“Hey, I’ve got an idea. How about I teach you to play a song for Campstock?”
“I don’t know what that is . . .”
“Campstock. The talent show.”
“Oh. Is it soon?” Bobby could feel his heartbeat accelerate.
“You’ll have lots of time to practice—no worries.”
“Right, but what if—I’m not saying I’ll have stage fright, or—But what if—”
“Relax!”
Oh, sure, I can relax—no problem, Bobby thought. It’s not like I have an evil doppelgänger out to kill me.
“Look, at least give it a try,” Rick said, laying a friendly hand on his shoulder. “That’s what camp’s all about.”
Bobby’s mind raced. He couldn’t perform in front of the whole camp! One: he didn’t like being in the spotlight. Two: he didn’t like trying new things in front of people. Three: especially new people he barely knew. Plus, Rick saw what he’d done on the first day. Did Rick want him to have a panic attack onstage? Yank down the curtain, wrap himself in it, and drift off to la-la land? Did he?
“Look, I’ll be by your side. I promise. And this could be good for you. Loosen you up a bit, get you to start acting like a ballin’ Rolling Hiller. Can’t be a real camper till you’ve done Campstock.”
Who says I want to be a real camper? Bobby thought. But then he remembered what Slimey had said about how camp was where you could leave your old problems behind and start fresh. He wondered if performing at Campstock would help him do that.
Rick grinned at him, all pumped. “So, what do you think?”
“OK.” Wait . . .
“Yeah?”
No. “I’ll do it.” You’re an idiot, Bobby.
“Yes! Awesome, dude!”
WHAT IS HAPPENING? Bobby could feel a rock sink to the pit of his stomach, bits of his life flashing before his eyes. He couldn’t believe what he’d just gotten himself into.
“You OK?” Rick asked. Bobby nodded. “You know, these guys are pretty cool once you get to know ’em.”
“Oh. Yeah, I know.” Have I been that obvious? I’m such a jerk.
“And on that note . . .” Rick cocked his head toward the cabin.
“Yeah, I’m tired now.” That wasn’t a lie. Bobby had completely exhausted himself with worry.
“You’re gonna be great, buddy—I promise. We’ll start practicing tomorrow. Cool?”
“Yeah, cool. Thanks, Rick.”
Rick put his fist out for a pound. “The ladies are gonna go nuts for you—you’ll see.”
The ladies? Bobby wondered. Do you mean the Anita Hill girls? Would Slimey like a guy who plays guitar? More than baseball? He pounded Rick back, and Rick dipped under Bobby’s fist with a peace sign.
“Snail!” Rick whooped. The peace sign looked like the snail’s antennae, and Bobby’s fist looked like its body. “ ’Night, buddy!”
Camp gets stranger by the second. “ ’Night.” Bobby headed back into the cabin, tiptoed to his bunk-bed, and climbed up. He pulled his sheets up to his chin and stared at the ceiling.
He thought about how he might accidentally mix up all the notes. His voice could crack. He could freeze up. He could choke. He could drop the guitar. He could fall off the stage. And, worst of all: Bizarro Bobby could bring out his inner freak in front of the whole camp. But if by some miracle he didn’t mess up, Slimey might think he was awesome-sauce, he might fit in as a “ballin’ Rolling Hiller,” and this summer could turn out only half as bad as his summers at baseball camp.
Bobby curled up on his side and faced out toward his cab-inmates, who were all sleeping soundly. He could hear Rick strumming softly on the porch and Play Dough breathing heavily through fluttering lips. Almost in harmony.
He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep imagining his dad playing guitar to his mom, except his dad was Bobby, and Slimey was his mom, and they were floating on a cloud right toward a bolt of lightning that was about to strike them, but Steinberg deterred it with his JanSport of batteries, Slimey slipped off the cloud, his cabinmates appeared and held him by his ankles as he saved Slimey from plummeting down into a giant duffel two hundred feet below, they all bounced on the cloud, which turned into a hill and back to a cloud as it floated all the way home above New Jersey, where everything had changed, and his mom and dad were cooking dinner together, Clark Kent was bow-wowing and dancing around them dressed like Superman, Bobby was singing the falsetto solo still high in the sky, and everyone was laughing and calling him cool because he didn’t freak, he stayed calm, he didn’t freak, he stayed calm, he didn’t freak, he stayed calm, and it was all gonna be OK.
Dover chucked the volleyball over the net. Slimey sprinted toward it, stumbled over the laces of her Chucks, fell forward, and caught it with her fingertips.
“Slimes! Yes! Yes!” Melman dove to the grass by Slimey’s side. “That’s my girl!”
Dover made a disappointed fart sound. “Time-out, Rick! We need to re-strategize!” he called out. Rick dismissed this with a wave.
As Slimey jumped to her feet, she glanced over at Bobby, who was sitting alone under a tree, plucking his guitar. She hoped he’d seen her crazy awesome Newcomb play, but he seemed pretty focused on practicing. She tossed the ball to Missi, who threw it backward. It landed on Dover’s shoulder, then bounced to the grass.
“That’s an OUT!” Rick bellowed.
Melman, Missi, Sophie, and Slimey cheered, “Slide down and rotate! Our team is really great!” and threw two claps in at the end. Slimey rotated to the edge of the court. Jenny was only a step away, sitting on the sidelines with Jamie’s head in her lap. They didn’t seem to be watching the game. Slimey followed their gaze to . . . Bobby.
“Oh! Jamie, you should call him Bobert,” Jenny advised. “It could be your thing!” Jamie shrugged in agreement.
Whatever, Slimey thought, pretending not to care. Jamie calling him “Bobert” would only work against her.
“Who should I get to do our dirty work?” Jenny said, braiding Jamie’s hair from a side ponytail.
“I dunno, one of the guys?”
“Yeah, of course one of the guys, pumpkinhead! I mean, which one is popular enough to, like, have pull with Smelly Bobert?”
A ball thumped against Slimey’s aching stomach, disrupting her eavesdropping. It spilled out of her arms, but Melman caught it before it reached the grass. “Thank you,” Slimey whispered apologetically.
“Just . . . stay focused,” Melman said.
Slimey wondered if Melman was listening to the J-squad, too, or had seen her looking over at Bobby, or if she’d noticed nothing but Slimey’s mess-up. She hoped it was the last thing.
“Nice save, ladies!” Sara called.
Slimey stole one last tiny quick glance at Bobby. He was still plucking away. Get your head in the game, she told herself. She bounced her knees, got her hands ready, and challenged herself to ignore everything off the court for the next three points. But then the J-squad ran their mouths again.
“Play Dough? He might have pull with Smelly,” said Jamie.
“Ugh. That’s sad.” Jenny scrunched her nose. “How is it possible that Play Dough is the most popular San Juan Hiller?” She un-scrunched. “He must have an amazing personality underneath all that flab.”
Jamie gave her a puzzled look. “Your personality is in your stomach?”
“Play Dough!” Jenny shouted from the sidelines. “Get out, I have to talk to you.”
Sophie lobbed the ball over, and Play Dough caught it with one hand. “What? No way. Newcomb—Battle of the Sexes style—is a full-on battle against you girls, and I’m not getting out until we’ve kicked your butts.” He threw the ball hard over the net, and Melman caught it like an Olympic Newcomber, then threw it to Steinberg.
“It’s serious,” Jenny whined, petting Jamie’s face.
“Not more serious than this game! We’re about to make camp history.”
“Omigod, do you really think you’re going to
make camp history from throwing and catching? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. You need to get out.”
“Never!” he grunted as the ball smacked the side of his head. “Ow!”
“Thanks, Melman!” the J-squad talk-sang.
“Yeah, yeah. I didn’t do it for you.”
“But the rules say no spiking!” Play Dough complained. “I’m staying in.”
“Overruled,” Rick called, winking at Sara and putting his palm up for a high five. She gave him an icy stare.
Slimey thought it was cool that Rick and Sara were working together, because they were the counselors who’d been at camp the longest, but so far they didn’t seem to be making the best team. Sara was obviously going through a tough time, and maybe Rick just needed to give her some space.
Almost as if Rick could hear Slimey’s thoughts, he left Sara alone. He walked over to Bobby, crouched beside him, and adjusted his fingers on the guitar.
“Jamie, you’re back in,” Sara called.
“No, thanks! I’m injured.”
“Tight braces are not an injury.” Sara waited a few seconds for Jamie to join the game, but when it was clear that Jamie wasn’t moving, she sighed and let it go.
Play Dough shuffled over to the J-squad, chewing a piece of pancake that must’ve been hiding in his pocket.
Three taps into the mic over the loudspeaker halted the game.
TJ: Is it on? Hey, sweetie, is it on?
Captain: The button is green.
TJ: Who loves Camp Rolling Hills? I know I sure do. We’ve got fly-fishing, tuna noodle casserole . . . Who wants friendship? I’ve got three hundred! Friendships, that is. Moving on to the weather: Mr. Sun is really making his golden presence known. We can’t possibly expect any campers to stay inside cleaning the cabin day after day when you’re luring them with your dazzling rays of shine.
Captain: Actually, it’s very important that the cabins are clean. Inspection is happening now while everyone wraps up Activity Period One.
TJ: Wrapido! Wrap it up!
Captain: And be sure to write a letter home during Rest Hour. Especially you, Robert Steinberg. Your mother has called me seven times this week, asking how you’re doing.
“Really, Steinberg?” Rick threw his hands into the air and headed back to the court. “You’re making me look bad.”
Captain: Don’t make me suspend San Juan Hill Cabin from the Midsummer Dance . . .
“Don’t do this to us, Steinberg!” threatened Play Dough.
“Rick, that’s not fair!” Wiener panicked.
“Get it done!” Dover demanded.
Captain: Because your mother, Robert Steinberg, is driving me bananas—
TJ: —are filled with potassium!
Captain: And other nutrients.
The camp directors signed off with an annoying squeal of feedback. The game resumed, and Slimey rotated out of turn, close to the sidelines again, to better hear the J-squad. She fell into her ready stance and kept her eyes on the court.
“Play Dough?” Jenny asked him.
“What?”
“So, does Smelly like Jamie?”
Slimey froze.
“Jenny!” Jamie yelped, her eyes bulging out of her face.
“Uh, I don’t think so . . . ?”
Slimey felt a pinch of relief.
“Why not?” Jenny snapped.
“Look at him. He’s sitting over there by himself. If he was interested, he’d stare at her and, like, touch her hair.”
“Is that what you think flirting looks like?”
“No. I dunno.”
Jenny huffed impatiently. “You need to ask him.”
“Wait, but—but . . . ,” Jamie stuttered.
“Omigod, Jamie, obviously he’s not just gonna ask him, like, directly.”
Play Dough cocked his chin. “So . . . how am I supposed to . . . ?”
“You just have to ask Smelly if he likes ANYONE. And if he’s shy about it, be like, ‘Jamie’s hot,’ so it’s, like, in his subconscious when he dreams and stuff.”
Jamie nodded. “Oh, yeah, I like that plan.”
Miraculously, Sophie got out. “Play Dough, you’re back in,” Slimey called immediately, not even caring about losing a teammate. Anything was better than having to listen to more of the J-squad’s schemes.
“Score-sauce!”
“Slimey!” the J-squad whined. “We weren’t done talking to Play Dough!”
Slimey shrugged. Play Dough hustled back into the game.
Jenny plowed on. “I’m gonna find you later, Play Dough. OK? Play Dough, OK?”
“Yeah . . . OK.”
“Good,” Jenny said, leaning back on her forearms. “Love happens because of people like us.”
Slimey rolled her eyes. After all, she and Bobby had a connection. Jamie and Bobby didn’t. That’s obvious, right? Right? A ball hit her thigh, interrupting her thoughts.
“Wiener with the fancy moves!” Wiener sang with a fist pump.
“Zip it,” Melman said. “No one wants to hear your voice.”
Slimey was out, but she didn’t even mind. As she stepped off the court, she stole her billionth glance at Bobby, but his eyes were still on his guitar. She felt a little awkward just walking over to him with everyone watching, but she was determined to say hi before the bugle sounded and the boys and girls had to split up.
“What’s up with Bobby?” she asked Play Dough, who was rubbing his hands in some courtside dirt like a gymnast would with chalk.
“You mean Smelly?” Play Dough asked.
“I mean Bobby.”
“Why don’t you girls just talk to him yourself if you’re all so curious?” Play Dough said to the J-squad and Slimey, but mostly Slimey.
“Maybe I will,” Slimey replied.
Play Dough stepped back into the game to serve. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re just gonna—”
Slimey turned and started walking over toward Bobby.
“Oh. OK, good.”
Slimey’s heart raced with every step. As she reached the tree, Bobby turned to face her.
“Hey! How long have you been standing there?”
“Oh, you know, like, twenty minutes.”
Bobby laughed. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Slimey smiled with relief that her joke had landed. Her heart was still beating fast, but it was a little steadier now.
“Wanna try?” he asked, offering her his guitar.
“Um, sure.” Slimey knelt down beside him. Bobby held down some strings and gave her the go-ahead with a nod. She ran her fingers along them.
“You should go pro,” he joked. “World tour.”
Slimey bashfully flicked some blades of grass into his lap. “Maybe I will. But you’d have to be my band aide.”
“A Band-Aid, like when you scrape your knee?”
“No, like, you know, when bands have fans who stick by their side.”
“Oh! Yeah. So . . . you want me to stick by your side?” Bobby asked in a way that was a little bit awkward, a lot a bit sweet.
“Slimes, you’re back in!” Melman called. “Wiener can’t catch!”
Wiener huffed in defense. “My gel gives me slippery fingers, if you must know,” he said, running a hand through his hair.
“Win it without me!” Slimey shouted back to Melman, taking a leap of faith she’d understand. As much as she hoped the girls would win, her “hi” had turned into a flirty guitar lesson, and she had no interest in cutting it short.
“That is so unfair,” Jenny complained. “We can’t all sit out. Slimey doesn’t even have braces!”
“Cool it, Jenny,” Sara said. “We have to leave for soccer in a second, anyway.”
“Final point, folks, finale punto!” Rick bellowed.
“Nooooooo!” the boys (minus Bobby) moaned.
As the last throws were thrown, Slimey strummed the guitar and could feel Bobby grinning at her. Her mind was miles from the game. All she could think about was th
e boy in front of her, and how, in a way, he was turning out to be her Band-Aid, after all. The knee-scrape kind. With every glimpse and every smile, she could feel herself healing back to her old self—the Slimey who was always happy, without a care in the world.
Slimey was walking to Canteen with Melman and the rest of her cabinmates, when she spotted Bobby sitting alone on the bleachers of Baseball Field 2. The sun was setting behind him, casting a shadow at his feet.
“Go ahead without me,” she told Melman, giving her hand a little squeeze.
“Where are you going, Slimes?”
“I left my Canteen Card on my bed,” she lied, jogging a few feet back down the dirt road, past the J-squad, her locket thumping against her chest with every step. “I’ll be right back!” Slimey felt guilty for not telling her best friend the truth, but she didn’t want Melman to feel bad or act weird about her skipping out on a shared Twix bar to talk to a guy. Things were weird enough. She knew it wasn’t Melman’s fault that she didn’t understand her the way Bobby might when it came to family stuff. Melman’s family was perfect.
Slimey kept jogging until her cabinmates were out of sight, then turned and headed back toward Bobby. He was listening to that same big iPod he’d been listening to on the bus, his head down in his lap.
“Hey,” she called. He didn’t answer. She took a step closer to the bleachers and tried again. “Hey.” Still nothing. “Bobby, hey!” She waved a hand near his face.
He moved his headphones from his ears to his neck and looked up at her with swollen eyes.
“Hey, why aren’t you at Canteen?” she asked as gently as she could.
“Don’t feel like it.”
“Not hungry?”
“It’s not that. It’s just—”
“You’re not feeling up to it?”
“Yeah.” Bobby attempted a smile, but it just made him look sadder. He stood up on the second bleacher bench and extended his hand out to her. Slimey grabbed it, and he pulled her up by his side. “It’s good you’re here. I can’t hide forever.”
His skin felt warm against hers, and she wished she didn’t have to let go. It was just his hand, but, still, the contact made her stomach flip. As they sat, and the hyper butterflies subsided to normal butterflies, Slimey noticed a folded piece of paper fall out of his pocket and land by her feet. She picked it up and handed it to him. “Here.”
Camp Rolling Hills Page 6