Jenny shivered under the icy shower drizzle and sang a mournful song to Jamie about friendship and love and bonds meant to last a lifetime. It was honest and raw and simple and straight from her regretful heart. By the time she was done singing, her fingers had turned blue. She grabbed her pink towel from the curtain rod, wrapped herself, and stepped out of the shower. Standing there, with the celly in hand, was Melman.
“I can explain,” Jenny said.
“Holy bologna, you genius.” Melman took Jenny’s hand and brought it to her wet cheek. “This is not from the rain.”
“What is it from?” Jenny asked nervously.
“My eyes! My soul!”
Jenny laughed, and then, without warning, she began crying, too.
“Are you OK?” Melman asked.
“I don’t know,” Jenny sobbed. “I’ve been such a bad friend.”
“Hey,” Melman said. “Is this about Jamie?”
Jenny nodded through her tears. “I don’t want to be a bad friend anymore. I turned Jamie into me. She wasn’t mean before she met me. Everyone in this cabin was best friends, and I ruined it.”
Melman led Jenny to Sophie’s single bed. “Listen to me. You ruined nothing.” They plopped down side by side. “Are you sometimes really annoying? Yes.”
Jenny sputtered a laugh and then wiped her resurfacing tears.
“But we love you,” Melman plowed on. “We love both of you. And at the end of the day, we’re all best friends.”
“You mean it? You’re not just saying that because you’re, like, the best Lieutenant ever?”
Melman gasped. “Did you just compliment me on my Lieutenantship?”
Jenny smiled. “I guess I did.”
“Well, I think the new Jenny would be a kick-butt Lieutenant, too. This alma you wrote is off the charts. And Jamie needs to listen carefully. Because those lyrics are who we are. As a team and as a cabin.” Melman rose with Jenny’s cell phone and plucked a pen and paper from Sophie’s stationery box. “We need to transcribe this STAT.”
“And then what?” Jenny asked.
Melman looked at her funny. “Color War SING herstory. It’s about to be made, girl. And I’ve got your back.”
When the Deal Is Sealed
“Welcome, Blue and White, to the Sealed Envelope Ceremony!” the Captain megaphoned. She and TJ stood by the flagpole, surrounded by the entire camp. At their feet lay six Sealed Envelopes—three marked BLUE and three marked WHITE.
Play Dough’s chest tightened with nerves. In mere minutes he’d know just how close he was to making his totally hip, metal-hipped Gramps proud.
TJ leaned into the megaphone. “It’s hard to believe that today is the final day of Color War! The Captain and I have withheld the scores to let the suspense build.” He paused dramatically. And then just as he opened his mouth to speak, he paused dramatically AGAIN. The camp roared with laughter. “Should we tell you now?”
The roars turned into screams. Some cheers broke out, like “We want the scores! Hey! We want the scores!” and “Tell us now! Yeah! Tell us now!”
The Captain laughed and quieted the crowd. “OK, then. TJ, take it away.” She handed the megaphone over to her husband.
“What up, what up, what UP?” TJ asked, pointing to the sky. The morning’s storm clouds had cleared, and the sky was now a balanced combo of clear blue and fluffy white. Blue cheered the historic cheer: “The sky is blue, the lake is blue, we’re gonna turn the White team blue!” White overlapped: “The clouds are white, Hill Hall is white, we’re gonna turn the Blue team white!”
“Yes, nature supports all colors,” TJ mused. “Sports ’n’ spirit points, here we go.” The camp fell into a thigh-clapping drum-roll and stopped short on TJ’s fist-clenched cue. “Blue has a score of 679, and White has a 52-point lead with a score of 731!”
White rose to their feet, high-fiving, fist-pumping, hooting and hollering. Blue clapped weakly. Play Dough tried not to let his stomach flip with worry. His team might have been behind, but the Sealed Envelopes were still sealed. Surely the Rope Burn was worth enough points to surpass White’s lead. Last summer it had been worth 150 points. The summer before that: 125. The summer before that: 175. He bet this summer it was worth 200!
“And now, for the Sealed Envelopes!” TJ barreled on. “Can the Hamburger and Faith Hill Lieutenants please make their way to the flagpole?”
Play Dough swallowed hard and rose from his knees to meet Melman by the Blue-marked envelopes. Totle and Jamie made their way to the White-marked ones. TJ greeted each of the campers with a pound. “Choose your envelopes. Blue, you’ll open yours first.”
“Which one should we open?” Play Dough whispered to Melman.
She pointed to the one in the middle. “I think maybe that one?”
“OK.” Play Dough was on board for whatever. As long as the points were high and he got to enjoy the rush of Blue celebration. He bent down to the Sealed Envelope and tore it open. Inside was an index card. He and Melman looked at it together. It said ROPE BURN. Play Dough grinned and flipped it over to find out its worth. His heart did a swan dive.
“Well?” TJ prompted.
Play Dough looked at Melman, who was looking back at him, frozen in horror. “I think it’s a mistake,” he told TJ.
TJ shook his head. “Nope. Whatever’s writ is legit! And remember, the envelopes are sealed before the war begins—nothing’s rigged. The Captain and I just like to keep you all on your toes.” He passed Play Dough the megaphone while the camp grumbled with anticipation.
“Rope Burn is worth twenty points.” Play Dough dropped the megaphone to his side and let it hang there limply. After a few seconds of silent shock, Blue erupted into a cacophony of boos and hisses. They weren’t directed at him—it wasn’t his fault that the Rope Burn was worth so little—but that didn’t make him feel any less crappy. All of his blood, sweat, tears, and face paint had gone into making that fire. And for what? The same amount of points they could earn for a spick-and-span cabin? The same amount of points the Bunker Hillers could earn for winning a game of newcomb? This was criminal! And insane! This meant that Rope Burn wasn’t his big comeback after all! He was still the epic failure he was three days ago.
Melman pried the megaphone from Play Dough’s fingers and passed it back to TJ. “And now, White!” TJ exclaimed.
Totle and Jamie opened their envelope. “Tug-o-War,” they said together, “is worth ninety points!”
White cheered: “WE P-U-L-L, PULLED THE ROPE!”
Play Dough’s heart buried itself in some neighboring organ. Last summer, Tug-o-War had been worth forty points. The summer before that: thirty-five points. Ninety points was unheard of! What was going on?
“Don’t worry,” Melman whispered. “Maybe the Bucket Brigade and Apache will be worth more than we think.”
“Maybe,” Play Dough said, trying not to melt down in front of the whole camp.
“Thank you, Hamburger and Faith Hill Lieutenants,” TJ megaphoned. “Next up to do the honors are the Wawel and Notting Hill Lieutenants!”
Play Dough sulked back into the crowd and held his breath as White Lieutenants Wagner and Kreitzer peeled open the next envelope. They broke into enormous smiles. “Color Bowl—holy moly!—it’s worth a whopping 115 points!” Kreitzer cried.
White celebrated with a chant: “Don’t start with us! We’re smart like us! We put the ‘triv’ in ‘trivia’!”
Play Dough exhaled with misery. For a team that called themselves smart, their chant made zero sense. It was actually the dumbest chant he’d ever heard. He told himself to let it go and refocused on Blue, now opening their envelope. “Please, please, please let us earn the points back,” he mumbled to himself. “We can still do this.”
Lieutenant Shale reported, deadpan: “Bucket Brigade is worth sixty-five points.”
Play Dough shook with rage. Sixty-five points? The Bucket Brigade was normally worth at least a hundred! He tried to think about happy stuff like
turkey gravy sandwiches and Chunky Monkey ice cream to settle his nerves, but that quickly led him to think about his Gramps, who loved a good binge eat, too. This very moment, his favorite family member was at some smelly, boring hospital in Boca Raton with nothing to distract him from his suffering but the hope that his grandson was following in his footsteps. Play Dough had come so far. He’d worked so hard. He couldn’t disappoint his Gramps now. Blue had to win. They had to!
The cheering and booing settled as the Highgate and Sherri Hill Lieutenants opened the last of the Sealed Envelopes. Play Dough’s stomach knotted up like a pretzel.
“Apache Relay,” Blue Lieutenants Saad and Figg announced. “One hundred points.”
“Novelty Relays,” White Lieutenants Burrick and Kasnett announced. “One hundred and seventy-five points.”
Play Dough groaned.
TJ took back the megaphone and slipped an envelope from his pocket. “And just for fun, had the Hatchet not suffered an attempted drowning, it would have been worth . . .” Play Dough didn’t want to know. He bet it was worth a ton. At least 200 points, maybe 225. That would be just his luck. “. . . 330 points! What’s sealed has been revealed!”
NOOOOOOOOO! Play Dough felt like he was being smothered to death by asparagus, his least favorite vegetable. He buried his face in the crook of his elbow and bit his tongue to keep from shouting. Not that his shouting would have caused a scene. Blue was rumbling with disappointment, and White was belting praises to the Color War Gods. It was mayhem.
“All right, all right, settle down,” the Captain demanded. “Please be patient with us while we recalculate the scores.”
Play Dough lifted his face just enough to watch Steinberg sprint to the megaphone. “864—Blue. 1,111—WHIIIIIITE!”
The Captain looked down at the numbers and nodded affirmatively. “Correct! Thank you, Robert Steinberg. White is ahead by 247 points.”
Play Dough peered through the chaos and spotted Jenny. She was rebraiding one of her pigtails, totally unbothered. How? He caught her eye, and before he could embarrassingly look away, she mouthed at him: “The war’s not over until the hippie team sings.”
It took a couple seconds to set in, but eventually Play Dough felt the smallest pinch of relief. With SING in two hours and worth five hundred points, this war was still up for grabs. “So let’s sing,” he mouthed back.
COLOR WAR SING
Entrance and Costume. 25 points.
Dance. 100 points.
Plaque. 25 points.
Scenery. 50 points.
March. 150 points.
Alma Mater. 150 points.
The judges split points between Blue and White for each SING category.
SING
SING! It’s starting! Omigod, omigod! Through one of its windows, Jenny peered into the Social Hall for the first time since the war had started and was totally overwhelmed by its transformation. White Awesome Eighties had taken over the front of the hall. Onstage was a pyramid of cardboard boxes painted with the MTV logo. Above the pyramid hung a Madonna poster. A Jane Fonda workout was projected stage left and a Richard Simmons workout was projected stage right. A Rubik’s Cube dangled from the ceiling like a disco ball. Neon was everywhere.
Even the campers were costumed to the theme: The Bunker and One Tree Hillers were Muppet Babies; the Tyler and Two Tree Hillers were Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles; the Jonah and Lauryn Hillers were the Smurfs; the San Juan and Anita Hillers were Pac-Men; the Hamburger Hillers sported mullet wigs; the Faith Hillers wore off-the-shoulder sweatshirts and leggings; the Wawel Hillers were Beetlejuices; the Notting Hillers were the DuckTales; and lastly, the Highgate and Sherri Hillers sported aviator glasses, acid-washed jeans, and Members Only jackets. Their entrance music: Madonna’s “Like a Prayer,” which everyone was obviously belting their faces off to, including the judges.
White’s set was so awesome-sauce, Jenny was nervous to look at her team’s half of the hall. But she was shocked and relieved to find that Blue’s was even better. Trippy, psychedelic lights were projected onto the black-papered walls. Beaded curtains hung over the back entrance. Human-size lava lamps stood in the corners. Big mushroom piñatas hung from the ceiling. The floors were littered with tie-dyed pillows and paisley rugs. A retired golf cart was decked out like a hippie mobile, draped in flowers and painted with declarations like LAY, DON’T SLAY and HECK NO, WE WON’T GO! A fog machine made everything kind of hazy—like the Social Hall was on some far-off planet!
“Like a Prayer” cut out and the Beach Boys’ “Good Vibrations” took its place. Jenny watched with glee as Blue’s Lower Camp skipped in as flower children—barefoot with flowing pants and skirts, and flowers woven into their braided hair. Middle Camp entered next as Grateful Dead fans (aka Deadheads), dressed head to toe in tie-dye. Upper Camp entered last, decked out fabulously in bell-bottoms, suede vests, and beaded necklaces. Holy hippie perfection, Jenny thought. It’s already a night to remember!
Buzzing with anticipation, she left the window to join the dozen Blue team dancers stretching on the grass. They wore matching white flowy dresses with baby’s breath in their hair, and with the sun setting behind them, the whole scene looked as whimsical as an Urban Outfitters ad. From inside the Social Hall, Jenny could hear the Captain delivering her “Welcome to Color War SING” speech, outlining what was to come—the team dances, the plaque exhibition, the Generals’ entrances, the marches, and, last but not least, the alma maters.
Just hearing the term “alma mater” made the hair on the back of Jenny’s neck go prickly. She was so nervous-slash-excited. She wanted to get to her songwriting debut as quickly as possible while also making every moment of SING last. It had always been her favorite night of the summer, and not even the drama of this Color War could change that.
“Are you ladies ready?” Lieutenant Figg asked, coming out of a backbend. She’d choreographed Blue team’s dance and was performing as well, which was an honor, considering she was the best gymnast in all of Rolling Hills and also maybe Westchester.
“Just a sec,” one of the Sherri Hillers said, mussing up her banana curls. Some others adjusted their footless tights. Jenny felt her dress pocket, where she’d tucked her apology letter to Play Dough and a revised apology letter to Jamie. If the alma mater didn’t win Jamie over, at least the letter might. As for Play Dough, Jenny had no grand plan. She noticed how sad he’d looked at the Sealed Envelope Ceremony and figured it might cheer him up to know someone still believed in him. But how she’d deliver the letter to him without it being super-awkward and a déjà vu of his rejection was unclear. More likely than not, his letter would live and die in her dress pocket. Negative yay.
Jenny and her codancers grabbed hands, and in a line chasséd along the perimeter of the Social Hall to the back doors. “Is your heart pounding as loud as mine is?” Jenny asked Lieutenant Finkelstein, who was the dancer in front of her.
Lieutenant Finkelstein sighed a yes. “We’ve just got to feel the flow.”
“Totally,” Jenny said.
Just then, Lieutenant Figg cued DJ Steinberg with a peace sign. Steinberg brought his headphones up over his ears and pressed play. The Hair medley began with “Aquarius.”
Jenny’s stomach fluttered with nerves as she skipped through the beaded curtain, hurried past the Upper Camp hippies, the Middle Camp Deadheads, and the Lower Camp flower children and formed a circle with her codancers in the center of the Social Hall. The horns swelled, and Jenny let herself fall into a trance of body bending and waving. She didn’t care what she looked like or who was watching—her spirit was one with the music, and that was all that mattered!
Lieutenant Figg launched the next song—“Hair”—with two perfect back handsprings. Jenny began jumping up and down, throwing her hair around, and dancing out the week’s hurt and anger. It felt so therapeutic! She considered incorporating this kind of dance into her relationship therapy—that is, if being a relationship therapist was still in the cards. She gu
essed she’d have more clarity by the end of the night.
“Let the Sunshine In” rang out last, and Jenny and her team pulled the other Lieutenants and even judges (Claudia Cooking, Bill Tennis, Mark Waterski, Rick, and Sara) into their spirited mosh pit of love. By the final chorus, everyone was bursting with newfound hope and joy.
Totally winded and high on life, Jenny took a seat up front while White’s music kicked in: Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” She watched the crowd go wild for Lieutenant Kasnett, a zombie in a poufy party dress, as she led a team of twenty zombie boys and girls in the “Thriller” choreography. It was P-E-R-F-E-C-T. But the most amazing part was Jamie. She was dressed like Michael Jackson’s girlfriend in the music video—orange heels, gray-blue leopard-print leggings, an orange T-shirt under a jean jacket, orange stud earrings, and a weird curly mullet. She ran from her supernatural dance team, doing pirouettes and screaming. It was the performance of a lifetime, and Jenny was so giggly and proud of her BFF, she had tears welling up in her eyes.
The music ended, and Jenny joined Blue in a standing ovation. She watched the judges note Blue’s über-sportsmanship and White’s über-spirit and scribble feverishly onto their SING rubric. Both teams were so unique and amazing! How could the judges possibly choose one winner?
“And now for the plaques!” the Captain announced. “Will the Blue and White artists please bring their work forward?”
Slimey and a Blue Notting Hiller entered from the side doors, holding their plaques. They went up and down the aisles and then did a lap in the center, at which point Jenny saw just how cool their designs were. White’s plaque was painted neon orange and titled I ♥ WHITE AWESOME ’80S. Underneath the title was an old-school boom box with GENERAL SILVER painted inside the left speaker and GENERAL FERRARA painted inside the right. Below that was a stack of six cassette tapes, each labeled with a different Lieutenant’s name. As a smiling Slimey passed by, Jenny chimed in to the chorus of compliments.
Of course, Jenny complimented the Notting Hill artist, too. Blue’s plaque had colors that seemed to jump off the wood. Under BLUE PSYCHEDELIC ’60S was a flower-crowned hippie sporting round purple-tinted sunglasses. Painted inside the left lens was GENERAL POWER and inside the right was GENERAL MCCARVILLE. In the background were spiraling rainbows. Inside of each colored band were the Lieutenants’ names in bubble letters. To top it off, the plaque was bordered with pressed flowers. After their walking tours, the artists rested their artwork on the judges’ table and joined their teams.
Breakout! Page 13
