Freefall

by Stacy Davidowitz

“What?”

  “I think we actually completed most of the hunt! Oh man, I can’t believe we didn’t take any pictures.”

  “I took pictures.”

  “WHAT?”

  Chico showed her the photo counter on the camera: one picture left.

  How was Chico so sneaky? How was he so full of surprises? Being with him, she felt like she was flying, soaring, higher, faster, no crash in sight. Just then, they were ushered into an enclosed cabin and seated on a bench by a triangular window. The doors closed. Through unseen speakers, a deep voice began talking about Hersheypark’s history and stats and greatest offers. The cabin began to spin.

  “Pumped?” Chico asked Missi. “That’s what my Wiener says a lot. ‘Pumped.’”

  “Yeah, I guess,” she said, though she didn’t know what she was supposed to be pumped about. The ride was moving slower than a sloth in molasses, making this the least exciting part of the last two hours. “What are we on anyway?” she asked. “Is this the monorail?”

  Chico just smiled.

  So Missi smiled, too. Then she glanced out the window for a clue. Holy cocoa beans, the window! It wasn’t a triangle. It was shaped like a Hershey’s Kiss! She knew exactly what ride they were riding and began to tingle with joy and nerves.

  Chico reached over and took her hand in his. A clam sandwich. She could feel her heart beat wildly. They continued to go up. And spin. And up. And spin. Out the window was The Chocolate Spa at The Hotel Hershey, Hershey’s Chocolate World, ZooAmerica, and the town of Hershey itself. At least that’s what the deep voice was saying through the speakers. Missi was just seeing rides and buildings and treetops. It reminded her of the time she and her mom climbed High Point Monument, also a tower, and looked 1,803 feet down at the world through smudgy windows. “Never again,” Rebecca Joy had told her. “Never again will I take the important things in life for granted.” Missi was the important thing.

  Missi shifted her hand in Chico’s so that their fingers interlocked. Suddenly, she wanted to tell him that he wasn’t alone. She understood how painful it was to feel like you’re no more special than a rescue kitten. How awful it was to feel like you’re unwanted. An inconvenience. Unloved. But Missi also wanted to give him hope. If Rebecca Joy could come back into her life with all the love and warmth she’d ever wanted, then maybe his parents could, too. “Hey,” she said. “Sometimes things change as quickly as a camera flash. People can surprise you in the best way.”

  “Like you,” Chico said.

  “Me?” Missi’s stomach began tumbling tumbleweed-style. They were approaching the Kissing Tower’s peak—250 feet in the air. The Storm Runner was a kiddie ride and the henna tattoo stand was a pinhead. The ride stopped. They’d officially reached the tallest point in the park. Chico handed Missi the camera. She pulled him in for a kissy-face selfie, and they snapped their final shot, the background the top of the world.

  “Truth or Dare?” Chico asked.

  Something came over Missi. She didn’t want to pretend anything anymore. She was ready to open her heart, her mind, her soul. “Truth.”

  “Okay, then truthfully how would you feel if I kissed you?”

  Missi’s heart began slamming against its walls. She wanted to say something wild like: “I dare you, my Chico Nuevo,” but that seemed melodramatic. And since she didn’t want to waste any more time thinking, she went with her gut: a classic thumbs-up. It was the dorkiest thing Missi had done all day, but she didn’t give a flying fudgsicle.

  She saw herself reflected in Chico’s dark-chocolate eyes. She leaned in two inches, and he leaned in, too. She could feel the heat from his cheeks. His milkshake breath made her tummy rumble. His lips locked onto hers. His tongue slipped into her mouth and went around in loops like the Sidewinder.

  Missi used her tongue to spell her name in cursive, like Jenny had told her to. But what should she do with her hands? Put them around his neck? Too much. On his shoulders? Yeah, but lightly. For what felt like ten minutes, but was probably only ten seconds, their tongues made a roller coaster alphabet soup.

  As the cabin dropped from the tower’s peak, Missi heard familiar cheering: “Missi and Chico sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-S-IN-G!” Her stomach flung up to her throat. But in a good way. There were Jenny and Jamie, to her left, freaking out with pride: “OMIGOD, SO ROMANTICAL!” Missi didn’t care that she and Chico had gotten caught without Wiener. She’d take this moment over a hundred Louie bagels.

  “Thank you for riding the Kissing Tower!” said the deep voice through the speakers. “We hope you enjoy the rest of your time at Hersheypark.”

  Once the cabin reached the ground, Chico put his arm around Missi. As they turned around to exit, she saw Wiener, his face on the verge of crumbling. He’d been behind them the whole kissing ride.

  Standing under a flickering porch light and a menacing full moon, Wiener gave a nervous rap on the door of Bunker Hill Cabin. He waited five silent seconds before he heard shuffling feet. Then the door creaked open and a camper in a dinosaur onesie greeted him: “Bunker Hill Cabin, how may I help you?”

  “Oh, hey,” Wiener whispered, peering inside. Light was streaming in from the bathroom, illuminating a bunch of under-cover lumps. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t realize you guys would be sleeping.”

  “Long day at Cooperstown.”

  “Right. Well, I come bearing Hershey’s gifts.” The kid’s eyes lit up like a campfire. “For my brother.” The fire died.

  “Uh, actually, want some Rolos?” Wiener whipped out Max’s least favorite candy from a goodie bag. “They’ve got caramel in ’em.”

  Dinosaur Onesie snatched the Rolos like a feral skunk-munk. He peeled away the wrapper and tossed two chocolates into his mouth. “Carmel geth thtuck in my night retainer,” he lisped. It was only now that Wiener noticed the metal contraption eating his face. “Which maketh it the perfect midnight thnack. I can wiggle my tongue and eat thtuck pieces.”

  “That’s the perk of a retainer I guess.” The kid grinned in agreement. A Play Dough in the making. “So can I come in for a sec? Didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “Me? Ha! I wath up doing card trickth.” Dinosaur Onesie stepped inside with a grand sweeping gesture toward his single bed. On his pillow were two rows of facedown cards. “It’th a really, really good trick.”

  “Nice.” Wiener could tell that Dinosaur Onesie wanted to practice his card trick on him, an awake human, but first and foremost, he had a mission to complete. “Show me on the way out?” Dinosaur Onesie nodded enthusiastically.

  Wiener walked to the bottom bunk bed by the front door, where he’d blissfully slept (and peed) five summers back. Now Max was there, spooning his stuffed giraffe, Mister Necksmith. Four years ago, Max had gotten the giraffe from Aunt Doreen for being in the ninetieth percentile for height. She’d wanted to encourage him to embrace gianthood. As if being tall was something a kid needed encouragement to embrace. As if the ability to tower over literally anyone older than ten wasn’t an impossible dream of Wiener’s. As if Wiener hadn’t spent hours surfing the net for growth hormones and bone-stretching therapy.

  “Max,” Wiener whispered.

  Nothing.

  “Max, you up?”

  Max scrunched his face and then broke into a gentle snore. Wiener sighed. Maybe it was better that Max was asleep. If Steinberg’s hypothesis on mental osmosis was valid, then Max would catch the drift of Wiener’s apology anyhow. Right? Right! He took a valiant breath. “So, it’s no secret I’ve let you down. You came to camp for an ace summer, thinking that your big brother was a king, but turns out, I’m nothing but a joker. A fool.” Wiener tapped his chin trying to think about how to express the rest of what he wanted to say in a continued card analogy, but then decided he should just say it. Straight from the heart.

  “Max. You’re cool. Everyone knows it. You’re athletic and a good dancer and really chill. And then . . . there’s me. Do you know how hard it is to be your big brother? I thought that, at least at camp, I coul
d show you I’m The Man. But then I messed everything up. I even rejected my crush and then pushed her into a relationship with the newbie, Chico, who as it turns out is a Spanish version of the Artful Dodger—you know, the pick-pocket character from Oliver Twist?!” Wiener whisper-chuckled. “Of course you know who I’m talking about. You were in it. You were Oliver’s understudy. Because you’re Max Meyer. You rock everything!” He face-palmed. “The point is, I’m sorry your big brother is just as much of a loser at camp as he is at home.”

  Max rolled over to face Wiener. His eyelids began fluttering—he was awake, he had to be. This was horrifying. The most horrifying thing there ever was. Wiener’s heart began pounding. He could feel it in his throat. His brain. His fingers.

  Max rubbed his eyes, and then they were open. “Hey, Ernie.” “Oh, hey, Max.” There was a silence that felt as long as a language-arts standardized state test. “So . . . yeah.” Then another silence that felt as long as a math state test. Wiener nervously shook the goodie bag. “I don’t know if you heard me rambling, but I’m just here to drop this bad boy off.” He left it at the foot of Max’s bed with an “Okay, peace,” then stood up and walked toward the door.

  “I heard what you said,” Max said quietly.

  Wiener stopped in his tracks. “Nice-sauce,” he said dumbly, then stood there, his feet toward the cabin door and his torso twisted toward his brother, waiting for a cue to move in a direction.

  “I don’t think you’re a loser at camp,” Max said, sitting up.

  “Oh,” Wiener said, confused and elated and skeptical. “You don’t?”

  “No.”

  Wiener’s heart sped up, feeling like a fireworks finale. He edged back to Max’s bed and sat down on his toasty Batman comforter. “So, wait . . . Does this mean that you’re not mad at me?”

  Max shrugged. “I mean, I am a little. You lied to me, Ernie. Lying is bad. We’re brothers. We shouldn’t lie to each other.”

  “I know,” Wiener said, guiltily running his fingers through Mister Necksmith’s mane. “But I didn’t even realize I was doing it.”

  “How could you not realize?” Max asked.

  “It’s kind of like—” Wiener took a brave breath. “Sometimes I tell stories because they make me feel better. And when I feel better about myself, I almost forget that what I’m saying isn’t the total truth.”

  “Huh,” Max said. He bit his lip. “But that’s still lying, right?”

  “Well, I like to think of it, like, if I tell a little lie that keeps the haters at bay, then it’s okay. But if it’s a big lie that hurts people, then it’s not.” He paused. “Does that make sense?”

  “I think so . . .” Max nodded slowly and then bulged his eyes. “Oh! Yesterday a kid in another cabin came in and said I was a big baby because of Mister Necksmith, and I told him that Mister Necksmith gives me growing powers. I don’t think my stuffed giraffe actually makes me taller, but it made me feel better to say that he does.” He squinted his eyes in thought. “Is that like, um—what do you call it—a ‘little lie’?”

  “Hmmm.” Wiener thought about how Arman calls his little lies “armor.” “Armor” didn’t fit his own magical thinking as well as it fit his counselor’s, because of Wiener’s name not being Arman and also the arm thing. But . . . Wiener spotted a cologne sample he’d given Max on his dresser, and it clicked. “Swagger! That’s what I call it.”

  “Swagger?” Max asked, following Wiener’s gaze to his dresser. “Like the cologne? Because it covers up stink?”

  Wiener burst out giggling. “Wasn’t thinking that, but sure! Little lies that cover up the stinky truth.”

  “So then what I said about Mister Necksmith,” Max said, “was that ‘Swagger’?”

  “For sure,” Wiener replied. “But also, you should know that loving Mister Necksmith doesn’t make you a baby, Max. It makes you an endangered species advocate. Source: Planet Earth.”

  “Hey, you’re right! That’s so true!”

  “Of course it is. You should feel awesome about it.”

  “Sauce,” Max corrected. “Awesome-sauce.”

  Wiener proudly put his hand up for a high five, and Max high-fived him back.

  “So you got me candy, huh?” Max asked. Wiener held the bag out and Max grabbed a Kit Kat. He unwrapped it and took a massive, crumbly bite. “Best. Night. Ever.”

  Wiener felt a sneaky drop of sweat drip from his eye. God, he loved his brother. He loved him so much that he wanted to belt opera and tap dance and ugly-cry and crazy-laugh—he was feeling so many feelings!—but he was curbed by a sudden beaming light in his face.

  It was Fred, the Bunker Hill counselor. He was holding a heavy-duty flashlight. “Excuse me, are you supposed to be here?”

  “Yup,” the Meyer brothers answered in unison.

  “Wrong answer.”

  Wiener hadn’t realized this was a test. He was just okay at tests. Also, the light. It was blinding. “I was just leaving my brother a present. Sorry.”

  “That’s fine, but it took me a half hour to get these hyper boys to bed. Swing by before bedtime in the future, yeah? Maybe Rest Hour?”

  “You got it, Fred.”

  “It’s Jeff,” Max whispered.

  “You got it, Jeff,” Wiener said.

  Jeff disappeared back into the bathroom, and Wiener and Max broke into crazy grins. Then, suddenly, Dinosaur Onesie was beside Max, cozying up to the goodie bag. Max dumped three Hershey’s Kisses into his hand.

  “So, what’s your take on Mister Necksmith, man?” Wiener whispered as Dinosaur Onesie devoured the chocolate.

  “Is he that funny fourth-grade teacher at Lakeside Elementary?”

  “The giraffe,” Wiener said flatly, pointing to it cradled in Max’s arms.

  “I sleep with Mrs. Buckwheat,” Dinosaur Onesie said. “She’s a bunny. I’m not sure if giraffes and bunnies get along.”

  “Oh, they do now,” Wiener told him. “Giraffes and bunnies are like peas in a pod.”

  “Nice!” Dinosaur Onesie said. “Now can I show you my card trick?”

  “I’ll come back tomorrow during Rest Hour,” Wiener said. “Show me then?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wiener went to get up, but Max pulled him back down by his shirt. “Wait!” he whispered. He peeled his fitted sheet from the corner and pointed to where, five summers ago, Wiener had Sharpie’d onto the mattress: Wiener 4 life. “I like that I sleep here,” Max said sweetly.

  “Oh, yeah?” Wiener said, grabbing a pen. He tacked on an s so it read: Wieners 4 life. “Well, I like it, too.” Then he bounced out of Bunker Hill Cabin with renewed swagger.

  HOEDOWN LINGO

  A Manual for Rookies at Camp

  By Fufu and Stu Stevens

  Square Dance

  A dance with four couples and a caller calling the moves.

  Fun Fact: Square Dancing is the official dance in nineteen states.

  (States have official dances? Who knew? We did—Fufu and Stu!)

  Partner

  The loving guy or gal by your side in the square.

  Bow to your partner. Vow to your partner. Give a cow to your partner.

  Head Couples

  Partners in the square facing the basketball hoops.

  Use your heads, people!

  Side Couples

  Partners in the square facing courtside.

  Use your sides, people!

  Corner

  Gals, it’s the guy to your right. Guys, it’s the gal to your left.

  In my own little corner, in my own little square, I can dance however I’m told to dance.

  Home

  Starting position.

  Home Sweet Home!

  Promenade

  Couples walk around the circle, holding hands.

  Sweaty-palm sandwich, yum.

  Grand Right

  Join right hands with your partner. Pull through. Join right hands with the next guy/girl. Pull through. Repeat until you’re home.
>
  This move will probably end you.

  Allemande Left

  Dancers face their corner. Left palm on left palm. Turn 360 degrees.

  All you need is turn! All you need is turn, turn, turn. All you need is turn.

  Allemande Thar

  Dancers Allemande Left into a star.

  An aerial shot of this move is classic bedroom décor for a square-dance junkie.

  “HOWDY, EV’RY BOY ’N’ GAL!” Fufu and Stu shouted. Missi sat up on her knees and looked around at her fellow upper campers, who were all seated on the sunny basketball court.

  “Howdy, Fufu and Stu!” they shouted back. The J-squad screamed the loudest—or maybe it just felt that way because Missi was seated between them. That’s right. BETWEEN THEM. Miracles like that had been happening ever since the Kissing Tower. Sure, she’d cuddle-spoon the J-squad. Of course, she’d split a Canteen pizza three ways. Obviously she’d braid together hair from their three heads, so that they could be more than “attached at the hip.”

  Fufu did the classic hand-to-ear gimmick.

  “HOWDY!” everyone shouted again, but louder.

  Then Fufu adjusted her hearing aid, tore off her pink cow-girl hat, fluffed out her fluff-tastic hair, and said into the mic, “It’s a yee-haw pleasure to be here at Camp Rolling Hills in honor of your Fiftieth Anniversary celebration. Stu and I led Square Dancing here fifty years ago—that very first Rolling Hills season!—so when the Captain invited us to come up, it meant a whole lot. We just had to say yes sirree!”

  Stu, in a complementary blue cowboy hat, put his arm around his partner’s shoulder. “Some history for y’all: Fufu and I shared our first square dance when we were eighteen. A week later, we got hitched. A year after that, we began calling Square Dance competitions up and down and to the left and right of our blessed nation.”

  Fufu put a hand to her heart. “At twenty-three, Stu and I began the summer camp circuit, and we kept at it for fifty-five glorious years. We retired a decade ago to Boynton Beach, Florida, where I teach disco water aerobics and Stu grooms our Chihuahua, Deucey, for the Sunshine State’s Best in Show.”