Striker Jones and the Midnight Archer

by Maggie M. Larche

  When everyone focuses on what they’re best at, the overall achievements of a group can increase. People spend less time doing tasks they’re not good at, and let someone else handle it instead. Great cooks let great writers write books, while those same cooks get better and better at creating delicious recipes. And the cool thing is that, after specialization, we end up with better books and tastier food than if the writers and cooks had each tried to both write and cook.

  Striker thought carefully about the rules that Jamie had given and realized that at no point did Jamie say that each kid had to participate in every single activity. He only said that each team had to complete the required tasks: four laps around the bases, four baskets, four laps through the tires, etc. So Striker suggested that they all do what they do best.

  When it came time for the race, Striker ran the first lap around the bases and then tagged off to Bill. Bill finished his lap and then tagged off to Striker again, who then tagged back to Bill.

  Then all four team members rushed off to the basketball courts, where Richard easily scored four baskets in a row.

  From there, Charlie attacked the tire run. With his light feet, he was able to go back and forth four times through the tires more quickly than even the next fastest team.

  Finally, all four boys dashed to the rope swing. Striker swung quickly over the sand and passed the rope back to Bill. Bill sailed the rope to Richard, who swung over and sent the rope back to Charlie.

  More quickly than any other team, they were finished!

  After finishing the race, the entire group headed into lunch, with Striker, Bill, Charlie, and Richard leading the way.

  They sat down at a table together, each setting down a tray loaded with a sloppy joe, homemade chips, a banana, and a freshly baked brownie.

  “Man, Jamie wasn’t kidding,” said Richard. “I’m starved!” He took a huge bite out of his sandwich.

  “Mmmphhee too,” said Charlie with a mouth full of banana.

  Striker laughed. “So you’re actually Ralph’s cousin, huh?”

  Charlie nodded, finishing off his banana.

  “Weird,” said Bill. He leaned back in his chair and balanced on the two back legs.

  “What’s weird?” asked Charlie, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

  “It’s just that you don’t seem anything like him,” said Striker.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, how do I put this?” said Bill, plopping his chair back onto the ground. “You’re kind of . . . nice. Ralph’s kind of . . . not.”

  “Real delicate, Bill,” said Striker.

  “Well, it’s true!”

  Charlie looked discouraged. Here he thought he was being tough all day, and now they were calling him nice! This was harder than he’d thought it would be.

  “What’s wrong, Charlie?” asked Richard.

  Charlie shook himself out of his daze. Time to try again. “Nothing. I was just . . . thinking . . . something rugged. And manly.”

  “Okay,” said Bill slowly. He shrugged at Striker and went back to eating his brownie.

  Chapter 4: A Place of Their Own

  “Wow, this place is gross.” Sheila carefully stepped her way into the camp swim shack, followed by Amy and Striker.

  The swim shack housed all the camp swimming supplies: beach towels, beach balls, water volleyball nets, masks, flippers – everything you need to have a great time in the water.

  All the campers had free access to the shack and everything in it. Unfortunately, it was also starting to look like it. Beach towels were strewn all over the floor. Goggles were tangled up in the nets. Shovels and buckets were still filled with sand, shells, and the occasional snail. A half-empty juice box lay on its side, oozing purple liquid.

  Amy gingerly set the juice box right side up again. “Let’s just grab some towels and head out to the lake. I feel like we’re going to catch some sort of disease in here!”

  Out at the lake, they joined Bill and a tall brown-haired girl who were sitting side by side at the water’s edge.

  “Hey, guys,” said Bill. “This is Ruby.”

  “Hi, Ruby,” said Sheila with a smile. “I’m sorry, we don’t have an extra towel for you.”

  “That’s okay,” said Ruby. “I’ll go get one.”

  “No, no,” said Bill, jumping up. “I’ll be happy to get one.” He turned to Striker. “She can have mine.”

  Striker handed Ruby the extra towel as Bill sprinted back to the swim shack.

  Striker raised his eyebrows at Sheila and Amy, who both looked as though they were trying not to laugh.

  “Thanks,” said Ruby. “Let’s get in. It’s hot today!”

  After a couple of minutes of splashing and dunking underwater, Striker saw Bill return.

  “I ran into Jamie in the swim shack,” said Bill, wading out into the water. He dipped his head underwater and came up spitting water out of his mouth.

  “He didn’t look too happy,” he continued.

  “Why?” asked Amy.

  “Something about how messy it is in there.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Sheila.

  “I just hope we don’t have to spend time cleaning it up,” said Ruby. “I want to start a club, and that’s already taking most of my free time.”

  “What kind of club?” asked Amy.

  “A painting club. Jamie already told me I could use the camp’s art supplies. I’ve just got to find some members and a good place for us to meet.”

  Sheila looked interested.

  “I’d love to join!” said Bill.

  Everyone turned to stare at him.

  “You like to paint?” asked Striker. “Since when?”

  “Come on, Striker,” said Bill, lightly punching Striker’s arm. “Don’t kid around. You know I’ve always wanted to be a painter.”

  This time Sheila and Amy couldn’t hold in the giggles, but Striker thought they hid them fairly well as they immediately swam towards the floating platform in the center of the lake.

  Striker looked at Bill. Bill grinned at Ruby. Ruby squinted at the sun.

  “I think I’d better get some more sunscreen,” she said and headed for shore.

  That evening at dinner, Jamie made an announcement. “Okay, folks, we’ve got some housecleaning to do.”

  They all looked up from their conversations.

  “I don’t know how many of you have been in the swim shack recently, but it is an absolute mess. You know I love you guys, but I also expect you to take better care of camp property.

  “So starting today, campers will take turns cleaning the swim shack. I’ve posted a chore schedule on the bulletin board that shows when each of you is assigned to duty. Let’s see if we can’t do a better job.”

  Amy sighed over her mac and cheese. “I guess we knew it was coming.”

  One week later, Striker ventured inside the swim shack to get a kayak paddle. He wasn’t sure what to expect after a week’s worth of cleaning by the campers.

  Looking around, he thought that the swim shack looked a little cleaner, but it wasn’t an amazing change. He’d taken his own turn on the cleanup crew a couple of nights before, and it wasn’t a terribly exciting job. His group had performed the basics – refolded the beach towels, emptied the buckets, thrown away trash – but whoever had cleaned the shack the previous night didn’t even do that.

  “Ah, you kids,” said a voice behind him. The camp owner Mr. Cutchins entered the room just behind Striker. He surveyed the controlled chaos. “I’d hoped the cleanup rotation would work. After all, it’s only one night every couple of weeks. That’s not so bad, is it?” He looked at Striker. “I suppose I’ll have to come up with a better idea, hmm?” He smiled.

  “Actually,” said Striker, encouraged by Mr. Cutchins’s smile. “I have an idea for you. If you really want the swim shack to be nice and clean, you should let the painting club meet in here.”

  Why?

  Solution

  When everyone
shares something, people have a tendency to take advantage of it.

  With everyone sharing the swim shack, no one took the time to clean up after himself. After all, each kid was just one person among many who were using the shack. Even if someone took the time to clean up after himself, there was no way to guarantee that everyone else would, too. So, it would still be messy. Why bother cleaning up? It was a never-ending – and very messy – cycle.

  The best way to break this cycle was to give someone ownership over the shared resource. When someone owns something, he takes better care of it. You take care of your bike or skates, for instance, because they belong to you. No one else can come along and use them without asking you, so you can control whether or not they stay in good condition.

  Striker knew that the camp staff needed to give campers a sense of ownership of the swim shack. And he also knew of a small group that was looking for a place of its very own: the painting club.

  Later that week, Striker and Bill went back into the swim shack to borrow masks and fins. Striker almost didn’t recognize the room.

  The clutter had disappeared. Items were stored neatly in labeled bins, and the beach towels were easily found, folded and stacked on a countertop. The floors were clean, though, if Striker looked very hard, he could find a couple specks of paint that hadn’t been there before.

  “Wow! It looks great in here,” said Bill.

  “Yeah, it does,” said Striker. “Good job.”

  “What do you mean, ‘good job’?”

  “Didn’t you help clean it up? You’re in the painting club, right?”

  “Oh that.” Bill waved his hand. “I gave that up after one meeting.”

  “That fast, huh?”

  “Yeah. There was something I’d forgotten.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I really hate art.”

  Striker laughed. “And what about Ruby?”

  “I gave her up, too. She said my painting of our cabin looked like a sick moose.

  “Of course,” he added, “it did look like a sick moose. But there was no reason to tell me so.”

  Chapter 5: The Midnight Archer

  “Something very weird happened last night,” announced Richard at breakfast.

  “At the bonfire?” asked Striker, referring to the camp’s nightly tradition. After Striker and Bill introduced Richard and Charlie to Amy and Sheila, cooking s’mores at the evening bonfire became a ritual for their little group.

  Richard slid into a seat between Sheila and Bill at the dining table. “No. After.”

  “What?” asked Sheila.

  “Someone shot an arrow into one of the cabin doors!”

  “What? Like into the cabin? Was anyone hurt?” Striker said.

  “No, no one was hurt. The arrow literally went into the door. Some guys found it sticking out from the wood this morning when they left for breakfast.”

  “Wow,” said Bill. “Sounds like someone’s got it in for them.”

  “Yeah,” said Richard. “I bet they’d give a lot to know who, too.”

  “Oh, come on,” said Sheila. “No one’s got it in for anybody.” She paused. “And if they did, I don’t think they’d take someone out with arrows. We’re not living in Robin Hood.” She giggled.

  “Easy for you to say,” said Richard. “No one shot at you.”

  “No one shot at them, either,” she said. “Just their door.”

  Two nights later, it happened again. This time, kids awoke to find an arrow plunged into the hard dirt path in front of the dining hall.

  “Maybe it’s some sort of warning,” Striker heard a boy say as he and Bill walked up behind the group gathered around the arrow. Other kids joined in.

  “A warning about what?”

  “Tapioca pudding two days in a row?”

  “A meal without tater tots?”

  “No soda?”

  The group wandered off towards the dining hall door, leaving Striker and Bill behind.

  Striker cocked his head sideways and looked at the arrow. “It is kind of weird.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” said Bill. “It’s probably just from the ghost of an Indian warrior. No big deal.”

  Striker smiled. “Yeah, no big. Hey, what’s this?” He reached out and pulled a sinewy strand off the end of the arrow. “Thread? Fishing line?” Striker turned to Bill with a serious expression. “Indian warriors didn’t use fishing line, Bill. It must be the ghost of a fisherman.”

  Bill nodded. “Must be. An arrow-shooting ghost fisherman.”

  “An arrow-shooting ghost fisherman who wants tater tots in the dining hall.”

  They walked inside laughing and began to load their trays.

  “You know, Bill,” said Striker, taking a carton of cereal, “whoever is shooting the arrows could get in trouble if they’re caught by a counselor.”

  “Yes, they could,” said Bill. He looked at Striker. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

  “I just think we should catch them first,” said Striker. “For their own good, of course.”

  “A stakeout!” said Bill. “Tonight?” Striker nodded with a mischievous grin.

  “I love it!”

  After breakfast, the boys headed to the lake with Sheila and Amy. Charlie was already by the shore. He waved to the group before suddenly pulling his hand back down, as if he had thought better of it.

  “You know,” Bill said quietly to Striker, “I like Charlie, but I don’t always understand him.”

  Striker nodded. They walked down and joined Charlie.

  Sheila and Amy planned to paddle a canoe together.

  “Just let me put on my sunscreen first,” said Sheila. She picked up her bottle and tried to squirt some out, only to find that it was empty.

  “Darn,” she said. “I need to buy some more.”

  “Here, use mine,” said Amy, tossing an orange bottle to Sheila. “Sarah’s taking a few girls into town at lunchtime,” she continued, naming one of the girls’ counselors. “You could go along and buy some more.”

  “Good idea,” said Sheila, rubbing the sunscreen onto her shoulders. “Thanks.” She handed the bottle back to Amy, and together they hauled the canoe into the water.

  Striker set off in a red one-person kayak. He had a great time tailing the girls and trying to ram their canoe.

  “No!” they yelled, laughing.

  “Prepare to be boarded!” he shouted in his best pirate voice. “Avast! Shiver me . . . Whoa!”

  He succeeded in ramming the canoe, but he only turned over his much lighter kayak in the process. He surfaced from the water as the girls sped away, waving back at him.

  “I don’t think you’re cut out for pirate life,” said Bill. He waded out into the water and helped Striker right his kayak.

  “I guess not,” said Striker, as Charlie joined them.

  Charlie helped Striker pull the kayak onto land, but he abruptly stopped when the boat was only halfway out of the water. Charlie let go again of the kayak and even gave it a little push to propel the boat back into the lake.

  Striker and Bill looked at each other as Charlie turned from the water to retrieve his towel.

  “Don’t ask me,” said Striker, going after his kayak.

  After lunch, 30 or so kids gathered to go on a nature hike with Jamie, including Striker and Richard.

  Striker looked up from tying his hiking boot and froze with his mouth open.

  Sheila was striding down to the group with Amy at her side. But that wasn’t the surprising part. Sheila had cut all her hair off!

  Where Sheila once had long, wavy hair, she now had a very short, very stylish pixy cut.

  “Isn’t it fabulous?” said Amy when she saw Striker. “I was just telling Sheila that it’s the cutest haircut I’ve ever seen!”

  Sheila looked at Striker, who stood up quickly. Over the past year, Striker had managed to learn to talk to Sheila without feeling like he was about to embarrass himself or throw up
or pass out. But now he was looking at a new Sheila all over again.

  “Urp,” he said.

  Sheila smiled. “Thank you.”

  “All right, kids, let’s hit the trail,” said Jamie. “We’ll be out for a while, so does everyone have their water?”

  “Yes!”

  “Bug spray?”

  “Yes!”

  “Sunscreen?”

  “Oops,” said Sheila. “Amy can I borrow some again?”

  “Sure,” said Amy. “But didn’t you get some in town?”

  “No,” said Sheila. “I needed to, but I didn’t have any money left after my haircut. I’ll pay you back. I promise.”

  Striker went through the nature walk in a daze. Twice Richard grabbed his arm to steer him: once to keep him from taking a wrong turn, and once to pull him out of a thicket. By the end of the trail two hours later, however, Striker felt like he might have recovered his senses.

  “See you later, Striker,” said Sheila with a wave.

  “Urp.”

  Maybe not.

  That night, Striker and Bill donned dark clothing, grabbed their flashlights, and slipped out of their cabins. At Bill’s insistence, they smeared a little mud on their faces.

  “Gross,” said Striker. “Now we smell.”

  “It’ll help us hide,” whispered Bill. “Stop complaining, or we’ll be too loud to sneak up on anyone.” He gestured forward. “Let’s go to the game shed. I asked around while you were on the nature hike, and that’s where all the archery supplies are kept. Whoever fired the arrows will have to go there first.”

  “Okay,” said Striker.

  Together they scurried past the lake, around the dining hall, and to the game shed. They stationed themselves in the bushes just outside the shed door and began to watch.

  It was a muggy night, and the air was full of the sounds of frogs and crickets. But slowly, Striker detected another sound – someone was coming!

  He elbowed Bill, who nodded back. A dark figure wearing a hoodie and jeans was rushing to the game shed.