At last there was silence. He felt relief course through his body. The chant was finally—
“Camp Rolling Hills
Our home for e’er, you’ll be . . .”
False alarm. Bobby bit his lip to distract himself from the pressing panic in his chest as he observed Act Two: a song. In harmony. The boys’ hands were over their hearts.
The anxiety rolling in his stomach made him think back to that morning, when his mom had ambushed him with one of his pills over breakfast. “Mine is mellow yellow, yours is baby-boy blue,” she’d said, placing their medications side by side like they were friends.
“But Dad said I don’t have to take them over the summer,” he’d argued at the time. Neither Bobby nor his dad wanted him to be pinpointed as the pill-popping newbie with diagnosed freak-out issues.
“Look, honey, I don’t know what sets you off, and that makes me very nervous. You of all people should understand the power of nerves.”
Now Bobby glanced up at the singing guys and felt his left eye twitch. His mom was right. He did understand the power of nerves. And he wished more than anything that he didn’t—that he could be normal, like his dad. Not victim to Bizarro Bobby (the name he’d given to his anxiety, after Superman’s Bizarro, an evil doppelgänger from another dimension trying to take him down). He hated how he had to fight heart palpitations that made him feel like he was about to die.
Meanwhile, the guys were still singing.
“In the bosom of the valley
Sun shines over thee.”
Each of the guys pounded his heart with his right hand, turned his fist into a peace sign, and then moved the peace sign over his head like a rainbow.
Bobby gripped the short hair on the back of his head to steady himself but tried to make it look like he was giving it a No big deal scratch. Somehow, stupidly, he’d convinced his mom he didn’t need the pills at camp. That he would be totally fine, and she could always send them up. But that was before he was about to freak in front of a bunch of guys he was stuck with for seven weeks plus three and a half days, and all before they even knew his name. He should’ve downed the tablet with his Eggos and pocketed the rest.
“Camp Rolling Hills,
Firm our loyalty . . .”
Bobby had hoped to slip under the radar here or, at best, to blend in. Not sung at with the merciless pep of a choir straight out of Glee. He took three deep breaths in an attempt to resist Bizarro. Thankfully, Bizarro Bobby seemed to be staying put for now, sort of the way his pup, Clark Kent, did when he hunted squirrels. He didn’t go away, he just waited patiently for the right time to pounce.
“May our hearts be filled forever
With thy memories.”
The guys were just standing there now, and Bobby almost clapped, having no idea what the protocol was for whatever had just happened. But before he could do anything, they all charged at him, lifted him up over their heads, and carried him inside.
Bobby felt the color in his face drain to a ghostly gray. His parents must have accidentally signed him up for a cult. He should call them to let them know, but, oh yeah, he remembered: no cell phones allowed. In a final blow, his mom had snatched his only connection to the outside world on the way out of the house.
“Hey, hey, let the kid down easy,” said the guy in the STAFF shirt. Bobby was grateful that someone had his back. He’d been emotionally preparing himself for broken bones—already picturing the white casts, doodle- and signature-free. Physical reminders of his broken life and friendless summer.
His feet crashed to the floor first, and he found himself standing dizzily, trying not to wobble. A big kid was next to him, and, without asking permission, Bobby held his shoulder for support until he was sure he wouldn’t fall over.
“What’s your name, buddy?” the counselor asked as the other boys went to the porch to collect their bags.
“Robert,” he answered. His friends called him Bobby, but he was sure these guys were nothing like them. Keith and Jake didn’t sing. And they certainly didn’t sing at him. Unless it was his birthday, and even then Bobby made sure the Happy Birthday song was sung on the DL.
As the five other campers dragged their duffels into the cabin, Bobby slowly regained his composure and took a look around. Three unmade wooden bunk-beds were pushed against the walls with empty cubbies, shelves, and plastic dressers in between. In the far left corner was an open curtain, replacing what could’ve been a door. He moved forward to get a better view of what was inside.
“Yup, that’s Rick’s nook. I’m Rick. It’s my nook,” said the counselor.
Inside was a hammock with pillows. Jeans and T-shirts were strewn on the floor, and a dark red tapestry of an elephant was nailed to the wall. Right outside the nook was a guitar, propped against the foot of a bunk-bed. Bobby’s mind drifted to his dad and the story about how he’d taught himself to play guitar in college so he could win over the girl who later became Bobby’s mom. That worked out well in the end, Bobby thought sarcastically.
“You play?” Rick asked, watching Bobby scope out his stuff.
“Oh. No.”
“Well, listen, welcome to Camp Rolling Hills.”
As if I didn’t get a chant and a song already.
“And I know it’s your first day, but just so you know for the future, you’ve gotta stay with the group. What we do, you do.” Rick was feeding Bobby’s cult suspicions.
“Sorry. I had to get my bag, and then I got lost . . .”
“You didn’t know they bring the bags for you?” Big Kid blurted out, his mouth full of sandwich. He rolled his duffel in front of him, crashing whatever was inside with every push.
“Nah, didn’t know.” If I did, I wouldn’t have dragged my duffel up four enormous hills, Bobby thought but didn’t dare say.
“No prob,” Rick assured him, pulling Bobby’s duffel inside and using his right Birkenstock to keep the door from slamming shut. “Guys, help the newbie with his stuff. Show him how neatly you all unpack.”
“I color-coordinate my shirts on occasion,” bragged the small kid who’d nearly been hacked in two by the window, “just so I really know what my options are when I get dressed in the morning.” Big Kid dumped Small Kid’s clothes on the floor. “Come on!” Small Kid whined.
Bobby looked to Rick, expecting him to make Big Kid drop and give him twenty, like at baseball camp.
Instead, Rick clapped his hands together. “All right. Cubby your folded clothes.”
Do what to your folded clothes?
“Start strong, boys. I’ll be out on the porch if anyone needs me.”
Rick slipped outside, and Big Kid nodded in sync with the sound of the door slamming shut. “Shot top bunk!” he hollered, climbing to the top of the bunk-bed closest to the window.
“No way, Play Dough! You can’t have top bunk—you’ll crush me,” whined Small Kid, groping Big Kid’s ankles.
Bobby took note: Big Kid’s name was Play Dough. At least, that was his cult name.
“No, I won’t.”
“Deriving a conclusion based on simple physics, you will,” replied an Asian kid with lab goggles around his neck.
“Fine,” Big Kid/Play Dough said. “Then, Wiener”—he indicated the Small Kid—“as the baby of the cabin, you can bunk with New Kid.” Bobby couldn’t tell if they were punishing him for being new or Wiener for being young, or both.
“I’ll be twelve soon,” Wiener protested.
“Yeah, like, next year. Steinberg will sleep below me,” said Play Dough, looking at Asian Kid.
“Can’t. Asthma. The dust.”
Wiener swaggered toward Bobby, pushing out his inverted chest. “Hey, New Kid! I gotta be on bottom for easy access. So, climb on top like a cop.”
Before Bobby gave up the bottom bunk to this little guy, the butt of the cabin’s jokes, he wanted to make sure he wasn’t getting the raw end of the deal. “Easy access to what?”
“To the bathroom. He’s a bed wetter,” joked P
lay Dough.
He’d better be joking, thought Bobby. It would stink, like, actually stink, to sleep above a bed wetter.
“No!” Wiener objected. “It’s ’cause I gotta have easy access to the back door, so I can sneak out to visit my girlfriend.”
“Dude-a-cris, you don’t have a girlfriend,” Play Dough said.
Asian Kid/Steinberg nodded like he dug it. “ ‘Dude-a-cris’? Cool.”
“Well, maybe this summer I will,” Wiener said, exhaling into his palm and smelling his breath.
“We’ve watched you try with almost every girl our age,” Play Dough continued. “Not gonna happen.”
“Uh, my voice is deeper now. And at least I try, instead of pining and whining and doing nothing about it like you.”
“I don’t whine,” Play Dough whined.
“All I’m saying is, this summer we’re supposed to go for girls. That’s what you do in Upper Camp, right?” Wiener cocked his chin at Bobby.
Bobby looked over his shoulder, sure that Wiener must be asking someone who actually knew what he was talking about.
“Plus, did you see Melman? Holy turds, she got hot.”
“‘Holy turds’?” Steinberg asked.
“Yeah, I’m trying it.”
“Don’t,” said Play Dough.
“Which one is Melman?” Bobby asked. He wondered if she was the pretty girl from the bus who’d lost her pencils.
“Baseball hat, cargo shorts,” said Play Dough.
Negative, Bobby decided. The girl from the bus had been wearing jean shorts. And if she’d been sporting a baseball cap, Bobby definitely would’ve noticed.
“Melman has the most penetrating eyes.” Wiener sighed dreamily, picking up a stack of his T-shirts from the floor.
Bobby couldn’t believe how weird these guys talked.
“ ‘Penetrating,’ how?” asked a kid wearing a Nike sweat-band. He brushed past with a hockey stick, a lacrosse stick, and a baseball bat tucked under his arm.
“They were shooting Wiener warning glances to stay back at least a hundred feet,” Play Dough joked.
Wiener seemed to enjoy the attention, but Bobby would hate to be shot down every time he said something, even if it was by his friends and even if most of what he was saying was really annoying.
“No, they were inviting me in—I could tell.”
“You’re gonna go inside her eye? That’s impossible,” said Nike Sweatband.
Curly ’Fro—the kid who’d lounged on Bobby’s duffel— jumped down from his top bunk. A compass and a stick of natural deodorant came down with him. “Totle’s got a point. I think she wears contacts,” he said.
Bobby took note: Big Kid was Play Dough. Small Kid was Wiener. Asian Kid was, improbably, Steinberg. Nike Sweatband was Totle. Curly ’Fro was the only one left.
With the whole penetrating-eyes argument cleared up, the guys went back to their unpacking. Wiener picked up more piles of clothes from the floor. Steinberg shook his inhaler. Bobby unzipped his duffel. He hoped Curly ’Fro hadn’t actually crushed anything important when he’d lounged on top of it. He was lean but muscle-y.
Play Dough strolled over to Bobby. “You see what I have to deal with here, New Kid? It’s our fourth year, and it’s the same thing every summer.”
“It’s Robert,” Bobby reminded Play Dough.
For some reason, Wiener got really excited at that. So excited, he accidentally elbowed his cologne off a plastic dresser. “Yo, Play Dough! Did you hear this kid’s name?”
“Yeah, Robert. We all heard it, brain-clog.”
“But . . . I’m Robert at home,” Steinberg objected, unloading batteries from his JanSport backpack.
“Well, what’s your last name?” Totle asked Bobby.
“Benjamin.”
“But my first name is Benjamin!” Curly ’Fro exclaimed.
“Yeah, we can’t have that. You’re gonna need a nickname.” Play Dough sat Bobby down on a thin, plastic mattress, his chunky arm around Bobby’s shoulders. He seemed serious about it, which made Bobby a little nervous. But it was OK, he told himself. He’d had nicknames before: Rob, Robbie, Bob, Bobby (his first choice), and Bobert (his last choice). Please, no one call me Bobert, he prayed.
“Steinberg, why don’t you start it off?” Play Dough said.
“Sure thing.” Steinberg took the lead like he’d done this before, like it was just another cult ritual everyone was in on. “OK, New Kid, I understand your name is Robert, and it’s . . . interesting that my name is Robert, too, but because we’re both Robert . . .”
“I need a nickname—got it, yeah.”
“Plus, Robert’s the type of name that stunts your potential.”
Stunts my potential for what? Bobby wondered.
“It doesn’t get you far,” Play Dough explained.
He wanted to fight back, defend the Robert inside him, but Play Dough was right. Robert hadn’t gotten him anywhere. It was the name his mom called him when they were running late for therapy, and the name his dad called him when he wanted to have a man-to-man talk about how he and Bobby’s mom were “taking a break.” Bobby’s stomach started to knot.
“But Steinberg isn’t a nickname,” Curly ’Fro said. “It’s just your last name.”
“Dude, Dover is your nickname and your last name,” Play Dough pointed out.
“Touché.”
“Your name is Ben Dover?” Bobby asked.
“Yup.”
“No way,” Bobby said with a touch of sympathy. Ben Dover was the alias he’d used for prank calls with Keith and Jake back in fifth grade, when they’d dial random numbers and try to sell people their used underwear.
“You’ll never guess where mine comes from,” Play Dough said. He left zero time for Bobby to guess. “You see, at school people call me Fat Brian Garfink.”
Is he waiting for me to tell him he’s not fat? Bobby wondered. “You’re not—”
“It’s cool. I get paid to run on treadmills.”
“Who pays you, your mom?” Wiener cracked.
“Uh, yeah.” Play Dough turned back to Bobby. “I like to eat. A lot.”
“You should see him go,” added Steinberg. “He’ll eat anything. Last Visiting Day, he ate an entire cookie cake. He’s also eaten a five-day-old egg-salad sandwich.”
“Ewwww . . .” Bobby didn’t get grossed out easily, but the thought of hot, rotten, old egg salad was too much.
“I found it under my mattress,” Play Dough added proudly. “So, one day we went hiking, and I got lost, ’cause I was looking at a rock—”
“Why were you looking—”
“ADHD,” inserted Steinberg.
Ah, thought Bobby.
“I wandered around alone for, like, five hours, so hungry. I finally found my way back, but by then I had missed Dinner and Snack and had eaten all my stashed Gushers and Kudos the week before, so I had nothing.”
“Then he threatened to eat me!” Wiener screeched, now accidentally knocking his pyramid of hair gel containers to the floor.
“Don’t exaggerate.”
“You bit my arm!”
“It had sweat on it. Sweat is salt, right, Steinberg?” “Sweat is urine that comes out of your pores,” Steinberg said.
Ew, gross. As the conversation got weirder and weirder, Bobby could feel his stomach knotting further—twisting and turning. He sweat a lot, especially in the summer, and double-especially in new environments. He prayed these guys wouldn’t start cracking jokes about how he was soaked in pee.
“Exactly,” said Play Dough. “Why drink Wiener’s pee, when I had just received a care package?” He faced Bobby. “It was right there on my bed. From my Aunt Hessie, who thinks I’m five and who makes clay kittens in her basement.”
“But it wasn’t food,” Steinberg explained.
“She’d sent me Play-Doh.”
“You . . . ate the Play-Doh?” Bobby guessed.
“Yup.”
“They say it’s nontoxic”�
��Steinberg smirked—“but the label’s a lie.”
“I sprinted for the can and—”
“Pooped out a rainbow!” the bunk exclaimed in unison, all laughing maniacally.
Bobby wanted to cringe. Not because it was gross, but because they were laughing so loud, so close, it hurt his ears. Play Dough had eaten Play-Doh. That was all they’d needed to say. What was the matter with these guys?
Bobby focused on Totle, who was taping up a New York Jets poster by his bed. He seemed to be the normalest of the bunch and could be a potential ally. Maybe his name came from something less weird than eating rainbow-colored clay. “OK, so what about you?” Bobby asked. “Totle’s your name or your nickname?”
“All men by nature desire to know,” Totle responded, stroking an invisible beard.
Never mind. Bobby’s heart sank.
“My name’s Justin. I was named for my great-uncle, also named Justin. But Justin is a boring name, and I’m kind of philosophic.”
“Philosophical,” Steinberg corrected.
“Whatever.” Totle took a deep breath through his nose. It whistled. “So, at first we tried out Plato.”
“But that was way too confusing,” said Play Dough. “Plato, Play Dough.”
“We considered Socrates, but Justin’s more Aristotelian,” Steinberg explained, his lab goggles now tightly fastened to his face. “But Aristotle is mad hard to say, you know? Try saying it seven times.”
Bobby nodded in agreement, but then he noticed they were all looking at him, actually waiting for him to say it. “Uh, Aristotle, Aristotle, Aristotle, Aristotle, Ar-stotle, Ar-stot-le, Ari—”
“Exactly,” Steinberg cut in, gesturing to Totle.
“So we shortened it to Totle!”
“Steinberg, do me!” Wiener said excitedly, leaping from his bed and bringing his entire plastic dresser down with him. “Best for last.”
Steinberg cocked his head in disagreement. “His name is Ernest Meyer.”
Totle chuckled with a bit of a snort. “Yeah, his name is really Ernest!”
Camp Rolling Hills Page 2