Camp Rolling Hills

by Stacy Davidowitz

  “What did I do?!?” Bobby spat, his temper rising.

  “It would have worked if you’d just followed the plan with Jamie,” Play Dough said. “She was game for backstage.”

  Bobby felt his eyes burn, his hands shake. Frustration and confusion and disappointment and embarrassment bubbled in his chest, boiled in his throat, then blew out of his mouth. “WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? There WAS no plan with Jamie or Slimey or anyone else! I liked Slimey, she liked me, and then you jumped in with your stupid camp rules, like, ‘This is your only chance. Be the most respected, heroic camper. Do it for San Juan,’ and I did it because for once I was starting to feel like I belonged here and belonged with a girl I think is really cool! But you know what? I was wrong! You’re all a bunch of weirdos, and I never wanted to be friends with you anyway!”

  Out of words, he looked around. Everyone was staring at him, eyes and mouths wide.

  Rick finally intervened. “All right, boys, that’s enough for tonight. Back to the cabin.”

  “Girls, you too. Let’s wrap it up,” Sara said, pulling Sophie off Totle.

  Rick put his hand on Bobby’s shoulder and gave him a look of major disappointment. Wiener and Play Dough were complaining behind his back. The slow song was coming to an end, and Bobby knew he’d just lost everything: his new friends, his new girlfriend, his new summer, his new life.

  He bolted out of the Social Hall and down the dirt road toward San Juan Hill Cabin. As the stupid red cape flapped in the wind, he thought about how he must look like Clark Kent—not his pup, but the real one—failing to transform into Superman. His battle with Bizarro Bobby had always been a tough one, but he had no idea that battling his everyday self would be worse. I am my own Kryptonite, he thought.

  I finally made it backstage, Bobby thought to himself. He stumbled in the dark toward a wooden bench in the wings, where he’d officially be on deck for his Campstock performance.

  It had been three whole days since everything had changed for the worse, but being back here was a fresh slap in the face. And to top it all off, if the residual pain from the Midsummer Dance didn’t kill him, he was sure performing in front of the whole camp would. He hadn’t practiced or slept well, and due to his mom’s terrible packing, he was stuck wearing the same stupid, too-hot-for-summer outfit, minus the bow tie and, of course, the cape. If only I hadn’t learned the guitar, he thought, I’d be an anonymous face in the crowd right now instead of about to be the laughingstock for three hundred people. He walked hard into something metal.

  “Ow!” Bobby yelped, holding his left shin. That’s it, forget it. If he couldn’t see where he was going, he would just wait for Rick in the audience. He turned, took two steps in the direction he’d come from, then remembered that being backstage in the dark was better than where he’d been—pre-on-deck next to Jamie and Jenny, who had been placed—what do you know?— right after him in the Campstock order. Sitting beside them had made him so uncomfortable, he’d started to hyperventilate. And then he’d nearly fainted onto Jamie’s lap. He’d go for a second backstage bruise over joining the angry J-squad again.

  “Right over here!” someone whispered. Bobby turned around and was blinded by a flashlight.

  “I can’t see when you’re shining . . .”

  “Oh, sorry, dude.” A shadowy figure moved the flashlight to illuminate a bench. Bobby limped to it and took a seat. The light disappeared and reappeared, illuminating Steinberg’s face. He had a mic’d headset on and was holding the flashlight below his chin. “You have forty-five seconds, Smelly. No pressure.”

  “Right. No pressure. Thanks.” Bobby nervously dug his fingers into the underside of the bench, right into a semi-hard glob of gum. Great. He yanked his hand out and tried to soothe himself with Missi’s flute music. He couldn’t tell if she was any good—he had no idea what she was playing—but whatever she was doing sounded nice and devoid of squeaks. He couldn’t see much of her from the wings except her frizzy strawberry hair through a crack in the curtain.

  “Thirty seconds, dude,” Steinberg whispered next to Bobby. “Are you sure you wanna go through with this?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “You still look upset. Just surprised you wanna sing and stuff for you-know-who in front of the whole camp.”

  He didn’t. He absolutely didn’t wanna sing and stuff for you-know-who in front of the whole camp. What on earth was he doing?

  Steinberg gave Bobby a send-off nod. “Be right back. Tear all your ligaments.”

  “What?”

  “Break legs.”

  “Yeah . . . ,” he croaked.

  Rick had promised that performing would get Bobby back on his feet, but he knew Steinberg was right: now was not the time. There was no reason he should risk embarrassing himself in front of Slimey. Not while she still hated his guts. Proof: he’d offered her his Butterfinger at Canteen last night, and she’d turned the other way without a word, Melman glued to her side.

  “Ten seconds!” Steinberg whispered as he passed Bobby, sneaking through the crack in the curtain.

  As Bobby thought about what his next move would be, all he could hear in his head was his dad saying what he always said: “A commitment’s a commitment.” But then again, his dad wasn’t here, and he hadn’t exactly been much of a committer lately. If he could break a promise, so could Bobby.

  Bobby felt a strong hand on his shoulder.

  “Hey, buddy! You ready for this?”

  He looked up at Rick, who was all relaxed and ready to perform, his guitar strapped to his shoulder. Bobby’s chest started to tighten, and he could feel his clothes cling to his skin, slowly sucking the life out of him. He had the urge to scream, to hide under the bench, to run for his life, but it was almost as if he were paralyzed. Bizarro Bobby had taken control. The decision was his. Bobby inhaled a sharp breath and let it out before he could find his voice.

  “I’m not doing it.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “I’m not ready.”

  “No, man. We talked about this. All your hard work . . .”

  “I can’t.”

  “Come on, you’ve got those chords down!”

  “I was doing it for Slimey, and now there’s no point. She hates me.”

  Missi finished her performance, and the audience erupted with applause.

  “Wow, that girl can toot her flute!” TJ exclaimed. “Big round of applause for Miss Missi Snyder the fluter!”

  “It’s flautist!” Wiener shouted from the audience. Anyone anywhere could recognize his cracking voice.

  Steinberg popped back through the curtain, holding out a music stand. “Smelly, you need this?”

  Rick looked at Bobby expectantly, probably hoping he’d change his mind.

  TJ continued on the mic. “Our next act hails from San Juan Hill. Let’s give it up for Robert Benjamin, with some help from his counselor, Rick!”

  Bobby tried to think about the first chord of the song, the first lyric of the song, anything about the song, but his mind was blank. Even though he’d been hoping that performing would help win Slimey back the way his dad had won over his mom once upon a time, he now knew that was delusional. Bobby got panic attacks. His dad didn’t.

  “Smelly! Smelly! Smelly!” the camp cheered.

  He couldn’t feel his fingertips, and his left leg was shaking under his pants.

  “Settle down, boys,” the Captain said sternly from onstage. She waited for them to stop chanting. “Robert and Rick will now perform an original song.”

  “Which means we’ll have difficulty singing along!” TJ rhymed into the mic, making it squeal, per usual.

  Steinberg’s eyes bulged as he impatiently wobbled the music stand. “Yo, what’s happening?”

  Bobby stared back at him, not sure how to break the news.

  “Well, what’s it gonna be?” Rick asked him one last time.

  Bizarro held his body hostage. He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “Al
l right, then.” Rick left Bobby in the wings and hurried past Steinberg through the curtain.

  “Rick! Rick! Rick!” the entire camp cheered. To Bobby, it sounded two hundred times louder than when they’d cheered his dumb nickname.

  “Actually, we’re postponing. Sorry, TJ.”

  “Not a problem, Rick-the-Clickity-Click-Tick . . . Stick . . . what else rhymes with—?”

  “TJ,” the Captain cut in.

  “We’ll just plow forward then, with Anita Hill’s very own Jenny Nolan and Jamie Nederbauer dancing the night away!”

  Rick reemerged backstage. “Hey, let’s go, buddy,” he said, putting his hand back on Bobby’s shoulder and guiding him toward the light. They went through the side door of the Social Hall and entered the audience just as Jenny and Jamie, dressed in matching sequined dance costumes, hopped onto the stage. The audience applauded in anticipation of whatever dance routine they were about to do. Bobby was already old news. Good, he figured. The sooner they forgot about his wussout, the better.

  “Just take a seat in the front here for now,” Rick said, his voice ringing with disappointment.

  Bobby plopped down on the floor in front of the Bunker Hill Cabin boys and felt his manhood diminish by the second. Not only did he fail Slimey, fail Rick, and fail himself, but now he was hunched down at the feet of a bunch of eight-year-old campers who’d already performed without a care in the world.

  Girly pop music started up, and Jenny and Jamie put their hands on their hips and wiggle-bounced. Jenny smiled with phony cheer while Jamie desperately tried to follow her best friend’s lead.

  Bobby’s mind raced with reasons he liked Slimey and not Jamie. Slimey wasn’t a follower. And she didn’t dance weird. And she smelled really nice.

  The music faded. TJ bellowed into the mic.

  “All right, then, that’s it for Campstock, Summer of—!”

  “WAIT!!!” Play Dough stood up on a bench close-ish to the back of the audience. Bobby knew this was coming, but he wished it wasn’t happening so soon after his pathetic fail of a performance. “The San Juan Hill Cabin has an act. Rick, wherever you are, can you help us out?”

  Bobby and his cabinmates weren’t on the best of terms, but still, he was sure they’d be looking for him any second now—he was the only San Juan Hill camper not approaching the stage for the prank they’d been planning for two weeks, ever since the coed Newcomb game. Bobby knew he’d better decide whether he was going to do it or not before they found him.

  Rick waved his arms in the air from the Boys’ Side of the Social Hall. “Sure! Whaddya need?”

  Play Dough, Totle, Dover, and Wiener pushed their way to the front.

  TJ stalled on the mic. “Well, isn’t this exciting? A surprise performance from our San Juan Hill Cabin boys! I don’t know ’bout you, but I’ll never forget last summer’s hypnosis act. Robert Steinberg hypnotized Play Dough to eat . . . to eat . . . Hey, Steinberg! What did you get Play Dough to eat?”

  Steinberg popped out from behind the curtain. “A beetle and cheese sandwich.”

  “A beetle and cheese sandwich. Right!”

  Bobby was in no mood to perform, but he thought he should probably do it anyway, since he’d practiced with the guys and had a pink miniskirt waiting for him backstage. You can do it, Bobby, he thought. One group number’s not gonna kill you. He tried to stand, but Bizarro held him down. Who am I kidding? He’d nearly had a panic attack five minutes ago just sitting backstage. If he couldn’t even perform his guitar solo, how was he supposed to make it in drag? Bobby needed to let them know he was out before they wasted any energy hunting him down or, even worse, called him up onstage.

  Play Dough met Rick up front and whispered into his ear. Rick went to the piano, and the San Juan Hill boys jumped onstage. Steinberg set aside his headset and joined them. Bobby got on his knees and waved to let them know he was up front but wouldn’t be joining. Dover waved back, but he seemed to be looking right past him at—Bobby turned around—the waving Bunker Hill campers. Mortified, he lowered his hand to his lap. Are they not going to look for me? he wondered. Why aren’t they looking for me?

  “So, Play Dough,” TJ started, “what is it this time?”

  “Just a little something we’ve been working on.”

  “Fantastic. You all set?”

  “All set!” Play Dough said, grinning mischievously.

  Bobby sank from his knees to a cross-legged position. He wondered whether the guys had forgotten about him or were excluding him on purpose. Just because he’d bailed on his guitar solo didn’t mean he’d bail on them. Well, actually, it did. But that didn’t mean they shouldn’t have asked. He wished they’d asked.

  Rick started playing the Camp Rolling Hills alma mater. The San Juan Hill guys sang along in a proper, four-part choral harmony.

  “Camp Rolling Hills

  Our home for e’er you’ll be.

  In the bosom of the valley

  Sun shines over thee.

  Camp Rolling Hills,

  Firm our loyalty,

  May our hearts be filled forever

  With thy memory!”

  Bobby was suddenly getting flashbacks to his first day, when his bunkmates had psychotically greeted him with this same alma mater. All Bobby had wanted to do in that moment was make them stop—they were being so weirdly spirited—but now he’d take an overenthusiastic welcome over this painful feeling of being left out. But, whatever, they’re gonna look stupid, anyway, he thought. And stupid doesn’t make camp history.

  “And now, a remix! Hit it!” Play Dough shouted.

  Rick upped the tempo and added a jazzy rhythm. The San Juan Hill boys formed a line. Wiener stepped up from the center, ripped open his Lacoste button-down shirt, snapped off his Adidas rip-away pants, and, just as planned, revealed a bright purple dress with a sash.

  The audience hooted and hollered as, one by one, his cab-inmates stripteased out of their normal clothes down to the baby blue, yellow polka-dotted, bright pink, and shiny green dresses they were wearing underneath. The camp was cheering louder than Bobby had ever heard them cheer before, as the guys formed a messy kick-line and swung their legs up high, exposing their boxers. Really? he thought. This stupid stunt is working? He looked over at Rick to see his reaction, since the guys hadn’t told him this was coming, but Rick was so focused on the keys, he still hadn’t noticed what was happening. On cue, the guys burst into their “revised” lyrics.

  “Camp Rolling Hills,

  In the bosom of your valley

  There is milk for me . . .”

  “Is that my—? Are those all my dresses?” Jenny called out angrily from the audience.

  “Hey, Steinberg!” Melman shouted to the stage. “Jenny says keep the dress—it brings out your eyes!”

  “Ew, no, I don’t!”

  The boys crescendoed to their grand finale.

  “Camp Rolling Hills

  Makes me have to sneeze.

  May our butts be filled forever

  With your stinky cheese!”

  The crowd jumped to their feet in a standing ovation. The San Juan Hill boys (minus Bobby) had made camp history. As Play Dough had explained to them in the rehearsal process, as long as the whole camp freaked out and the revamped anthem was remembered for years to come, their work was done. Even though Bobby thought this plan was stupid from the start, he couldn’t really be surprised that it had succeeded. If he’d learned anything in the last twenty-seven days, it was that everything was backward here when it came to what was cool. Bobby looked up at TJ on the side of the stage, clapping and cheering alongside the rest of the camp.

  The Captain was paralyzed next to him, her mouth wide open. “That’s enough, San Juan Hill boys. Please get down from the stage and return those dresses to whomever you borrowed them from.”

  “They stole them from me!” Jenny yelled from the audience.

  “To whomever you stole them from!” the Captain corrected herself. “And I hope everyone
knows what you just heard is NOT our alma mater. Never again should it be sung that way.” She took a few sharp breaths. “Let’s start the dismissal process. Bunker Hill Cabin and One Tree Hill Cabin, please stand up and exit the Social Hall. Now.”

  Bobby self-consciously rose with the eight-year-olds and followed his cross-dressing cabinmates down the center of the Social Hall to the back as they slapped the hands of cheering campers along the way. He tried to stay close behind them, but it was difficult to keep up when their three hundred fans were in the way.

  Once Bobby finally reached the back doors, leaving the way Slimey had just three nights ago, he felt his heart break into a million pieces. He didn’t think he could feel any worse than he had after the Midsummer Dance, but now he felt like a total outcast. If the guys were angry with him, he thought maybe he could make things right. But if they just didn’t care, well, then he might as well cut his losses and hang low for the next twenty-five days. After all, no cabinmate of his had shown an inkling of concern since the dance, Slimey had yet to acknowledge his presence, and even his mom had refused to pick him up when he’d called home two nights ago.

  “All relationships are hard,” she’d said, right before his seven minutes were up. “If they want to make amends, then you can, too. But don’t push it, Robert. Some friendships just aren’t meant to be.”

  “OK, boys. Cleanup time,” Rick announced, entering the front door of San Juan Hill Cabin with three brooms, two dustpans, and a fistful of garbage bags.

  “Noooooo!” the guys—except Bobby—groaned loudly from their beds. Bobby wasn’t feeling included enough to groan with them.

  Steinberg took a stand. “Look, Rick, living in our collective filth has been preparing our immune systems for the apocalypse or an outbreak of E. coli. We can’t give up now. We’d all get sick.”

  “E. coli or no E. coli, it’s the Captain’s punishment.”

  “I don’t get what the big deal is,” Play Dough said.

  Bobby rolled his eyes. He also didn’t know why the Captain cared—her camp was already a freak show.

  “The big deal is, you guys defiled the alma mater, which, as you know, is sacred here at camp, especially to Captain Conservative. Hands over the heart. No kick-line. No strip-teasing. No stinky-cheese references.”