Middle School: How I Survived Bullies, Broccoli, and Snake Hill

by James Patterson

  My first choice was to go around the long way and get back to the Muskrat Hut without getting nabbed. But I was ready for the other possibility too. That was the beauty of this plan. Even my backup had backup.

  When I hit the waterfront, I threw the whistle on the dock (thanks, Katie!), then cut left along the water and back into the woods.

  At least now I was headed in the right direction.

  But running full speed in the woods at night was harder than I thought. And it hurt too. On top of that, I could hear the Bobcats getting closer, coming at me from every direction. They’d split up, which was extra-bad news.

  I was just starting to wish for some kind of night-vision goggles when I got blindsided. All of a sudden, there was a light in my eyes, and I couldn’t see anything.

  I had someone right in front of me and then someone behind me too. Whoever it was grabbed my arm and twisted it hard, until I hit the ground.

  “What’s the matter with you, Katch-a-cold? You have a death wish or something?”

  I recognized Doolin’s voice right away.

  “Not so much,” I said. I started to stand up, but he pushed me back down.

  “I think you do,” he said. “Seriously—what are you trying to accomplish out here?”

  I’m not going to say I wasn’t scared. I totally was. But I still had the upper hand, if I played this right. So I stood up a second time.

  “It’s already accomplished,” I told him. “And if I were you, I’d think twice before you touch me again.”

  A bunch of the guys laughed at that one, and Doolin got right in my face. He smelled like an ashtray on a bad day, and I kind of wished he’d take a step back just for that.

  “So you do have a death wish,” Doolin said.

  “Wrong,” I said. “It’s called a camera, Doolin. What do you think those flashes were—northern lights? While you guys were out here tarring your lungs, we got all the pictures we needed.”

  “He’s lying,” one of the other guys said.

  Lucky for me, I wasn’t.

  “You want to find out?” I said. “Or do you want to stay at camp the rest of the summer? Because I’m pretty sure those pictures would send all of your butts home.”

  Nobody was laughing now. You could have heard a mouse fart in the woods, it was so quiet. And for once in his life, Doolin didn’t have anything to say.

  The next thing I heard was Major Sherwood and a bunch of counselors. I could see their flashlights through the trees, and I heard Rusty’s voice coming from somewhere near the waterfront.

  “So what do you think, Doolin?” I said. “We can settle this with Major Sherwood right now. Or you guys can back off once and for all, and nobody ever has to know about those pictures.”

  I kind of expected him to deck me right there, but he didn’t. So I kept going.

  “Oh, and I’m going to want my shoes back too,” I said. “Let’s say first thing in the morning. Early.”

  “You are so dead,” Doolin said, his mouth frozen in a nasty sneer. “I don’t know how yet, but believe me, you’re going to pay for this, Katch-a-disease.”

  “Have a nice night,” I told them. Then I just turned around and walked away through the woods. Actually, I kind of floated on air.

  I’m not going to lie to you. It was one of the top three best moments of my entire life.

  BACK(FIRE) AT THE MUSKRAT HUT

  You might say I was feeling pretty good by the time I snuck back into the Muskrat Hut. The only sound I made might have been from my big, swollen head trying to fit through the door.

  All the guys were wide awake in their sleeping bags and waiting for me. The lights were off, since another bed check was probably on the way. So I went right for my bunk. Stayed in my clothes. Pulled the blanket up to my chin.

  “Well, gentlemen, that was awesome. Smurf, you still have the camera?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Can I see it?”

  “Rafe, we’ve got a little bit of a problem here,” he said.

  Believe me, that’s not what you want to hear after a night like that.

  “What kind of problem?” I asked.

  “Look for yourself.”

  Smurf passed the camera to Cav, who passed it to Tunz, who passed it to me in my bunk. As soon as I turned it on, I almost fainted. Turns out that even after two different art schools, I was still the world’s worst photographer.

  This didn’t even put us back to square one. It was more like square negative forty-two. Doolin and his guys were going to be on the warpath more than ever now.

  “What are we going to do?” Tunz said. His big body was shaking like a mountain of Jell-O.

  “Pray?” Cav said. “Oh, dear Lord, I beg of you—mercy.”

  “I say we hit the road,” Dweebs said. “Permanently.”

  “No,” Norman said. “Don’t do anything.”

  That shut everybody up. We all knew by now that if Norman bothered talking at all, it was probably worth listening to.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “Do nothing—how?”

  “It’s obvious,” he said. “As long as Doolin thinks we have the pictures, then it’s the same as if we did.”

  And I thought—that’s crazy.

  But then, just as quickly, I thought—no, that’s genius. It was like Leo smart.

  “He’s right—again,” I said. “If they’re already afraid, then we should just let them be afraid.”

  “But what if—” Dweebs started to say.

  “What if what?” I said. “Anyone want to walk over there and tell them we don’t have the pictures?”

  The more I thought about it, the more I realized we didn’t even have a choice. We had to keep our mouths shut and fake it.

  OLYMPIANS!

  When I went outside the next morning, my sneakers were sitting on the cabin steps. That seemed like a pretty good sign.

  At breakfast, Doolin and fiends watched us like there was poison shooting out of their eyes—but they didn’t actually say or do anything.

  Same thing in school that morning. I didn’t see Doolin (he was one of the Challenge Program brains), but the other Bobcats in my classes kept their distance.

  I couldn’t say for sure that we had them where we wanted them. It was possible they were working on something. I mean, call me paranoid, but we’d basically left them with two choices: They could back off, or they could kill us in our sleep.

  So I wasn’t celebrating.

  Not until what came next.

  After lunch that day, we had the opening ceremony for the camp Olympics. It was supposed to be some huge three-day competition among all the cabins, with prizes for the most medals: gold, silver, bronze, whatever.

  I hadn’t thought much about it, since I’m not usually the medal-winning type. But the opening ceremony was a big deal. Marching-band music played over the loudspeaker, and all the campers had to line up around the main field with their counselors.

  Then Major Sherwood ran out and lit the Olympic torch, which was really just a lantern on a table, but I could tell he took it pretty seriously.

  The first event was a gigantic game of dodgeball, which if you ask me is one step away from torture. I’m pretty sure dodgeball was invented by some gym teacher who hated kids and just wanted an excuse to throw things at them.

  Anyway, there were a whole bunch of balls in the middle of the field, and as soon as Sherwood said “Go,” we were supposed to run in and try to grab one—then start throwing, or dodging, depending on how that went.

  If you got tagged (or beaned, or smacked, or knocked unconscious) with a ball, you were out. The last three cabins with guys in the game would win the bronze, silver, and gold medals.

  “It’s like the beginning of The Hunger Games,” Norman said. I never saw that movie or read those books, so I didn’t know. All I knew was that everyone was already tearing toward the middle of the field to grab a ball, so I took off running myself. If I had to be in this game, it w
as better to be armed and dangerous than empty-handed and dead.

  I would have made it, too, if Norman hadn’t distracted me. When I got to the middle of the field, one of the Otters was just taking the last ball, and I had to get out of there, ASAP.

  That’s when I came face-to-face with Doolin. Again. And of course, he was armed and dangerous—and rabid.

  For a second, nothing happened. I looked at him. He looked at me, ready to kill.

  And then he hauled off and threw that ball right past me, picking off one of the Not-Bald Eagles with a perfect shot.

  Neither of us said a word. Nada. I just turned around and kept running. The Muskrats were dropping like flies, and I didn’t think for a second that we were going to get a medal in dodgeball.

  But it didn’t even matter. Because I now officially knew that we were safe from the Bobcats—at least for the time being.

  And that was better than gold.

  Way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way better.

  THE FOULEST EATING CONTEST IN CAMP HISTORY

  Next came the biggest, most disgusting event of the day—the annual Camp Wannamorra Eating Contest. Every cabin got to enter two lucky campers, and whoever was left standing at the end got the gold. And probably a stomach-pumping.

  We put in Bombardier and Dweebs—who was also the camp’s reigning champ. For such a skinny guy, he sure could eat. He probably packs it all in his crazy-long legs.

  The Grossathon started with all twenty-four players lined up behind tables in the Chow Pit. Then the counselors brought out twenty-four blueberry pies. The first sixteen campers to get to the bottom of their plates advanced to the next round.

  By the way, one of the rules of contest is that you’re not allowed to use your hands. If you even touch the food with a pinkie, you’re out of the competition.

  Sherwood was the official judge. He stood in the middle of the Chow Pit and got the grossness started.

  “Competitors ready? On your mark… get set… EAT TILL YOU DROP!”

  The campers went at those pies like starving prisoners of war. I couldn’t even see anyone’s face.

  For the first forty-five seconds, it was neck and neck. But then Dweebs started doing his thing.

  Breathing? That was for wimps. By the time Dweebs finally sat up—at one minute and thirty-eight seconds—he was practically lapping the field as he had lapped up that blueberry pie.

  Bombardier survived the first round too. And they both advanced. Now it was down to sixteen gluttons for punishment.

  “Next round!” Sherwood yelled, and the counselors came out of the kitchen carrying bowls of… something very strange and gooey.

  “What is that?” I asked Cav.

  “Oatmeal and grits,” he said. “Every round gets a little harder.”

  But Dweebs didn’t have any problem with the oatmeal and grits either. He came in second this time.

  “Don’t worry,” Smurf said. “He’s just pacing himself.”

  Bombardier lost it in the third round—which was hard-boiled eggs slathered with mayo. He got a beat down from some fifth grader from the Sly Fox cabin. (As far as I was concerned, the less Bombardier ate, the better for everybody in our cabin, considering his specialty.)

  We were down to eight campers now. That included one of the two Bobcat dinguses who’d pushed me off the raft that day. The suspense was something else.

  “You got this, Dweebs!” I yelled, really getting into it now. I didn’t just want him to win. I wanted the Bobcats to lose, and lose big.

  I watched every single bite, painful as it was to look at. And you know what? Dweebs did it! I guess the Bobcat kid just didn’t have a stomach for chocolate-covered ants.

  Now we were down to the final round, with four campers left. They all looked stuffed to the gills—and even a little scared—as the smirking counselors carried out foil-covered dishes and put them down on the tables.

  Even poor Dweebs looked like he was ready to throw up the towel—I mean, throw in the towel.

  “Here we go,” Major Sherwood said. “Don’t lift off the covers of your dishes until I say so. Ready? Set? EAT!”

  When Dweebs lifted that cover, all I saw was a bowl of green lumps covered in white and sprinkled with something that looked like it had come off the bottom of a hamster cage.

  I found out later that this awful concoction was broccoli, cream sauce, and more ants, but without the chocolate. I’m not kidding—you could hear the whole camp gag at exactly the same time.

  Anyway, I won’t keep you in too much more suspense, because the final chapter of the Grossathon wasn’t really that close. As soon as Major Sherwood said “Go,” Dweebs went at that glop like it was green M&M’s covered in frosting and sprinkles. I guess you could call that taking one for the team.

  Muskrats shoot… score… and win! Dweebs brings home the gold!

  And as for the Bobcats—well, better luck next time.

  See you on Day Two, Bullyboys!

  LET THE GOOD TIMES ROLL!

  We had a really good time in the cabin that night. Winning actually is kind of fun. I had no idea. Rusty brought around brownies and chocolate milk before lights-out. Everybody but Dweebs had some. Even Norman was getting into it.

  “Cheers, dudes!” Rusty said, and we all cheered him back on his way out the door.

  He probably thought we were feeling good about the gold medal, which was true. But that wasn’t all of it.

  Y’see, none of us had gotten wedgied all day. None of our beds had been short-sheeted. None of our toilet seats had been covered in butter. Today had been a win-win-win for us.

  “Great job, Dweebs,” Bombardier said. “And good job, Norman. Way to come up with the big idea.”

  “Um… thanks,” Norman said, like he was embarrassed with everyone gawking at him. But I think he liked the attention.

  “What do you think they’d do if they found out?” Dweebs asked.

  “Who? The rat-faced Bobcats?” Cav said.

  “Yeah. Of course, the rat-faced Bobcats.”

  “I don’t want to think about it,” Bombardier said.

  “If we don’t let them know, then they never have to find out,” I said. “As far as they’re concerned, that camera’s in a safe place and we’ve already made a jillion backup copies of all those pictures.”

  “Yeah, the ones that don’t exist!” Smurf said, and we all cracked up.

  It really was a kind of awesome plan, considering how badly it could have gone.

  But here’s the thing: My luck stinks. It seems like all I have to do is think, I’ve got this, and then—BLAM!

  Something blows up in my face.

  Or falls apart.

  Or goes down the drain.

  Or… crawls under the cabin to spy on us and overhears every word we’re saying.

  “What’s that noise?” Cav said all of a sudden.

  “What noise?” Dweebs said.

  “Shh!”

  We all stopped and listened. Cav lay down and put his eye up against one of the cracks in the floor.

  “What do you see down there?” Bombardier asked.

  “Nothing. It’s too dark,” Cav said.

  “Think it’s a raccoon?” Smurf said.

  “Maybe,” Norman said. “I don’t think there’s enough room down there for a bear.”

  “A bear?” I said.

  Just then, something scratched on the floor from the other side. Right under our feet.

  Whatever was there, it was moving fast, making some kind of sneaky getaway. My heart was kick-boxing at the inside of my chest, but we all piled outside anyway. I totally expected to see some kind of green-eyed rabid killer grizzly or something.

  But it wasn’t that at all. It was just a person.

  By the time we spotted him, he was already running away, straight up the path. I couldn’t see who it was in the dark, but I knew. In my heart, I knew.

  “That was a Bobcat!” Smurf said. “A rotten, stinking, spying Bobcat.”
>
  “How much do you think he heard?” Tunz asked.

  “Who knows?” Smurf said. “Enough!”

  “We might still be okay,” Cav said. “Maybe he couldn’t hear anything through the floor.”

  “Are you kidding? Are you serious? Are you nuts?” Tunz said. “You can see through our floor. What in the name of LeBron James makes you think he didn’t hear anything?”

  “I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” I said. But I definitely knew what had just happened—we all did.

  The Bobcats had just busted us.

  And dead meat was back on the menu.

  RAFE’S PRAYER

  I don’t know if any of us got much shut-eye that night. We made an emergency survival plan to stay up in shifts and keep an eagle eye out for any sneak attacks, because we were sure one was on the way.

  I stayed up with Tunz from ten until one in the morning, but nothing happened. Then we woke up Smurf and Dweebs so we could get some sleep—but that didn’t happen either.

  Mostly, I just lay there in my bunk, trying to imagine how bad this might get. And as you know, I have some imagination. Plus, let’s face it, the Bobcats were some of the meanest bullies ever.

  Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I got up to take a walk. I told the guys I was going to the latrine, and if I didn’t come back in fifteen minutes, they should assume the worst: dead meat down—bleeding from every pore and orifice.

  But I wasn’t actually headed to the latrine. I figured it was time to have a serious talk with the Big Guy. And I don’t mean Major Sherwood.

  The camp chapel was just a tent on the side of the main building. That’s where we had services on Sundays, and even though I’m not exactly an expert, I did like sitting in there on Sundays, thinking about how I’m part of the Big Something Else.

  That’s what Grandma Dotty calls it. She says it includes anything you can think of—the sky, the stars, the woods, the lake. But also people, like my family and Jeanne Galletta and Ms. Donatello back in Hills Village and all of the Muskrats. Even the Bobcats, I guess. Grandma says if you can look at everything like one gigantic whole thing, then your problems might not seem so big anymore.