No Good Deed

by Goldy Moldavsky

  But it turned out Jimmy’s skepticism had less to do with my involvement in ILP’s mural’s destruction than with my presence in the office. “Children, what are you doing here exactly?”

  I shrugged and fidgeted in my seat. “I just thought you might want to investigate what happened to ILP’s mural. And I wanted to offer my help.” I know it sounded decent and selfless, but I can’t lie—a big reason for coming here was to try and get points. So far I was the only camper without any points on the scoreboard. Men’s Rights’s billboard had gotten him the attention he wanted and a spot in third place. Win’s beautiful original portrait of a hungry child got him to second. And Ashley Woodstone’s professionally photographed poster had catapulted her to the top of the scoreboard. Even ILP had gotten sympathy points, and not only had his entry been destroyed, it hadn’t ever even been in contention. Maybe if I showed some initiative in trying to help my fellow camper, Jimmy would see that and spread the point wealth.

  Plus, the whole thing with ILP’s mural had ushered in a whole new dynamic at camp: the era of the prank. It had only been four days since the mural incident, but there’d been enough pranks in those four days to fill up a summer.

  Water Conservation cut off the water to the girls’ showers.

  Abstinence and Sex Positivity had been locked in the sports shed together.

  Someone put ground beef in PETA’s vegetarian burger.

  Seat Belt Safety spent hours tied to a tree before someone found him.

  A counselor had to cut Plastic Kills out of her bed after someone came into her cabin in the middle of the night and burritoed her in plastic wrap while she was sleeping.

  Most of the pranks occurred in the middle of the night, when you were less likely to be caught by counselors. Not that that really mattered. The counselors didn’t seem to think any of this was troubling, deeming all the pranks acceptable since they fell under the umbrella of activism. If Down With Styrofoam knocked your coffee out of your hand during breakfast, it wasn’t because she was trying to prank you, it was because she was protesting your criminal and outdated use of a Styrofoam cup. She even got points for it.

  Which made the fact that I didn’t have any points yet sting even more. “I want to help find whoever did this to ILP. I mean—I Like Paint. I mean, the Person Who We’re Calling I Like Paint Until We Figure Out His Real Name.”

  Jimmy smiled at me and sat up, straightening a few things on his desk. “That’s very commendable, Children. But unfortunately, we don’t have any leads.”

  “What about the security cameras? There’s one right by the rec room. Have you checked the footage?”

  “We have. Definitely. Thought about it. But, the thing is, I just don’t know how to work a VCR.” He gestured with his hand to the corner of the room, where an ancient analog television set as big as a microwave sat beneath a layer of dust. “Or is that a VHS? I keep getting those two confused.”

  Was he serious? Jimmy looked like he was post-college-aged. There was no way he didn’t know how to use a VCR.

  “Strictly DVD players in my house when I was growing up,” Jimmy said. “Do you know how to work a VHS?”

  “Well … not exactly,” I admitted, feeling suddenly embarrassed for accusing Jimmy of not knowing about antique tech when I wasn’t any better. “But it can’t be that hard, right?”

  “No, probably not that hard.” We both looked over at the VCR, almost wistfully. Neither of us made a move to stand up and touch the thing.

  “Children, what happened to I Like Paint’s mural was sad, but have you considered the idea that maybe the attack was a protest? Maybe somebody didn’t like ILP’s message.”

  “His mural was about unity.”

  “And there are a lot of loners at this camp,” Jimmy said. “Think about how triggering that mural could’ve been for them.”

  I didn’t say anything because I needed a moment to process what he was saying. The longer camp went on, the more I’d begun to question Jimmy’s ability as a head counselor. Just this morning at calisthenics he’d tried to surprise us all with a “very special visitor.” It was then that I’d noticed that there were feet sticking out from behind the curtain that Jimmy stood in front of. My heart rate spiked. Was this it? Was today the day that Robert Drill finally visited the camp?

  “It’s none other than … Mr. Robert Drill … ’s personal second assistant, Andrew Sealon!” Jimmy announced. “As I’m sure you noticed,” Jimmy said, “he has quite an uncanny resemblance to Mr. Drill himself.” They were both brunets. “And that’s not nothing!”

  Jimmy tried, but he wasn’t a great head counselor. “It kind of sounds like finding ILP’s attacker isn’t a huge priority for you,” I told him in his office.

  “Oh, it absolutely is, Children. But it’s also a priority for me to let campers express themselves in whatever way they need to. When Robert Drill gave me this camp, it was under very clear instructions: ‘I don’t care. Just do whatever you want.’”

  I sat up straighter at the mention of Drill’s name. “What do you mean ‘gave’ you this camp?”

  Ever since Camp Save the World was announced, there’d been questions surrounding it. Even some controversy. People wanted to know why Robert Drill, the savviest of businessmen—the scion of the tech world—would open up a camp for teenagers in the Catskills. Bloggers wrote think pieces about it, and strategists tried to determine Drill’s endgame—if this was a purely charitable venture, if this was a PR ruse to clean up his image after that plan to open a school in Indonesia backfired when all the teachers went on strike, if this was some sort of financial investment.

  “Well,” Jimmy said, “you know that Robert Drill is my stepdad, right?”

  I stared at Jimmy. “I didn’t know Robert Drill was married.”

  “He married my mom in the fall. It was a beautiful private wedding. And obviously the happiest day of hers and my life. I idolize that man. His commitment to civic duty is an inspiration.”

  “Robert Drill is your father?” I couldn’t move off that fact.

  “I’d been pitching Robert ideas for his foundation—really great concepts for charities and organizations—but he didn’t want to back any of them. Then I started asking if he needed any help around his office, but he told me that I was too overqualified to work side by side with him and that if I could come up with an organization that could fit into the parameters of his Robert Drill Foundation that he would get behind it. And I thought: Robert Drill and I have something very important in common—we’re great humanitarians! Have I told you that I drive a hybrid, Children?”

  “No?”

  “Well, I do. Anyway, I thought: Here are two great humanitarians—why not create a summer camp to find the country’s next great humanitarian? And so Camp Save the World was born.”

  “You guys don’t think that’s kind of weird?”

  A few of us had come to the rec room after dinner with the intention of checking out the damage to ILP’s mural. The messy gash of red looked like something out of a Stephen King novel, and we quickly realized that we couldn’t do much to help it. Also, Unity had brought Settlers of Catan and he insisted on playing, so any pretense of helping to repaint ILP’s wall was forgotten. We sat in the rec room with the pieces of the game board laid out on the coffee table between the couches. I told the guys all about my meeting with Jimmy, but they were hardly as put off by it as I was.

  “Is it weird that Robert Drill is Jimmy’s dad?” Unity said. “Kind of. Is it weird Drill gave Jimmy a summer camp? Not really. Rich people give awesome gifts. Anybody wanna trade for sheep?”

  “But doesn’t it sound like Camp Save the World is just a really elaborate way for Robert Drill to keep his annoying new stepson out of his hair?” I said.

  “Robert Drill wouldn’t put his name and money behind something if he didn’t believe in it all the way,” Win said, trading a card with Unity. “He made that video we saw on the first day. And there’s the internship. I don’t care
if this camp is just a gift for his stepson if it means I get a great opportunity to intern with the Robert Drill Foundation.”

  “Yeah, who cares about the ‘why’ of it all?” Unity said. “I just want a trip to Florida. Miami, man!”

  “The Robert Drill Foundation has offices in Tampa,” I said.

  Unity’s brows furrowed, but only for a minute. Then his face lit up again. “Tampa! Alright!”

  “Too bad for all of you that Superman already has The Prize in the bag,” Men’s Rights said. “Isn’t that right, Superman?”

  No one invited Rights, but there he was, at the other end of the room, playing an aggressive game of table tennis with Boycott Camp. “Nobody’s talking to you, man,” I said.

  “Oh, so sorry to interrupt a bunch of losers spending their night playing a game in the rec room.”

  The irony was incredible. “You’re spending your night playing a game in the rec room,” I said.

  “And I am dominating this Ping-Pong game!” Rights bellowed, slamming his paddle against the edge of the table. “You’re six points behind everyone else because you started with only three resources!” he said.

  I looked down at the board. I only had two little orange settlements in play, compared to everyone else’s towering cities. Rights was right. He was also probably right about all of us being losers, playing a board game when everyone else at camp was probably sneaking off, having debauchery. Was “having debauchery” the correct term? Of course I wouldn’t know, having never had it.

  We were probably the only guys not sneaking away to go be with girls. I wondered what the girls were doing right now. What did girls do at night, before lights-out? Were they braiding each other’s hair? Telling each other secrets? That was probably a sexist thought. But were they making out with other guys? And was that a sexist thought too? Even if it was sexist, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  The biggest sign that we were a group of losers was that I was among them. Win was the anomaly. He sat across from me on the other couch, his left ankle resting on his right knee, his arm stretched across the top of the couch, totally casual. Win being here was charity. He could probably advance on the scoreboard just for hanging out with us. Sneaking off with girls at this time of night was probably too easy for him at this point. Maybe he was tired of it. “Why would anyone do that to ILP’s mural?” he said. “It was a good mural. ILP is a really talented artist.”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Rights said. Every time he swung his paddle the Ping-Pong ball shot across the room with enough force to take someone’s eye out. “His mural was too good. He was getting a head start on winning The Prize. Someone at this camp understood that and decided to settle the score.” The way Rights said it made it seem like the idea of “settling the score” was an exciting and justified one. Like he was upset he hadn’t thought of it first.

  I had been suspicious of Rights since the beginning of camp, but I was even more suspicious of him now. Vandalizing I Like Paint’s mural for no good reason at all seemed like something Rights would do. The only thing poking holes in my theory was that Rights was practically standing right next to me when ILP appeared, dripping in paint.

  “Whoever did it, I’m glad,” Rights said. “Things have been too boring around here.”

  “Really?” Boycott Camp said. “Because at dinner I saw someone put sugar in Diabetes’s sugar-free punch. Pretty un-boring if you ask me.”

  “What?” Diabetes Awareness said. He was sitting next to me on the couch, and his head popped up just as he finished rolling the dice. He spun a seven.

  “You have to get rid of half your cards,” Unity told him.

  Diabetes grimaced and started to count his stack of cards. “You guys, if you see someone messing with my sugar intake, please tell me.”

  “How can you call everything that’s been happening boring?” Unity asked Rights. “The lake-throwings are dope!”

  No one knew who had come up with the term “lake-throwings” (which I personally found kind of unimaginative), but the name had stuck. Aside from all the random new pranks, there was one thing we could all now rely on: For the last four nights, one camper had been thrown into the lake. It happened at different times every night, but always while everyone in camp slept. The unlucky camper would have their mouth duct-taped shut and would then be carried out to the lake, where they would be unceremoniously thrown in.

  One kid a night for the last four nights.

  There weren’t many clues about who the attackers were, but one thing was sure: The campers they picked for the lake-throwings were unpopular. So far the victims had been Zombie Attack, S.P.E.W., Anti-Robotics, and Endangered Species.

  “It’s only dope because it hasn’t happened to you yet,” Win said. He was taking the diplomatic approach, but I didn’t miss that “yet.” I smirked.

  “Endangered Species is my bunkmate,” Diabetes said, his eyes twinkling with guilty excitement. “I didn’t even know anyone had snuck into our cabin until he came back at sunrise, dripping wet.”

  “The internship is bullshit,” Boycott Camp announced suddenly. He deflected Rights’s shot by covering his face with his Ping-Pong paddle. “This camp is supposed to be about people coming together for the greater good? Please. Drill has us pitted against each other trying to win some stupid prize. It’s completely fascist. Nobody deserves to get it. Least of all someone like Ashley Woodstone, who could just go to Florida anytime she wants.”

  “What’s up with her Eat Dirt campaign?” Diabetes said, laughing. Though his laughter tapered off as he got lost in thought. “Is it healthy, though? Like, maybe we should be eating dirt?”

  “That girl is a loon,” Rights said. “But that’s standard for Hollywood people.”

  I obviously wasn’t Ashley Woodstone’s biggest fan, but it bothered me that they were talking about her like this, laughing behind her back. “Aren’t you, like, in love with her, Rights?” I said.

  “Girl might be crazy, but she’s hot,” he said. “Especially when she dresses up in dirt and gets professional pictures taken and then puts those pictures in ads. I’ve never wanted to buy a newspaper so bad.”

  All the other guys nodded and made noises of agreement, which made me feel left out again. Maybe Ashley was objectively good-looking, but I couldn’t separate her outward appearance from her out-there philosophies. She may have been a megastar, but all I saw was a girl who liked to play in the mud. And then eat it.

  “You guys think she’s eating dirt right now?” Unity said, a far-off, disturbingly aroused look in his eye.

  “Nah,” Boycott Camp said. “I heard that when the moon’s full, Ashley Woodstone likes to prance around naked in the woods, stoned.” He giggled to himself. “Get it? Woods stoned?”

  But none of us were laughing. “Isn’t the moon out tonight?” Unity asked.

  * * *

  The six of us hid behind a fallen log, just the tops of our heads peeking out as we watched Ashley Woodstone prance around in the woods, possibly stoned, but very much not naked.

  Finding her had been easy. I didn’t know this, but apparently Ashley wasn’t staying in any of the cabins with the other girls. She had her own private place in the woods, which didn’t surprise me. Of course the celebrity would get privacy. Another reason I thought Ashley didn’t belong at this camp. Diabetes said he knew where it was, so we followed him. As we got deeper into the woods, we began to hear what sounded like singing. And then we saw her. Ashley Woodstone barefoot, hair loose and flowing as she danced in fluid circles with her face tilted toward the moon but her eyes closed to it.

  The way the moonlight lit the woods, it was like I was watching a scene in a movie. Everything was tinged in sparkling pale blues. I wondered if somehow Ashley had arranged it all to look this way. Life tended to feel like a movie when Ashley was around—dramatic, unrealistic, large—and this was another example of that. She looked like a druid, a fairy from ancient fantasies. She was probably dancing to summon a moon god
dess or something ridiculous like that. But I had to admit, it was kind of … transfixing.

  She wore what looked like a Victorian-era nightshirt that could also have been a Coachella-ready dress. Even from this distance I spotted leaves in her hair, though I still could not tell whether that was because she’d had a run-in with a tree or because she’d placed them there decoratively. Her movements were so easy and the singing so like a lullaby, even though it didn’t seem to have any words. One look at the other guys and I could see they were mesmerized too. Diabetes was on my right and he watched her openmouthed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He fell back onto his butt and a twig snapped underneath him. I turned back to Ashley but she stopped dancing suddenly, spinning to a stop in our direction.

  “Is someone there?” she said.

  More twigs snapped and leaves crunched and then Pika was there, staring down at us. A couple of the guys screamed, and some of them turned and ran. I tried to do both, but Ashley’s bodyguard was closest to me. He grabbed the back of my shirt before I could get away.

  Pika presented me to Ashley like I was a mouse he’d just caught, clamped triumphantly in his jaw.

  “Gregor Maravilla. Hey.” She was slightly out of breath and it was hard to see in the dark, but her face looked almost flushed. Maybe the dancing was some sort of exercise, like yoga—something that looked easy but took a lot of stamina. Her eyes were big with a sort of awed look to them, and I wondered if she really was stoned, though you could never tell with Ashley. This close to her I could see every outline and contour of her nightshirt/dress, and the mounds and swells that dwelled just underneath it. Was she not wearing a bra? I became laser focused on trying not to look directly at her, and Pika seemed laser focused on shooting arrows at me with his eyes. It was a good enough reason for me to keep my eyes firmly above Ashley’s neck.

  For a moment I forgot that she liked to eat dirt. I saw her just as she was: a blushing girl dancing in the moonlight. The beautiful star all the other guys saw.

  “What are you doing here?”