Captain: Well, not tricking—
TJ: AND THE COUNTDOWN STARTS . . .
“NOW!” Wiener shouted alongside every Hiller at camp. When he and his cabinmates had arrived thirty minutes ago, they’d been the first campers there. Now there were hundreds of campers hustling to set up their booths in the shape of the number fifty. To his left was Skee-Ball. To his right was Sand Art. In front of him was a Bouncy House. Mini Bowling? Mom-Gift Making? Leg-Muscle Building? This was going to be epic!
Wiener spotted Max half a golf hole away, collecting rings for his cabin’s Ring Toss. His heart started doing nervous flips. He hadn’t talked to Max since the first day of camp. It could have been a scheduling thing, or a Wawel Hill Cabin to Bunker Hill Cabin distance thing, but he feared it was mainly a My big bro is a loser thing.
That’s why today was so important. During his shift, he’d call Max over to the Dunk Tank and hand him a softball. Max would try again and again to hit the target. Finally, when Max complained that it was too hard, Wiener would demonstrate, hitting the target on his first try. “Wow—you’re so good at this game,” Max would say. “Well, I created it,” Wiener would respond modestly. Then he’d put Max on his shoulders, and they’d race toward the bull’s-eye, slapping it together. Chico would fall into the tank. Splash! Hoorah! Wiener and Max would high-five. “Can I man the DT instead of the RT?” Max would ask. Wiener would put his hand out for a shake. “You got it, brother.”
“Wiener, HELLO!” Play Dough said, snapping him from his daydream. “Stop drooling over your mamma in the Social Hall.”
“Oh. Ha.” Wiener dabbed his lip for drool, just in case. Dry as cotton. “So, Smelly, what was that you were saying about my mamma?” he cracked, running a hand through his freshly gelled hair. He wound his arm faster and faster, gaining speed, and a split second before he meant to let the softball rip, he lost control. The ball slipped from his goopy fingers and went flying, flying, flying, SMACK into Chico’s eye.
Chico flung his hands over his face and then went totally still.
A wave of shock washed over the guys. Guilt filled Wiener from his belly button to his throat. He couldn’t think of anything but a jumbled apology. And he couldn’t voice it because his vocal chords were all locked up.
“YAAAAWOOOOOOOOOOOW,” Chico howled.
Arman rushed out from behind the Dunk Tank and sat Chico on the grass. Claudia Cooking suddenly appeared with a bag of frozen tater tots. “I’m okay,” Chico said, pushing the tots aside. A bluish-black streak was already forming below his eye.
“It’s gonna swell,” Arman said. “I’ll grab actual ice.”
The guys huddled around Chico, fanning him, blowing cool(er) air on him, and distracting him with fart jokes. “F-E-E-L, feel better,” Wiener chanted over them, since he was the only one who knew about Chico’s disdain for potty humor.
“BOOOOOOOOOO!” Play Dough yelled over Wiener, throwing handfuls of grass in Wiener’s mouth to make him stop, until finally, he did.
Luckily Arman arrived seconds later with a plastic bag of ice cubes. He broke through the huddle and put the ice right onto Chico’s face. “I think you should go to the infirmary,” he told him. “Chill out for a bit.”
“Dude-a-cris, go,” Play Dough said.
“It’s that bad?” Chico asked.
“Your face? No,” Play Dough said. “I was just hoping you’d grab Nurse Nanette’s birthday cake from the infirmary freezer. I’ve been eyeing it since last August and she’s on to me.”
“I don’t need an injury to steal some cake,” Chico said. “I can get it for you later.”
“I heard that,” Arman said. “So, guys, we still need someone to test the Dunk Tank. Poor Smelly here has been waiting patiently for ten minutes.”
Wiener looked at Smelly clinging to the bungee chair for dear life and instantly sympathized. Secretly he feared free-falls—they made him feel like his skin was draped in melting plastic. Under no circumstance would he be getting in the tank.
Play Dough tossed Chico the softball. “Ice after. It’s all you.”
Chico nodded a thanks. “Let’s get this carnival started.” He wound his arm and pitched the softball toward the target. It curved slightly and then POW—it slammed right into the bull’s-eye. Except Smelly was still seated, dry as a land turtle.
“Uh, guys . . .” Steinberg started, his head moving in little nervous twitches. “Why didn’t that work?” He ran behind the Dunk Tank to examine it. “THE WHEEL!”
“What’s wrong with it?” Dover asked.
“The release mechanism is jammed.”
“English, please,” Play Dough said.
Steinberg ducked out from behind the tank. “Someone used a go-cart wheel instead of a bike wheel.”
The guilt in Wiener’s chest grew into a mountain. He could throw Chico under the bus—the go-cart wheel was his idea—but the dude had suffered enough for one day. Plus, what did a newbie know? Wiener should have used his veteran veto power to get Steinberg exactly what he’d wanted. “My fault,” Wiener said, kneeling at Steinberg’s feet for forgiveness.
Chico looked at him bizarrely. “Actually, it was my—”
“NO,” Wiener cut in, drawing manly inspiration from Chico, who had taken his eye slam like a man. “Me. I failed you,” Wiener told Steinberg.
“Uhhhh, okay,” Steinberg said, seemingly not mad, just weirded out. “You can rise I guess.” He turned to Arman. “You know the magnets that hold doors shut for security? They run on twelve volts. We need one of those for an electric release.”
“Buddy, it’s gonna be impossible to get ahold of something like that now.”
“You say impossible, I say try me,” Steinberg said. “You did defeat a cheetah, right?”
“A whole family of them.”
“So let’s fix this Dunk Tank.”
“HUDDLE UP!” Play Dough called. The guys, minus Smelly, formed a huddle and put their hands in the middle.
“PUPPY FACES!” Play Dough ordered. They fired puppy faces at Arman for one . . . two . . . three seconds.
Arman surrendered. “I guess let’s see what we can do.”
“SAUCE!” the Wawels shouted, their sandwiched hands blasting into the air.
Arman took charge. “Totle, you’ll interface with campers. Dover, in the tank.”
“Sure thing!” Dover said. “How about if a camper hits the target, then Totle, you’ll shout in an Aussie accent—”
“BULL’S-EYE, MATE!”
“—and then I’ll jump into the laundry bin of my own free will.”
“Great plan,” Arman said. “Steinberg, help Smelly out of the tank, and then the two of you can go searching for your magnet.”
“Cool,” Steinberg said.
“I have nothing to do,” Play Dough complained.
“You can distribute prizes,” Arman said. “Someone needs to grab them.”
“ON IT!” Wiener shouted. He grabbed Chico’s wrist and raised it in the air, desperate to get him alone for a man-to-man apology, and also, to be the one to show him the awesomeness of the carnival.
“Fine, but keep the ice on, Chico,” Arman called. “Wiener, I’m relying on you.”
“You got it!” Wiener called back, already leading Chico toward the platform stage.
As they passed amazingly crafted booths like the Water-Balloon Toss, and Pinball, and Squirt-Gun the Clown Mouth, Wiener couldn’t help but smile. “Pretty cool, huh?” he asked Chico.
“Sure. It’s cute for a kiddie carnival,” Chico replied.
Wiener shook his head, baffled. “A kiddie carnival?”
“Oh, my Wiener, you should see the one in Barcelona. There are parades, and floats, and dancers, and costumes, and live music, and tortilla-making competitions!”
“Wow,” Wiener said. “That sounds amazing.”
“It is. Our Carnaval is the biggest, best fiesta. You should come to Spain to check it out.”
Wiener nodded, feeling conflict
ed. Of course a camp carnival wouldn’t hold up to Barcelona’s world-famous Carnaval. But camp activities weren’t supposed to be held to real-world standards. They were incredible for different reasons. Today was a celebration of camp history. And friendship. And teamwork. And booth pride. That wasn’t nothing. That was EVERYTHING. But, on the other hand, Yes, please, to a European adventure eating tortillas and shaking hips with a Barcelonan pop star.
Once the guys got in line for the prizes, Chico removed the ice from his face and winced like a movie star fresh from a fight scene.
“Hey, I’m really sorry for hitting you,” Wiener said. “If it helps, I’ve got concealer back at the cabin.”
“Maybe,” Chico said. Then he pointed his chin at a barrel of bobbing apples. “My father’s going to be pissed. He already thinks I’m a spoiled fruit.”
“A bad apple?”
“Yeah. He sent me here to stay out of trouble.”
Trouble? Wiener wondered. Chico seemed so mature. His dad should call him “sweet as pie” like his mom did when she tucked him in at night, not a “bad apple.”
The whee-yoo, whee-yoo of a siren cut their conversation short. Wiener looked toward the noise and spotted Jenny and Jamie inside the Love Shack, only half a golf hole away, playing tug-of-war with a loudspeaker.
“IF YOU’RE LOOKING FOR LOVE, please report to the Love Shack. We repeat—IF YOU’RE LOOKING FOR LOVE, CHICO, please report to the Love Shack. The love of your life awaits—Jenny, no!—We don’t bite—Ow, you actually just bit my arm—Are you a dog person or a cat person?—Cat people especially welcome—Meow Mix ha-ha-ha!”
Missi sat hunched beside the J-squad, shaking her head in small, mortified bursts.
Chico passed Wiener a baggie of prizes. “Those two girls are scary.”
Wiener laughed. “Yeah, the J-squad can be pretty intense, but—”
“Pardon. I’m going to go say hello to Missi. Ask her if she’d like some ice cream.”
“Oh, okay.” Wiener could hardly believe Chico had the guts to just walk over all on his own. And OFFER HER ICE CREAM? The dude should write a book. “Have fun. Meet me back at the DT in twenty for our rotation?”
“Yes, my Wiener. That works.”
“Oh, and how do you feel about going in the tank? I’d rather show my little brother how the game works.”
“I’m very sweaty, so that sounds—how do you say—sauce?” “That’s how you say it!” Wiener smiled and put his hand out for a fist bump. Chico bumped him back.
He watched Chico approach the Love Shack and Missi. Sophie held a fishing rod above them. Instead of bait hanging from the line, there was a makeshift mistletoe—a paper heart with grass and red beads taped to it. Jenny whispered something into Chico’s ear, and he slid a Ring Pop onto Missi’s finger. Then, as if he’d actually proposed and she’d actually said yes, the film crew swept in.
Wiener wanted to be happy for them, but he couldn’t help but feel pathetic. That could have been him out there with Missi. He would have loved to catch her smile as he slipped on a Ring Pop. He would have loved to soak up the media attention. He would have loved to prove to Max that he and Missi were a Kodak, Love Shack, for-real couple.
He looked down at his feet. His legs moved him away. He delivered the prizes to Arman and then went back out, determined to have fun. He earned a dreidel from a Mini Basketball game, a slap bracelet from a Ping-Pong Toss, and a slice of zucchini bread from Claudia Cooking in exchange for the dreidel. And then, once he was feeling healthy and hyped, his watch alarm beeped. Dunk Tank time, yo!
Wiener rushed back to find Max on Play Dough’s back and spinning. “This is the best ride of the carnival,” he cried happily. “Wheeeeee!” No one was in the Dunk Tank. Chico was nowhere in sight.
“Hey, guys. Here for my shift!” Wiener said. “Max, wanna check out our booth?”
“Whoa!” Max continued, going round and round. “My stomach feels like a washing machine!”
Wiener stood there, waiting for Play Dough to quit it. But he kept spinning. “Did you get my letter about it, Max?” Wiener pressed. More spinning, more “whee”-ing, no answer. “Max?”
“I think so,” Max replied.
Play Dough came to a halt. Max slid off his back and they both wobbled a few steps in random directions.
“I didn’t get your holler back, so I wasn’t sure if you were mad—”
“Holler back, y’all!” Play Dough squealed in a girly voice. He and Max burst into giggles. Wiener laughed with them, but it came out forced.
“Okay, I’m ready to play, PD,” Max said, scooping up a softball and tossing it between his two hands.
“Nice!” Wiener said. “We can start just as soon as Chico gets here. He’s my shift buddy, and he promised he’d go in the tank.”
“Dude, just get in the tank,” Play Dough said. “Don’t be such a chicken.”
“I’m not. Just give Chico a minute,” Wiener said.
Play Dough set his watch alarm for a minute. “Fifty-nine, fifty-eight . . .”
Wiener craned his neck to look for Chico. He could feel his pit sweat breaking through its shield of Axe deodorant.
“. . . forty-three—I’m bored—eighteen, one.”
“Wait—”
“Looks like you’re the punk getting dunked.”
“Ha! Punk!” Wiener said, laughing it off to Max. The whole point of bringing Max by was to show him how cool Wiener was, not to showcase him as a loser dunkee. Also, Wiener was wearing his favorite khaki shorts that would surely discolor in lake water. And also also, just imagining the freefall dunk, his skin was already starting to feel like unbreathable plastic. “Did Steinberg fix it at least?” he whispered into Play Dough’s ear.
“Hey, it’s okay to piss yourself,” Play Dough fake-comforted him. “But when Li’l Wiener dunks you, do you really want to fall into a bin of your own urine?”
“Ewwwww,” Max said, breaking into giggles.
“I didn’t say that,” Wiener said.
“Your brother, little dude,” Play Dough said. “Never a dry moment.”
“Never a wet moment, ha,” Wiener said, quickly realizing that made no sense at all. There was nothing left to do but comply. He climbed up the ladder. It’s not that high, he assured himself. If you can ride roller coasters, then you can free-fall into the dunk tank. He reached the bungee chair and gazed twenty feet down. The people looked like ants.
“Dude, you’re shaking,” Play Dough said. “You’re only six feet up.”
Right, Wiener thought, trying to get a grip.
Play Dough led Max to the throwing spot, designated by a stick in the dirt. It had been pushed back way more than twenty feet, probably for a cocky upper camper. No way could Max hit the target from there! Wiener thought about telling PD to move the stick up, but, embarrassingly, he was more concerned about falling than he was about his brother feeling like a champ.
Max began to wind his arm. His tongue was pressed up over his top lip, which was something he did when he was concentrating extra-hard. Wiener took a big brave breath and closed his eyes.
“NO! WAIT. IT’S NOT READY!” he heard Steinberg wheeze-shout.
Wiener’s eyes shot open in terror. Whatever the problem, it was too late. Max had released the softball. Suddenly everything felt like it was in slow motion. The softball smacked the target. Wiener was flung from the bungee chair. He was flailing his arms but trying not to, because the laundry bin wasn’t big enough for a star jump. Except his arms weren’t the problem. It was the release mechanism. It came crashing down with him.
Wiener felt an electric current zap at his toes, up his spine, and through the top of his head. His body convulsed underwater, and the next thing he knew, he was horizontal. The laundry bin had toppled over and he was tumbling, tumbling, tumbling for what felt like an unusually violent shower hour.
Eventually the bin hit something sturdy, a tree maybe, and Wiener somersaulted onto the grass. Then he barfed zucchini bread
onto two pairs of familiar shoes: Chico’s high-top denim Nikes and Missi’s purple Crocs.
What a perfect night, Missi thought, cocooned inside her sleeping bag on the crowded basketball court. Being a super-upper camper meant she and her cabinmates had to set up pretty far back from the big white screen so that all the little kids could see, but it was actually the ideal distance. Propped up on her elbows, she’d have a full view of tonight’s camp-wide evening activity: the Fiftieth Anniversary Slideshow.
“Scootch, Caterpillar,” Jenny said to Missi, standing with a pink bungee chair on her back like a backpack. “I can’t see the screen.”
Sure, Missi could have said, “Silly, you’re the one with the chair, and you want me to move to where it’s hard to see?!” But she didn’t bat an eye. Jenny’s random excuses to sit beside Jamie were standard routine, and after so many summers of them, Missi had learned it was best to just obey. She scooted over to make room for Jenny, and as luck would have it, her view was even better. Booyah!
Just as Missi went to re-cocoon herself, “Electric Boogie” played in the distance. She sat up with curiosity—most kids did—and watched the Wawel Hillers emerge from behind the screen, boogie woogie–ing as part of the famous line dance.
“GET IT?” Play Dough shouted to the crowd, lunging into a slide.
The crowd clapped and “woo”-ed with unusually low enthusiasm.
“I don’t think they get it,” Steinberg said, a portable speaker on his shoulder like a boom box in an ’80s movie.
Missi “woo”-ed louder to show support, and maybe to get Chico’s attention, but she was also confused about why they were dancing the Electric Slide at this particular moment.
“I think I get it,” the Captain said into the mic, “but why don’t you explain to those who might not be grasping the genius of your wordplay.”
“Oh, it’s all about the wordplay,” TJ said with uncertainty, obviously just as clueless as everyone else.
“You’re about to watch an electronic slideshow,” Steinberg said. “And here we are, doing the Electric Slide.”
There was a collective, drawn-out “Ohhhhhhh” in the audience. Missi thought the wordplay was a stretch, but she didn’t mind. Every Friday night, her grandparents took her line dancing at Oldwick Senior Citizen Community Center, where she participated in popular dances like Hoedown Throwdown and Catwalk Shuffle. It was the best. So, naturally, Missi jumped to her feet. Step touch, step touch, arm wind, slap the court, people! Even Jamie was standing and wiggling her little hips. “Jamie, come with me to the front!” Missi called.
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