” or anything like that. He found himself walking back to the bunkhouse thinking that he had to improve in a hurry if
he was going to meet the standards of Camp Wickasaukee. This place meant business!

“This camp bites,” Billy muttered over his tuna casserole — not loud enough to be heard by the rest of the kids, but only
by Tim, who was sitting next to him. The seat on Billy’s other side was empty. Apparently, none of the other campers had seen
fit to sit next to the big, unathletic kid who was scared of mosquitoes and headless campers wandering around in the night.

“Give it a chance, Billy,” Tim urged him. “It’s just the first full day, man — things are bound to get better.”

Billy snorted. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“You’ll see, bro. Once they get to know you, they’ll see what a great guy you are.”

Billy made a face. “This tuna fish tastes like metal,”
he said, shoving it to the far side of his plate with his fork. “Probably full of mercury.”

“Billy. …”

“Man, I could have been in Rome right now, touring the Vatican. Instead, I get basketballs dumped on my stomach at night,
and by day, I get to run around till I puke or faint. What a fun experience — not.”

“Hey, we both need to get in better shape,” Tim said, meaning it.

“I still say this camp bites,” Billy said, a little louder this time.

Looking around, Tim saw that Brian Kelly was staring right at them. He could tell at a glance that Brian had overheard Billy.
Tim felt a sudden surge of alarm go through him. If Brian Kelly knew, soon everyone in the bunk would know that Billy hated
Camp Wick-asaukee.

What worried Tim most of all was that they would think he hated it, too. And if they did, what would they do about it?

T
he afternoon was hot, and Tim was just as glad as everyone else that they had swimming scheduled next. The campers all dove
into the lake to cool off, and were splashing around having a good time when a big, beefcakey guy with a shaved head blew
his whistle, and they all stopped where they were.

“Okay,” he said. “Hi, everybody. I’m Max. And it’s time for you to get certified. Everybody out of the water and onto the
dock.”

They spent the next hour doing laps, treading water, and hauling their fellow campers out of the lake in rescue exercises.

Tim was tired from the morning of basketball. Midway through his third lap of three, he began to panic, thinking he might
go under. He’d never been a great swimmer — sank like a stone if he didn’t work really
hard to stay afloat — and he thought his arms and legs would give out before he reached the dock. Only through sheer determination
did he fight through it and make it to the end of the swimming lane to earn his Shark certification. This meant he was permitted
to take out canoes and rowboats and to swim in the deep-water area.

As for Billy, he was deemed a good enough swimmer to earn Whale certification. That meant he could swim anywhere in the lake,
as long as he was with a fellow Whale. Tim was glad for his friend. At least Billy was good at something athletic. Maybe he
could spend the whole four weeks in the water and avoid the other sports altogether.

After swimming, they had a pickup softball game, just for fun, and then they were given an hour of free time before dinner.
“I’m totally exhausted,” Tim said, sitting on his bed. “How ’bout you?”

“They’d better give us double portions at dinner,” Billy replied, hauling his Camp Wickasaukee T-shirt over his head and throwing
it into a corner that would become his laundry pile. “I feel like I’ve lost ten pounds already.”

“Well, there’s worse things than getting into shape,”
Tim pointed out as gently as he could. He thought Billy could stand to lose at least twenty, maybe thirty pounds.

“Are you saying I’m fat?”

“No, I just said there are worse things than getting in shape.”

“Like what?” Billy asked, collapsing onto his bed. He lay back on his pillow — and let out a howl. “Aaaahhh!” He sprang upright.
“What the —?”

He swiped at his head and came up with a handful of shaving cream. “Okay, whose idea of a joke was this?”

Tim had never seen his friend so angry. For a minute, he thought he could see smoke coming out of Billy’s ears.

When Billy wasn’t looking, Tim felt his own pillow. It was dry — shaving cream–free. Apparently, whoever had it in for Billy
was not focusing on Tim. He felt relieved, and ashamed, all at the same time.

“You gonna report it to Jody?” he asked Billy.

“What for?” he asked, wiping his head with a towel. “A lot of good that’d do. He’s probably laughing about it with the rest
of them right now.”

Tim wanted to tell Billy it wasn’t true — but what if he was wrong and Billy was right?

Four more days went by — days of nonstop sports and activities. Tim could feel the difference in his stamina, the hardness
of the muscles in his legs and stomach, and he knew he was getting into the best shape of his life.

Even Billy was looking less out of shape. His latest problem was sunburned skin — mostly from being on the Skins three times
in a row at scrimmages. On the fourth day, Tim noticed that Billy had ducked out of morning drills and snuck down to the lake
for extra swimming — with a T-shirt on for sun protection.

The other kids had noticed this, too. They must have thought Billy was too scared to play b-ball anymore, because later that
day, when they passed by him, they all started clucking like chickens. Billy didn’t do much of anything about it — what could
he do except complain? And what good would that have done? It would only have brought more humiliation down on him.

Still, Tim felt he had to do something to help his
friend get over the hump. So when he spotted Jody shaving in the bathroom, he approached him.

“Hey,” Jody greeted him, his face half covered in shaving cream. “How’s it going?”

Tim wondered if it was the same shaving cream that had wound up on Billy’s pillow. Not many of the kids were old enough to
be shaving yet. “Okay, I guess,” Tim said. “The thing is … I’m kind of worried about Billy.”

“Yeah? Why’s that? Something wrong with him?”

“I … well, yeah, he’s having a pretty hard time.”

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with what happened that first night, would it?”

“Uh, yeah, sort of — and he got shaving cream on his pillow, too. Plus, I think he’s homesick.”

Jody finished shaving with a few quick strokes, toweled off his face, and turned to Tim. “You sure this is about Billy, and
not about you?”

Tim was taken aback. “Uh, yeah. Why?”

“Just wondering. You’re sure?”

“Sure I’m sure!”

“So everything’s cool with you?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Look, Tim,” he said, putting an arm around
Tim’s shoulders, “sometimes kids have a tough time when they go away from home for the first time, you know? And I know the
kids here like to have fun with the ‘newbies,’ but you’ve gotta have a sense of humor about it. Your friend Billy’ll be okay.
Most everybody gets used to camp life after a while — once they decide they’re not gonna run home to their mommy and daddy.”