“Where did I get that old thing? I think it was last summer in Croatia. It's the new Paris. So not touristy. . . .”
Croatia? The new Paris? I've never even been to the old Paris. I try to focus on my letter, but Liana's nasal voice won't let me.
“Trust me,” coos Liana, “you haven't lived until you've fallen in love with an Italian.”
“Get her away from me,” whispers Cece, coming into our bunk and sitting on Alison's bed. “We all want to kill her.”
“She is awful,” Carly says.
“Let's just ignore her,” I say. I put down my pen and look at the girls. “I've always wanted to learn how to play gin.”
Poodles waves her hand at me. “Come down; I'll teach you.”
“I should probably teach her,” says Carly, “if she ever wants to win.”
Poodles rolls her eyes. “Ha-ha.”
“Attenthion all camperth and counthlorth! Attenthion all camperth and counthlorth! It ith now the end of retht hour. Pleathe protheed to your firtht afternoon activity.”
Already?
“No worries,” Poodles says. “We'll teach you at free play.”
“Soccer time,” Deb hollers from the hallway. “Against fifteen, Upper Field. Let's go!”
We change into appropriate outfits in the cubby room.
I can't help noticing that now that my cubby is no longer magically organized, everyone else's cubbies appear to be in better shape than mine.
But most of the other girls have been coming to camp for years and have therefore had lots of living-out-of-a-cubby experience. Yes, that explains it. No, I am not a natural-born slob.
One cubby looks particularly neat. Crazy neat. Neater than mine did with the spell. This one is a level above the Gap. It's Banana Republic. Actually, it's more like an expensive boutique. It's so sparse.
Oh, no.
I am annoyed to discover that this cubby belongs to Liana. She reaches into it and pulls out a fancy-looking polo shirt without even causing a ripple. What is she, a Jenga champion?
She catches me staring. And smirks.
Ignore, ignore, ignore.
Or maybe mess it up when she's not looking.
Unfortunately, I suck at soccer. Luckily, I'm not the only one. Morgan and Poodles can't even kick the ball. Carly and Alison are pretty good, so Carly plays goalie while Alison scores all the goals, and the rest of us run after the ball while laughing hysterically.
The girls from fifteen are equally clueless, and they're laughing even more loudly than we are. Since we're only five and they're six, Liana has volunteered to sit out, so instead of playing, she watches from the sideline, taking the sun in her glamorous-looking polo shirt, velvet shorts, and big sunglasses. Occasionally, she passes the girls in her bunk a water bottle, telling them they look dehydrated.
I thought soccer was oh so European. You'd think she'd be trying to show off how continental she is.
We tie four to four and enjoy every second.
“Quick, let's run to the showers before they get too crowded,” Alison tells us.
I seriously need to bathe. I don't think I've ever been this filthy. It didn't help that it started drizzling right after soccer. At least GS was canceled. I had been slightly nervous about my dolphin status.
So we all put on our bathrobes (except for Morgan, who wraps herself in a flimsy towel), pick up our shower pails (stuffed with shampoo, conditioner, facial soap, a comb, body soap, and a loofah—yes! I somehow knew to bring the right things!), and bravely head out onto the porch. At least it has stopped raining for now.
“Which showers should we go to?” Poodles asks.
We huddle together to decide.
“Lower Field,” says Carly, wrapping her bathrobe tightly around her. “I hate the Upper Field showers.”
Morgan shakes her head. “Too grimy. And too far. What if it starts raining again?”
“Yeah, our legs will be all dirty from the walk back,” Poodles says. “Let's just go to Upper Field.”
Morgan winks at me. “Hope you're not shy, Rachel.”
Huh?
We begin the trek to Upper Field.
“This is where the kitchen staff sleeps,” Alison says as we pass some blue cabins. “But they're all in the mess hall now, preparing for dinner. These are the boys' showers, and then around the bend are the girls'.”
Blume is lounging on the steps. “What up?” he asks.
“Hey, Alison, it's your new boyfriend,” Morgan whispers.
Alison turns bright red.
“If Blume's here maybe Raf is too,” Poodles says. “Rachel, wanna sneak in?”
Morgan makes kissing noises.
“Shut up,” I say, but smile at the same time.
“What's the story with you two?” Carly asks.
“Good question.” Sigh. “What about you guys? Any romances I should know about?”
“I still think Alison should go out with Blume,” Morgan says.
“Not interested,” she responds as she pushes open the door to the shower room.
“Crap, someone's using them,” Poodles says.
The waiting room for the showers is pretty bare. Gray walls, hooks, and lots and lots of steam.
“It's bunk fifteen,” Alison says, putting her pail down on a bench. “I hear Cece.”
“How many of them are in there?” Poodles asks, and then peeks into the steamy room. “Hi, girls. Almost done?”
“We just got here,” Cece says, more snarkily than necessary. “We'll probably be a while.”
“What's her problem?” Carly asks.
Alison shrugs, bewildered.
“You'll have to wait,” someone else says in an extra-nasal voice.
Liana.
Poodles rolls her eyes. “It's too hot in here. Let's wait outside.”
I don't really want any boys to see me in my bathrobe. But standing in the steamy room is clearly not an option, so the five of us pile back outside, pails in hand. Ah, that's better. Except now we're pretty much facing the Upper Field baseball diamond, where some of the Lion boys are congregating. Not playing but hanging out. While we're in our bathrobes. Our not-so-sexy grandmotherly bathrobes.
“This place is making me miss my nice, simple shower at home,” I say.
“The pool showers are the best,” Alison says wistfully. “Last year my brother let us use them all the time.”
“Showers are the one bad part of camp,” Poodles says. “But I swear, you get used to it.”
“By the second month,” Morgan grumbles.
“Do you miss home yet, Rachel?” Alison asks.
I take in a nice, deep breath of fresh air. “Not really.”
Morgan leans against the railing. “Remember how homesick I was when we were Koalas? I used to cry all night.”
“You weren't the only one,” Alison says. “Anderson used to cry through every meal.”
“Has anyone else wondered what's up with his hair? It's like he's just discovered gel. He uses a bottle a day.” Morgan glances down at her watch. “What the heck is taking them so long? They've been in there forever.”
“I think he's cute,” Carly says.
“Who? Anderson?” Poodles asks.
“Yeah. Did you see how built he got over the year?” She waggles her eyebrows suggestively. “He's been doing his sit-ups. And his chin-ups.”
“You going to go for him this summer?” Morgan asks.
“Maybe.”
Morgan laughs. “Remember, no kissing.”
“Oh, shut up. If you're going to say dumb things, I'm so going to yank your towel,” Carly threatens.
“Go ahead,” Morgan says. “Then maybe the guys will see what I've got going on.”
“You're such a perv,” Carly says.
“Yeah, and you're a prude,” Morgan says. “Do you know who else is looking kind of cute this year? Colton.”
“It's the accent,” Poodles says. “Who doesn't find cowboys sexy?”
“I don't,” Ali
son says.
“We know, we know, you like nerds,” Morgan says, shaking her head.
“Maybe we should fix him up with Cece,” Poodles says. “Speaking of Cece, what is taking them so long?” She opens the door and screams, “Can you guys get a move on?”
We hear laughing inside the shower.
“They are so annoying.” Carly sighs. “They'd better not use up all the hot water.”
Hot water, huh? Maybe I can hurry them along . . . by concentrating. Hard.
And then: “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
And then: “It's freezing!”
And then: “What the hell?”
Wahoo! It worked! I did it! You see, Miri? My magic worked exactly the way I wanted it to. I am full of control. I am like control-top panty hose. I am a witch-superstar. Go, me. Ten seconds later, all six girls pour out of the shower, cursing. “There's no hot water left,” Natalie says, her glasses still foggy.
“You guys are screwed,” Molly says.
“Try getting here faster next time,” Cece says, running her tongue over her braces.
Alison blinks in surprise.
“Better luck next time,” Trishelle, the last one out, says. And I don't know how this is possible, but she already has eyeliner on. Maybe it's a tattoo?
“Now what are we going to do?” Morgan cries.
Hmm. I didn't really think that far ahead.
“Let's go in,” Poodles says. “Come on, we've done it before.”
The shower room is a small white space with six showerheads but no dividers. So we're all going to shower together. Terrific. How do I do this without staring? Look at the floor. Look at the floor!
I know I said I was comfortable at camp . . . but not this comfortable.
Each of the four girls chooses a shower. I take the one in the corner and try to turn it on. And try again. And again.
“That one has been broken for years,” Alison says.
I try another one. Nope.
“That one too,” she says. “You can share with me. Oh God, it's cold. I can't believe how obnoxious the bunk fifteeners were! What is up with them? Plus I can't believe they used all the hot water.”
Morgan flips her head over so that the water gets her hair but not her body. “How rude.”
Alison runs into and out of the water in two and a half seconds. “So cold! Ah! Your turn, Rachel.”
I step under the stream of water and scream, “It's freezing!” Come on, raw will, you can do it! Make it warm again! But no go. What is wrong with my magic? Why is it so unpredictable?
“Hey, Rachel, did you know that one of your tits is bigger than the other?” Morgan asks.
I think I want to die.
“Morgan!” Alison shrieks. “You're ruder than bunk fifteen!”
Morgan clamps her hand over her mouth. “I just noticed! I couldn't help it!”
“What are you staring at her boobs for?” Carly asks.
I step out of the cold water and cross my arms in front of my chest. “You're right, my boobs are developing at weird speeds.” Just like my powers. “It's embarrassing.”
“At least you have one boob,” Alison says. She puts her arms up in the air. “I don't have any!”
“My boobs are different sizes too,” Carly says. “My left one's a B, and my right one's a C. But Michael never complained.”
Morgan laughs. “Oh, you're such a big talker. You think we're really going to believe you're not a prude anymore?”
“I was never a prude!” Carly insists, rinsing the shampoo out of her hair. “Blume has spit crust!”
“Sure, sure. And you're really a sex goddess in disguise,” Morgan says. “Look, I'm sorry for staring, Rachel. But I was trying to understand what Will saw in you that he doesn't see in me. Maybe he likes uneven boobs. Do you think I should stuff one of my cups?”
7
DANCING QUEEN
On my second camp morning, not only do I remember to brush my teeth, I wear my pajama bottoms to flagpole.
But my day gets worse soon after that.
First, at cleanup I have bathroom, which is majorly vile. Wearing plastic gloves, I rinse the toothpaste blobs and strands of hair down the sinks and dump the individual stall garbages into the main one on the porch. Then I have to restock the toilet paper and soap.
After that, Deb tells us we have dance for our first activity.
That's when I know the end is near.
I look like I'm being electrocuted when I dance. Instant anxiety sets in.
I follow my bunkmates to the rec hall with a heavy heart. After the dance specialist leads us in a warm-up, she puts on some R & B music and tells us to “dance” an activity or chore.
I have no idea what she means.
“I'll start,” says Poodles. She snaps to the beat and then says, “The Sweep!” Suddenly, she's grooving to the music, miming the chore of sweeping, somehow making it look like a hot new dance move.
Everyone claps. I panic even more.
“Look at me, look at me!” Morgan sings, waving her hands from side to side while shaking her butt. “My new move is . . . the Window Washer.”
“Go, Morgie!” Poodles hollers while the rest of the girls cheer in approval.
Wait a second. Her arms are stiff and she looks ridiculous. Could it be? Is it possible that Morgan has no rhythm? Yet they're all cheering her on anyway?
“My turn!” Carly lifts her knees in slow motion to the beat. “I call it the Climbing Man.”
She can't dance either—yet there's more cheering and hollering.
Alison joins in, performing a series of kicks that would make the A-list fashion-show girls at my school cringe in horror. “The Soccer Player!”
Now even I'm cheering. Then, before I can chicken out, I say, “The Doggie Paddle!” and proceed to shake my butt and pretend I'm swimming. And they're still cheering! They are! I beam and throw myself into the moves wholeheartedly.
I quickly deduce that out of the five of us, only Poodles can actually dance, while the rest of us look absolutely ridiculous. But as during yesterday's soccer game, we don't care. Instead, we make a game out of how bad we are.
And this is a game I can win!
“Rachel, you're hilarious,” Alison howls as I try my hand at the Making the Bed and then the Brushing Your Teeth.
“Hey,” Carly says over the music. “Speaking of toothbrushing, does anyone know why there were fifty toothbrushes under our table yesterday?”
La, la, la. I distract her with the Garbage Dumper.
I'm in such a good mood from dance that I don't even mind when Rose later puts me in the lowest swimming group, which is essentially remedial swimming. We learn how to flutter kick, which is basically holding on to the dock and kicking.
Gee, thanks.
Then we have newcomb ball against bunk fifteen. I had never heard of newcomb ball, but apparently it's a camp sport that's a lot like volleyball except easier, because you can catch the ball before lobbing it to the other side.
“Damn!” Poodles says as the ball slips through her fingers for the second time. Bunk fifteen keeps whipping the ball over the net.
We've been playing for only three minutes and we're already losing five to zero.
“What is up with you guys?” Alison asks the other side. “I've never seen you so competitive.”
“There's nothing wrong with wanting to kick your butts,” barks Kristin, her hands on her hips. She's somehow managed not to lose her pearl earrings. If they were mine, they would be at the bottom of the lake by now.
It's Natalie's serve and she hurls it straight at me.
“I got it! I got it! I got it!” I say as I hug the ball into my chest. Yes! I did it!
“Way to go, Rachel!” my team cheers.
Now all I have to do is throw it back over the net. The incredibly high-looking net.
It's time for a little magic.
It's time to fly!
Newcomb ball, reach for the sky!
And
then I throw.
And the ball goes up. And up. Way up.
Over the trees, over the mountains, and then a distant splash.
“I think it landed in the lake,” Trishelle says, rubbing her eye and smearing black eyeliner down her cheek.
“Nice going, Rachel,” Cece says. “Now what?”
My face feels hot and my neck feels hot and now my arms . . .
Zap! Rush of cold!
“Careful!” Alison shouts as the newcomb ball net tips over and crashes down on the bunk fifteen girls, trapping them beneath the mesh.
Whoopsies.
Deb and Penelope declare the game over.
“We were raided!” Morgan shrieks.
We wake up the next morning to find our beds and bodies tangled in toilet paper. My pillowcase is covered in shaving cream. Should I be concerned that I dreamed about eating ice cream?
“This is so gross,” Poodles says, trying to comb the mess out of her hair. “How could anyone be so immature?”
Our bunk has been totally trashed. Our shelves have been emptied, and our stuff is lying on the floor, covered in toilet paper and sticky orange and pink string. It looks like Times Square on January 1.
“Do you think it was the boys?” Carly asks.
The boys? In our bunk? At night! How adorable!
“No, I bet it was them.” Morgan juts her chin out at the wall separating us from bunk fifteen.
Less adorable.
“They wouldn't do this to us!” Alison exclaims. “They're our friends.”
“They haven't been acting like our friends,” Poodles grumbles.
Suddenly, we all realize how quiet the other side of the cabin is. And then we hear muffled laughter.
Oh yeah, it was them.
Of course they deny it. Naive Deb doesn't believe they would do that to us, and since we can't prove anything, we get stuck cleaning for most of the morning.
“We have to get them back,” Morgan says, stuffing her foamy sheets into her laundry bag.
“We will,” Poodles says. “But not tonight. We'll do it when they least expect it.”
“This is so lame,” Morgan says the next day as she opens the rec hall door for evening activity. The rec hall is an old wooden room with rafters on the ceiling and the names of campers graffitied all over the walls. “It's a sing-down, I know it.”
Spells & Sleeping Bags Page 8
