Crossing Over

by Stacy Davidowitz

  His cabinmates cheered him on. Yoshi held up two fingers for a peace sign. “Hey, guys, I love the enthusiasm, but . . .”

  “Look, if you make a lame robot who can do stuff the Bunker Hillers can do,” Wiener said with a snort, “then you might as well dress a Bunker Hiller up in tinfoil.”

  “Humans are not robots!” Steinberg cried. He had dreams, too. Of robots that do voice mimicry. Of robots that dog walk. That jump rope. That fold clothes. That drive. And write your bar mitzvah sermon. And of course, of course, robots that fly. But those dreams were lifelong. Not less than eighty-six hours long. For the first time, Steinberg started to wonder whether this robotics contest was a good idea after all. Before, his cabinmates had just assumed he was the gadget whiz, but now he had to perform—in public—and meet their crazy-high expectations. What if he couldn’t? Steinberg pictured the cabin “machine” in his mind, with his piece breaking down.

  Play Dough reached out with Steinberg’s inhaler. Steinberg hadn’t realized he’d been wheezing. How embarrassing. “Thanks. But I’m fine.” He drew in a steady breath, lifted his goggles, and kneeled by his pile of supplies. It was time to surrender—to spare his cabinmates the let down. After all, if he didn’t try, he couldn’t fail, and if he didn’t fail, his piece of the machine wouldn’t break down. He handed Play Dough the fly tape. He collected the duct-tape wheels and dropped them on Smelly’s top bunk. He gathered all fourteen chip bags in his T-shirt.

  “What are you doing?” Smelly asked gently, squatting down by Steinberg’s side.

  Steinberg could sense the apologetic energy in the room. It was so quiet he could hear the floorboards creak and the shower water drip. He felt a twinge of guilt for ending the fun. Felt stupid for thinking he was any more socially savvy than Yoshi. And felt like a loser for planning to assemble a robot made entirely of garbage. “Those cool robots? Not happening.”

  “Are you sure?” Smelly asked.

  Steinberg looked at him like Of course I’m sure, even though he wasn’t sure, he was just so frustrated, he couldn’t think.

  “ ’Cause you have two options. Stew or reboot. I’ve stewed, and I don’t recommend it.”

  Steinberg gave an involuntary smile. He never in a million years would have imagined Smelly feeding him his own advice. Steinberg dropped the chip bags from the fold of his T-shirt and considered the challenge. He didn’t want to skip out on the robotics contest like Smelly had skipped out on Campstock last year. He just didn’t know what else to do. He scanned the room. His cabinmates were shifting their weight back and forth, anticipating his answer.

  “What if I go to the Cooking Shack?” Dover offered. “I’ll go if you want. I don’t need dreads.”

  The Cooking Shack! Steinberg couldn’t believe the solution had been right there in front of him: √PBJπ + Grain2. Chaim fired up, even before Steinberg could pull his lab goggles down over his eyes. He was rebooting before he’d even made the decision to reboot. Like stewing wasn’t an option. Like he was programmed to reboot. Rebooting was all there was. Building robots was all there was. The iron was officially hot.

  Steinberg stomped on a chip bag for a dramatic pop, then threw his fist in the air. “Reboot!”

  “Reboot!!!” his cabinmates cheered, popping the other thirteen.

  The first-period activity bugle blew and Melman threw down her broom, leaving her dust pile inches from where Sophie was squatting, ready to collect it, dustpan in hand. Melman took morning cleanup time seriously (because of the prizes for cleanest cabin), but nothing could compete with the first soccer period of the summer.

  She’d been waiting THREE WHOLE DAYS to play. Slimey had said they could practice together at Rest Hour and Free Play, but so far she’d spent that time either with Smelly or in the Arts & Crafts shack, making Melman already super-behind on her deal with Coach Sully. “Soccer time, what-what!” she cheered. She scrambled to the porch, grabbed her favorite soccer ball from the sports equipment crate, and dribbled out of Faith Hill Cabin.

  Even when she got to the fire pit about three penalty boxes away distance-wise, she could still feel the vibration of Scottie’s punk rock leaking from the cabin. Melman made her hands into a megaphone, ready to call out, “Hustle, ladies, hustle!” but dropped the idea and cracked her knuckles instead. She knew better than to rush her boy-crazed, must-look-sporty-cute cabinmates.

  To make the waiting worthwhile, she performed a series of speedy toe touches, keeping her eyes glued to the cabin door. Her bunkmates still hadn’t exited at 104 counts, and 104 toe touches was easy only for Little Ealings’ legendary goalkeeper Lucy Evans, who had just graduated from the team. Players like Evans were recruited for university in ninth grade. Melman would have big cleats to fill upon her return to London.

  She collapsed onto her back on a pillow of grass. The mountain air smelled pine tree–sweet, like it always did at the beginning of camp, before it became the norm and no nose thought twice about it. A fluffy cloud shaped like a baby dragon floated by, and the sun broke through—its rays planting a giant hot kiss on Melman’s face. She leaned up on her elbows and looked toward Faith Hill, hoping her cabinmates would be appearing, but they were still inside.

  In the distance, Melman could hear TJ rhyme over the PA with his typical enthusiasm and could see this summer’s Anita Hill girls marching toward the pool.

  Melman felt a kick of impatience in her gut. First her Rest Hour and Free Play periods were wasted and now this. She wasn’t going to miss out on her actual soccer period, too. She dribbled the ball back to the cabin, hopped up the porch steps, and popped her head inside. Jenny was standing in front of the full-length mirror, braiding her hair. Jamie was sitting at her feet, picking food out of her braces. Scottie was clapping in Jenny’s face for her to hurry up. Missi was trying on a bra over her shirt. Sophie was hanging upside down from her top bunk, screaming for someone to catch her.

  Slimey finished folding her hot pink soccer socks over her shin guards, then crooked-smiled an apology at Melman for the molasses pace of their cabinmates. “Guys, we’re soooo late for soccer,” she said, sensing Melman’s impatience.

  “You think?” Scottie joked, throwing her hands in the air. “Your counselor from last summer, what’s-her-name . . .”

  “Sara!” the J-squad squealed longingly in unison.

  “Yeah. Sara said you girls were easy campers!”

  “We are easy!” Slimey assured her, joining Melman at the front door. Melman greeted her with a squat and Slimey hopped on her back.

  “Uh-huh,” Scottie said with skepticism, sweeping up the dust pile Melman and Sophie had abandoned earlier.

  “Why do you have grass all over your jersey?” Slimey asked Melman, flicking some blades to the cabin floor.

  “I took a nap. Can you still see the twenty-four?”

  “Hold my legs.” Slimey gripped Melman’s shoulders and pushed herself backward. “Yeah, it’s just a little dirty, and the grass stain’s bigger.”

  “OK, cool.” Melman was proud of her scruffed-up Little Ealings uniform, and ever since Steinberg had jersey-napped it last summer, she was overprotective of it, especially the fading number on the back. Melman had worried that it had lost its luckiness being in Steinberg’s possession, but then she assisted the first eight goals of the season. Melman assumed that Steinberg had doubled its luck, so she asked Slimey to ask Smelly to ask Steinberg to continue sending good vibes her way. Two days later, she’d gotten an email from Jewpanese314. There was no message, but the subject header said Good vibes. It seemed to work. That, or Melman was a natural kick-butt all-star. Probably a bit of both.

  “All right, let’s go, little turtles,” Scottie called.

  Slimey hopped off Melman’s back and the Faith Hillers finally filed out, ten minutes into first period. They rolled down Faith Hill and trudged up Harold Hill and ran through a forest clearing to a dirt road.

  Slimey and Melman raced ahead, passing the ball back and forth until they reached the soc
cer field. They could hear their cabinmates trailing behind them, teaching Scottie their favorite cheer.

  “I said a Boom Chicka Boom!

  I said a Boom Chicka Boom!

  I said a Boom Chicka Rocka Chicka Rocka Chicka Boom!

  Uh-huh! Oh yeah! One more time! Real loud!”

  Scottie repeated the girls’ chant in her funny Scottish accent, making the “chicka” part especially wacktastic. Melman and Slimey looked at each other and giggled.

  As the girls approached the field, Sophie charged ahead. She stole Melman’s ball and dribbled toward the goal. “Get in!” she yelled to Melman.

  Melman couldn’t resist the challenge. She sprinted into the goal just as Sophie positioned herself for her famous zombie-leg-drag kick. The ball went flying high, superfast, and Melman launched herself upward to catch it. It soared over her head, over the goal, and into the woods.

  Sophie jumped up and down with glee. “I’m amazing! I’ve never been able to kick it off the ground!”

  Slimey gave a “Woo!” Scottie gave an affirming triple clap. Missi did a cartwheel. And the J-squad didn’t respond—they either didn’t see it or they didn’t care.

  Even though Melman knew that kicking out-of-bounds wasn’t cause for celebration, she reminded herself that she wasn’t at a Little Ealings practice. At Rolling Hills, the only campers who took soccer as seriously as she did were on the fourteen-and-up boys’ team.

  Sophie plunged out of the woods, twigs in hair and ball in hand. She tossed it to Jenny, who now sat on the halfway line with Jamie’s head in her lap. The ball’s momentum teetered out centimeters from Jenny’s crisscrossed legs.

  “I got it!” Missi screeched, racing Scottie to the ball. Scottie got to it first, and even though Missi performed the illegal clinging-to-shirt move, there was no stopping Scottie. She pummeled forward, leapt over the J-squad, and geared up for a kick right outside the penalty box.

  Melman swiped at the wisps of hair that had gotten loose from her ponytail. She wished in that moment she’d brought the Rolling Hills sweatband she’d won two summers ago for Camper of the Year, or better yet, was sporting a bandana like her counselor. She didn’t want to think about hair in her face—not when there was a goal to be protected.

  “You ready for this?” Scottie called. Melman noted her counselor’s form was nearly perfect: Ankle locked. Knee bent. Leaning back.

  Melman’s heart thumped out of her chest like it always did right before a big moment on the field. “You know it!”

  The top of Scottie’s foot met the ball, and it flew toward the corner of the net. Melman sprinted to the left and flung herself diagonally into the air with her arms outstretched. The ball hit the tips of her fingers and came crashing down, alongside her body. Even though there was no offense trying to score, and Scottie was standing there with her mouth hanging open, Melman scrambled to the ball and embraced it, Lucy Evans–style. Coach Sully would have performed his victory cap toss.

  “Holy macaroni and cheese,” Scottie said, her eyes bugging out. “That was incredible.”

  Slimey pulled Melman to her feet, shaking her head and grinning. “That was an insane save. Seriously, Mel.”

  “I figured you were good,” Scottie said, “but I had no idea you were this good! How long have you been playing football?”

  “You mean soccer?” Jamie said, still curled up on Jenny’s lap.

  “I mean football,” Scottie said, pointing to her foot.

  “Omigod!” Jenny’s body stiffened. “People in weird countries call soccer ‘football,’ but it actually makes more sense, because you kick the ball with your foot!”

  Scottie looked back at Melman, giving her the go-ahead.

  “Well, I’ve been playing since I was, I think . . .”

  “Eight,” Slimey chimed in.

  “Yeah, eight.”

  “You’ve only been practicing goalkeeping, then, for . . . what? Five years?”

  “Two weeks.”

  Scottie scrunched her face in disbelief. “No, no, no, girl. Explain.”

  “I’ve always played offense. Offense or sweeper. But my coach at home, he began training me right before camp started, in order to replace the team’s goalie, since she graduated.”

  “Well, by the looks of it, you’re ready.”

  Melman smiled. “I just hope it wasn’t a fluke. That was the best I’ve ever done, I think.” She didn’t think it. She knew it. And she almost couldn’t believe it. “Either way, I promised my coach I’d practice a ton.”

  “We’ll get you practicing,” Scottie said with confidence. “We have football on the schedule twice a week, and there’s a team here, too, right?”

  Melman shrugged. Even if she made the fourteen-and-up girls’ team like she did last summer, she would never get to play goalie. (a) At thirteen, Melman was considered underage, and underage talent got benched. (b) Lara Lovaglia was the goalie, and being a Counselor-in-Training, she had seniority. (c) The team stunk and always got eliminated after the first intercamp game of the season. Melman had hoped the soccer activity periods would help her fulfill her competitive goalkeeping duty instead. Based on today, though, that seemed doubtful. “Yeah, there’s a team, but . . .”

  “ ’Cause you should really be at a football camp or something. My cousin, she went to one in Bristol. She loved it and came back a brand-spanking-new player.”

  Melman felt sparklers behind her eyes as she pictured herself training 24-7 and then returning to the Little Ealings with the skill set and power of ten Lucy Evanses. She could be an Ealings legend. She could get recruited for Division I schools like Boston College and Stanford University. Or Oklahoma State, where her parents met! She could actually go pro! “What’s it called?” Melman asked, trying to sound casual.

  Slimey piped up. “Yeah, but camp without Melman and Melman without camp is like . . .”

  “A flute without a lip plate,” Missi said.

  “A werewolf without a full moon!” Sophie howled over her.

  “YouTube with no meerkats,” Jenny chimed in.

  “Visiting Day with no cookie cakes!” Jamie squealed. “Omigod, I need a cookie cake now.”

  “Yeah, I mean, it just wouldn’t be camp,” Slimey mumbled, chewing on the inside of her cheek.

  Melman felt a pang of guilt for even thinking about spending a summer anywhere but Rolling Hills. It was where she’d sung her first Campstock song. And won her first Color War. And roasted her first banana boat (a banana with marshmallows and chocolate chips inside). And performed her first séance. And met the best friends imaginable. She slung her arm over Slimey’s shoulders reassuringly. “Hey . . .”

  “I’m serious though, Melman. I know how crazy you are for soccer, but you can’t not come back.”

  Melman felt her heart go big and warm and fuzzy. New counselors like Scottie might not get it yet, and certainly her teammates in London would never get it, but camp was one of those magical places with magical people that no one on the outside could possibly understand. “Guys, you know Rolling Hills is my home away from home. Everywhere and everything else comes second.”

  Melman watched Slimey’s frown turn up at the corners. “Even if you couldn’t play soccer here?”

  “Slimey!” Melman could tell her best friend was kidding, but she didn’t even want to think about giving up soccer for eight weeks.

  Slimey giggled. “But c’mon,” she nudged, “you’d choose Rolling Hills, right?”

  Melman knew she couldn’t handle a soccer-free summer, but she also knew she’d never have to stop playing. Unless she broke both her legs.

  “Right?!” Slimey persisted.

  “Of course. Jeez!” Melman said, pulling Slimey into a playful headlock.

  “Good!” Slimey broke free with a smile.

  “Wait, what do you call a soccer ball?” Jamie shot up from Jenny’s lap.

  Melman and Scottie looked at each other and back to Jamie.

  “A football,” Melman said. />
  “Then, omigod. What do you call football?”

  Scottie took this one. “American football.”

  “That’s stupid,” Jamie remarked.

  “You know what’s really stupid?” Jenny threw out to the group. “How hot the boys’ soccer team is. I still love Christopher—but the soccer players? They’re stupid hot. They’re so hot, it’s stupid!”

  Slimey smirked at Melman and then bit her lip to keep herself from laughing. Melman was glad to see that, even with Slimey’s extra layer of girliness this summer, she still had a sense of humor.

  “You know,” Scottie said, “if the boys have football on their schedule, and you play with them, you could have double the practice.”

  Melman whipped her head toward Scottie. She didn’t have much interest in practicing with the Hamburger Hillers—last summer’s raid business had been enough competitive time with the guys. But Scottie did have a point. Melman tightened her ponytail and eyed Scottie’s bandana, a kick-butt plan already starting to brew.

  “Gather up!” TJ shouted. He handed his clipboard to Steinberg and blew his whistle. “Hustle, guys! We’ve only got this period to see you in action, matter-of-faction.”

  Steinberg leaned back in his folding chair and watched the players jog in from the soccer field, where they’d been warming up. The fourteen-and-up tryouts hadn’t even started and already the guys stunk like sweaty socks—a by-product of the scorching sun. They aired out their pits, wiped their foreheads on their sleeves, drank some water, and then finally took a knee.

  “Steinberg, you wanna check ’em in?” TJ asked.

  “Sure thing, Coach.”

  TJ may have been the camp director, but he’d started out as the soccer specialist, and had sworn he’d coach the oldest boys until he and the Captain retired to a fishing village off the coast of Nova Scotia. Steinberg felt honored TJ had asked him to manage the team that, last summer, had made it past seventeen camps to the Catskillian Cup. TJ’s choice of manager made sense. Steinberg might not have the stats to play, but he definitely had the mind for strategy. Plus, TJ was desperate to get Steinberg out of the cabin—he hadn’t left Kiki 2.0 in two days.