Freefall

by Stacy Davidowitz

  “So, what’s up?” Melman finally asked.

  “Well . . .” Missi wished she didn’t need a reason for coming over. Melman would never ask Slimey, “What’s up?” if she approached her. They’d just jump into a conversation about something random, like the fishing elective.

  “What’s up with the fishing here?” Missi blurted dumbly.

  “What? Oh. Well, the rods are really old,” Slimey replied, too nice to call Missi out for spoiling their fun. “Sometimes I wear surgical gloves from the infirmary so I don’t get rusty fish smell on my hands.”

  “Caption: Artist fishes for human body parts,” Melman said. Slimey swung her pillow at Melman’s head. They laughed some more.

  Missi tried to laugh at the inside joke, too, even though she didn’t really understand it. When their giggles settled, Missi tugged at her silk top. She hoped Slimey, being the artsy one in the cabin, would compliment it. And then they could talk about how an artist’s home is the open road where the soul is fed with endless inspiration. At least, that’s how her mom had explained it.

  But Slimey didn’t say anything about the top. She just smiled at Melman, who smiled back with her lips pressed together. Missi got the hint: Slimey and Melman wanted to catch up alone together. And of course they did! Unlike the J-squad who lived only twenty minutes apart on Long Island, Slimey and Melman were separated by a whole ocean and a wonky time difference.

  “Are you okay?” Slimey asked.

  Missi looked at Melman to catch her response, but Melman was looking at Missi. “Oh, me?” Missi asked Slimey. “Yeah, why?”

  “You seem like something’s on your mind.”

  Missi realized that this was the perfect chance to open up about her mom, but then she spotted Slimey’s locket—the one her late dad had given her—dangling from the underside of Melman’s top bunk, and she thought better of it. It would be insensitive. Missi’s mom had reappeared, whereas Slimey’s dad was gone forever. “My mind’s good,” Missi replied, a little delayed. “I was just thinking ahead to what’s going to be an amazing summer.”

  “Fiftieth Anniversary, say hey now!” Melman said, flicking her wrist and making her fingers snap. “If you’re hoping for a surprise trip to Moo-Moo’s raise your hand.”

  Slimey pressed her arms to her sides. Melman tickled Slimey’s armpits until both of her hands spazzed up. “Mel, that’s not—! The Norman Rockwell Museum is where I want to go, and I’m not backing down!”

  “I’m just—dude!—can’t a girl dream of ice cream?” Melman said in between spurts of laughter.

  Missi wasn’t sure she had anything funny or worthwhile to add, so she left them with, “I gotta pee,” and then pit-stopped at Sophie’s bunk. She sat down next to Sophie, who she could now see was reading a giant volume of Shakespeare’s collected works. “Which play are you reading, Soph?” Missi asked.

  “Thou asketh a good question. Do you bite your thumb at me, woman?”

  Missi looked down at her hands, which were nowhere near her mouth.

  “Sophie Edgersteckin, my girrrl!” Their counselor Cookie called lovingly from the bunk above. Suddenly, Cookie’s head was upside down over the edge of the bunk bed, her purple-and-black braided weave cascading two feet from her scalp. She must have been the only person at camp with more braids than Sophie, who wore seven at all times. “Can I just adopt you?” she asked.

  Missi didn’t understand what was going on or why their counselor was charmed by Sophie’s Shakespearean insults.

  “I was hoping for a battle of wits,” Sophie said to Missi, “but I see you are unarmed.”

  “Sophie, can we just have a normal conver—”

  “To quote Hamlet, Act Three, Scene Three, Line Eighty-seven: ‘No!’”

  “How was your winter? Sometimes, when I had to feed the chickens in the snow, I’d think about you by the pool in Florida and just, like, look up flights to Fort Lauderdale for fun.”

  “Brevity is the soul of wit.”

  Missi groaned. Then she got up and went to the bathroom, where she sat on the toilet, thinking about how even Sophie was paired off this summer. It had never been so clear that, in their cabin, Missi was no one’s number-one friend.

  “MISSI!” she heard Jenny call. “FIIIIIRE!”

  Missi scrambled out of the bathroom and met the J-squad, who were beaming with excitement on Jenny’s bottom bunk. There was no fire. Jenny should probably not do that.

  “Ready?” Jenny asked mischievously. She and Jamie separated, exposing the finished Frankenstein of Play Dough and Shawn Mendes, now sticky-tacked to the wall. “Do you LOVE it?” Jenny purred.

  Missi laughed. “I mean, sure.”

  “Good. We’re making you one.”

  Jamie nodded enthusiastically.

  Missi cocked her chin. “I mean, he’s your boyfriend, so—”

  “No, with Wiener and Bieber!” the J-squad cried in unison. “JINX!”

  “Oh, that’s—” Strange. She’d rather put up a photo of her and Wiener in their normal bodies, because that’s just who they were.

  “Don’t you like Wiener?” Jamie asked.

  “Yeah, of course I do,” Missi said. She didn’t mind his corny moves or his tree-bark scent. He made her smile. A lot, actually. “I just hope he still likes me.”

  “What do you mean?” Jamie asked Missi, dumbfounded.

  “I dunno, it’s just, we haven’t really seen each other since last August. We’ve only been in touch through text and Snap-chat, sort of, and it’s hard to know if a guy feels romantic about you through a screen.”

  While the J-squad nodded with understanding, Missi thought about her and Wiener’s most recent exchange. Right before his middle-school prom, he’d texted her “Gel or no gel?” with side-by-side pictures: one with his hair flipped up like a ramp and the other with a fluffy side part. She’d texted him back, “You look great both ways,” and attached side-by-side pictures of her cats: Happy with a gelled Mohawk and Grumpy with a messy tease. Wiener had responded with a GIF of a cat filing his nails. Missi had laughed so loud she’d woken her grandpa from his nap.

  “Whatever,” Jamie finally said, taking Missi’s hand and pulling her onto the bed. “You’ll see him face-to-face tonight, and he’ll realize he’s literally the luckiest to have you as a girlfriend.”

  “Agreed,” Jenny said. “You’re both weird-sauce in the best way.”

  For the first time all day, Missi felt like herself. Her honest, true, weird self. “You know what? Sure, I’d love a Wiener-Bieber thingamajig.”

  The J-squad high-fived over Missi’s head and shrieked, “WIENER-BIEBER!” As the three of them gathered materials for the creepiest art project to date, Missi was reminded that her camp friends knew her better than she’d thought. At times, they knew her inside and out.

  Wiener and his cabinmates watched the new kid with awe as he bounced a ping-pong ball on a paddle with the ease of a table-tennis pro. “See if you can translate this,” he was saying. “De donde vengo, los churros se sumergen en chocolate.”

  Dover dropped his paddle to the floor. “I’ve got it! You said”—he cleared his throat—“‘Where I’m from, the churros are dipped in chocolate.’”

  Wiener laughed. “Well, I think he said: ‘Waaaz up, I drink chocolate soy milk.’”

  Play Dough smacked the back of Wiener’s head. “Dover wasn’t making up a translation, brain clog. He speaks Spanish.”

  “He does?” Wiener asked.

  “Yeah, dude, you didn’t know?” Dover said, pointing to his enormous curly ’fro with both hands. “My ma’s Puerto Rican. I’m a Puerto Rican Jew.”

  “Oh,” Wiener replied, his cheeks suddenly hot.

  Dover man-hugged the newbie, who was somehow STILL BOUNCING his ping-pong ball. “That’s why I nicknamed Paolo Alejandro here ‘Chico Nuevo,’” Dover explained. “It means ‘New Kid.’”

  “Correcto,” Chico Nuevo said. “But you can call me Chico for short. What language do you study,
my Wiener?”

  “French.” He’d chosen it because he’d thought it was romantic. Wiener had imagined using it on a picnic date by the Seine river with French toast and French fries and French pick-up lines like, “Est-ce que tu as une carte? Je me suis perdu dans tes yeux.” Translation: Do you have a map? I’m lost in your eyes. But now he was certain that on a picnic date with tapas by the Spanish Riviera, the Spanish language would be twice as romantic as French. Language choice = epic fail.

  “Hey, you know what, Chico?” Play Dough said. “We owe you a welcome.”

  “A welcome?” Chico stopped bouncing the ping-pong ball to unbutton the top of his shirt, and three glorious chest hairs popped out. The dude was a god. “No, thank you,” he said politely. “I already feel very welcome.”

  But it was too late. Wiener and the rest of the Wawel Hillers were racing into a V formation. “A one, a two, a one, two, three,” Steinberg crooned. The guys began to sing. In harmony. Wiener took the high part like a fierce falsetto warrior.

  “We welcome you to Rolling Hills.

  We roll, you roll with us.

  If loyal to your cabinmates,

  We’re glad to add a plus!”

  In what felt like slow motion, Chico removed his Ray-Bans. “It’s wonderful you sing,” he said. “Though the harmony could use some work.”

  Wiener sighed with relief. He was thinking the same thing! The guys hadn’t sung the welcome song since they’d inducted Smelly into San Juan Hill cabin two summers ago, and their act was rusty. Wiener should have showed off more of his range. “I can go higher,” he told Chico. He took it up half an octave: “Camp Rolling Hills—wait, that’s flat.” He tried again, a little higher: “Camp Rolling Hills, our home—” He cracked, and then laughed it off. “One second you’re a boy, the next you’re a man.”

  “I will show you,” Chico said. He put his hand below his ribcage and sang along to the Ricky Martin song playing over the speakers in the Canteen: “Upside inside out, She’s livin’ la vida loca.” He held the final “loca” and his voice soared into a rich vibrato.

  The guys exploded with applause.

  “Wow, you should be a famous singer!” Totle said.

  “I almost was,” Chico replied, casually popping his collar. “I won The Voice Jr. in Spain, but my parents thought the record deal would interfere with my studies.”

  Wiener’s eyes bulged so hard, he thought they might fall out of his face.

  “So, tell me,” Chico said, waving the guys closer, “what is the best thing about this Rolling Hills camp?”

  Play Dough farted as loud as a trumpet and the guys scrambled to all corners of the Canteen, laughing hysterically. Except for Wiener. At this point, he was immune to Play Dough’s farts.

  “Hey,” Chico said to Wiener with his nose scrunched in disgust. “Let’s get fresh air on the porch.”

  Wiener’s heart began to thump. He had no idea why the semi-famous, Euro-sleek kid had chosen him of all people, the loser of the cabin, for a private hang, but he wasn’t about to question his motives. He followed the newbie out, wishing Max could see him in this moment. He thought about taking their chill sesh to the basketball court where the Bunker Hillers were playing icebreakers, but then Chico stopped and leaned on the rail overlooking the lake. The setting sun was cowering behind some major clouds, but he slipped his Ray-Bans back on anyway. Like a movie star.

  “That humor belongs in the—how do you say—potty,” Chico said.

  “That’s how you say it. And I agree,” Wiener said. “In case you can’t tell, I’m a man of class.” He raised his arms just a little to let his Axe deodorant waft in Chico’s direction.

  “A class act.”

  “Exactly!” Wiener said, stunned he’d found someone at camp who also understood hygiene and sophistication. “Anyway, I don’t know what a churro is—”

  “A donut like a stick.”

  “Oh, cool. But I do know a lot about camp, if you’re wanting to hear more.”

  “That I do.” Chico stretched his calf on the railing like he was warming up for a track meet. “The ladies here—are they nice?”

  “The ladies?” Wiener wiggled his eyebrow. “It’s funny you should ask. I’m a ladies’ man myself.”

  “Yes, you smell like a lady.”

  “What? No. I smell like—” Wiener sighed. He didn’t want to go into it again. “Let’s focus on the girls. I can school you on everything from their styles to their schedule, which I’ve already gotten my hands on and memorized. Mondays, first period: Lacrosse. Tues—”

  “Sure, maybe their styles,” Chico cut in. He brought his Ray-Bans to the top of his head and his hair nestled them just right.

  “Got it,” Wiener said. “There’s Slimey, who’s cute, but she’s with Smelly.”

  “There’s love between a Slimey and our Smelly person?”

  “Yeah, classic camp couple. And then there’s Jenny, who’s standard popular, but she’s with Play Dough—the biggest, coolest one in the cabin.”

  “Gran Chico has a popular girlfriend? Good for him.”

  “Totally. And then there’s Jamie, who wears pink on the daily. And Sophie, who’s post-vamp, post-bot weird-sauce.”

  “What kind of sauce?”

  “Weird, I said. Weird-sauce. And then there’s Melman, who’s crazy-hot and a European transplant like you, except she’s originally from New Jerz. We had a thing. It was wild. And lastly, there’s Missi.” Wiener put his hand over his heart and squeezed it in little bursts like a literal heartthrob. “She’s really cute and sweet and funny, too. And actually she’s my—”

  Suddenly Wiener heard the girls singing the classic camp song “John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt.” He swung around toward the dirt road, where the Notting Hillers were skipping arm in arm toward the Canteen. Mid-verse, Missi flicked her hand up by way of hello, and Wiener’s heart fluttered. She looked even prettier than she had last summer. Her hair was pulled back into a loose braid and she wore an exotic shirt with a matching beaded necklace. She looked like Lindsay Lohan in The Parent Trap meets Princess Fiona from Shrek (when she’s not an ogre, doy).

  Wiener waved back, but the window for hellos had clearly passed. The girls were busy whispering into each other’s ears. Then they began giggling. Wiener hoped they weren’t giggling at him. As the girls skipped closer, Wiener could see that they weren’t. They were giggling at Chico, who was smiling and waving. At Missi. Wiener watched as Jenny manipulated Missi’s arms like a puppet, moving her hand to her mouth and then away as if Missi were blowing a kiss at him.

  “The girl with hair the color of fire,” Chico said. “I hope she’s not Stinky, or Sticky, or Saucy.”

  “Dude,” Wiener said. Either he’d done a poor job schooling his new cabinmate or Chico was a terrible listener. “She’s not.”

  “Then what is her name, this fire-haired beauty?”

  “Well, um, that’s Missi.”

  “You’re right,” Chico said. “She is nice.”

  Wiener thought about adding, “Except she’s my girlfriend.” But the thing was, maybe she wasn’t, technically. Wiener wasn’t actually sure. And besides, Chico was handsome and cool. Way more handsome and cool than Wiener. So, if Chico liked Missi, then Wiener had no shot.

  As Missi and the J-squad bounded up the porch steps, Wiener stayed quiet, praying Missi would set their romantic relationship straight before Chico could make a move. And then Chico might go for Jamie or Sophie or even Melman.

  “Hey, Wiener!” Missi said, going in for a hug. Wiener went to give one of his great hugs back (long, strong, and emotional), but he was thrown off by Chico clearing his throat, all Introduce me!, and ended up spazzing his forearms out and not touching her, while Missi patted his back.

  “What the heaven?” Jenny said. “Hug her, you Wiener-Bieber!”

  The J-squad laughed like Cinderella’s stepsisters, and Missi pulled away. Her face was as pink as Jamie’s shirt. Then, like a total Prince Charming, Chic
o put his left hand behind his back and his right hand out for Missi’s hand. She put her hand in his, and he brought it to his lips for a gentle kiss.

  Jenny fake-fainted into Jamie’s arms, but Jamie was too little and unprepared to catch her, so they both fell, “omigod”-ing. “Now that’s how you greet a woman,” Jenny said, fanning herself from the porch floor.

  “A woman as cute and sweet and funny as Missi?” Chico said. “Of course.”

  “YOU KNOW HER NAME?” Jenny screamed.

  Chico winked at Wiener. Wiener frantically looked at Missi. Missi was beaming at Chico.

  “JENNY, I GOT YOU FAT-FREE LICORICE,” Play Dough called from inside.

  “Ugh, doesn’t he know that all licorice is fat-free?” Jenny muttered to Jamie. “AWWW-SAUCE, THAT’S SO SWEET!” she called back to him. Jenny pulled Jamie up and whisked her inside, leaving the love triangle to triangulate. Basically, Missi and Chico were staring into each other’s eyes, and Wiener was just watching.

  Beep, beep, beep, beep randomly went Wiener’s watch alarm. Mortified, he pressed it silent.

  “So, Wiener,” Missi began, almost definitely about to end their undefined relationship. “I was wondering if you ever ended up playing—”

  “The field behind your back?”

  “What?”

  “What?”

  Missi shook her head. “I was going to ask if you ended up playing one of the leads in your temple play. I know you were excited to audition.”

  “Oh.” He saw where this was going. First the small talk, next the big blow. “I was Big Jule in Guys and Dolls. It’s a guy part and the ‘big’ isn’t ironic. I’m not the shortest in my grade. Jon is.”

  “Good for you! I, uh—So, how was your eighth-grade prom?” Missi pushed on.

  “My prom, huh?” He’d slow danced with Kelsey Adler, but that was only because they were family friends and his parents had told him it would be the kind thing to do. It wasn’t romantic. Still, maybe mentioning it would get Missi’s attention, and she’d stop looking at Chico like that . . .

  “Did you have fun?” she pressed.

  “I did,” Wiener replied. “Kelsey’s dress was a stunning Brandy Melville.”