Tug-of-War (4 page)

There was one good thing about Devon refusing to take her swim test. It gave Maggie and me a chance to talk by ourselves for the first time all summer as we walked down the hill to the lake.

“Chris, where did you dig up that Ghosty Girl, and why don't you bury her back in the grave you found her in?”

I squeezed my throbbing skull between my palms and growled. “Look, I know. She's making a horrible first impression. She's not like this at school. She's just not the outdoorsy type.”

Betsy was walking with us, and she smiled in a friendly way and listened to our conversation, but otherwise, she kept quiet.

“Why did she come to summer camp? She'll be spending the whole month outdoors.”

“I know. Well, this wasn't her idea.” I told Maggie about how Devon was here against her will, and that she was mad she was missing out on a trip to Italy.

“I'd pick camp over Italy any old day. What's up with her, anyway? She acts like she's forty-five years old. When you said a friend was coming with you this year, I didn't expect anyone like that.”

It was hard for me to explain everything to Maggie. Devon and I got to be friends in third grade when we both got put in the gifted program. We'd always compete to see who got the highest test scores. I'd usually beat Devon by a few points in math, but she'd win in vocabulary. We loved having these amazing debates about controversial topics. But most of all, we made each other laugh.

I knew Maggie wasn't exactly the intellectual type, but we still had lots in common. We liked to do all the adventurous stuff Pine Haven offered—rock climbing, rappelling, canoeing, or hiking. I was just the opposite of Devon when it came to any kind of outdoor activity. I loved it all.

“I just wish you could see the Devon I know,” I told Maggie. “If she would get over being mad about being
here, maybe she'll lighten up. She's funny and smart, and she's my best friend from school. And since you're my best friend from camp, I was hoping the two of you would be friends.”

“I'll try to buddy up with Ghosty Girl. For your sake, Chris.”

Was it asking too much for Devon and Maggie to become friends just because they were both friends with me? Maybe. With her dark red curls, Maggie reminded me of a friendly Irish setter. She was playful and fun, like a big goofy dog. Devon, on the other hand, was like a sleek black cat who wanted to curl up on a high perch somewhere and not be bothered. If you annoyed her, she'd hiss at you and show her claws.

I noticed that Betsy had slowly drifted away from Maggie and me as we'd been walking down the hill, and she'd caught up with Kayla, Shelby, and Laurel-Ann. I felt bad that we'd accidentally ignored her.

Practically everyone in camp was heading toward the lake, dressed in swimsuits and carrying towels, but campers were still arriving in cars, and we stopped to help a couple of parents who were wandering around with that lost look in their eyes.

When we finally got to the lake, we realized we were
going to have a long wait, because crowds of girls were already lined up in small groups, ready to take their swim tests. The swim staff was busy running around with clipboards and getting everyone organized.

Maggie and I didn't really care, though, because it gave us a chance to talk to some more of our old friends. It was nice not to have Devon standing next to me, yawning, but I didn't want her to feel like I'd deserted her.

Maggie and I saw Jordan Abernathy and Molly Chapman in a group sitting on a rock. “You're in Wayward's cabin, aren't you?” Molly called to us. “You're so lucky!” They were both really into horseback riding, which was Wayward's activity.

Whitney Carrington, a prissy girl I could hardly stand, walked up to us. “Something horrible just happened. Someone almost drowned. Alex Coleman, the swimming counselor, saved her life.”

“Oh, darn! We missed all the fun!” moaned Maggie.

“I doubt anyone came close to drowning,” I told her.

“Well, this new girl started swimming, but then she got tired, so Alex had to pull her out,” Whitney insisted.

“Can Devon swim?” asked Maggie.

“Of course,” I said. “She's not avoiding the lake for that reason.”

“Oh my gosh,” said Maggie. “Speak of the devil. Or should I say . . . Devon?”

Because to our complete surprise, Devon was walking toward us, wearing a black bikini and her flip-flops with the chunky soles that made her look three inches taller than she really was. When she saw us, she held up her hand like she was stopping traffic.

“Don't ask. I'm here against my will.”

“What happened?” I asked. It made me so happy to see her. I didn't want her sitting in the cabin all alone, bored to death on the first day.

“Well, after everybody left the hovel, some lady in a skirt came by and saw I was all alone. She started giving me the third degree in the nicest way—‘Are you afraid of the water, sweetheart? Can you swim, dear?' She seemed to think there was some dark reason I refused to swim in a swamp.”

“It's not a swamp,” said Maggie. “And did you remember to dunk yourself in sunscreen?”

Devon glanced sideways at Maggie and then back at me. “I could tell she was really concerned I might be some kind of outcast or something, so I told her I'd come take this ridiculous test.”

“That was Eda, the director.” I was so grateful she'd gotten Devon to take the test. Eda was probably the
one person in camp who could have persuaded her.

“I promise you, the lake really isn't that bad.” I hoped that the hundreds of little tadpoles that lived in the lake would stay deep in the water, out of sight. “You've still got mascara on,” I told her.

Devon shrugged. “It's waterproof. But it doesn't matter. I'm not putting my head under.”

Devon's “waterproof” comment made me laugh. It cracked me up that her main concern before the swim test was how well her mascara would hold up.

When it was our group's turn to go, Maggie did a cannonball off the end of the dock, and Devon went to the ladder and lowered herself carefully into the water, inch by inch.

“This swamp water is freezing!” she kept yelling. Then, after treading water with the rest of us for five minutes, she did a perfect breaststroke to the other side of the lake, making sure her head never went under.

But at least she'd done it.

“My job's trash, Betsy has shelves, Chris has a free, and Devon—Devon's got the best job of all. Sweeping!” Maggie turned around from the job chart taped to the wall and grinned evilly at Devon, who was still in bed.

Devon sat up. “Since you're wearing dust mops, why don't you sweep?”

Maggie looked down at her furry black socks. I'd never seen anything like them—they were covered in this long, thick fur that made her look like she had gorilla feet. “Nah, don't want to get them dirty. Here you go, Cinderella.” She took the broom and dustpan over to Devon's bed and laid them on top of her blankets. Devon kicked them off, and they fell on the floor with a clatter.

“Oh my gosh, it's freezing!” I said as I climbed out of
bed. With all the screens in the cabin, there was nothing to keep the cool air out and the warmth in. I'd almost forgotten what mornings in the mountains were like. I dug through my duffel for something warm to put on.

Wayward was still in bed. Usually counselors were the first ones up after the rising bell rang, but Wayward didn't look too motivated. Over on Side B, Gloria was up and trying to listen to Laurel-Ann's nonstop chatter while helping Kayla and Shelby figure out the jobs they had. I heard Boo tell Laurel-Ann her job was to follow a vow of silence for the rest of the week.

Devon got up and put her robe on. Then she took a towel, a bar of soap, and her shampoo from her shelf and started toward the door.

“Devon, where are you going?” I asked.

“To the showers. There better not be a line. Are you coming?”

I pulled on jeans and a tie-dyed shirt and then grabbed my red hoodie. I was so cold I even zipped it and pulled the hood up over my head. “You can't take a shower now. We've got to get the cabin ready for inspection,” I said, wriggling my feet into one aqua and one orange high-top and bending down to tie them.

“What kind of inspection?”

“All the cabins get inspected after breakfast. You've
got to make your bed and do your job so the cabin's all clean and everything.” As nice as it was for me to have a free pass, which meant I didn't have a job today, I almost wished Devon's name had landed on it this morning.

“And if there's anything wrong, like an unmade bed or dirt all over the floor because
someone
did a crappy job sweeping”—Maggie slid around on the wood floor in her gorilla socks—“then the whole cabin gets demerits. So start sweeping, Cindy.”

Devon let out a disgusted grunt. “This is a nightmare. I fell asleep at summer camp and woke up drafted into the army. Can I at least take a shower first?”

“Not now. There's just not enough time. Nobody takes a shower before breakfast. You can take one later.” I could already feel my patience evaporating. If Devon didn't watch it, she'd turn me into the Hulk before we even got through breakfast.

“You don't need to take a shower. You took one yesterday,” Maggie said.

“News flash, Beefaroni. Some people with good hygiene habits shower every single day. But then, you're part gorilla, so why would you know that?”

Yesterday after the swim test, Devon had gone straight to the showers. She'd screamed when she saw a cricket near the drain of her shower stall, but eventually
she got up the nerve to go inside. “I've seen nicer showers in third-world countries,” she'd commented afterward.

“What does ‘shelves' mean?” asked Betsy, smoothing her short blond hair down with both hands. While we were busy yakking, she'd already gotten dressed and made up her bed.

Wayward stretched and propped herself up on her pillow. “Shelves. Just . . . whatever. Make 'em look good, but don't sweat it. A few demerits never killed anyone.”

Betsy popped out her retainers and put them in their little plastic case, then stood there looking around, not sure what to do with Wayward's vague directions.

“Okay, since I don't have a job, I'll help you all with yours,” I told Devon and Betsy. Straightening the shelves was pretty easy; we weren't supposed to have wet towels or swimsuits hanging around on the hooks, and stuff needed to be fairly neat.

Then I held the dustpan for Devon while she swept. I was glad that she did her job like everyone else and didn't complain about it too much, but she muttered
el helado
a few times. One of these days, I'd tell her that word meant “ice cream.”

After Devon finished sweeping, she got dressed and took her hair-straightening iron off the shelf by her bed.

“Where should I plug this in?”

Maggie, who'd just come back from emptying the trash cans, walked up and tapped the end of Devon's nose. “How about right here?”

Devon swatted Maggie's hand away and pointed the hair straightener at her like a weapon. “Back off, King Kong.”

“You can't use hair straighteners in the cabin,” I told her. “There aren't any outlets.” Standing on my tiptoes to make my bed, I smoothed out my blanket and propped Melvin up on my pillow. Besides, you don't have to iron your hair every day.”

Devon wore her hair in a short, blunt cut, and it was already pretty straight, but she was really fussy about it being styled just the way she wanted it. She'd tried half a dozen times to get me to use her hair straightener, but I wouldn't let her near me with that thing. I'd keep my long, wavy locks just the way they were, thank you. I never even ironed my clothes. Why would I iron my hair?

“Great. No electricity. No running water. I think this hovel should have a ‘Condemned' sign on it. Aren't there laws against making people live in substandard housing?”

I turned my back to her so she couldn't see my smile.
She knew she could always get a laugh out of me with her sarcastic comments, but I didn't want to encourage her at the moment.

“Anything else I should do?” asked Betsy.

“Nope, you're good,” I told her. “Now we just go to breakfast.” She was so agreeable. I wondered what she thought about me and my warring friends.

“Hurry up, Palechild. You're going to make us all late.” Maggie stood in the doorway, swinging the screen door open and closed.

“Why don't you rush on down to the chow hall and tie on your feed bag?” Devon shot back. “I hope they're serving bananas.”

We finished making Devon's bed, and it looked fairly presentable. She stopped in front of the little square mirror nailed to the wall. “I don't have any makeup on.”

“Nobody wears makeup at camp!” Maggie let out a bellow from the doorway.