I cleared my throat. I turned back to Yardstick. “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but I would appreciate it if you stopped messing with my head….”
“Whatever, man.”
I stepped back from the table.
He’s toying with you, Spencer.
They all were. First, Compass. Then Sporkboy. Now Yardstick. They had embedded themselves into New Leaf. Sleepaway camp sleeper cells.
The Middle Kids from cabin three were sitting a few tables away.
Charles shoveled a plastic forkful of coleslaw into his mouth and spat it into the air over his head, then looked at me and smiled. “Spencer! Over here!”
I chose a seat directly across from Stan the Man.
“Not hungry?” he asked as he brushed the diced cabbage out of his hair.
“What’s on the menu?”
“Tofu dogs, veggie burgers, brown rice, gluten-free tempeh…”
“Seriously?”
“The healthier the stuff you put into your body, the healthier the stuff you get out.”
“You mean number two?”
“No,” Stan the Man said. “Vibes. Positive energy.”
“Who cooks this crap?”
“You do.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “You definitely don’t want me cooking.”
“Every camper here is assigned a job,” Stan the Man said. “The older campers usually get kitchen duty, but don’t be too surprised if you get dish detail.”
Stan the Man pointed to the area directly behind a row of steam tables.
The first thing I noticed was a wire-meshed hairnet swallowing a huge orange afro. Sporkboy looked up and, giving me his biggest grin, ladled a spoonful of brown rice onto Capone’s dinner tray.
Leaning over the table, I whispered, “You’ve got to believe me. The whole camp is in danger.”
“How so?”
“I’ve been followed….”
“Followed?”
“I know this sounds crazy, but there’s a gang of kids stalking me. I think—I know they’ve tracked me down.”
“Hmm-hmm.” He smiled, rather agreeably—but Stan was giving me That Look.
“I believe you, Spencer,” Charles offered.
“Spencer…” Stan the Man’s voice sounded very even. Calm. “I hate to say it, but you’re sounding a little…delusional. I read over your file and I think…”
“You’ve read my file, too?” I interrupted. “What’s it say?
I could picture it in my head:
FILE #20: SPENCER AUSTIN PENDLETON
What can I say? I’m a runner. Always have been, always will be. Which is ironic, if you think about it, given that the one time I could have run away for good and joined the Tribe, I didn’t bolt—and ended up getting in the most trouble I’ve ever landed in before in my entire life. And believe me, I’ve gotten into plenty of trouble: Expelled for setting my science class on fire. Attacked vice principal with stapler. Poked a teacher in the eye with pencil. Expelled a second time for food poisoning fellow classmates.
Did I also mention I’m a bit of a fibber? I’ve told more tales than both of the Grimm brothers. Hans Christian Andersen hasn’t got anything on me.
Now I’m serving a six-month sentence of house arrest. My parents are separated. Currently living with father. Therapy once a week.
But now I’ve got an itch to run that I’m just about ready to scratch.…
Medication: Chlorofornil
“Spencer.” Stan the Man held out his hands. “Calm down.”
Something wasn’t right. I couldn’t put my finger on it at first. “You’re not a regular camp counselor—are you?”
“Caught me.” Stan raised his hands. “I’m actually a grad student.”
“You’re a student?”
“Aren’t we all?”
“Studying what?”
“You, actually. I’m a developmental psychology major. I’m focusing my thesis on adolescent behavioral problems. You kids will be the basis for my paper.”
“I’m some guinea pig to you?”
“All I do is observe.”
“What’s there to observe?”
“Everything.” Stan stood up. “Enough chitchat. You’ve got to come with me.”
He escorted me over to the dinner line. At its end sat Peach Fuzz with a tray of sip-size paper cups. Each cup was marked with a different name.
Peering inside, I saw that the cups held a multicolored cluster of pills.
Red pills. Green pills. Blue pills.
Horse pills. Gel caps.
Hoppers. Poppers.
Animal-shaped chewables.
Breath mints.
Every kind of medication under the sun.
“What are those?”
“Your prescriptions,” Peach Fuzz said.
I zeroed in on the cup with my name written across its side.
So this is how the counselors were supposed to keep us in line. Our own specially designed chemical cocktail.
“Here,” Stan the Man said, picking up the cup with my name on it. “Wash ’em down with some orange juice.”
“I’m okay, thanks.” I shook my head as I slowly back-stepped away.
“Pendleton,” Peach Fuzz muttered. “Either take your medication or we make you take it.”
“You really need to work on your bedside manner.”
“It’s for your own good, Spencer,” Stan the Man said.
“Good luck getting me to swallow those.”
“There are other ways,” Peach Fuzz said.
I couldn’t help but laugh. “How’s that?”
Peach Fuzz cleared his throat. “These pills are going into your body one way or another—in one end, or in the other end.”
I took the cup. My pills were Christmas-colored, green and red.
“Swallow,” Peach Fuzz ordered.
I cricked my neck back and poured the pills into my mouth.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Peach Fuzz gave me a smarmy grin. “Now open wide.”
I spat the pills straight into his face.
I was ready to bolt for the door, but Peach Fuzz grabbed my shoulder. He and Stan the Man each took an arm and held on.
“Suppository it is,” Peach Fuzz said.
“Let go!”
Stan the Man picked my pills off the floor and presented them to me. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be, Spencer. Swallow this time.”
“There’s a hair stuck to it….”
“Just do it, Spencer.”
I clamped my mouth shut. Lips pursed, I shook my head.
“Don’t swallow!” Capone shouted from the older campers’ table.
“Don’t swallow, don’t swallow!” Charles parroted.
Peach Fuzz pinched my nose.
Other campers picked up on the chant, until the entire mess hall echoed—“Don’t swallow! Don’t swallow! Don’t swallow!”
Just hold your breath, Spence. Whatever you do, don’t open your mouth.
The air in my lungs started to sizzle.
“Don’t swallow! Don’t swallow! Don’t…”
My mouth burst open. Peach Fuzz popped my prescrip-tion in.
“…swallow.”
Peach Fuzz pressed his palm over my mouth until I swallowed.
I gulped for emphasis.
“Good,” Peach Fuzz nodded. “Now say aaah.”
I opened my mouth and rolled around my tongue.
Empty.
“Feeling better already,” I mumbled, and shuffled back to my table.
Lazy Eye made sure none of the counselors were eavesdropping before walking over to my table.
“Psst.” He nudged me in the gut. “I’m Thomas.”
He held out his hand. I thought he wanted me to shake it.
“Hand ’em over.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I muttered.
“You might be good enough to fool them, but you’re not good enough to fool me. Put your bottom lip down.”
This kid Thomas was good. Real good. His lazy eye darted all over the room, allowing him to look in two separate directions at once. I could tell he was scanning the cafeteria to see if any of the counselors had noticed what he was up to. His lanky profile made him look more like a stretched-out shadow than an actual person. Even when he was sitting next to me, it almost felt like he had just left, while his shadow stayed behind.
He wasn’t there even when he was.
I made sure no one was looking my way before digging my finger behind my bottom lip and fishing out the pills.
“Why should I give you my meds?”
“I’ll cut you in,” he whispered. “Sixty-forty.”
“Cut me in?”
“Fine—fifty-fifty! But it better be the brand-name stuff. No generic.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Our parents don’t trust us with our scripts, so the counselors monitor our meds. Your dad filled out a form with your medication history on it. Georgie Porgie keeps it on file in the head office. At every meal, they dole out whatever dosage is written on that form. But…”
Thomas grinned, wriggling his eyebrows.
“But—what?”
“A business-minded man such as myself can sell all kinds of meds to other campers. You need a boost to get you through the day? I’m your man.”
Thomas’s lazy eye scanned the room while his other eye remained on me. When he was sure the coast was clear he pulled a tackle box from beneath his seat.
Opening it, the top portion revealed an assortment of…
“…School supplies?”
“You can never be too careful,” he winked.
He pulled out the top shelf to reveal a hidden compartment underneath.
“We got your stimulants,” Thomas wound up his sales pitch. “Or how about antidepressants? We’ve got everything under the sun—except for Chlorofornil. You’re the only one here with that prescription.”
“Lucky me.”
Throughout our meal, I watched kids walk up behind Thomas and whisper into his ear. He’d fish through his tackle kit and make the exchange under the table.
By the time dinner was finished, Thomas had raked in nearly fifty bucks.
“You’re really making a killing,” I said.
“That rusty-headed loony from the lunch line?” Thomas must’ve meant Sporkboy. “He’s my biggest customer. Cleaned me out of my Valium before anyone else could ask.”
“Why would he need so many?”
“Sleep, I guess.” Thomas shrugged. “He’s got enough now to put an elephant into a coma, if he wanted to.”
FILE #8: THOMAS WELLS
Keep an eye on your stuff around him. Possessions have a funny way of disappearing when he’s nearby. You name it, he’ll take it.…
When he was seven, Thomas’s parents found a stockpile of stolen goods in their attic. Years’ worth of missing items were stored in piles—silverware, fine China, jewelry, other children’s toys.
Thomas was first caught shoplifting at age nine. He’s been arrested four times since then. His mother doesn’t take him grocery shopping anymore. If she has to, she makes sure to empty his pockets before checking out.
Thomas’s crowning achievement last year had been to snitch the car keys of every last counselor. He’d hidden them in a hollowed-out tree trunk. It wasn’t until all the campers had boarded their buses and were heading back home that George and the rest realized that they were completely stranded, all thanks to Thomas’s quick fingers.
Medication: Surveilaprol, Stikifingertine
DAY ONE: 2000 HOURS
here wasn’t another tribal sighting for the rest of the night.
“All you younger campers must report back to your bunks in ten minutes,” George’s tinny voice crackled over the PA. “Hope you get a good night’s sleep! See you bright and early. Campers from cabins three and four, please meet in the amphitheater.”
Peach Fuzz had to corral all of the Piranhas for their bedtime. Easier said than done. Whenever he caught up to the pack of rabid preadolescents, they would burst apart and scatter.
“Runrunrunasfastasyoucanrunrunrunasfastasyoucan.”
They would reconnect as soon as they’d put enough distance between themselves and the hyperventilating Peach Fuzz.
“Game over, guys,” he said with an abrupt yawn. “Time for…bed.”
A bonfire was waiting for the older campers, its flames casting an orange glow over the logs. Stan the Man broke out a bag of marshmallows and we were each given a stick to roast our own.
George pulled out an acoustic guitar. “Who remembers this golden oldie?” He asked as he strummed away, leading the boys through a halfhearted sing-along:
“I feel goood, breathing in the cleeeean air….My mind feels cleeeeear, happy and awaaaaaaaaare.”
Now it was time to get down to business.
Ghost stories.
“Does anybody here know how Lake Wendigo got its name?” George asked.
Nobody answered.
“I’m sure you all saw the totem pole when you pulled into the parking lot earlier today, yes? Well, every totem pole tells a story, and the tale told by our very own is of a cannibalistic spirit called…the Wendigo.”
“This lake was named after a man-eating demon?” I asked. “You’d think people would want to name it after a happier spirit.”
George double-taked me, his mouth half open, as if he were trying to decide whether or not he wanted to respond.
He let this one slide.
“The winters here were harsh,” he continued, his eyes lingering on me for a second before returning to the rest. “Food would grow scarce the lower the temperature dropped. People starved to death. But there was a fate far worse than famine. Something much more painful than dying of hunger.”
George scanned his eyes over the crowd. He took in a deep breath.
“The Wendigo was nothing but skin and bones. Its ribs raised up from its flesh. Its eyes sunk deep into its sockets, its thin lips pulled back over a row of crooked teeth. Some say it even had antlers, like a deer.”
If my mind wasn’t so zonked on prescriptions half of the day, I’d say I had seen something just like the Wendigo that very afternoon.
“It was almost human, but not quite. Half man, half animal—all hunger.”
“Sounds like Charles,” Capone chuckled.
“Take that back,” Charles insisted.
“The Wendigo would whisper your name when your stomach had shriveled down to the size of a prune. It would offer you a choice: Let the Wendigo possess you and make you stronger…or die of starvation.”
Charles raised his hand. “Most people picked possession?”
Capone poked Charles in the stomach with his roasting stick.
“What?” Charles asked. “I was just curious….”
Capone jabbed him again.
“Stop.”
And again.
“I said stop.” Charles stood, limbering up his jaw and glowering at Capone.
Capone threw his stick into the fire and got up to face Charles, baring his own metal-covered teeth.
I grabbed Charles’s wrist. He looked at me—and for a second, it looked as if he had no idea who I was, like he was about to take a bite out of my hand.
Blinking, he came back.
“Sorry,” he said, and sat.
“That’s what I thought,” Capone huffed before popping a squat.
George pretended nothing ha
d happened.
“If you let the Wendigo in,” he said, “it seized your stomach and gave you an uncontrollable craving for flesh. The only way to stay alive was to eat another human being. And another. And another…” George’s eyelids were growing heavy. “How else do you explain all the gnawed bones found around here?”
“What bones?” Capone asked.
“Before this place became a camp, archeologists dug through the area. They discovered bits of ribs covered in teeth marks. Half-skeletons with bones missing.” George paused, stifling a yawn. “Maybe, just maybe, there’s some truth to the story.”
Charles leaned over to me and whispered, “If I was possessed by the Wendigo, I promise I wouldn’t eat you.”
“Who would you eat?”
“I’d start with Capone. A lot of meat on those bones.”
“I’d like to see you try,” Capone said.
Charles only stabbed the fire with his stick.
“Me,” Capone pontificated. “I’d probably head to the little kids’ cabins. Easy pickings. Each bunk is like its own buffet table!”
“Too many little ribs,” Thomas said. “They might get caught in your throat.”
“How about we don’t eat anybody, okay?” George asked, his head listing over to one side. “Anybody else got a good ghost story?”
The cinders hissed before us. The dark pines leaned over our shoulders, breathing down our necks.
Charles shook his head. Mason and Thomas remained still. So did Capone.
I dipped my chin to my chest and focused on my marshmallow. It looked like a bubbling skull. When I glanced back up, I realized everybody’s eyes were on me.
“Sorry, guys.” I shook my head. “My storytelling days are over.”
“But you’re so nuts,” Capone persisted, “I bet you’ve got a real whopper.”
“I’m out. Officially retired.”
“Sure, whatever,” Capone huffed. “Chicken.”
The oldest trick in the book: Call a kid chicken and he’ll have to prove he’s not.
It wasn’t going to work on me.
I wasn’t going to give in.
I wasn’t.
But just when I think I’m out, they pull me back in….
“You want a ghost story?” I asked. “Fine.”
I cleared my throat. It had been a while since I’d had a captive audience. I was feeling a little rusty.
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