by D. Melhoff
“A good ranch hand is hard to find,” Charlotte said, sighing, “especially when the last one quits two weeks before July. Sorry, did that sound bitter? Never mind. Anyhow, I believe he’s finished taking your luggage to your huts, is that right? Good. If you want to switch rooms, that’s between you and your roommates. You’re adults, and frankly I don’t care, so long as we keep the girls in the girls’ huts and the boys in the boys’ huts. I trust we won’t have any problems with that, clear?” She paused. “Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” Chase piped up. “So how about we grab our uniforms and start prepping stations before winter gets here?”
“I’m sorry, Chase. If you’re so familiar with the rules, how is it you’re usually the first to break them?”
“Well,” he shot back, “where’s the ‘fun, enchanting experience’ in a bunch of rules? Am I right?”
“No.” Charlotte frowned. “But since you’re so eager to get to work, let’s move it.” She grabbed the nearest box and tore open the cardboard flaps, revealing a stack of bright red uniforms—tunics—with the word SQUIRE ironed across the backs.
She’s delusional if she thinks I’m wearing one of those, Scott thought. But when Charlotte held up a shirt, it wasn’t as bad as he expected: a regular V-neck with gold embroidery around the sleeves and collar. Nothing too tight or fitted.
“Fehlman. Think fast.” Charlotte chucked Chase the first uniform, and he caught it and checked the tag.
“It’s a women’s small,” Chase said.
“Maybe when you stop whining like a little girl, you’ll get a big boy size.”
Dominique let out a snort, and the other counselors erupted in laughter.
“Everyone grab a uniform,” Charlotte said. “Girls in this box, guys in that one. Take a handbook, too, and memorize it.”
The counselors crowded around the boxes and started snatching shirts before strolling out of the mess hall with Charlotte’s epic burn echoing on their lips. Chase swapped his women’s small for a men’s extra large, but Charlotte snatched the XL out of his hands and tossed him a medium, citing the camp’s policy on baggy clothing. “Scott Mamer,” she called next. “Come here.”
Those who were still in the room—only half of them (not including Brynn, Scott thought, thank God)—looked around to see whom Charlotte was singling out. Scott felt the weight of their eyes falling on him like dumbbells as he ambled to the front of the line.
Charlotte held up a medium shirt. When he grabbed ahold of it, she didn’t let go.
The remaining counselors took their V-necks and ducked out of the hall, clearly hoping to avoid whatever awkward situation was already accreting. The doors wafted shut behind them. Clomp-clomp.
Above, a black fly droned in and out of an open window, drawing attention to how quiet the room had become.
All right, Scott thought. Lay it on me. Do your worst.
“Look,” Charlotte said, low and even, “let’s get something straight, okay? You know how to handle yourself, and if you don’t, I have no problem sending you home with a paycheck for an hour’s work.”
“Deal,” Scott said. “Are we good?”
“That’s up to you.” She wagged the uniform. “Put it on, keep it clean. Lights out at midnight. No sneaking around, no picking fights. No smoking.”
Scott narrowed his eyes—How does she know about that?—and then he caught the answer hovering in the corner of his vision. Bruce, who he hadn’t realized was still in the room, stood by the buffet tables with his arms crossed and Scott’s ripped-open pack of Marlboros dangling in his fingertips. The groundskeeper dropped the box in the trash along with a couple smokes that had been lost in the grass.
Shit, Scott thought, how the hell did he find those? Then it clicked. The drawbridge. He pictured the ramparts poking over the treetops. Someone opened the drawbridge when Charlotte whistled—he must’ve been the guy working it. Probably heard me fighting with Chase and watched the whole thing from the tower, too. Goddamn creeper.
“Is that clear?” Charlotte clipped. “Or should I tattoo it on the insides of your eyelids?”
“That’s it? Behave myself?”
Charlotte let go of the shirt, challenging him with her managerial glare. “Behave impeccably.”
3
“Behave impeccably? Man, who pissed in her cornflakes this morning?”
“To hell with the groundskeeper, too,” Scott muttered, following Chase through a neighborhood of huts to the one with a brass five hung above the door.
“Agreed. Any man who throws out another man’s smokes should be castrated.” Chase gripped the knob and gave it a turn, pushing into the hut.
Scott peered through the doorway and braced himself for some lame setup—posters of Disney movies or rainbow bedsheets covered in mermaids and elves and fairies—but the room was strikingly bare. A bunk bed rested against the right-hand wall, and beside it sat a wooden desk, two dressers, and a tin garbage can the size of an ice cream pail. No chairs or closets. No light switches, either—just a Coleman lamp and two propane canisters on top of the desk.
Scott approached the heap of luggage lying in the middle of the room and grabbed his duffel bag. “Call bottom,” he said, heaving it onto the bunk.
“Call whatever you want,” Chase said. “Doubt I’ll be spending much time here.”
“Why, too hot?”
“Hotter than a whorehouse on nickel night, as my old man would say, but that’s beside the point. Most of us shuffle around after midnight.”
“Jesus,” Scott said, catching on. “I thought this was a kid’s camp.”
“It is, but the kids don’t get to have all the fun. Honestly, have you never been to camp before?”
“No.”
“Oh,” Chase said. “All right. Well…welcome to this magical place where guys like us go to act like glorified babysitters while making a few bucks and getting laid. Pretty simple. You’re old. Figure it out.”
“I’m twenty-one, asshat. That’s not old.”
“Makes you the oldest counselor here.” Chase hoisted his suitcase on top of the desk and rooted around inside. “If you don’t mind me asking, why are you here? You’ve obviously never been to Crownheart.”
“I told you already. I need the paycheck.”
“Yeah, but why not bartend and make a whole month’s wages in one night of tips? It doesn’t add up.”
Scott stiffened, hesitated. “Job market’s rough. Wait until you start hunting.”
“Mm.” Chase’s look said he didn’t buy it.
“Well, it’s true. So believe it or not.” And it was true, Scott considered, even if he had omitted a few details that he didn’t feel like sharing with a complete stranger at the moment. Details such as how Arty Bauer, his previous employer, had skipped town less than a month ago and left everyone at Bauer Construction without pay for six weeks of work and no time to find another job before July’s rent check went through. “I got an ad in the mail saying this was a guaranteed gig with room and board, so here I am.”
“Ad, huh? Wow. They must be getting desperate. Used to have loads of people applying every year.”
“Not surprised,” Scott said, looking around the hut. The walls were cracked, and the baseboards had tiny bite marks chewed into the paint. “Place could use some elbow grease.”
“Relax, princess, no mice are gonna come nibbling on your toes. I used to stay here as a kid, like, back when things were really falling apart. Swear to God, one time the roof caved in on top of a girl’s bed, and they told her she could have cake for breakfast every morning if she swore not to tell her parents. That was before Adolf Becker came along. Oh, and while we’re on the topic of everyone’s favorite boss, don’t worry about Charlotte. She’s a battle-ax when it comes to safety, and she’s got a reputation for taking zero bullshit from jerkoffs like us, but she’s just watching out for the camp. Underneath that armor, there’s a heart of gold.” He dug deeper into his bag and seized something at the ve
ry bottom. “Aha. Success.”
Chase lifted a red tunic into the air. It was identical to the uniform Charlotte had given him ten minutes ago, albeit looser and less vibrant. “Fehlman: 1,” he announced, tearing off his tank top and tugging the older V-neck over his head. The fit was baggier—an extra large. “Becker: 0.”
“She gave you the medium herself. She’s gonna notice.”
“And she told you to behave impeccably.” Chase slung an arm around Scott’s shoulder and dragged him to the door. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”
4
The lake reverberated with cheers, jeers, and screams of drunken college joy.
Three silhouettes danced around the beach in a circle, kicking up fat brushstrokes of sand as they tossed a forty of vodka back and forth and slurred their way through their favorite freshman drinking songs: “Why are we waiiiiiiting, we could be masturbaaaating”…“Yogi drives a Cadillac: black bear, black bear”…“Oooohhh, I used to work in Chicago at an old department store, I used to work in Chicago, I don’t work there anymore!” Farther off, Lance and Denisha locked lips in the sand—his hand halfway up her tank top, her nails raking his arms and shoulders—while the rest of the counselors sat around a bonfire, watching the flames hiss and crackle and taking frequent swigs from their red Solo cups.
Scott swallowed a sip of spiced rum and felt the burning liquid slosh down his throat. Crazy, he thought, smiling. If someone had told me I’d be piss drunk with a bunch of strangers on a beach by the end of my first day here, I’d have said they were full of shit. Wouldn’t matter if it was Marty McFly with photo evidence from the future. Who’da thunk?
Despite his initial hesitation, it hadn’t taken much convincing to get Scott to join the party. The counselors had spent the entire day doing grunt work—chopping vegetables, hauling out archery equipment, scrubbing down shower stalls—and, thanks to their help with a few of his shittier tasks (particularly shoveling the horse corral), he had decided his coworkers weren’t as bad as he originally thought. By the time midnight hit, a full hour after the supervisors had retired to the fort for the evening, the group had killed their lamps and followed the camp veterans twenty minutes east of the clearing to a secluded spot on the edge of the lake. Now, at one in the morning, the bonfire—and the party—was roaring.
Scott took another sip of rum and peeked at Brynn. She had chosen to sit beside him. The moon cast a Gaussian blur around the edges of her body and, in his horny opinion, created a glowing, almost ethereal, aura. He wanted every inch of her right there. Those wagging toes and silky-smooth legs; her flat stomach and honeydew-size breasts. But rather than lean over and strike up a conversation, he drew his legs halfway to his chest to hide his increasingly obvious erection.
Brynn noticed him staring and flashed a boozy smile.
“Never have I ever tried crystal,” Chase said from across the fire. He took a hit from a joint and regarded it the way a chef regards a soupspoon.
“You mean meth?”
“No, Kimberly. I mean Crystal Light.”
“Fuck off. And no, I haven’t. Shit’s nothing but drain cleaner and antifreeze.”
Chase shrugged. “Anybody? No? All right, keep it moving.”
He passed the joint to Kimberly, and everyone’s attention shifted to her.
The circle went silent. Down at the water, one of the drunken singers bellowed: “I used to work in Chicago at an old department store, I used to work in Chicago, I don’t work there anymore! A lady came in last week looking for an elevator!” Without pause, the other singers exclaimed, “An elevator at the store?” and the first singer replied, “An elevator she wanted, my shaft she got! Aaaayyyeee don’t work there anymore!”
“Hurry up, pokey.” Chase jabbed Kimberly in the ribs.
“Hey! Okay, umm…umm…”
Scott swirled his drink and let his eyes drift back to Brynn. Her fingers were caressing a pair of smooth beach stones, and he allowed himself to imagine that she was cupping and stroking his own stones instead. The heat in his groin intensified, traveling from his balls up to his gut like some sort of beast—a blazing minotaur—stampeding forth on fiery hooves and filling him with enough courage to tell this girl exactly what he thought about her. Or maybe that’s the rum, he reconsidered. Shit, ass, donkey nuts. Don’t puke all over her. Don’t puke all over her. Don’t puke all over her.
“Never have I ever cheated in a relationship,” Kimberly announced. “Suck it, dirtbags.”
Scott kept his rum down and glanced around the ring. Only Chase drank, indicating that he had, in fact, cheated in a relationship. “Come on,” Chase said, noticing no one else was drinking. “Liars, all of ya. Buncha cheats and liars.”
Dominique sighed and stole a sip of his beverage. “Once,” he caved. “Only once.”
Kimberly took a hit and shot Chase and Dominique dirty glances. Scott’s turn was next. He pinched the joint between his thumb and forefinger and said, “Never have I ever…uh…” C’mon, chickenshit. Spit it out. He was faking his hesitation, of course. He had known what he wanted to say for three turns already.
A knot of burning driftwood exploded with a dazzling crack. Brynn startled, but the others didn’t flinch.
“Never have I ever slept with another counselor,” Scott said.
Chase drank again, and so did Kimberly. And Meegan. And Bethany. And Dominique. They looked around the circle, grinning, and connected telepathically over summers gone by. Good memories were buried in the looks, and a few embarrassing ones too. Scott missed most of them. The whole time, he kept his peripheral vision locked on Brynn, and not once, he noted, did she lift her cup. He cocked an eyebrow, impressed.
“Here you go,” he said, inhaling the marijuana and offering Brynn the joint. Their fingers touched when she took it, and the physical contact sent a jolt of electricity shooting through his body.
The blunt hovered past Brynn’s face, and she handed it to Dominique. “You sure?” Dominique asked, and Brynn nodded. “A’ight.” He held the joint to his lips and inhaled.
Scott looked down, ashamed. Dammit, she doesn’t smoke? Great. Must think I’m an immature pothead now.
“Never have I ever had a criminal record,” Brynn said.
Scott, still contemplating the joint, tipped back his rum and took a bigger gulp than usual. When he lowered his cup, he attempted to sneak another peek at Brynn, but this time she was already staring at him, intrigued. And it wasn’t just her. It was everybody.
“Lone drinker!” Kimberly shouted. “Story time.”
“What?” Scott asked.
“If you’re the only one who drinks,” Chase said, “you have to tell the story.”
“Horseshit. You can’t start adding rules.”
But it was too late. The group around the fire chanted: “Story time! Story time! Story time!”
“Forget it,” Scott said.
“What’d you do?” Chase egged. “Rob a church? Rack up a million parking tickets?”
“Wait a sec,” Kimberly said. “Dom, I thought you had a record too? And what about Roddy?”
“Negative,” Dominique replied. “Used to deal grass in high school, but the only time I got caught was when a cop pulled me over at a bogus checkpoint. Judge dismissed it. And Roddy might’ve been busted lifting TVs or some stupid shit, but he’s busy dancing, ain’t he, not playin’ the game. So story time, bitch.”
“Story time! Story time! Story time!”
The minotaur in Scott’s chest reared its ugly head and retreated into his bowels. Few things bothered him more than being singled out in a crowd, and the fact that these assholes were laughing only multiplied his sudden disdain. “Screw this,” he muttered, polishing off the rest of his rum. “I knew I shouldn’t have come.” He wobbled to his feet and turned for the wall of trees along the beach.
“Hey, man,” Chase called halfheartedly. “Come back.”
“Yeah,” Kimberly shouted. “I wanna hear your jail tale.”
/> “Jail tale!”
“Jail tale!”
“Jail tale!”
“Cool it, guys.” Dominique waved them off. “Spliff’s finished.” He took the last drag and chucked the joint away. “Hear that, bud? Game over.”
“I’m not your bud,” Scott said. He started toward the trees, stepping out of the bonfire’s circle of warmth, and felt a rush of cold wind off the lake. His skin prickled as he staggered through the sand and disappeared into the woods, into darkness, until the sights and sounds of the crackling flames and warbling drinking songs began to fade.
“I used to work in Chicago at an old department store…an electrician she wanted, the shocker she got…the front door she wanted, the back door she got…I don’t work there anymore!”
“AYYYYEEEE!”
“Ayyyeee!”
“Ayyee…”
____
“Douche bags,” Scott slurred. “Gangin’ up on a guy. Never done shit to them. S-Screw ’em.”
He stumbled like a newborn calf down the path to Crownheart, tripping over the forest’s roots and stubbing his toes on stumps as big as bus tires. Without someone leading the way, the journey through the woods was proving difficult. He peered ahead and saw nothing but birch trees: rails of shadow—some thick and some thin, some close and some far—stretching on for eternity, like the rungs of an outdoor cell where crimson-eyed predators stalked the corridors in search of fresh meat.
A twig snapped.
Scott stopped.
A bush rustled. Another snap, another crack.
Something furry brushed against his ankle—What the fuck was that?—then a screech pierced the air, and a gust of wind blasted him in the face. His arms flew up to cover his head, but the owl was already gone with the vole or the chipmunk snatched in its lethal talons.
Holy shit, he thought, a touch more sober than before. Charlotte’s voice echoed in his ears from earlier that morning: “Coyotes, bobcats, black bears. Gray wolves and timber wolves. Badgers, foxes, cougars. Even if nothing’s hunting you, you can still get lost.” He eyed the clouds through the treetops and tried pinpointing his heading, but it was no good. The darkness whirled above him, and all of a sudden the weight of the warning struck home. Lost. His pulse doubled, and the palms of his hands turned cold and sweaty. Lost in the woods in the dead of night.
