As soon as their water shoes squished out of the bathroom, Wiener launched himself from the stall to the garbage can. He yanked the top off. Just paper towels. Wiener would have to go rogue. He rolled his short sleeves up to his pits and fished his arm inside until he felt hard plastic. Success! He pulled from the can a Twizzlers wristband, hacked down the middle.
Wiener didn’t carry around duct tape or magnets like Steinberg, so he just crossed his Sea-Band over the cut part of the Twizzlers band so that it would stay around his wrist. Then he wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead and jogged out of the bathroom, as casual as a con artist. He went straight to the turnstile.
“Wristbaaaand,” a human in a Hershey’s Kiss costume droned.
Wiener flashed his Twizzlers. “Where’s your Rocking Hills group?” the Kiss asked, incorrectly reading the very clear letters on Wiener’s camp shirt.
“My fellow Rocking Hillers are in the ins, yo,” Wiener replied. Behind him were about fifty singing Girl Scouts impatiently waiting to enter, and so the Kiss stepped aside. Wiener flew through the turnstile and could instantly taste freedom. The chocolate-scented air wafted into his nose and inspired him to shout, “I’M A COCOA CRUSADER!”
“You’re a what?” Missi asked, smiling. He hadn’t realized she was right there. “Oh, nothing. Just happy to get started is all. Where’s my man, Chico?”
“He went to put his backpack in a locker, he said. But I’m glad you’re here.”
“I’m glad you’re here.”
“Cause we’re not supposed to be alone—instant disqualification.”
“Oh. Yeah. Right.”
“Let’s plan the hunt!” she said brightly. “We definitely shouldn’t waste any time.”
Behind her, Totle was posing with a York Peppermint Pattie mascot. Melman was in line for French fries. Steinberg was using a protractor on the back of Smelly’s T-shirt.
“Agreed,” Wiener said. “Let’s do this.”
Missi unfolded the Scavenger Hunt and they examined it together. “Hmm,” she said. “There are nineteen items on the list and twenty-four photos on the camera. That means we only have five chances for mess-ups. And the first item: The highest point in the park. It’s a five-pointer, so maybe let’s tackle it first?”
“Uh, sure thing.” As Missi flipped over the Scavenger Hunt to the map on the back, Wiener hoped they wouldn’t discover that the highest point in the park was an upside-down rollercoaster. Especially one he’d conned his way onto—his body could very well slip through the handlebars.
“What about this tower thing?” Missi asked, thank the Lord.
Their eyes ran over the Kissing Tower’s description: A CABIN CLIMBS 250 FEET, GIVING RIDERS OF ALL SIZES A PANORAMIC VIEW OF HERSHEYPARK THROUGH HERSHEY’S KISSES–SHAPED WINDOWS. A POPULAR RIDE FOR THAT SPECIAL KISS.
Wiener looked at Missi, whose freckles looked like little chocolate morsels on a plate of ketchup. “Oh. Ha,” she said.
“Ha,” Wiener said.
“Weird ride,” Missi said.
“The kissiest. I mean, the weirdest,” Wiener said. He shook his head, trying to think of a new conversation topic. “Oh! What’s the status on the Pearl Quantz flute?”
Missi broke into a grin. “I’m saving up for it. If I can get together half the money, my grandparents will pay for the other half. If all goes according to plan, I’ll have my dream flute before my birthday!”
“Then I expect a FaceTime performance on November twenty-third.”
“Deal,” Missi said. “I seriously can’t wait.”
“Can’t wait for what?” Chico asked, suddenly appearing with a mischievous smile. And his backpack. It was bulging at the seams, too packed for the snaps to secure it.
“I thought you were locking up your bag,” Missi said, stealing the words right from Wiener’s mouth.
“Nah,” Chico said. “Want to start with Storm Runner?”
“Sure!” Missi said, apparently forgetting all about the Kissing Tower. She held the map out to Wiener. “That work?”
Wiener glanced down and read the Storm Runner description: THIS ONE-OF-A-KIND ROLLER COASTER FEATURES THREE INVER-SIONS. IT CATAPULTS RIDERS FROM ZERO TO 72 MPH WITHIN TWO SECONDS. EIGHTEEN STORIES STRAIGHT UP, STRAIGHT DOWN. JOLLY RANCHERS AND TWIZZLERS ONLY. LEVEL FIVE.
Wow-sauce. Play Dough was right. The Storm Runner did sound like it would be the best ride, and incredibly, there was no mention of it going upside down! But, unfortunately, it didn’t seem to help with the Scavenger Hunt. He flipped the map over. “Sounds like an adventure, but maybe we should do one of the coasters that max out at fifty miles per hour. They’re worth three points each.”
“Hmm,” Missi said, looking over Wiener’s shoulder. “Yeah. You’re right.”
“Slow rides are for weenies,” Chico said.
“It’s just that the hunt is the thing that matters, you know?” Wiener said. “Let’s win the hunt and then we can put our lives at risk, ha.”
“Are you too short for Storm Runner, my Wiener?”
“Me? Too short?” Wiener flashed his Twizzlers wristband and then shoved his arms behind his back.
Missi cocked her head. “But if I’m a Twizzlers, then how’re you—?”
“I’m just looking out for the team,” Wiener said. “Eye on the prize.”
“The prize is bread,” Chico said.
Wiener looked at Missi with a knowing smile. “Right, but it’s not just any bread. It’s a bagel with bacon.” He put his hand on Chico’s shoulder. “Dude, we’ve got so much to teach you.”
“Do you care about the prize?” Chico asked Missi.
“Well, actually, I’m a vegetarian, so I don’t eat bacon.”
“Here’s a prize,” Chico said. He swung his backpack to his front and pulled out a giant Hershey’s Kiss in a plastic box with a red bow. It must have been ten pounds and eight million calories.
“You got this for me?” Missi asked, hugging it to her chest. “How? We only got ten dollars!”
Chico shrugged, all No big deal. “I have my ways.”
Wiener itched with curiosity. “What are your ways?” he asked. Campers didn’t have access to cold, hard cash. All of their money was funneled into Canteen cards, which Wiener suspected were a useless currency in a place like Hersheypark. “Did your parents send you to camp with a gift card or something?”
“Nah. Free giveaways at the gift shop.”
“Oh. That’s random,” Wiener said. But then Missi began to untie the bow on the Kiss, and Wiener decided to drop the questioning. “You know what? Let’s focus.”
Totle was now posing with the same York Pattie mascot, who was suddenly on a shift break—two points. Melman was arranging her French fries and mayo in the design of a 50—two points. Smelly had a formula Sharpied onto the back of his T-shirt, which would amount to Lord knows how many points.
“Where’s the camera?” Wiener asked.
Chico pulled it from his jeans pocket.
Wiener examined the thing—it had been years since he’d used a disposable camera. It was kind of janky: No zoom. No flash. And the photo counter was only on thirteen when it should have been on twenty-four. “Hey, guys, I think we got a used camera.”
“Yeah, I used it,” Chico said.
“Wait,” Wiener said. His head started to spin. “You took pictures without us?”
Chico answered with a shameless nod.
“OF WHAT?” Wiener asked, er, shouted.
“Did you find a kid on a leash?” Missi asked Chico, all hopeful, pointing to one of the Hunt items in Wiener’s shaking hands. “That would be two points right there.”
“I just went click-click,” he said, miming taking a selfie.
“Oh, God,” Wiener said. “You took ELEVEN SELFIES?!”
“Hey, it’s okay,” Missi assured Wiener. “Maybe we can double up, like, put a Free Parking sign and Milton S. Hershey’s signature in the same shot.”
“Still.” Wiener rubbed his e
yes with frustration. “Today’s Scavenger Hunt just got a lot harder.”
Chico dropped his backpack to the floor and began rummaging for something. He pulled out Hershey’s Kisses stationery, which made Wiener want to gag. Another gift for Missi?
“My dearest Hersheypark,” Chico started, writing with a Hershey’s pen.
My . . . dearest . . . Wiener took another look at the Scavenger Hunt. Two-thirds down the list: A love letter to Hershey from Camp Rolling Hills. Directly below that: Hersheypark stationery. The stationery wasn’t just another gift for Missi. It was a gift for their team. “Dude! This totally beats writing on a napkin! This’ll be two hunt items in one shot, five points!”
“Yes, my Wiener,” Chico said. “Just because I don’t see the big deal about this bagel thing, doesn’t mean I want to let you down.” Then he pulled out Hershey’s Kiss earmuffs and put them on Wiener’s head. “Also for the hunt—earmuffs—two points.”
Wiener threw his arms in the air and shouted: “Chico, you sly-sauce Kit Kat!”
“Uh,” Chico said, cocking his head.
“Missi, you beautiful, freckle-faced Red Hot!”
“Uh,” Missi said, tossing her hand over her mouth.
Wiener bit his lips shut. But before he could open them to apologize for being so awkward, Missi shouted: “YOU’RE A WORDSMITH!” She grabbed the stationery and pen from Chico. “Keep going, Wiener, but say romantic stuff about Hersheypark. Maybe TJ and the Captain will give us extra points if it’s really funny.”
“Okay, okay,” Wiener said, trying to think hilarious thoughts under pressure. “Hersheypark, you park your big chocolate butt over here . . . and give me a Kiss!”
“WHAT?” Missi burst, writing it down. “More!”
“You . . . NutRageously attractive cocoa bean.”
“Yes!” Missi said, now giggling so hard that her handwriting went super-loopy. “My turn! How about”—she began to rap—“For my mental healthy state, candy in my mouth is great. So much sugar’s worth the price. You’re nice.”
“Heyo!” Wiener cheered, raising the roof. “Go, Missi! Go, Missi!” She finished scribbling, then looked at Wiener for more contributions, but he was running dry on ideas.
“Chico, you try,” he said.
“No thank you, my Wiener.”
“Oh, come on!” Wiener pressed.
“You can do it, Chico!” Missi cried, nudging him flirtatiously with the pen.
“Okay, fine,” Chico said, then gazed up in serious thought. A few seconds later, he smirked and blurted, “Hersheypark, you are getting me all choco and making me late. Get it? Choco-late?”
There was a strange silence.
“That’s terrible!” Wiener said, breaking it, and the three of them got wild with giggles. The scent of Missi’s hair—as sweet as sugar-dusted strawberries—shot up his nose.
“Okay, okay! It’s done, you Goobers!” Missi said. “Now, sign!”
She passed the letter to Chico, who signed it “Paolo aka Chico,” and then Wiener, who signed it “Wiener—hit me up: 1-800-Chocolover.” Next, Wiener took out his travel cologne and gave it a spritz.
“Wait, we need a shot of this pronto!” Missi said.
“I got it,” Chico said.
Missi collapsed into Wiener with a side hug, her ear smushed against his earmuff.
Chico went click. “Maybe another?” Wiener asked. He could stay this close to Missi for forever.
“Nah, I’m done being weird,” Chico said. “Storm Runner?” Missi released Wiener and smoothed out her frock. “Yeah, sorry,” she said. “We got a little, um, into it. Storm Runner sounds great.”
Wiener nodded. Their team had started strong and now deserved some classic theme-park fun. Missi and Chico made strides toward the roller coaster while Wiener jogged lightly beside them to keep up.
They headed to Pioneer Frontier where Storm Runner lived and entered a line under a canopy. They inched up slowly, but time moved quickly as they played Concentration, listing stuff in categories like colors, and songs, and TV shows. Between rounds, Wiener tried to get a peek at the roller coaster, but the canopy was blocking it.
A whole bunch of Concentration games later, Wiener felt the burning sun. The canopy was behind them. He looked up and could see a part of the Storm Runner, specifically a drop so crazy, his stomach hurt just staring at it. Still, he leaned over a wooden line-control barrier to see more of it, and then knocked into a kid with familiar lab goggles on.
“Excuse me,” Steinberg said, his eyes glued to a now-extensive equation on Smelly’s back.
“Yo, Steiny,” Wiener said.
“Oh, hey, Wiener. I didn’t recognize you with your, uh, earmuffs.”
Wiener pulled them down to his neck like Beats headphones. “Oh, yeah. Mad Scavenger points.”
Steinberg blinked. Then he began to move up in line.
“Wait!” Wiener said, bringing his voice down to a whisper. “So, on a scientific scale, how likely is it that I’ll survive a roller coaster that, theoretically, I’m not, you know, tall enough to ride?”
“Unlikely.”
“Ha!” Oh, Steinberg. “Let’s talk gravity.”
“What about it?” Steinberg asked.
“Will it work in my favor?”
“On the incline.”
“Sweet-sauce.”
“And then you’ll die on the decline.”
“Oh. Okay. Cool. Well, it doesn’t go upside down so we’ll see.”
“Don’t do it, Wiener,” Steinberg said. Then he hustled to catch up to Smelly.
Wiener wasn’t entirely deterred. Steinberg was probably being overly cautious. Surely little kids snuck onto big-kid rides all the time!
A few more rounds of Concentration later, and suddenly the Storm Runner was exposed in all its terrifying glory. Wiener stared at an even bigger drop as a coaster car plummeted, its passengers screaming bloody murder.
And then he saw them loop.
And loop again.
And loop again.
Storm Runner went upside down THREE TIMES. He read the description again from the map. Three inversions. If “inversions” meant upside-down loops, then why didn’t the map just say “upside-down loops”? Was this SCHOOL or an AMUSEMENT PARK?!
Wiener’s worries flipped back and forth like a flapjack, until that flapjack free-fell from the pan to the kitchen floor and died. It’s time to wimp out, Wiener surrendered. I may be a vertically challenged loser, but I will not die as one today. “Hey guys,” he said, seconds from boarding, “I’ll just hold the stuff.”
“You sure?” Missi asked. “I feel bad that we made you wait all this time.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Wiener said. “It’s just that the last thing we need is for our stuff to get stolen. I’ll catch you at the Storm Runner exit.”
Chico handed Wiener the backpack. “Hey, my Wiener,” he said quietly, his back to Missi. “What’s in the bag stays in the bag, yeah?”
“You mean, like, don’t take stuff out?”
“I mean . . .” He leaned in so close, Wiener could smell his salty gel. “Just keep it on the down low.”
“The bag?”
“No. What’s inside the bag.”
“What’s inside the bag?”
“NEXT GROUP ALL ABOARD!” the roller-coaster attendant called.
“My dad is super strict,” Chico said. “He’ll pull me out of camp without a second thought. So, you’re my man, right? You got me?” He put a fist out for a pound.
Wiener balanced the heavy, now-mysterious backpack on one shoulder and hesitantly pounded him back. “I got you.”
Chico sidled up to Missi in the front row. As the ride got ready to launch, it played a prerecorded sound of a heartbeat, which was only slightly louder than the one in Wiener’s chest. The magnetic breaks dropped. “Now, get ready, here we go!” the ride told the riders. It took off. Wiener waved at Chico and Missi, their arms intertwined in the air. They were too into each other, the r
ide, and their own racing hearts to wave back.
Wiener went to open the backpack to see what in the world Chico was talking about, when he heard a lady’s screechy cry: “THAT’S HIM! THAT’S HIM!”
He clutched the backpack to his stomach and scanned the crowd. He couldn’t trace where the screechy lady was or who she was screeching at. Was there a famous person here? Was Milton S. Hershey in the house? Was she talking about Chico? Had she seen him on Spain’s The Voice Jr.?!
A single glance at his sports watch got him back on task. Wiener had ninety seconds to get to the Storm Runner’s exit. He inspected the roller coaster boarding area for an easy way out, but all the entranceways said EMPLOYEES ONLY. So he wormed his way back toward the end of the line, muttering, “Excuse me, por favor” on repeat.
“HIM! THE KID! THAT’S THE BAG!” Screechy Lady screeched. He could see her now: Thinning hair. Pudgy chin. Hershey Gift Shop shirt. Pointing right at him.
Wiener didn’t know where to go but he knew it was away from here. Before he could think about it too hard, he was zigzagging through the crowd. He skidded under a man’s legs, spun around a Rolo mascot, and ran and ran and ran, until a golf cart of old people appeared in his path. He dove out of the way, and as he hit the ground, the backpack burst open at the top. Its contents toppled out. There wasn’t just Missi’s supersized Kiss. There was a plush chocolate-bar pillow, a candy-themed notepad, a milk-chocolate baby bottle, a baby’s Twizzlers onesie, Reese’s Pieces magnets, a Hershey’s keychain, and a pair of chandelier earrings made of glass Kisses.
Wiener stared at the pile of souvenirs in shock. What did Chico want with any of this stuff? Even if they were free, it seemed weird he would take them. Also, why were they free? Unless . . . Wiener went to collect it all, but he could feel the feet pounding behind him. He left the bag and the stolen stuff, slipped between two tall families, and sprinted in the opposite direction, toward the park entrance. He sprinted for several more minutes, then glanced behind him and—BAM—he bounced off a man-belly and fell to his butt.
“You drop something?” the man said, bending down and picking something up at Wiener’s feet.
Wiener shielded his eyes from the glaring sun. There was Arman, his robot arm outstretched, holding a snipped Twizzlers wristband.
Freefall Page 8
