Crossing Over

by Stacy Davidowitz

  “But if you don’t want to . . .”

  I don’t know what I want! “No! Yeah, I mean . . .”

  Jenny hollered, “We can hear you! You HAVE to do it!”

  The idea of everyone lined up, listening to their super-intimate, clumsy conversation made Melman break into giggles. She guessed it was contagious, or Totle was thinking the same thing, because he broke into laughter, too.

  “Stop laughing and kiss!” Jenny said. They laughed some more. Melman felt the scratchy crinoline dig into her waist, and saw its gross pink color reflect on the water. I just can’t escape the pink, can I? And then it hit: Maybe I can. After all, this time the gross pink was coming from her. Which meant she could stop it. She didn’t have to take this challenge seriously. Who cared about ice cream? Even if it was Rocky Road? Wearing this dress, being Princess Bethany: NOT. WORTH. IT. She didn’t need to accept a stupid, hypocritical challenge. She should be challenging everyone else for challenging her to be someone she wasn’t!

  “Wanna do something crazy?” Melman whispered, cocking her head mischievously toward the water. Totle’s face froze like he was excited and scared, but mostly excited.

  “Sure . . . ,” he said.

  “Jump with me.”

  “Whaaa?”

  “Jump with me!” Melman took Totle’s hand, and they rose, wobbling together in the canoe. “One, two . . . three!” They jumped off the side and splashed into the cool, black water. A second later, they emerged beside the canoe, hidden from view and laughing hysterically. Melman’s pink dress floated up around her face, enveloping her like a cupcake.

  “This dumb dress is gonna drown me,” she said, giggling.

  “I got you,” Totle said, gripping the side of the canoe and reeling Melman in by a piece of poofy crinoline. He tried to karate-chop the fabric down, but it floated back up with impressive resilience. “Man, this is scratchy,” he said with a touch of sympathy. “How do you wear it?”

  “Bravely,” Melman joked, but really, she was dead serious. And then she said the bravest thing she could think of. “Do you . . . think I look pretty in it?” She couldn’t believe that had actually made it out of her mouth as a coherent question.

  Totle shrugged. “You look pretty no matter what, but most of all when you play soccer.” Melman wasn’t sure what she was hoping to hear, but she couldn’t have hoped for a better answer. “It’s cause, I dunno, you’re yourself when you play, and when you’re yourself, you’re your prettiest.”

  She choked up like she was going to cry. It was possibly the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her.

  They treaded water beside the canoe, now in comfortable silence, out of their cabinmates’ view. Melman could hear the swooshing kick of their sneakers underwater and their breathing, somewhere between quiet and heavy, falling into sync. The moment did seem kind of magical, being in the lake and all in the middle of the night. Totle looked handsome by moonlight, whether he was her type or not. And Slimey was right—they did have a connection. A great one.

  Melman felt goose bumps, but maybe because the water was chilly. The butterflies in her stomach were real and raving, but maybe because she was euphoric from jumping. Suddenly, their eyes locked, and Melman knew what was about to happen as it was almost happening, until it happened. She wasn’t sure who went in first or if they both went in together, but it didn’t matter. Their lips collided gently as the water bobbed around their chins. The kiss was . . .

  Slimy and wet and cold. The magic had died.

  She pulled away, forcing a smile. Totle smiled back, but she could tell his was for real.

  “We can’t see you and it’s boooooring,” Jenny whined. “Come back.”

  Melman and Totle shared a Guess that’s the end of that smirk and hoisted themselves into the canoe. Melman was shivering and Totle was beaming, and they paddled back to shore, out of sync.

  After a halfhearted, unsuccessful stab at communicating with the dead and the ritualistic hugs good-bye with the guys, the girls began their terrifying hike back. Jenny squeezed in by Melman’s side, linking arms. “Was it good?” she whispered, like she knew the answer had to be yes.

  “Yeah . . . ,” Melman said, trying to be casual.

  “Like, how good?”

  “Like . . . good.” Melman knew better than to kiss and tell, especially to the girl with the biggest mouth in camp.

  But minutes later, when they were back in their respective tents, Melman felt the urge to share the truth with her trustworthy tent mates, who were huddled at her feet.

  “What about his tongue?” Slimey asked.

  “It felt like a tongue.”

  “Well, maybe it was wet and slimy because you were in the lake,” she suggested, all positive.

  “Yeah, maybe,” Melman said, though she doubted that was it. “I dunno. I like him. But I don’t like-like him.”

  Slimey nodded like she understood, but the look on her face said differently. Melman didn’t want to let her down, or confuse her, so she tried again. “I just think I’m different,” she said, suddenly feeling really sorry for herself. She wished she could feel what Slimey felt for Smelly. She seemed so happy when she was with him. Why couldn’t Melman be happy with Totle? He was perfect for her. Was she immune to love?

  “I just hope they found Steinberg,” Sophie said nervously, pressing her cheeks between her knees.

  Before the girls could reassure her with a back rub that all was fine, they heard the bloodcurdling screams of the Hamburger Hill guys. The screams echoed in the black sky while Melman fought back tears. What is wrong with me? she wondered. And what in the world just happened?

  What have I done? Steinberg felt a chill climb up his spine. It had been five days since his Mujina stunt, and now his cabin was like a war-zone hospital. The guys produced an orchestra of groans and moans and winces and whimpers while they clawed at their red-rashed arms, bloody ankles, and dotted faces.

  As Steinberg applied ointment on the fallen casualties, the simple prank gone horribly wrong played over and over in his mind. Sure, he’d wanted to scare the daylights out of the guys, especially Play Dough. But he never should have lied about being lookout. He never should have let Yoshi disguise him as the faceless man. He never should have waited for the guys in the woods. And he never should’ve scared them so hard that they’d beeline into poison ivy.

  From across the cabin, Yoshi gave Steinberg a thumbs-up, but the sad state of his friends was worthy of a thumbs-down, so he ignored it. Yoshi had tried to reassure Steinberg it wasn’t his fault. That he didn’t drive them into the ivy on purpose. That he didn’t even know what it looked like until Nurse Nanette gave the guys a tutorial post-diagnosis.

  Steinberg figured Yoshi was trying to make himself feel better, too. It was easy to place the blame on Mother Nature. But Steinberg was more courageous than that. He took full responsibility, even if Yoshi wanted to walk around the cabin with his stupid thumbs-up.

  As Steinberg rubbed Dover’s scabbing ear with cream, his mind drifted to a happier time: the morning after Mujina. The guys had celebrated Steinberg for his epic counterattack. Only Play Dough had refrained from the back pats, but that was because he’d embarrassed himself the night before by hiding behind Wiener, falling flat on his face, and then curling up in a ball, begging for mercy. The rest of the guys, though, they commended Steinberg for his distinguished prank—even deemed it unbeatable.

  Dover’s grimace brought Steinberg back to the present. “Ow! Dude-a-cris,” he said, pulling away. “I can do it myself.”

  “Sorry, man. Go for it.” Steinberg moved on to Totle, who brushed him off with a Go away wave. He was flipping through his beat-up Sports Illustrated to pass the time, but he couldn’t really read or see the pictures—both of his eyes were swollen shut.

  Steinberg recalled the morning two days post-campout, when the rashes popped up one by one and the guys’ attitudes took a quick turn south. Steinberg was no longer a heroic Japanese warrior. He was dangero
us. Bad luck. An evil spirit.

  A part of him couldn’t shake the thought that it was all some big conspiracy. That Mujina and Adonai and Neeraj Vernigatu had put their heads together to curse him. Between Kiki 2.0 and the bunk-wide allergic reaction, it seemed like everything he was throwing himself into was getting thrown back in his face.

  Steinberg finished applying ointment to Smelly’s neck and then moved on to Wiener, whose eyes pleading for relief stabbed him with more remorse.

  Just then, a sharp squeal over the PA drowned out the score of groans, and the guys listened, craving intel from the healthy, outside world.

  TJ: Hello, hello, hellooooo, Camp Rolling Hills. The night you’ve all been waiting for will arrive mañana! The night is . . . the night of . . . Wait for it . . . Wait for it . . . Wait—

  Captain: Miss Rolling Hills!

  TJ: I was trying to really build that anticipation, honey, but . . . yes! Calling all boys with an itch to strut what your mama gave you. If you look admirable in a dress and high heels, have a unique talent, and an articulate view on world peace, then this announcement is for you! The BACKWARD beauty pageant is just around the corner. Be sure to submit your names, ahora!

  Captain: Before lunch.

  TJ: Before lunch.

  Captain: I just said that.

  The wounded cheered. Wiener fist-pumped. Totle flung his Sports Illustrated across the room and put a Scratch yourself move into his signature victory dance. Even Play Dough came alive—he lifted his T-shirt and shook his belly.

  Here we go, Steinberg thought, his spirits rocketing. He recalled last summer’s triumph with Rick as Shania Rick Tick Spray and Play Dough as Pretty Petunia Potpourri and Dover as Benita Dove Soap. (They’d gone with a sexy bathroom theme.) And this summer, they had an even more winning act all rehearsed and ready to go! Steinberg was going to emcee as per usual (with Georgina in the corner), and the rest of the Hamburgers were going to participate as “sisters with beefy buns.” It was going to be the most hilarious night of their lives. He couldn’t wait to receive the glorious plaque celebrating their five-summer sweep!

  TJ: As for the Hamburger Hillers . . .

  Captain: My regrets. You’ll have to sit this one out. I leave it to you, Nurse Nanette.

  Nurse Nanette [In her raspy-from-years-of-smoking voice]: You’re in no shape to wear other people’s clothes. It’s for your own good. And their own good. OK, well . . . TJ, how do you—[Squeal!]

  NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Steinberg screamed in his head loudly, but only half as loud as the actual “NOOOOOOOOOOO!” bellowed by the guys. That’s it. The final straw. This has to be a curse! he decided, no matter how much curses defied the laws of science.

  Steinberg sucked in as much oxygen as he could to feed Chaim, but he overflowed his lungs and started coughing. He stumbled near Play Dough’s bed and tripped over a cardboard box. It toppled over, and out spilled dozens of bald caps.

  “What is this?” he wheezed.

  Play Dough looked down at the caps, then up, like the answer was on the ceiling. “Oh yeah,” he said, scratching the short hair at the back of his head. “I asked my mom for them. To prank you back.”

  A counter-counterattack, Steinberg thought admirably. And then, with no warning whatsoever, Chaim fired up. One: Beefy Bun Sisters are a no-go. Two: We need to win. Three: We need a replacement act. Four: We have bald caps.

  “Holy Mujina! I got it!” Five rashed heads turned to face him. He climbed up his bunk-bed ladder. “We can still win,” he declared, extending out from the top rung, “if the Faith Hillers take our place.” The guys rumbled with confusion. “But not as ladies, as men!” The guys lit up, but their eyes looked lost—or shut, in Totle’s case.

  “Mister Rolling Hills!” Steinberg clarified, and then flung the bald caps like Frisbees. The guys leapt for them like the caps were prized bar mitzvah giveaways, but it was obvious they were still confused. “Don’t you get it?” Steinberg cried. “The girls can wear the bald caps and be Beefy Bun Bros!”

  “Ohhhhhh!” They sighed, collectively soaking it in. It was a formula so simple, a baby could swallow it. Curse of Mujina ÷ (bald caps + Faith Hillers) = Miss Rolling Hills Plaque. Also known as: the way he could redeem his rep with the guys!

  Steinberg initiated a chant: “Beef-y Bros! Beef-y Bros! Beef-y Bros!” Some of the guys joined in, others were more skeptical. He didn’t expect their spirits to blast through the roof with his plan, but he was hoping they’d be a touch more excited. Sure, they couldn’t compete directly, but couldn’t they see Steinberg was determined to win? A stupid poisonous plant wasn’t about to get in the way of their five-year streak. He really hoped he could regain their trust.

  “There is no great genius without a mixture of madness,” Totle said after a while, his raw hand extended for a shake. Play Dough seconded Totle with a nod.

  Steinberg gave a grin. It had certainly been a summer of madness. And now, he was more ready than ever to prove their work worthy of a Nobel Prize . . . or a camp plaque. As long as the girls were in. “Let’s go make history,” he said. He slid on an oven mitt and firmly shook Totle’s hand.

  “Psst! Here,” Steinberg whispered to Melman, dropping iceberg lettuce into his salad bowl. He spoke with his eyes on the tongs. “You brought the . . . ?”

  Melman nodded over the containers of shredded carrots and diced tomatoes, then held up a garbage bag with the mildewed Princess Bethany dress inside. She hoped Steinberg planned on ceremonially burning it. But figured that, more likely, he wanted it for his next demon robot.

  “Pass it under, and then I’ll tell you the plan,” he whispered, lifting his goggles and taking a stealthy look over his shoulder.

  Melman performed her habit of late: scraping her tongue with her two front teeth. The Princess Bethany era had left a bad taste in her mouth, and no matter how much she spat, Very Berry and Totle’s saliva loitered on her buds. But as Melman kicked the bag under the bar, she felt immediate relief. For the first time in a week, her palate was cleansed.

  Steinberg made his way to the cucumbers. “Miss Rolling Hills. Tomorrow night. Can you come as Melvin?”

  Tomorrow night? Dress as Melvin? Melman tried to wrap her head around how she felt about that. On one hand, she’d put Melvin behind her. She’d dressed as him to play soccer, and since that didn’t pan out and never would, she saw no reason to dress like him again. On the other hand, she was punished for dressing as him, which was totally uncool. Especially when it was totally cool for the guys to dress like girls at Miss Rolling Hills! What was up with that? Someone should call camp out on that injustice! Wait, Melman thought, her wheels turning, maybe I should call camp out on that injustice . . . as Melvin! She’d make the statement of the summer! And if TJ and the Captain didn’t like it, too bad. Her Ghost Court challenge was over. The dress was in Steinberg’s possession. They couldn’t girlify her again if they tried. Melman could feel her salivary glands pumping in favor of the Melvin comeback. “Absolutely!”

  “The only catch is,” Steinberg said, not so casually catapulting croutons into his salad bowl, “I need the Faith Hillers to perform in drag, too.”

  Her salivation halted, and the Very Berry crept back over her buds. Oh, that’s all? Melman thought sarcastically. That’ll be a breeze . . . of skunk. “Why?”

  “The guys are banned. Poison ivy.”

  “Oh. Well, what’s in it for the girls?”

  “Uh . . . a fun camp memory?”

  Great. She could picture it now: Melman asking the girls to dress like guys in front of the whole camp for nothing in return. Jenny exploding with Yeah-right, no-way laughter and fanning her sweaty-from-giggling face. Jamie following Jenny blindly, Missi following Jenny deafly and blindly, Sophie seething with jealousy that Melman was liaising with Steinberg behind her back, and Slimey going along with it, but deep down wishing they’d all just stick to the Miss Rolling Hills tradition.

  Melman popped a ranch dressing–soaked crouton in her mout
h to help her think. But then all she could think was Yum. Meanwhile, Steinberg piled his salad high with onions and darted his eyes impatiently as he awaited Melman’s answer.

  She decided that, first and foremost, this was an opportunity she couldn’t afford to miss. As for how she’d win her cabinmates over . . . she’d table that for Rest Hour. Back in Faith Hill, she’d be cut off from delicious distractions and could digest it all—her lunch, as well as how in the world she’d make this work. Now all she had to say was yes. “Yeah, I can get the girls to do it,” she said, popping a few more croutons for confidence.

  He fist-pumped, and some salady stuff spilled over. “I knew I could count on you.” With that, he grabbed the bag, abandoned the bowl, and booked it back to the Hamburger Hill table.

  With the dress off her hands and a new deal struck, Melman felt like this torturous era in her life had finally ended. And now there was something much brighter on the horizon. For starters, her mouth tasted like her normal mouth, with a touch of ranch crouton.

  During Rest Hour, Melman gathered her cabinmates in a huddle. She’d decided her first strategy would be to win them over with the sob story of the boys and their life-threatening case of poison ivy. “The guys are in terrible pain,” she said, shaking her head. “They’re itchy and bloody and so, so, so sad—”

  “Um, yeah, we know,” Jenny said, wincing her way out of the huddle. “Steinberg dressed like a creepy Daddy Warbucks or something and then gave everyone a rash and now they can’t dress like girls. Wah. Get to the part that involves us.”

  So much for emotional manipulation, Melman thought. “He needs you, J,” she found herself saying, stealing a management trick from Coach Sully, who sometimes gave responsibility to defiant players. “He needs you now.”

  It seemed to work—Jenny perked up and inched her way back in. “What do you mean, he needs me? Like, me, Jenny?”

  Melman cut to the chase. “Look, we need to stand up for what’s right. Why shouldn’t girls be allowed to participate? How is that fair? And what is Miss Rolling Hills teaching us, anyway? That it’s a big joke to dress like a girl? Isn’t that insulting? We should protest this double standard! We should make a point!”