So, the plan: The doctors break her legs, and that would make her bones get longer. It would take many months to heal, and years of physical therapy afterward, but slowly and surely she would become more normal sized, to help her fit more comfortably into this presently too-tall world.
This would take place in the summer, and then Bonnie would recover for a couple of months and be back at school when it started, probably on braces, but maybe on crutches, if things went well. And then, when she was through with breaking and growing and breaking, she would be around five feet tall—maybe more. So when she eventually took driver’s ed, no special foot pedal and seat, stuff like that.
Before scheduling her operation, Bonnie made sure Pete could be around to visit her at the hospital, and of course he said he was going to be there the whole time. So they booked her operation for the day after he got back from Camporee.
Because the time had come for Camporee. And Pete was pissed. Arts and crafts and campfire songs when there were actual important things? If he didn’t have this random Camporee thing, Bonnie could have gotten two more weeks to heal. Really? Very lame priorities. And so he decided to make his required interval interesting.
Camporees were at least held in summer, Beau figured, trying to stay pro-Scouts. That at least was a good thing—no snow. His dad said sure, he’d take him there and pick him up. Not a problem. His dad said that a lot these days. He was still trying so hard to be “good,” though Gina was continuing in her indifference and her horrible plans, much to Beau’s disgust.
They got there and found the troop without further ado. He saw Pete, who signaled him to put his stuff in the bus next to where Pete’s own gear was. They sat on the bus together, and Pete’s main topic was Bonnie and her operation. He was completely absorbed by it. Beau listened until he got grossed out.
“So, Pete—Camporee! Are you ready to rumble?” Beau asked, popping him on the shoulder, a little green around the gills. Pete’s graphic descriptions were making him need to change the subject.
“Yep.” Pete popped him back and dodged when Beau tried to bat him on the head. Then, feinting, Beau pounded him some more. So, with gusto, Pete proceeded to pound Beau.
“Say Uncle!”
“Ow, dork! Stop!”
“No, not dork—stop. Uncle!”
“Ow! Okay! Uncle!”
Pete kept pounding.
“Now say Irish Wristwatch!”
Beau snort/gurgled, “Get off!!”
“Sorry? I couldn’t hear you. . . .”
“Douche bag!!”
“Wrong again! Say: Irish—”
“Get . . . stuffed!”
“Nope. Wristwatch!”
Beau was breathless with laughter—and pain. Pete never pulled his punches.
When they finally got off the bus, Beau was a mottled pink color from all the punching. Pete, also a toasty red and white pattern, helped him put on his ginormous backpack. After unsteadily settling it on his back and shoulders, Beau got his balance again.
“Ugh . . .” Beau wobbled around as Pete tried to help him find his center.
“Yeah, yours is pretty old-fashioned. Mine is much . . . lighter.” Pete grunted, shifting Beau’s bag to stabilize the burden. He grabbed the sides, trying to lift it more evenly across his shoulders. Beau involuntarily undulated like an eel balancing a giant backpack, and strained to get his groove on. Or at least not fall over in front of the entire troop when Pete let go. Or worse, tip over backward and end up on top of his backpack like some tragic little bug—thrashing around on his back with his pathetic little beetle arms and legs flailing in the air, stuck.
But Pete tugged and braced, and after listing precariously south/southwest, Beau righted himself and started to hike. Finally.
After a half hour, Beau’s shredded shoulders made it feel like the webbing straps of his knapsack were made of red-hot wire. He looked around in weariness. Everybody else had über lightweight nylon packs and aluminum frames and were just prancing along—just frolicking! As he trudged into his rucksacked shadow, he reflected glumly on how his backpack would eventually saw him into thirds and that his shadow looked like he had soccer balls stuck on big weird antlers, atop a mattress balanced on two stumpy logs. He knew they had at least two more hours of this torture before they were at the campsite, because the scoutmasters kept saying so.
When they finally joined the other troops at the huge field/clearing, they noticed that all the best sites, and the next-best sites, were already taken. Because of course they were late. Beau didn’t care. He flopped down gratefully on a least-best site, happy to just be at rest.
He sighed, relieved. Still in one piece. Beau stretched and breathed deeply, enjoying the scent of pine needles, especially the golden ones that had dropped early, sunbaked in the forest. He liked the fragrance of golden summertime trails. He could hike along, thinking of all the people, and proto people, who had smelled that same perfume, over the countless millennia. It made him feel bigger than just one guy . . . it made him feel eternal.
As he rested, he noticed a guy in another site lay a rope along the ground, outlining their area. Then he got a branch and started sweeping. This struck Beau as a cool idea, and he sat up. Soon he went and found some brush too. He unwound his rope and had already outlined their campsite and begun sweeping with a pine bough, when Rob stopped him.
“Not gonna help, spud.” He stood in front of Beau’s path. He was a lot taller than last winter because of his recent growth spurt. Beau squinted at him.
“Help with what?” He looked back at his impeccable walkway. It was awesome.
“The ‘perimeter.’ That’s what you’re doing. No matter if you plant flowers, they’re gonna give the awards to another patrol. The Hurt Patrol is not going to win. No matter what. Always.”
That was sort of the unwritten though frequently spoken rule. It should have been emblazoned across their flag like a coat of arms. And actually this foreknowledge was a real anxiety reducer when Beau considered it. He could do what he wanted without letting anyone down. The other troops had already judged them, and let themselves down, without any additional help from the Hurts. The fatalism totally freed them. So he did tidy things up anyway, and they didn’t win, as always, and all was as it should be with the world. And damn, their campsite looked good!
As the troops sorted themselves out, pretty soon the status patterns that reigned elsewhere were reestablished in the forest. The alpha boys had regained their hubris, the beta boys sucked up, and the omega boys plotted secretly. The Hurts were fair game. Hunter, as youngest and weirdest, was a particular target. He was like low-hanging fruit for douche bags.
It wasn’t his fault. Hunter had been born too soon and had a big old head like Charlie Brown. He was also smaller and more spindly than everyone and sometimes stuttered. He also had this extremely weird thing that he smiled, like, beamed, and/or involuntarily laughed when he was nervous.
He didn’t mean it. He really didn’t.
Because Hunter was a huge freak, the Hurts teased him too. Beau would listen to Kyle and Rob take turns bagging on him—far more affectionately than ever did the outside world—and wonder if Hunter would ever snap. The strange part was when outsiders dogged him, every Hurt got mad, but they could tease him, for hours, themselves.
“You’re an idiot, Hunt’s Ketchup, but yer our lil’ idiot!” Rob would tell him, all fake choked up.
It was true. They sometimes even got the other guys to back off.
But then again, sometimes not. During one of the parade /drills, marching along for some random reason, the Hurt Patrol was doing well, amazingly well for them—in step and to the beat, like honest-to-god competent marchers. And they were feeling it too: solemnly keeping time, their uniforms not a joke for once, addicted to the rhythm—
“Hey, Smiley!”
It was another patrol; members of another troop previously unknown to the Hurts. Five jokers calling themselves the Bear Clan, who thought they were t
he answer. And they had zeroed in on the Hurts. On Hunter. Like coyotes with a little big-headed baby deer.
“Hey! Smiley!”
And, of course, Hunter grinned nervously. He really couldn’t help it.
“Yeah! Smiley!” “Atta boy!” “Lil’ Smiley!” The Bears were just congested with joy. The weird little spaz was grinning and turning red. This was gonna be so fun!
The other Hurts considered the Bear Clan. Beau memorized all five guys’ faces as he marched. But this was not the time. The thing was, with the Hurts, revenge was always best freezing cold.
Inside the tent, Hunter was way past the smiling part. He was livid. And creepily knowledgeable.
“It’s easy. I’ll get some potatoes. You can blow up almost anything with a potato.”
Beau did not know this. “You can?” He was horrified.
“Oh, yeah—nitrogen. Potatoes are full of nitrogen. Ping pong balls are also deadly.”
Which did not help Beau, just made him anxious about how many other things could blow up at any given moment. He glanced nervously around the tent.
“No! Things don’t just explode for no reason.” Hunter explained patronizingly, when Beau worried aloud. “You have to detonate it.” He rolled his eyes. “Duh. You don’t even know that?”
Well, Beau’s last science teacher was the football coach, so: no.
Later, at yet another parade, as they were marching along . . . again, with the hissing.
“Hey, Smiley . . . yeah!”
“So, Smiley! What’s up?”
“Hey, let’s see your beauty-full smile . . . there’s our Smiley! ”
And again, later at the mess tent. They were intoxicated with success.
“Hey, sweetie, are you a sweet lil’ sweet pea, Smiley?” “Hey, Smiles!” “Smile pretty!”
Hunter was furiously grinning. He was pissed and ashamed. Involuntarily, he cried and beamed.
Beau was beyond fed up. He pondered the situation, scowling. The Hurts were always getting dogged. The Bear Clan noticed. Jubilantly. With delight they commented on his expression.
“Hey, Honey-Bunch! Why so cranky? Aren’t you a smiler too?”
Beau looked over to Hunter. His face, except for the frozen, treacherous smile, was miserable. His eyes were wet and blank. Beau knew that look. All the Hurts knew that look. It was that “Suck It Up and Take It Like a Hurt” look. It was the shutdown, you-can’t-fire-me-’cuz-I-quit look.
So when something clicked, and Beau spoke up, it was astounding. For him too.
Especially at first when his voice wouldn’t work. He’d noticed that about himself before. He knew if he kept trying, his voice would get louder. So he kept trying. He cleared his throat over and over. He gaped like a fish out of water, though eventually it worked. Abruptly.
“KEEP IT UP!” All of a sudden—his voice just boomed out of him. Everyone turned and stared: the Hurts, their Dementors, the wild animals of the forest, everybody . . .
Beau was completely red. The Bear Clan was gob-smacked. They just gawped. This was all new.
Beau kept going to keep his voice from freezing up with fear again. He found it got easier.
“You heard me! Head Lice Clan, or whatever you dicks call yourselves! Keep it up! Just keep calling him that! I am commanding you to, ass-wipes!”
They couldn’t believe their luck. The Bear Clan brayed in delight.
“O-hell yeah; we will!” “Aahahaha! Awesome!” “Really?!” “He’s commanding us!” “Hey, cutie, YOU should smile more!” “Wait—did he just call us ‘Head Lice Clan’?!”
Beau answered really loudly, though his voice still shook. “Yeah! Yeah, I did, you head lice!” He tried to speak normally. “And you heard me, Head Lice Clan! Because you are head lice—and—and stinking ball-sacks and bullies! Because it’s on!”
Everyone stared at Beau. He had gone rogue. This was completely off script. Apparently, Beau did not understand. How it worked was some stupid group of losers was supposed to say douchey things to the Hurt Patrol in general and Hunter in particular, and then everyone else was supposed to screech with approval, like a bunch of bonobos till they stopped. No variation. Tradition.
Hunter’s big old head swiveled over to regard Beau, his enormously magnified eyes mystified behind his lenses. The insulted Head Lice Clan mulled for a minute. The scoutmasters were too close for them to settle anything. This jihad would have to be tabled.
But after that, Beau noticed a subtle shift took place. Having spoken up once, it was possible to rouse the other guys and exhort them to overthrow their evil overlords. The Hurts began planning a little surprise or two themselves. The thing was not to rush anything; they wouldn’t get a second chance.
Later that week, the Hurts did not complain when they were chosen to dig the auxiliary latrine. It was a time-consuming and mostly unsupervised job, therefore perfect. As they dug, they brainstormed. . . .
“We could put pudding in their sleeping bags. I heard that guys do that to get each other.” Rob was trying to remember all the urban legends of revenge.
“Where would we get a bunch of pudding? It’s a huge deal to get sweets.” Pete was practical.
“Well, how about toothpaste?”
“Nah, that’s another one where we would have to be able to get inside their tent, without them noticing. How would we do that?” Kyle pondered. He liked puzzles. He was really getting into this.
“Well . . . we could distract them.” Hunter chimed in. Somehow, nobody much wanted to hear his idea for how he proposed to do that. Beau could tell he was feeling better, though. He had dialed down that blank, empty . . . scary look.
“We need to be sneaky. It’s counterproductive if we get in a butt-hurt of trouble.” Kyle, again.
“Then something we can’t be traced to,” reflected Rob.
“Something quiet,” ruminated Beau.
“So I heard this too—these two troops got into a fight and one troop gave the other brownies, like to apologize—but they had ex-lax in them! That’d be hilarious!”
“Hunter! No! That is totally an urban legend, and for sure we’d get caught! And probably go to juvie and get sued!” Pete was exasperated.
“Yeah,”—Rob was regretful—“but good one! Too bad, ’cuz that would be awesome!”
Hunter smiled proudly. They continued digging the latrine with their thinking caps on. They knew when they would strike, they just needed to dial in details. The perfect opportunity was approaching.
Honor Awards was the huge final meeting that bestowed the badges earned at Camporee. As the Hurts rehearsed the songs they’d perform at Camporee, they reviewed their plan. They had been practicing.
All the whole hot week the troops had been learning a song, a series of rounds, the gist of which was making different sounds the different characters made when the guy in the song met them, like the bobsledder went ‘whoosh!’ and the lion went ‘rawr!’ and the Swiss miss went ‘mwah!’ and the engine went ‘zoom!’ and it went on and on and on, totally eye-rolling and dated and dorky, an ass-aching, long song, but also a cherished institution dating from long before these scoutmasters’ dads were dinosaurs. Tradition!
All week long the troops practiced their parts and the patrols learned their lines and the whole camp rehearsed this whole multipart song that started to become a performance that was kind of good. Weirdly fun to sing, too, in spite of the corniness. And as they got ready for the ceremony, both the simmering feud between the factions and the lake water heated up.
The night before the ceremony, the Hurts lay in their sleeping bags, making sure the details had been worked out. They had tried to keep the plan very simple and very short. They rehearsed it over and over. All seemed smooth.
“Remember, if we pull everything off smoothly, we will act as surprised as anyone. That’s what we want. We gotta be slick.” Pete was a little nervous.
“Dude, it’s not like we’re knocking over a bank or something.” Rob was nonchalant.
> “Rob, we will get so hammed on if we get caught.” Pete had plenty to lose.
“But we won’t. Because if we do, the Head Lice win! And we can’t let the Head Lice win, Pete!” Beau was goofing, pretending to be serious. He was going to be taking most of the risk. So he was making up for it by messing around.
“Hey, you guys, just saying—thanks for doing this.” Hunter was not quite as crazy since the plan started getting hatched. “I really appreciate it.”
“Hunter?” Kyle spoke to him. He hardly ever did. He cleared his throat.
“Yeah?”
“Do you have a sister named Gatherer?”
Such a nerd dis. Laughing, Rob lobbed a pinecone over Hunter’s head.
“You’re so welcome, Hunt’s Ketchup. You’re a spud, but you’re our little spud. Nobody gonna dog on you—’cept us.”
“Why do you call everybody ‘spud,’ Rob?” Beau had always wondered.
“Well, Beau, my son, I will tell you: Because we’re all just little potatoes, but I think we can do the Thing.”
Beau shook his head. “Yeah. That’s just weird, dude.”
“I saw this line-drawing once, a little potato with a cartoon bubble: ‘I’m just a little potato, but I think you can do the thing.’ And I realized it was the truest cartoon I had ever seen. Then I realized I was totally baked. But that didn’t matter; it was still the truest thing. We are just little potatoes in this big earth, spud . . . and thus I call you—and all of you, Spud. Do you see, old spud?”
Rob was so weird. But they were used to it and hardly bothered telling him so anymore. Pete stretched, and yawned.
“Okay, then. We do ‘the Thing’ tomorrow.”
They fell asleep quickly, tired from conspiring.
The next day dawned blazing. They were sweating in their sleeping bags before dawn and had kicked them off completely by reveille. Today was a hike again to the lake for a swim. They were looking forward to cooling off.
The Hurt Patrol Page 6
