Chapter Four
Camp Outsiders
Ben
The counselor in charge of B7A reportedly sucked. From the looks of things, Ben could believe it. Even on the first day of camp, their bunk smelled like feet and dirty laundry, not that he minded. Between football and track, he almost lived in locker rooms. To Ben, old socks smelled like home.
Like him, the rest of the guys were juniors or seniors in high school. For the most part, they looked totally normal—just a bunch of guys wondering where all the girls were and when the next meal was, except one kid. The person in question was dressed in black jeans, worn-out black All-Stars, and sported chipped black fingernails. He had his face buried in a book called Science as a Candle in the Dark. From the look of him, he hadn’t found his candle yet.
Because Ben’s official weirdo magnet was set to full strength, as usual, the guy dropped the book, held out his hand, and said, “Hi, I’m George.”
Ben nodded. “Ben. Nice to meet you.” Looking at George’s pants, he said, “Aren’t you hot? It’s like ninety degrees.”
“I didn’t bring any shorts.”
Ben accepted the absurd fact with a single nod. To each his own. He leaned back on the deck chair, put his feet on the railing, and shut his eyes, hoping to avoid any further conversations for a few minutes. He couldn’t sleep, though. Why did the queen of hell herself have to be here? Not many people messed with him. He gave off a bouncer, not-gonna-take-any-BS vibe that shut down most people. It’s not like he wasn’t worried about the same stuff as everyone else; he just didn’t look like it. Blake, though, was relentless. All those pranks she pulled just weren’t funny. She was so spoiled she thought she could get away with anything. She did get away with pretty much anything, except for the one prank she got caught for. And she’d been sent to summer camp for it. Cry me a river! He’d had it up to here with all of her bullshit.
A while later, Ben cracked an eye to see George standing above him.
“I’m gonna go look for some food. Wanna come?”
Food… That sounded almost as good as sleeping. He could eat a whole pizza. “Okay. I’m game.”
Ben propped himself up and slipped his shoes back on. The counselor in charge—the lanyard around his neck announced Derek Filmore, Leader of the Woodchucks—said, “Where you guys going?”
“Gonna grab some food.”
“Normally you can only eat in the mess hall, but some parent brought in like ten gluten-free pizzas for the welcome party. Try to be back for our first meeting. It’s in…” Derek drifted off as if he couldn’t remember.
“Sweet.”
Five minutes later, in between bites of room temperature gluten-free pizza, Ben asked, “So why are you at camp, George?”
“My parents are too busy working to let me sit in my bedroom alone and play video games like they do the rest of the year.”
Ben snorted. He had to like George’s honesty. George was the real deal, not fake like the kids at Bellevue.
“How about you?”
“Have you seen The Fresh Prince of Bel Air? You know, that old Will Smith show?”
“Yes,” George said with an air of do-go-on.
“That’s why I’m here. I got in ‘one li’l’ fight in the neighborhood and my mom got scared.”
George finished, “Sent you to your auntie and uncle in Bel Air.”
“Yeah, I’m supposed to reflect on my priorities, go canoeing, and never hang out with my bad influences again.” Like that’s going to happen now that Blake’s here…
“That’s pretty badass of you. I got beat up once, but that’s it for my fighting career.”
“That sucks, dude.”
While they wolfed down the last of the pizza, Blake walked by, struggling to carry enough luggage for five people. For the first time ever, she actually looked a little pathetic. The ankle straps on her shoes were loose, and the wedges kept moving and making her stumble. When she saw them, she stood up straighter, blew her ridiculous bangs out of her face, and acted like she had everything under control.
Seeing her dilemma, George said, “Need some help?”
“I’d love some.” When Ben didn’t offer to grab a bag like his friend, she lifted her chin. “Aren’t you going to help a lady, too?”
He laughed. “A lady! As if.”
George picked up a duffel and it barely moved. “What’s in this thing, bricks?”
“Books,” she answered.
Since when does Blake read?
“Probably her waterboarding manuals,” Ben suggested.
“No. I already memorized those. These are mostly about hair braiding and whatnot,” she quipped.
Ben snorted. She probably wasn’t even lying.
Just then, the director, Bob Fazio, walked past them dragging some coolers. “Hey there. You three want to help me set up a cookout?” It was one of those requests that wasn’t really a request. Ben didn’t mind. He had a firm, but kindly vibe, like a good dad.
Ben had heard some returning campers refer to him as Fozzie Bear. Up close, it struck Ben how he got the nickname. The guy looked like someone had stuffed a grizzly bear into a Camp Pine Ridge T-shirt. Dark, curly hair erupted from the collar of his shirt. The director was sporting a full-on pelt of fur. Fozzie seemed to take notice of Ben eyeing his arm and said, “Just you wait, young man. It can happen to anyone.”
Ben laughed good-naturedly, confident he wasn’t the pelt-growing type. He had more of a Keanu Reeves thing going on, destined for patchy beards but safe from back hair.
Blake must not have cared about their body hair conversation because she interrupted with a random question. “Mr. Fazio, I was wondering if there are any fireflies at Camp Pine Ridge.”
He did a double take. Since when did Blake care about bugs?
Fazio didn’t answer, but George, who unsurprisingly also had a keen interest in bugs, perked up. He and Blake blabbed about pheromones and luminescence for a minute until Fozzie figured out they had a luggage issue. He looked at Ben and said, “Why don’t you drop this young lady’s luggage off at cabin G7A. It’s just ahead.” Again, it wasn’t really a request.
Ben flashed Blake an irritated look to let her know he wasn’t helping her out of the kindness of his heart. She responded with a smile, the kind of smile that looked all sweet and innocent on the surface but actually meant, “Burn!”
As he hauled her luggage to her cabin, he tallied the score—1:1.
After dropping off Blake’s mountain of things at G7A, he strolled back to the beach. At the edge of the sand, he rocked back on his heels and took in the view. For the first time, he felt like camp might not be so bad. He might enjoy beating Blake at her own game. And the scenery was nice. He wouldn’t have expected a little mountain lake to have a perfect sand beach, but it did. A ring of tidy cabins dotted the lake shore. Chelsea should be here instead of him.
The minute he rejoined the group, Fozzie said, “George, come with me. I need help carrying another cooler down.” Fozzie was one of those teachers who was a first-name ninja master. After one introduction, the guy was talking to them like he’d known them for years, except he was saying their names too often, probably to burn them into his brain. “Ben and Blake, why don’t you two collect enough wood for the bonfire and maybe carve some weenie sticks.”
The words, “Blake, carve, and weenie,” spoken that close together made Ben nervous.
Fozzie sized him up. “Ben, we need some more wood. You look like you can handle that, young man.”
Ben nodded. “Yessir.” Blake certainly wasn’t going to do it. She was still dressed for prom and wearing shoes that made her almost as tall as him. They looked hot, if you were into that sort of thing (devil women in designer shoes), but only when she wasn’t walking, which she could barely do. She definitely couldn’t carry an armful of wood and a carving knife. Could she even see through all that hair in her face? Blake Jones or not, he didn’t want to see her fall over and get impaled on a weenie stick. He should wish that fate on her, but when push came to shove, he couldn’t watch it happen.
“Just let me do it. You can’t do anything in those shoes.”
Blake attempted to blow her bangs out of her face and look him in the eye. Comically, they fell right back where they were. Why did girls always have such impractical hairdos? “Do you need a headband or something?” he couldn’t stop himself from asking.
She ignored him and continued carving a sharp point onto a tree branch for weenie roasting. Not only was it frightening, it was damn distracting because he could totally see down her shirt. He didn’t want to look down Blake’s shirt. He wanted to look down someone else’s shirt. Someone nice.
“Nice bra, Blake.”
At that, her cheeks flamed and she yanked her neckline up to cover her chest. After a few second’s pause, almost like it took her a while to think of it, she gave him the finger. Poor Blake was really off her game, probably because of all the wardrobe malfunctions. She couldn’t walk or see. It looked like only a matter of time before serious injury struck.
“Seriously, just let me do it,” he said.
“No. I’ve got it,” she said.
“I’m not sure I trust you with a weapon.” He was only half joking. The girl had an iron furnace lit by demon fire where her heart should be.
She squared her shoulders and leveled her gaze at him. He could tell she was ready to say something to him. For some reason, the words seemed to be caught in her throat.
“Just spit it out, Jones. I can tell you’re choking on an insult.”
She put her chin up and said, “I was just going to say that you need to get over it. You can’t be that mad at me because of one silly prank.”
“One? Make it ten and you’ll be in the ballpark. Not to mention the fact that I got arrested because of you. Arrested, as in hauled away from school in handcuffs.”
Blake’s cheeks turned red and she bit her lip, almost like she felt bad about something for once. But then she collected her wits and launched into her normal tirade. “Whatever. They never even charged you. Nothing went on your record. And don’t even tell me you didn’t get some serious accolades.” She narrowed her gaze at him. “I bet you liked that stripper.”
“Well, yeah. Everyone liked her. That’s not the point.” Ben looked at the pile of wood they’d collected. It wasn’t enough. “I think we need to chop some wood.” There was a big stump with an axe in it nearby and some logs that needed splitting.
Because he was sweating like a pig, but mostly because Blake was watching, he whipped off his T-shirt.
She turned red and looked out at the water.
He smiled smugly. Take that, Blake Jones.
Blake didn’t seem to know what to do with herself now that he was half naked. Who knew it would be so easy to get the better of her? She hopped off her log and scooped up an armful of weenie sticks, apparently intent on bringing them closer to the fire ring. He was standing right in her way, but he was damned if he’d move to make way for her.
Like some kind of princess, she put her nose in the air and walked around him. Let her be difficult, if she wanted. Just as she was passing behind him, he heard Blake lose her footing and yelp. Almost simultaneously, he felt a sharp stab of pain. By the time he jumped back, Blake had already stabbed him with a weenie stick. His mouth hanging open in shock, he reached behind him and felt the hotdog stick jutting out. It wasn’t deep, just enough to have gotten stuck.
“Damn it, I’m so clumsy,” she said, as she brought herself to her knees and started gathering the sticks that had dropped. He assessed the situation. Sure, she had fallen down. It could have been an accident, but maybe she just fell down to make it look like one. She was crazier and more vindictive than he ever could have imagined.
Just then, Fozzie and George walked back. Fozzie started to say, “Looks great—” but the rest of the sentence froze in his mouth. “What—”
“I’m just a klutz,” Blake said. At that moment, she looked up and she saw the stick poking out of Ben’s side. “OhmyGod!” Her hand shot over her mouth. “Did I do that?”
Did he really need to answer?
“I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” She scrambled to her feet to look at the damage. “That looks bad!”
“It’s not.” He pulled the stick out of his side like warriors pull arrows out in movies.
Fozzie shook his head. “Let me see that, Ben.” He walked over with a frown on his face.
“Really, it’s no big deal. Just a scratch. The only reason it stuck was because of the angle.”
“Still, let’s walk you over to the nurse. At the very least, you need to clean it up and put some Neosporin on it. George, why don’t you make sure Ben gets there.”
George nodded. “No problem.”
Fozzie looked sternly at Blake. “Why don’t you head back to your cabin and put on some more appropriate footwear.”
Looking totally mortified (just an act probably), Blake took off her shoes and said, “I’m never wearing these again. I can’t believe I did that.” She had the gall to actually look remorseful. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but her eyes looked shiny, like the experience was making her cry a little. Meryl Streep had nothing on Blake. Fozzie ended up reassuring her and walking her back to her cabin. Ben heard him say, “Don’t worry, young lady. It was just an accident. Ben’ll be good as new in no time.”
George must have seen the smoldering anger on his face because he asked, “What’s your deal? You have a problem with Blake?”
“That’d be the understatement of the year.”
“Why?”
“For one, she stabbed me.”
George gave him a look that said he wasn’t convinced. “That was an accident.”
“Maybe. I doubt it, though. She’s psychotic.” He gave George the highlight reel of Ben v. Blake. He wasn’t sure if she was a bully exactly, but she sure had it out for him. The weird apology today counted as one of the few times he’d seen her be nice.
George furrowed his brows and said, “Wow. You’re certainly entitled to some negative feelings.”
Ben gave him a weird look.
George laughed nervously. “Sorry. Psychobabble is my native tongue. My parents are shrinks.”
Ben always thought shrinks’ kids were the weirdest, maybe even weirder than pastors’ kids. It seemed to be holding true in George’s case. “Half her pranks didn’t bother me. They sort of backfired. Every time she did something and blamed it on me, I gained like ten points in the Bellevue High Popularity Index.” For example, the rumor that he ate all the fetal pigs meant for bio lab—that had totally upped his numbers. He got credit for getting everyone out of dissection, though he’d probably never get another date. Then she’d taped blown-up condoms all over his vehicle. He’d peeled them off before his mom noticed. It was all nuisance-level stuff until the stripper prank.
George said, “You never know. Maybe her apology today was for real. Like she’s trying to change.”
“Nah. I don’t trust her. She’s probably trying to get me to let my guard down.” Blake might not be a theater kid, but everything she did was a performance. The world was her stage. Every seemingly careless joke made at someone else’s expense was carefully crafted for the greatest effect, not that she was a pranking mastermind or anything. The strip-o-gram had been an epic fail.
George raised an eyebrow. “You never know. She could be trying or maybe she’s medicated.”
“No way.” Ben wasn’t ready to give Blake the benefit of a doubt, not after she spent the entire year giving him hell. Sure, maybe she was remorseful after having gotten caught—maybe. It was going to take more than one day of semi-human behavior to convince Ben she wasn’t a sociopath.
“Zoloft can do wonders,” George said. “Maybe she was acting out because of depression.”
Ben pulled a skeptical face.
They stepped into the cabin just as their counselor was wrapping up some sort of speech.
George said, “Sorry, dude. Did we miss something?”
Derek squinted at them for a little too long, as if waiting for them to come into focus. Was he high? “No worries. Basically, all you need to know is be a good citizen. If you puke, clean it up yourself. I won’t do that. Try not to have sex in the bunk house. I know sometimes it happens, but make an effort. It’s, like, uncool. Oh, and one more, don’t leave peanuts lying around. We’ve got some food allergies.”
Ben nodded. “Got it.” His mother would have died at that speech, but he thought it seemed promising. Camp Pine Ridge was sounding better all the time. Derek certainly wasn’t going to cramp his style.
It turned out they had time before some big camp meeting and dinner, so Ben unpacked (threw his duffle under his bed) and took a look around. There wasn’t much to see, just a bunch of bunk beds and a shared bathroom. Halfheartedly, he brushed his hands across a dusty shelf of books. A yellowed notecard declared it the B7A library. It had a James Bond novel, an old copy of The Da Vinci Code, and The Seven Habits of Highly Effective Teens. Someone’s parent clearly stuck that one in there. With a chuckle, Ben pulled out Seven Habits, surprised to see that the book was heavily dog-eared. When he opened the book, a poorly fitted dustcover fell away revealing a much more interesting title—Spite, Malice, and Revenge. Ben didn’t believe in fate, but he did believe in reading the signs. This was definitely a strong one.
So what if Blake looked pretty in a dress? It didn’t mean she wasn’t a horrible person who’d been mean to him all year. He wasn’t ready to bury the hatchet yet. Revenge… The idea had a nice ring to it.