How to (Almost) Ruin Your Summer

by Taryn Souders

  “Fine. I’ll do it.”

  “You have to do it tonight. If her undies are flapping in the breeze tomorrow morning, we’ll trade places. If not, have fun at the barn.” And with that, she walked out of the bathroom.

  I looked at my watch. It was 10:30 p.m. Pajamas weren’t exactly ideal clothes for an undercover underwear operation, but changing would make too much noise, and I couldn’t risk waking anybody. I tucked my flashlight into my pocket, slipped my shoes on, and tiptoed out the cabin door into the night.

  I knew Director Mudwimple’s cabin was next to the Reg st ation Off ce. She had mentioned it the first day, adding that her door was always open to us if we needed anything. I didn’t think her open-door policy applied to stealing underwear.

  It was dead quiet and kind of spooky knowing I was the only person up. The floodlights gave off an eerie, orange glow, and the moon was bright enough that, thankfully, I didn’t need to use my flashlight. If anyone did happen to look outside and see a flashlight beam, I’d be caught. I sprinted across the open field toward Mudwimple’s cabin. Once there, I listened for any movement inside. Blood thumping in my ears was the only sound. So much was at risk: if I got caught breaking into the director’s cabin, Mudwimple would call my parents to come get me for sure. They’d have to leave their cruise, and I’d be grounded until I was eighty-five. The bike was worth the risk though. The only way to get the bike was to take the cake class, and the only way to take the cake class was to steal Mudwimple’s underwear.

  My sweaty hands shook as I reached for the stair rail. I didn’t know if the steps were creaky, so I took a big step over them to the porch. My heart pounded harder. With two deep breaths and one turn of the knob, I slowly pushed the door open.

  I stood in pitch-blackness, barely breathing, waiting for my eyes to adjust. It took only a moment to make out the sleeping form of Director Mudwimple. Thankfully, her back was to me.

  Her cabin was a copycat of mine but with better carpeting. At least there’d be no creaking wooden floors. A small dresser stood against one wall. I tiptoed toward it, keeping my eyes on Mudwimple’s sleeping bulk.

  I gripped the small knobs of the top drawer and pulled. It didn’t budge. I glanced at Mudwimple. She was still sleeping—probably dreaming of plunging into pools of iced tea. I swallowed and jerked on the knobs this time. The drawer opened a teeny bit.

  Director Mudwimple snorted in her sleep and rolled over. Please, please, please, don’t open your eyes. I held my breath and tugged a little more on the drawer. Another inch appeared. I could see inside but barely—not enough to know if I had the right drawer. I wiggled my hand down and touched fabric with my fingers. I pulled it out.

  A sock.

  I needed to see farther inside. I gave another tug, and without warning, the drawer sprung loose. Like a volcano shooting lava in the air, clothing spewed from the cramped and crowded box onto the floor. The dresser wobbled, and a framed photograph on top fell over. I squeezed my eyes shut and froze. I was toast—I knew it.

  I was probably already a juvenile delinquent in her eyes because of the demerit. Now I was going to be caught in her cabin! Maybe I could tell Mudwimple I was sleepwalking or I thought this was my cabin. Better yet, that I saw an intruder and was coming to her rescue, using a dresser drawer for my weapon of choice. Yeah…that should do the trick.

  But she kept sleeping.

  A humongous pair of undies covered my feet. I shoved them in my back pocket, stashed everything else back inside the drawer, and gently wiggled it shut the best I could. I stood the fallen photograph up and backed out of the room. When I shut the front door, I jumped down the wooden steps and broke for the flagpole.

  I had done it.

  I was an underwear ninja who would be taking a cake-decorating class come tomorrow morning! Reaching the flagpole, I yanked the underpants from my pocket, knelt down, and fumbled with the clasp on the rope at the base of the pole.

  “Naaa.”

  Startled, I looked up and stared into the eyes of King Arthur.

  “Where did you come from?” I knew Victoria wasn’t behind this escape. She was hungry for revenge like King Arthur was hungry for underpants.

  “Naaaa.”

  “Shhhh,” I whispered, glancing around.

  He looked greedily at the underpants.

  “These aren’t for you,” I told him.

  He gave me a look that said, They aren’t for you either. I stood up and brushed off my knees with the underwear.

  Without warning, he ripped them from my hand. Director Mudwimple’s undies hung from King Arthur’s mouth.

  “Give those back,” I whispered, making a grab for them. He dodged my hand and backed up a few feet.

  “Come here, boy,” I coaxed.

  He took a step closer, and I snatched them. His jaws clamped tight, and we started a round of tug-o’-war with Director Mudwimple’s underpants. Round one went to me as I gained more fabric. Round two started in my favor, but he nibbled and tugged inches of underwear from my grasp. With a determined yank from King Arthur followed by a loud rip, I fell onto my butt and was left holding a small, mangled patch of white. Everything else hung from King Arthur’s mouth. He turned and ran away with his stolen booty.

  I stood and brushed myself off.

  “Miss McCorkle, what are you doing out of your cabin?”

  I spun around, coming face-to-face with Director Mudwimple. My mouth went dry. I shoved the patch of underwear into my back pocket.

  “Uh…I…um…I couldn’t sleep. I thought I would go for a walk?” I stammered and crossed my fingers.

  “I understand not being able to sleep. I myself thought I heard something and came to investigate. But under no circumstances are campers allowed out at night, especially to go on a walk! I’m afraid this blatant disregard for the rules, which were clearly outlined in our welcome folder, has earned you a demerit. Please return to your cabin immediately, and let’s not have any more nighttime walks.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  A couple minutes later, I kicked off my shoes and climbed into bed. Victoria was asleep with the rest of the world, probably dreaming about Director Mudwimple’s underpants on a flagpole. But when she woke up, she’d discover they were not there. She won’t have gotten her revenge, and I won’t have gotten the cake class.

  Saturday, June 19

  11:30 p.m.

  WORST DAY EVER!!! (I’m not kidding.)

  Victoria thinks just because she’s rich or something that she can have whatever she wants. She’s a food-dumping, lying, pain-in-the-rear brat—who also shoplifts!

  And now I’m permanently stuck with that walking garbage disposal King Arthur! Not only does he eat adorable stuffed animals, but he also ate Director Mudwimple’s underpants! Don’t ask. He has serious issues. I am making it my personal mission to discover how he gets out all the time!

  I got another demerit tonight—for being out of my cabin at night. Luckily, Director Mudwimple doesn’t know about her underwear.

  All of this mess for a cake decorating class! On my way back to the cabin, I thought of a NEW plan though… I’m going to ask Ms. Jacqueline for private lessons. Between everything she taught us last week and with a private lesson or two, maybe she’ll think I know enough to give me a letter of recommendation or something for Mrs. Peghiny.

  IT’S PERFECT—nothing can go wrong with it (because it has nothing to do with Victoria or stupid King Arthur)!!

  Sunday, June 20

  Forget to Lock the Gate

  At breakfast the next morning, Victoria made eye contact with me and shook her head. Loser, she mouthed from across the mess hall.

  Pogo sat next to me and peeled a banana. She nodded her head toward Victoria. “So what did she want you to do anyway?”

  I pretended like I didn’t hear.

  “Chloe!”

/>   “Hmm?”

  “C’mon, I’m right next to you. It’s not that loud in here.”

  I waved my hand dismissively. “She wanted me to…uhh—”

  Nathan and Sebastian walked through the mess hall doors.

  “—hook her up with Nathan.”

  Pogo busted out laughing. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah,” I scoffed. “I would rather kiss King Arthur full on the lips than do that to Nathan.”

  Pogo laughed. “Would you mind if I arranged that for you?”

  I stirred my Frosted O’s around my bowl and felt sorry for myself. I had committed a crime of breaking and entering, just so I could take Victoria’s place in class, and I had nothing to show for it. And I just lied to my friend about it.

  After breakfast, Pogo, Nathan, and Sebastian rushed off to the science lab, and Charlotte and I walked to the barn. We stopped near the chicken coop, watching Charlotte’s chickens peck at invisible objects in the dirt.

  “Well? What are you waiting for?” Charlotte said. “King Arthur’s pen isn’t going to clean itself, you know.”

  “I can’t. I just can’t go in there. Have you seen all the spiders? It’s like they’ve tripled in number since the first day.”

  “It’s not that bad. I know you have this thing about spiders,” Charlotte said, “but they’re just daddy longlegs. My little brother told me when you rub the belly of a daddy longlegs, it smells like bubble gum. You should try it—maybe it’ll help you get over your fear of spiders.”

  I glared at her.

  “Okay, fine.” She smiled. “Do you want me to go in with you?”

  I puffed my cheeks out. “Thanks, but I might as well get used to it, since I’m stuck with that animal all week.” I turned away from the coop and started toward the barn. I called over my shoulder. “I’ll just grab a broom and sweep out the webs the best I can.”

  Charlotte jogged to catch up with me. “There isn’t much left of the broom. Someone left it a little too close to King Arthur’s pen yesterday and he ate most of it.”

  “Figures,” I said. “That goat is more trouble than he’s worth.”

  The broom was just a tiny handful of chewed-up bristles attached to an equally gnawed-on wooded handle. It reminded me of the time my friend Jireh’s little brother cut the hair on one of her Barbie dolls. I picked up the broom—or rather what was left of it.

  “Stupid goat,” I muttered.

  Charlotte walked over to where King Arthur stood in his pen, mindlessly nibbling his way through a pile of hay. She leaned over the gate and rubbed his head. Near the front of the barn, someone started up the lawn tractor, the engine roaring to life. King Arthur jumped and fell right over in a faint.

  Charlotte snorted.

  “Oh brother,” I said. I fumbled with the gate lock. But before I could get it open, King Arthur stood, shook himself, and went straight back to eating. “Wow, Doc wasn’t kidding when he said their faint only lasts for about ten seconds.”

  “Have fun with that animal of mass destruction,” Charlotte said. “I’m headed back out to clean the McNugget coop.”

  “Okay, let me know if you need help with anything.”

  I stuck King Arthur in his paddock; then, using the broom, I swept every inch, from the top of the wall to bottom, clearing away any cobwebs. I saved the grossest thing for last—the goat poo. That couldn’t be swept. It needed to be shoveled into a bucket and taken outside to a special poop trailer. Once it’s full, it’s attached to a tractor and the poop can be spread evenly in the pastures as fertilizer. I took the broom back to the supply wall and hung it up. When I turned around, I ran into Leslie.

  “Hey, how’s your horse this morning?” I asked.

  “She’s great. I just groomed her, and I’m about to muck out her stall.” She grabbed a lead rope from the wall. “We’re supposed to put them in the west pasture, right?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I put King Arthur in his paddock while I swept out cobwebs.” I picked up a shovel and bucket. “After I de-poo his stall, I’ll move him back inside and then de-poo the paddock.”

  Leslie scrunched her nose. “Yeah, at least his poo is small. I’m not looking forward to cleaning out Sunset’s stall.”

  “Trust me, small poo is the only bonus.”

  I went back to King Arthur’s stall. After fifteen minutes of maneuvering my way through the land mines of poop, I decided even Doc would approve. I dragged the full bucket out of the stall to the poop trailer and dumped it. I took my time—I was in no hurry to get back to His Royal Poopiness. When I eventually made it to his stall, I stopped dead in my tracks.

  The paddock gate was ajar. King Arthur was nowhere in sight.

  Charlotte walked by holding a chicken, cooing to it.

  “Have you seen him?” I said.

  “Who?”

  “King Arthur!” I ran my hand through my hair. “What am I going to do? I can’t lose the goat on my first day as his caretaker!”

  “Does Doc know?”

  I shook my head. “Maybe I can find King Arthur before anyone notices.”

  I grabbed two lead ropes hanging on his door and shoved one into Charlotte’s chicken-free hand.

  “Please, please, please help me find him,” I begged.

  “Let me put Barbecue away first.”

  “You go that way,” I said, pushing her toward one end of the barn, “and I’ll go this way. If you find him, use the rope and bring him back. If anyone sees you, tell them you’re taking him out for a walk.”

  “Do people walk goats?”

  “Does it matter? Just go!”

  I turned and headed toward the campfire area. I didn’t see him there or at the nurse’s station, the Reg st ation Off ce, or the mess hall. Hopefully, he wasn’t climbing around in the ravine—Doc did say that goats love to climb. Since we weren’t allowed near there, I decided I would check the ravine as a last resort. I walked down toward the cake decorating kitchen and the lake.

  “Naa.”

  King Arthur! He sounded far away—and not happy.

  I looked around. The sun glistened off the lake and blinded me—but not before I saw him.

  In the middle of the lake.

  Sunday, June 20

  Row, Row, Row Your Goat

  “Naa! Naaa!”

  King Arthur had eaten through the rope that kept the floating dock tied to the pier. To complicate things, he was still on the dock and was now stranded in the middle of Lake Minnehaha.

  I could run back to the kitchen to tell Ms. Jacqueline, but what could she do about it? She was petite and dainty and could no more rescue a goat from the middle of a lake than she could win an arm wrestling match against Coach Fox. There was Coach Fox, but he’d be at the playing fields. The barn was too far away for me to get Doc Mulholland—and I didn’t know if goats could swim. What if King Arthur got so scared he fainted and fell off the dock and drowned while I was away getting help? Actually, my life would be a lot easier if he did fall off and drown. Maybe everyone would feel so sorry for me that they’d let me pick any elective I wanted—even if it was already full.

  Or…they’d all blame me for his death, I’d be charged with murder, and go to prison for the rest of my life. Better to rescue the idiot goat than spend my life in prison.

  “Naa!”

  He sounded pitiful, all alone in the middle of the lake. I tossed my hands up in surrender, walked over to where the life vests hung, and grabbed a couple. I wasn’t sure if he’d wear the life vest (or how I’d even get one on him), but I didn’t want him to drown if he fell in.

  “You’d better appreciate this,” I muttered, climbing into a canoe. The canoe glided across the lake as I paddled for the dock. Moments later, I pulled up alongside King Arthur. He clip-clopped over to the edge of the dock and looked down at me.

 
; “Naa.” His eyes were huge and all four of his legs were spread wide to help him keep his balance. The dock rocked back and forth.

  “Stay calm—please don’t faint,” I begged.

  With one hand, I grabbed the dock and slowly stood in the canoe. “Come here, boy, come on,” I coaxed. “The only way you’re getting back to the barn is if you get in the canoe.”

  I tried several times to get him to jump into the canoe with me before giving up.

  “Okay, it looks like we’re going to have to do this the hard way.”

  I bent down and grabbed the floating, chewed-up rope that was still attached to the floating dock and tied it in a knot around my seat. The dock was too heavy for me to tow back to land. Plus, King Arthur might fall off once the dock started moving. When I was sure the dock and my canoe were firmly attached, I looked around to make sure no one was watching. I leaned in as close as I could to him.

  “Boo!” I yelled.

  He passed out.

  Mission accomplished.

  I knew I only had a few seconds to work. I quickly wrapped my arms around his stout body and pulled him off the dock and into the canoe with me. He was way lighter than I expected.

  I clipped the lead rope to his collar, and I was even able to put the life vest around his neck before he stood up. I buckled it the best I could, but having never performed a water rescue on a demented goat before, I could’ve missed a vital step.

  I hoped not.

  “Don’t move,” I told him. I don’t know why I was giving him instructions. I knew he couldn’t understand me.

  I carefully untied the rope from my seat and picked up the paddle. I pushed away from the dock and, moving slowly so I wouldn’t upset King Arthur, dipped the paddle into the water. I paddled at the pace of a snail through cement, but at least we made progress. He stood in the middle of the canoe facing me, with his trademark blank expression, mindlessly nibbling the end of his life jacket, while I rowed him toward land. The whole scene reminded me of one of those old-fashioned paintings—a young man rowing a boat with a pretty lady holding a parasol, only instead, this was a goat wearing (and eating) a life jacket. About halfway to the shoreline, King Arthur started to sway from side to side as if he was ill.