Once he’s in my room, he yells, “Lewis has the ball, sports fans, and he’s heading into his own territory . . .” Stuart dashes around the room. “No one can touch him. His feet are golden.”
He jumps onto my bed. “They try to close in.” He jumps off and crawls under the ironing board.
“Hi, Stuart.”
He throws his arms forward and touches my feet with the football. “A touchdown, sports fans. Lewis does it again.”
I humor him and yell out a cheer that the kids at school do during pep rallies, being careful that the hot iron doesn’t fall on his helmet or on my bare foot.
Stuart gets up, dusts himself off, bows, and says, “Thank you. Thank you.”
I grin at him. “So what’s new?”
“Why can’t I go to camp with you?” he asks for the zillionth time. “Just iron a name tag on me and pretend I’m a stuffed animal.”
“You know why. I’ve got to work there, lead my own life.”
He crouches into position and yells, “Hike.”
“Not that kind of hiking, Stuart. It’s a camp for the arts, not for sports.”
“But your name’s not Art and you are a good sport.”
I tap on his helmet. “You’re very silly.”
“I know, but you like me this way.” He stands up. “Marcy, it’s not fair. You get to do everything first, just ’cause you’re the oldest.”
“You’re getting on my nerves,” I say.
“I’m supposed to get on your nerves. That’s what little brothers are for.” He grins. “Well, I tried. If I start bugging everyone now, by next summer they’ll send me to a camp too.” He throws his football into the air, yells, “It’s another great interception for Lewis and he’s off.” He races out of the door.
Quiet. Finally.
Sure I get to do things first, but I have to do all of the fighting to get what I want. Then once I’m all done, he gets things at an earlier age. Being the oldest isn’t easy.
I finish packing, fold the ironing board, and take it out to the closet.
My father’s coming down the hallway. “Marcy, let me help you with that.”
“I can do it myself,” I say, thinking about how he shouldn’t put any strain on his heart.
He frowns. “You never give me a chance to do anything for you.”
There’s no way to win.
I say nothing.
He says, “Take good care of yourself at camp. Your mother and I won’t be around to watch out for you.”
I nod, holding the ironing board between us, feeling like a lion tamer who’s losing control.
“Just be careful,” he continues. “Don’t try any funny-looking cigarettes or do anything that would make your mother and me unhappy.”
I wish he could tell me he loves me, instead of making me feel as if I’m going to screw everything up. I don’t even smoke anything. Why can’t he trust me?
He leans around the ironing board, kisses me on the forehead, and walks quickly away.
I stare at him as he goes down the steps.
He calls up to me. “Don’t forget to set your alarm for six A.M. I want to get an early start.”
I don’t have to be there until eleven or twelve. The drive from New Jersey to upstate New York should take three hours, at the most. He always makes everyone leave early, to miss the traffic. We always end up hanging around. It’s so embarrassing.
I shove the ironing board into the closet. It tilts down, hitting me on the head. As I push it back and shut the door, I want to cry—not because I got hurt by the board but because I have a father who just doesn’t understand me.
Back in my room, in my own bed for the last time until the end of summer, I feel very strange. This time tomorrow I’ll be on my own. Trying to be grown up. Not knowing anyone but Ms. Finney. Being a CIT without ever even having been a camper. Not having a boyfriend back home to tell the other counselors about. Missing the summer parties back here and the friends I’ve made. All of a sudden I’m nervous, not sure I’m doing the right thing. I can’t believe it. I’m getting homesick before I even leave, homesick for a place I’ve always said I couldn’t wait to leave.
In order to fall asleep, I attempt counting sheep. But it’s no use. Not only am I wide awake, but all of the sheep have name tags sewn into their wool and they all know how to act more adult than I do.
CHAPTER 2
“Rabbit number forty-eight,” Stuart yells.
Whenever he sees a van, he yells “Rabbit.” It keeps him busy on long trips. Otherwise he spends the entire time asking to stop at bathrooms.
I stare out of the car window.
My father’s shut all of the windows, turned on the air conditioner, and lit one of his smelly cigars.
I cough a little.
My mother says, “Martin. Please. That cigar smells like burning chicken feathers—and you know you shouldn’t smoke with your heart.”
“Stop babying me,” my father grumbles. “Anyway, I don’t smoke with my heart.”
“Rabbit number forty-nine,” Stuart yells.
I see the sign. THIS WAY TO CAMP SERENDIPITY.
My parents are yelling at each other as we pull into the driveway.
I want to die. What if someone hears them?
The time. It’s nine forty, and there doesn’t seem to be anyone around. Too early. For once I’m glad, because no one will hear my parents fight.
They continue to yell at each other.
“I hate those cheap cigars.”
“These aren’t cheap.”
“Well, they smell like fertilizer.”
“Okay, stop it,” I yell. “Please, we’re almost there. Don’t ruin this for me.”
My father stops the car in front of a huge stone and wood building, three stories tall. It looks like a castle owned by a middle-income king. There’s grass and dirt and trees all around with huge empty fields, soon to be filled with people. It’s definitely not suburbia.
There’s no one in sight, and the place looks as if it goes on for ever and ever. There’s not a streetlight. I bet there’s not a shopping mall for miles.
I don’t even see any cabins.
Everyone in the car’s still pouting.
Finally my mother says softly, “Martin, I just want you to take better care of yourself. I don’t want you to become a statistic.”
My father nods. “Smoking is one of the few pleasures in my life, though.”
I feel sad for him, all of a sudden. Then I notice it’s quiet. Peace. Another truce.
We get out of the car and look around. To the right of the parking lot there’s a tennis court, a basketball court, and an area for volleyball. Oh no. Just like gym.
“Marcy,” Stuart yells. “Goats. Real goats.”
I look. There really are five goats, standing by a large bell.
“Those are probably the kids assigned to your bunk.” My father grins.
Stuart jumps up and down. “Kids—kids are goats—I get it. Very funny.”
“Your father likes kidding around,” my mother joins in.
Sometimes my family gets very corny, me included. “Sounds like you’re both butting in.”
Stuart lunges at me, headfirst. “Butt, butt.”
I stick my hand forward, to protect myself, and his football helmet bends back my finger.
I yell.
Both of my parents rush over.
My finger’s starting to swell.
“Marcy. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Stuart says.
“It’s okay,” I say.
“Marcy, is that you?”
It’s Ms. Finney, coming out of the building with some guy.
I run up to her.
We hug.
She’s grinning. “You look wonderful. You’ve lost so much weight. But then I always thought you looked good.”
My family joins us.
Ms. Finney says, “Welcome, everyone. I’d like to introduce you all to my husband, Carl.”
> My father reaches out to shake hands, saying, “Mr. Finney. I’m Martin Lewis.”
“Pleased to meet you. My last name’s Klein; Barbara and I’ve kept our own last names.”
“It figures,” my father says, sort of under his breath, scowling and backing off.
“I’m sorry I’m so early,” I say.
“I’m not,” Ms. Finney says. “It’ll give us some time to talk before everyone else arrives.” She grins.
Mr. Klein says, “Let me get your bags. We can load them into the van now and take them up to your bunk later.”
“A van. Where? It’ll be Rabbit number fifty,” Stuart yells.
Stuart, my father, and Mr. Klein go over to the car to get my stuff.
My mother says, “How are you doing, Ms. Finney? I’ve often thought of you.”
She answers, “I’m doing well, very happy. My master’s degree is completed. Carl and I’ve been married for six months now, and we love working at this camp. We were here last year and have the chance to do lots of new things. It’s like a dream come true, to be at a creative place.”
“I’m so glad you’re at a place where you’re not hassled,” I say, thinking of the trouble she had at school.
She grins at me and then turns to my mother, “How are you doing?”
My mother says, “It was a little rough for a while, with my husband’s heart attack, my job, and taking courses at the local college. But I’m managing. We’re all managing.”
I think about how well she’s done, even stopped taking tranquilizers.
Mr. Klein, my father, and Stuart return, followed by the goats. “The bags are in place,” Mr. Klein says. “Barbara, we’d better finish up our work before everyone arrives.”
“Carl and I’ll be working in the main office, Marcy,” Ms. Finney says. “Join us after you say good-bye to your family.”
Everyone says good-bye to them and off they go, arm in arm.
I hope that someday I can be just like Ms. Finney, perfect and happy with someone.
We all look at each other.
My mother starts to cry.
Stuart yells, “I don’t want to leave. Let me stay here. You can mail my clothes.”
“I’ll write to you every week,” I say.
“You don’t have to write to me. I’m staying.” Stuart holds on to my legs.
My mother says, “Write every day.”
I nod. I’d promise to write every hour just to get all of this over with.
They unloosen Stuart from my kneecaps.
We all stand there.
Finally my mother says, “I guess we should go,” and sniffles.
My father says, “Let us know if you need more money.”
I feel so mixed up—glad that they’re finally going and afraid to be left alone.
Stuart runs toward the basketball court, screaming, “You’re going to have to capture me to get me to leave.”
With my father racing after him, my mother starts to shout, “Martin. Be careful. Your heart . . .”
Stuart stops short and returns with his head hanging down.
I feel sorry for him.
My father comes up, puffing a little.
“Are you all right?” I’m scared.
He waves away my question. “You worry too much.”
Stuart yells, “Touchdown,” and runs up as if he’s going to tackle me but hugs me instead.
I pat him on his football helmet.
It’s time to say good-bye.
My mother hugs me.
My father pats me on my head and says, “I think we’ll stop off in Woodstock and do a little sight-seeing.”
They get into the car and leave, screaming good-byes.
I feel deserted. Now that I’m alone, I’m not so sure I can cope. What if it turns out to be an utter disaster?
I look around the camp. It’s beautiful. Any place this great looking can’t turn into a disaster. But I bet people said that about the Titanic too.
I head for the main building and go inside. It must be the dining hall with all the benches and tables set up. There’s even a fireplace.
The goats follow me.
Do goats eat people?
One of them starts to bleat.
Now I’ve done it.
Ms. Finney bounds down a set of steps on the other side of the room.
A goat rushes over to her.
“Get out. You know you’re not supposed to be here.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I thought you said to come in.”
“The goats, not you, Marcy.” She laughs. “Come on. Let’s get these beasts out of the dining room before the Board of Health decides to make a surprise visit.”
The goats get turned around and pushed out of the building. I’ve never touched a goat before. Ms. Finney obviously has. She’s better at it than I am.
Once the goats are gone, I say, “Ms. Finney, I’ve really missed you. Since you left, there’s no teacher I’ve had who’s anything like you. It’s so good seeing you, even if I’m expected to touch mangy goats.”
“The goats give milk for the children allergic to regular milk. Listen, since I’m not your teacher anymore, please, call me Barbara. Everyone else does.”
“Okay . . . Barbara.”
She rushes on. “I’m so excited about this summer. We’ll put on plays, dances, concerts, publish writing, show artwork. It’s going to be wonderful.”
I smile, thinking of how lucky I am to be here.
She twirls around. “I just can’t wait. But now, we’ve got to finish getting ready. We’re stapling papers for the first meeting. Would you mind helping out?”
“Not at all.” I feel a little formal, no longer at home, not really a part of this place, even though she’s being so friendly and bubbly.
I follow her up the steps and think of what a secret coward I am, how afraid I am of everything.
How the goats will eat me.
How scary it is to meet new people.
It’s not easy being so frightened of everything. And when I think of how much I’ve improved in the last year, I wonder when I’ll ever get finished with making changes and be really grown up.
Before I have a chance to think of any more terrors, we’re at the top of the steps and Ms. Finney—Barbara—heads into an office, where Carl’s running papers off on the ditto machine.
“Marcy. Carl.” She claps her hands. “Now you’ll have a chance to get to know each other.”
Another fear. Men. I’m always afraid they’re going to yell at me like my father does. Or be as unreasonable as Mr. Stone, my high school principal.
Carl smiles. “Barbara’s told me so much about you.”
I say, “Nice meeting you,” and stare at the floor.
Barbara says, “The others’ll be arriving shortly.”
“How many?” I ask.
“Thirty-three staff members and one hundred and twenty campers.” I knew the campers wouldn’t be arriving for another week. “That gives us a chance to do staff training and to set up the camp.” Barbara picks up a stack of papers and hands them to me.
I staple them and think about the new staff members, hoping we’ll all get along, that everyone doesn’t pair up but me. I wish again for a boyfriend back home, so I wouldn’t feel so alone. There was Joel for a while, but his father decided they should move to New Mexico. It wasn’t a great romance, but it was a good friendship. I miss him.
My mood must show, because Barbara, who has been putting papers in piles, comes over to me. “Are you all right?”
I try to smile. “Does everyone at this place know each other? The staff, I mean.”
She smiles back. “Some are returning, some are new. Carl teaches ecology at a local college and gets staff members from there. Some are from other places. Don’t worry. I’ve got a feeling everything’s going to be perfect. We’ve planned so long, so carefully, so hard, made some changes. Nothing will go really wrong.”
Carl says, “Barbara’s the
eternal optimist, always positive things will be wonderful. Marcy, by the end of the training week everyone will know everyone else. Everything will go well, I hope.” He crosses his fingers.
Feeling calmer, I smile a real smile.
We all go back to our jobs.
I staple.
Carl sorts.
Barbara piles.
I look at them. They look good together, happy. Barbara’s hair’s grown down to her waist. He’s got a beard.
I staple my finger.
The points are in my index finger. How gross.
It hurts.
Carl looks up to see why our efficient system is no longer working.
I look at my finger. It’s the same one Stuart bumped into.
Barbara comes over.
I still haven’t said a word, waiting for the gangrene to set in. It doesn’t really hurt much, but I figure that’s because it’s paralyzed or something terrible.
“Oh, Marcy,” Barbara says. “Does it hurt much? Let me go get a tweezers from the infirmary.” She rushes out.
I look at Carl. “You must think I’m awfully dumb.”
He shakes his head. “I once slammed my hand in a car door. Things happen.”
Barbara returns, pulls out the staple, wipes off the spots of blood with rubbing alcohol, and puts a Band-Aid on it.
“Marcy, I think you’re going to live.” She grins. “I bet I could have even pulled it out with my fingers.”
“No amputation? I’m so glad. I was afraid my writing career was over.”
Carl says, “The first casualty of the camp season. I only hope the rest are so minor.”
I pull up the Band-Aid and say, “Minor? It looks like a baby vampire has gotten me.”
Barbara laughs. “Or one of the bats that live in the top of this building.”
Bats? I never even thought of bats. Now I’ve got a new fear to add to my long list.
Cars are honking below, suddenly.
“Hip, hip, hurray,” Barbara yells, jumping up and down. “Camp’s begun.”
There's a Bat in Bunk Five Page 2
