Several minutes later, Mr. Cutchins returned and spoke to the group of campers.
“We had some wonderful exhibits in the first annual arts and crafts competition. First, a big thanks to the painting club for sponsoring the contest! They set up all the tables and made the cards.”
There was some polite clapping.
“Next, I’d like to congratulate all the kids who entered the contest. There are some truly fine pieces of art on those tables, and I wish I could give prizes to each of you. If you entered the competition, please raise your hand.”
Mr. Cutchins led the campers in a round of more enthusiastic applause.
“All right,” he said, smiling. “Now for what you’ve been waiting for. The winners!”
“In third place is Terry Smith, for his drawing of ‘Dragon Castle.’ Come on up, Terry.”
The campers applauded as a black-haired boy with a wide smile walked to the front by Mr. Cutchins.
“In second place: Sheila Meyers for her beaded bracelet.”
Sheila skipped to the front of the group, a bright grin on her face.
“And finally in first place . . . ”
“No need to guess who this will be,” whispered Amy.
“Carol Fitzgerald for her animal figurines!”
Amy and Striker applauded loudly with the rest of the group as a short, blond girl went to the front.
“Congratulations, Carol!” said Mr. Cutchins. “I was very impressed by your carvings! Where did you learn to whittle like that?”
“I just picked it up, I guess,” said Carol.
“Well, it’s an amazing talent. As first place winner, you get to pick your prize first. We’ve got three treats on offer from the dining hall: a peanut butter brownie, a piece of cheesecake, or a raspberry tart.”
“Hmm,” said Carol. “I’ll take the brownie. Thank you!”
Sheila picked the cheesecake, leaving Terry with the tart. The crowd dispersed, and the contestants all went to claim their artwork.
That evening, Striker was walking to dinner by himself through the cabins when he heard a strange noise. It almost sounded as though someone were choking.
“Hello?” called Striker.
The sound only continued.
Striker couldn’t tell which cabin the noise was coming from.
“Hello?” he repeated. “Do you need help?”
This time the coughing was loud enough for Striker to identify the correct cabin.
He dashed to the door of Cabin 2 and pushed it open. Inside, he saw Charlie sitting on his bed, holding his throat and coughing. His face was slowly turning blue.
“Oh, my gosh!” said Striker. “Charlie! What’s wrong?”
Charlie coughed some more and pushed himself off his bed and across the room. He went to his dresser and pulled open the top drawer. He paused and let out several coughs.
Striker ran to his side. “What do you need? Can I help?”
Charlie shook his head and rummaged in his drawer. He threw several pairs of white socks and t-shirts onto the floor as he searched. Finally, he pulled out something that looked like a thick marker.
“EpiPen,” read Striker.
Striker watched in fascination as Charlie, even as he continued to cough and hack, flipped the top off to reveal a shot inside. Charlie held it to his leg and pressed a button that sent a needle through his pants and into his skin.
“Whoa!” Striker said in surprise.
Charlie held the shot to his leg for a few seconds before pulling it out and staggering to the bed. He fell backwards onto the patchwork quilt and groaned.
“Charlie,” said Striker, slowly walking to the bed. “Are you okay?” He hovered nearby, unsure of what to do.
Charlie groaned and nodded weakly, and Striker was relieved to see the pink returning to Charlie’s face. Gradually the coughing eased, and Charlie was able to sit up again.
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” He cleared his throat and stood up slowly. “I had an allergic reaction.”
“Where are you going?” asked Striker. “Shouldn’t you sit down a little longer?”
“Can’t,” said Charlie. “The EpiPen only buys me time. I’ve got to get to the nurse before the reaction kicks in again.”
“Okay,” said Striker. “Then I’ll help you.”
They set out from the cabin, Charlie walking more slowly than normal, but otherwise looking better.
“What did you eat?” asked Striker.
“Something I shouldn’t have,” said Charlie. “I didn’t realize it had peanuts in it.”
“Oh,” said Striker. “I’m glad you’re all right.”
“Thanks,” said Charlie. “Me, too!”
“Charlie,” said Striker after a moment, “you don’t whittle, do you?”
How did Striker guess?
Solution
A basic rule of human behavior is that we make better decisions for ourselves than other people can make for us. No one knows our preferences and requirements as well as we do ourselves, and so we’re the best people to make our own decisions.
Charlie knew he was allergic to peanuts, and so he would avoid any food that he knew had peanuts in it. But what if he was given a dessert that he didn’t realize also included peanut butter?
Carol gave Charlie half of the peanut butter brownie that she won for first prize. But why did she share it with him? Because, in actuality, it was Charlie’s prize!
Charlie loved to whittle, and he was very talented. But in his constant quest to remake his image, he didn’t want everyone to know about his hobby.
The solution? Carol would enter his figurines in the contest for him. If he won, they would share the prize.
Unfortunately, Carol could not make a decision for Charlie as well as Charlie would have been able to for himself. She unwittingly picked a dessert that Charlie was allergic to, and that made Charlie very sick.
Striker sat with Charlie on hard plastic chairs while the nurse administered medicine.
“Why’d you hide it?” he asked, after she left the room to retrieve supplies. “Your carvings were awesome. I wish I could do something like that!”
“I don’t know,” said Charlie. “I started this summer all ready to build a new identity for myself. I got picked on all school year, and I wanted this summer to be different. I’d be the tough guy for once, like my cousin Ralph. I thought if I entered an arts and crafts competition, it wouldn’t exactly help build my macho image.”
“Wait a minute,” said Striker. “You want to be like Ralph? But, Charlie, no one likes him. No one ever likes the bully.”
Charlie sighed. “Maybe. But I just wanted to be tough. Too tough for people to tease.”
Striker gaped at him. “Charlie, you just stabbed yourself in the leg without even hesitating! I think that’s possibly the toughest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Charlie looked at Striker. “Really?”
“Really. Besides, we all like you just as you are now. Who cares about images and junk?”
The nurse came back into the room.
“Okie dokie, you’re good to go now. But do me a favor, and no more peanuts! There’s no need to prove how tough you are!”
“Just what I was saying,” said Striker with a grin.
Chapter 8: Water War
After the excitement of Parents Day and the arts and crafts competition, Camp Leopold fell into a quiet period. Calm lasted for a few days until it was broken by war – a water balloon war.
No one knew exactly who fired the first shot. But within days, the campground had turned into ground zero for flying water missiles.
All the kids played a part, dousing each other amid shrieks of laughter. They took to carrying water balloons on them at all times so that they were always armed. They launched sneak attacks, and a group of kids even built a giant water balloon launcher.
Campers never knew when they might stumble into an ambush. It was impossible to walk from the cabins to the spo
rts fields without being fired upon. Kids came into the dining hall for meals soaking wet. No sooner would someone finish drying off from a swim in the lake than he was pelted with balloons.
One morning before breakfast, Jamie gathered all the campers together outside the dining hall for an announcement.
“Kids, this water balloon war has got to stop!” He held his hands up to quiet the buzzing whispers that broke out around the crowd. “I won’t deny that it’s been fun, but I’m getting complaints from people caught in the crossfire. Y’all hit three counselors yesterday alone!”
“No!” whispered Amy to Striker. “I love the water balloons! This has been the best week of camp!”
“I know,” said Striker. “And I was finally perfecting my signature Balloon Rocket Toss!”
“You can still use the balloons among yourselves,” said Jamie.
“Whew,” said Striker. “My Rocket Toss won’t be wasted!”
“But,” Jamie continued, “I don’t want to hear about any more ambushes, do you understand? Water balloons are for fun; they don’t need to terrorize people who don’t want to participate. We’ve got plenty of other exciting activities here at camp to keep you busy. Now, go eat!”
The kids turned and walked into breakfast.
“Well, that’s a bummer,” said Bill, as he sat down at their usual table.
“Sorry, what’d you say?” asked Sheila. She was busy hunting down a broken red balloon from her hair.
“I said it’s a bummer,” said Bill. “Jamie ending the water balloon fight.”
“Well, he didn’t exactly end the fight,” said Sheila. “Just the ambushes. And that’s not such a bad thing.” She’d located the balloon fragment and was examining it. “I won’t miss looking over my shoulder for attacks all day.”
“But that’s the best part!” said Striker. “The anticipation and the strategy and the . . .” He glanced at Bill and broke off. “Um, you’re dripping, Bill.” Striker pointed above Bill’s eyebrow.
“Oh, thanks,” said Bill, wiping away the water. “I got hit on the way over.” He grabbed the deflated balloon from Sheila and shot it like a rubber band across the table.
“Ouch!” said Amy.
“Oops, sorry,” said Bill. “I guess balloons are weapons even when they’re not filled with water.”
That evening Striker and his friends gathered around the nightly bonfire. Amy and Bill were each roasting marshmallows, while Striker and Sheila ate s’mores.
Richard and Charlie watched them longingly.
“Um,” said Amy, disconcerted. “Would you two like some s’mores? You need help making them or something?”
Charlie groaned. “No, thanks. We can’t.”
“Um . . . why?” asked Bill.
“Some of us guys went on a hike today with Sarah,” said Richard. He looked around and lowered his voice. “You know,” he addressed Bill and Striker, “that really cute counselor with the long black hair?”
They nodded.
“Anyways,” he said, straightening up, “while we were hiking, she told us about how she’s on this health food kick, and she asked if we wanted to join her for a week or so.”
“She talked a lot about nutrition and healthy eating habits,” said Charlie, “and all that garbage.”
“Charlie!” said Richard.
“I mean, all that . . . information.”
“Anyways,” said Richard, “she asked those of us on the hike if we wanted to join her in eating healthy as a sort of challenge.”
“And Richard made us say yes,” Charlie said.
“Why?” asked Bill.
“Let me guess,” said Amy with a laugh. “It’s because she’s ‘really cute with long black hair,’ right?”
“That’s the general idea,” said Richard with a grin.
“So now we’re not supposed to eat s’mores,” said Charlie over the group’s laughter, “or any other delicious snack.”
Striker looked around the fire and noticed several other campers abstaining from the gooey treats. One kid glumly ate an apple while eyeing his neighbor’s marshmallow.
“I’m impressed,” said Sheila. “The things you’ll do for love.” She looked at Charlie. “And for a friend.”
“We figure we can make it a week,” said Richard, throwing his arm over Charlie’s shoulder. “Right, Charlie? Charlie?”
But Charlie was too busy eyeing the chocolate bars on the refreshment table to hear him.
The water balloon truce lasted for exactly one day. The very next morning, Striker and Bill were walking down the path to breakfast when they heard a stick snap.
Their experience over the past week had trained them well. With one quick look at each other, Striker and Bill jumped behind the nearest bushes and crouched down.
“Someone’s hiding up there,” said Bill. “It’s gotta be an ambush!”
Striker nodded, holding a finger to his lips. He had just heard someone else on the path behind them. He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb.
Bill’s eyes widened. “They’ll be attacked!” he whispered.
“What should we do?” asked Striker.
Bill hesitated for a moment before jumping up. “Watch out!” he called. But it was too late.
Striker and Bill watched in slow motion as three water balloons flew into the air, splattering onto the unsuspecting traveler’s shirt, shoes, and forehead, knocking off his glasses.
When the air cleared, Striker’s stomach dropped. The victim wasn’t another camper.
It was Mr. Cutchins.
“Oh, boy,” whispered Striker.
Mr. Cutchins froze for a moment, staring down at his soaked clothes. He squinted into the trees. Striker could hear the sounds of someone beating a hasty retreat.
“Here you go,” said Bill, stepping onto the path and handing Mr. Cutchins his glasses from the ground.
“Thanks,” said Mr. Cutchins. He dried his glasses on a corner of his shirt before putting them back on. “I don’t suppose either of you saw who threw the balloons, did you?”
The boys shook their heads. “We’re sorry,” added Striker.
“That’s okay,” said Mr. Cutchins. He smiled faintly at Bill. “Thanks for trying to warn me.”
He turned and headed toward the dining hall, walking stiffly in his wet clothes. Striker and Bill followed a few moments later. As they approached the building, several kids turned their heads to watch a very soggy Mr. Cutchins pass the dining hall and head to the camp office.
Before lunch that day, Mr. Cutchins called a meeting with all the girls.
“Well, ladies, it seems I got in the way of another water balloon ambush this morning.” The girls all looked uncertainly at one another.
“Excuse me, Mr. Cutchins,” said a tall brunette raising her hand in the front. “Why are only the girls here?”
“Good question, Miss Clooney. Because although my glasses were knocked off, I could see well enough to tell it was three girls who ambushed me.”
“Oh.” The girl sunk back into the crowd.
“I’m sorry to see that some of you didn’t take Jamie’s instructions seriously,” Mr. Cutchins said, fixing the group with a stern expression. “Would anyone care to confess to the ambush?”
No one spoke.
“Sure?” asked Mr. Cutchins. Still, he met only silence. “All right,” he said with a sigh. “Then I’m afraid I’m going to have to take more severe measures. Unless someone chooses to admit to this morning’s ambush, all girls will be banned from using water balloons for the rest of camp.”
A stunned silence greeted this announcement.
Mr. Cutchins looked at the girls sympathetically. “I’m sorry, ladies. I hope next time you will all listen. And if anyone wants to ‘fess up, you know where to find me.”
Mr. Cutchins gestured for the girls to go into the dining hall, where word quickly spread about the punishment.
“That’s too bad,” said Striker.
“And it’s u
nfair!” said Sheila. “Whoever it is should have just stopped the ambushes when Jamie told them to.”
“But how could they?” said Bill. “Water balloons are like an addiction.” He sat up straighter while staring into the distance. “Water balloons are power. Such a little missile that can do so much damage. With a water balloon in your hand, you feel like you can take over the world.” He stopped abruptly and lowered the fist that he had pumped into the air. He cleared his throat.
Striker stared at him. Finally, he said, “If you hadn’t been standing by me when it happened, I’d think it was you who ambushed Mr. Cutchins.”
Bill laughed.
“Well, maybe someone will come forward and admit to it,” said Charlie, picking up a carrot stick. “Then you girls can rejoin the fight.”
“I hope so,” said Amy. She crossed her arms on the table and propped her chin on them. She watched Charlie for a moment. “Still eating healthy, I see.”
“Unfortunately, yes.” He took a bite, crunching loudly in Richard’s direction with his mouth open.
Richard laughed. “You can do it, buddy! Have I mentioned that I really appreciate it?”
“No.” Charlie took another bite of carrot, an unsettling gleam in his eye.
Two days later, a group of campers was ambushed on its way to the swim shack. The kids ran whooping and yelling as water balloons hit the path around them. Whoever started the ambush got away, but when questioned by Jamie, the kids claimed they had seen a few girls throwing the balloons.
“Great,” said Bill as he and Striker sat down at their lunch table. Sheila, Amy, and Richard were already eating. “Banning balloons for the girls didn’t work, so now I bet they ban balloons for all of us.”
“No kidding,” said Striker, opening his milk and looking around at his friends. “How’s the rabbit food?” he asked Richard.
“Eh,” Richard said, biting an apple. “I’ll be honest. It’s not great.” He leaned across towards Striker. “Not that I’d say that with Charlie around.” He looked across the room where Sarah stood supervising the room. He gave a cheerful wave when she glanced his way and grinned when she waved back. “But it’s worth it.”
Striker Jones and the Midnight Archer Page 5
