“Are y’all ready?” Stu asked the remaining competitors.
“Yee-haw,” they dutifully shouted.
“I can’t hear you.”
“YEE-HAW!” they screamed.
“Hold on to your partners,” Stu said. “It’s going to be a bumpy ride.”
Missi slipped her arm through the crook of Wiener’s elbow. “Stu is about to whip out the big calls, I can feel it,” she warned her group. “If you have any questions, fire away now.”
“Remind me,” Sophie said. “Dover and I—are we a side couple?”
“Head couple,” Missi said.
“Is Totle my corner?” Jamie asked.
“No, Slimey is,” Missi said. It was time for an emergency review session. “Sophie and Dover, Jenny and Play Dough, Slimey and Smelly: You’re the head couples—one, three, and five. Jamie and Totle, Melman and Steinberg, me and Wiener: We’re the side couples—two, four, and six. Got it?”
She was hoping for an enthusiastic “Got it!” just like the enthusiastic “Let’s do it!” they’d given her when she’d proposed the hexagon configuration yesterday afternoon. But instead, she received a series of “Um”-s. Her heart dropped into her stomach.
Her team had rehearsed a full hour after breakfast, and then another hour before the hoedown, but had that been enough? Their hexagon had new starting positions, new dance arrangements, and had to—at all times—move 50 percent faster to keep up with Stu’s calls. Six pairs in one shape meant they could all dance together—no cabinmate left behind!—but it was also proving to be a gigantic challenge.
The honky-tonk music kicked in through the speakers. From the bleachers, the lower campers slapped their knees and cheered. “Dance with confidence,” Missi reminded her team. “All that matters is that you’re home at the end of each sequence.”
“And . . . off we go!” Stu called. He started simple with a ladies’ chain. He called a Right and Left Thru. A half turn. A partner trade. Fufu waved down square after square.
“Right hand out to your corner, and e’rybody say, ‘Grand Right!’”
Suddenly Dover’s ’fro was in Missi’s mouth. She trilled her lips free of curls and tried to assess the situation: Led by Jamie, the outer partners were weaving in the wrong direction. “Right, right,” she panic-whispered at them, spinning Jamie around just before they all fell like dominos.
“There are nine teams left,” Stu announced. “It’s time to up the stakes from rare to well done!” The honky-tonk music blasted louder. Stu’s calls got trickier: Taps. Half Sashays. Allemande Thars. “Just look at that hexagon,” he said, pointing to their Notting and Wawel team as they promenaded around the ring. The film crew lit them up. “Led by the fearless hoe-down pro, Miss Missi Snyder!”
“We’re on fire!” Jenny cried.
“We are?” Jamie asked.
Missi smiled at her team, skipping with determination, their braids and bandanas whipping in the air. Never in a million years did she think Square Dancing could be this fun. At Oldwick, it was festive, but no one wanted to bust a knee. Here—knees, hips, heads—they bounced like trambopoline springs!
Stu began to make calls in all the trickiest combinations: Crossover Circulations to Horseshoe Turns to Line Explosions. Fufu eliminated more crumbling squares. Their hexagon was booking it. The sweat was trickling down their faces. Their freckles were smeared like war paint. A chant broke out from the crowd: “HEX! HEX! HEX!”
Missi’s legs were jelly, but wild energy was coursing through her veins and fueling her cowboy boots. She was free-falling—living on the edge, in the moment, like there was no tomorrow. As if her mom’s free spirit had been in her DNA all along.
“If you’re home, gimme a cheer!”
Missi was home in her starting position and so was the rest of her team. They all threw their hands up and leaped in the air. Except for Steinberg. His body wavered like he was surfing inside a canoe. “Cheer,” he croaked.
“Dude, are you okay?” Play Dough asked him.
“Oh, sure. The oxygen is flowing at fifty percent.”
“Only fifty percent?”
“Oh, did I say fifty? I meant fifteen.”
“FIFTEEN?”
“Five,” Steinberg replied. Then he stumbled backward into Arman, who shoved an inhaler into his mouth and said, “Puff, buddy!”
Steinberg puffed. He sucked in a broken breath. “Win it—without—me.” Then his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he fainted.
“He’s gonna be fine, you guys,” Arman assured them, scooping him up. He carried Steinberg to a golf cart at the edge of the court, and Nurse Nanette drove him off into the sunset.
“Uhhhhhh,” Play Dough said. “Now what?”
The honky-tonk music cut out. Missi wanted to answer Play Dough, but she didn’t have an answer, and without an answer, the panic alarms began ringing in her ears.
“Alright, Team Hex,” Stu said. “You’re one of three teams left. Think you can call up a friend?”
Friend? All of her friends were beside her. Missi’s heart began racing at triple Cotton-Eyed Joe speed. Who could replace Steinberg? Most kids were familiar with the Square Dancing moves. But NONE of them was familiar with the hexagon modifications.
“Hurry on up, Miss Missi,” Stu pressed. “Call up any camper you’d like.”
Missi frantically looked around the court. The eliminated squares were a sea of raised hands. “Me, me, me, me!” All of upper camp wanted in on the hoedown glory. The cameras were rolling. Seconds flashed by. She felt her energy, her wildness, her genetic sense of adventure drain dry. She turned to Wiener with Help me eyes.
Being the awesome guy he was, he was already on it, scanning the bleachers. He froze, then he spun to Missi with the news: “I’ve got us the perfect sub.”
“ONE MINUTE BEFORE WE RESUME!” Stu called.
Wiener led Max from the bleachers to Steinberg’s spot. Max was wearing a Knicks jersey, since his lower-camp square had decided to unify their appearance through sports apparel. It had looked sauce. Now, however, Max stuck out like Patrick Ewing in a group of eleven Miley Cyruses. “You’re in the big leagues now, li’l bro. You ready?”
Max nodded nervously. “I’m really excited, Ernie. It’s just—I’ve never square-danced with this many people. I don’t know if I can do it.”
“Sure you can,” Wiener said. “Your team placed third in all of lower camp. You’re a great dancer.” He turned to his friends. “Right, guys?”
Play Dough tousled Max’s locks. “We all saw you Electric Slide. You were more electric than an eel.” He made a zzzz sound and did a body wave.
Max laughed, then smiled bashfully. “Maybe, but that was just me breakdancing.”
“Exactly,” Missi said. “If you can breakdance in the middle of a line dance, then I have faith you can hexagon dance your way through a square dance.”
Wiener offered Max a thumbs-up, but the truth was, Max was right to be nervous. Breakdancing was something you could improvise. Hexagon dancing, not so much. Wiener hadn’t really thought this through. “Hey, do we have time for a quick run of the dance?” he asked the group.
“THIRTY SECONDS!” Stu called.
“Yeah, not happening,” Play Dough said.
Max looked at Wiener with a glint of panic in his eyes.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be able to follow along,” Wiener told Max, trying to sound reassuring. “Melman’s your partner. You two are side couple number four.”
Melman fist-bumped Max. “You’ll be the Victoria to my David Beckham.”
“Can I be David?” Max asked.
“Nope,” Melman replied. “But do you have any quick questions?”
“Yeah,” Max said. “What’s a hexagon?”
“It’s a shape with six sides,” Totle said. “Fun fact: It’s my favorite shape.” He stroked invisible chin hairs. “Actually, I’m thinking of an octagon.”
“And how is it different from normal Square Dancing?” Max asked.
/> “It’s not that different,” Wiener offered.
“Well,” Missi said.
“Ernie, what should I do?” Max pleaded.
“Um.” Wiener wracked his brain for something helpful to say. He had chosen Max because (a) he was talented and (b) he had experience dancing with the guys. But the thing was, even someone as talented and experienced as Max could mess up. And then what? Max would feel like a total failure, and Wiener would feel like an irresponsible brain clog for putting him in this position.
“TEN SECONDS!” Stu called.
“But what if I make us lose?” Max panicked. “What if I do a Grand Right but go left. What if—”
“Listen, Max.” Wiener put his hands on his brother’s shoulders, wishing he had the perfect big-brotherly thing to say next. Then, out of nowhere, an idea hit: “It doesn’t matter if it’s the wrong step, as long as you act like it’s the right step. You just gotta SWAGGER!”
Max’s eyes widened. “Swagger?”
“Yup.” Wiener grounded himself, then looked at Max with intensity. “Swagger.”
Max smiled all knowingly. “Okay, yeah, I think that’s something I can do.”
“ALRIGHTY, FOLKS,” Stu called. “SQUARE YOUR SETS!”
Team Hex tossed their hands into the middle of their huddle. “Hex on three,” Missi said. “One, two . . .”
“HEX!” they cried.
The honky-tonk music ripped through the speakers. Stu launched with the toughest calls: Flutterwheel. Reverse Flutterwheel. Alamo Swing Thru. Wiener glanced at Max, his tongue pressed up over his top lip in concentration. He was dancing like a star. Fufu waved down a Faith/Hamburger square. There were two teams left, including theirs. The crowd was going nuts: “H-O-E-DOWN! H-O-E-DOWN!”
Wiener wiped the sweat from under his bandana. Stu’s calls were starting to get cryptic. Did he cue an Ocean Wave or a Ferris Wheel? A Cloverleaf or a Teacup Chain? The cameras were closing in. His feet were moving faster than he could think. Faster than his feet could think. Faster, faster, faster. He twirled his corner, Dover. Dover looked a lot like Slimey. He was twirling Slimey. Slimey was not his corner. Yikes. He was all turned around. He crashed into Play Dough and fell flat on his back. Above him were swirling stars in the shape of Patrick Ewing’s face.
“Get up,” Patrick said. “Team Hex needs you.”
Suddenly Wiener found himself being lifted onto Patrick Ewing’s back. He hugged Patrick’s Knicks jersey tight as the two of them danced like electric eels.
The whole camp was cheering: “HE’S GOT THE MOVES LIKE SWAGGER! HE’S GOT THE MOVES LIKE SWAGGER! HE’S GOT THE MOO-OO-OO-OO-OOVES LIKE SWAGGER!”
Wiener spread his arms out over Patrick’s back like he was flying, and then he landed on the cold, hard court. Looking down at him was Max. “Ernie, Ernie, Ernie!” he cried. “Are you okay?”
Wiener’s brain de-fuzzed. “Yeah, I’m fine. Are you fine?” Then reality hit. He was on the ground. Not on his feet, dancing. That could only mean one thing. “I messed it up, didn’t I?”
Max was grinning.
“Why are you grinning?”
“Because—just listen!”
Wiener could hear the cheering now. It infiltrated his eardrums: “WIENER BROS! WIENER BROS! WIENER BROS!”
He jolted up. Max pulled him to his feet. The crowd went wild. He waved at them. They went wilder. “I can’t believe we won!” Wiener exclaimed, swinging Max round and round. “I knew we could do it, I knew it, huzzah!”
“Won?” Play Dough said, smacking the back of Wiener’s head. “No, dream boy. We lost big time. Like, we lost so hard, Stu called it, ‘A Legendary Crash and Burn.’”
Wiener tried to wrap his head around what that meant. “We were legendary because I swung Slimey instead of Dover, or . . . ?”
His friends broke into spastic giggles and began talking over each other so rapidly, with such excitement, that together, their stories made zero sense.
“W-w-wait!” Wiener gasped. “One person at a time!”
Missi took the lead while their team closed in, happy and heavily breathing. “So!” she said. “Dover swung Sophie, but he was supposed to swing you. You swung Slimey, but she was supposed to be tap tap tapping Jenny. Totle and Jamie Ocean Waved, while Play Dough and Jenny Ferris Wheeled. Half of us were in a Cloverleaf, and the other half of us were in a Teacup Chain. And then when we were supposed to freeze, Smelly sneezed. After that, we transformed into a monster blob, and Max breakdanced with insanity, carrying you on his back!”
“That’s epic!” Wiener said. “I can’t believe I was out for, like, ten minutes.”
That triggered another wave of giggles.
“What?” Wiener asked.
“It was ten seconds tops,” Missi said.
After a minute or so of cozy, sweaty group hugging, the cheering lulled and it was time to de-huddle. The girls broke off and skipped arm in arm to the front of the court to claim their second-place silicone bracelets. And the guys sprinted over to TJ to ask him about Steinberg’s asthma status, and also to relay to Steinberg everything they’d just explained to Wiener.
“What a brother you’ve got,” Play Dough said to Max, throwing his beefy arm around Max’s shoulders.
And then something amazing happened. Max looked at Wiener like he was the most special man in the world. Manlier than Chico. Manlier than Project Runway’s Tim Gunn. Manlier than Planet Earth’s narrator, David Attenborough. “Yeah, my cabinmates are jealous,” Max said. “I always knew I had the coolest big brother in the world. But now everyone sees it.”
Play Dough nodded. “It’s sauce, but not unusual, to pass out during Square Dancing—Steinberg did it—but it’s next-level sauce to declare your love for, of all people, the great and retired Patrick Ewing.”
Wiener laughed. “I did that?!”
“Yes,” Play Dough said flatly. He looked at Max and then at Wiener. “Sometimes I can’t believe you two are related.”
Max and Wiener high-fived. Then Wiener performed his own rendition of Totle’s Victory Dance—he pressed his knees together and flapped his arms like a chicken driving a go-cart. Max did the Worm. Play Dough cracked up, and then joined them with the Running Man.
“Alright,” Fufu called from the stage. “It’s officially my favorite part of the evening—LINE DANCE TIME!”
Play Dough hustled off to chat with Stu. Max ran off to hug Dino. Missi jumped up to the stage to co-lead “Cotton-Eyed Joe.”
For the first time in a while, Wiener was all alone. But he wasn’t lonely. His heart was fuller than his stomach after a chicken parm. He fixed Chico’s Ray-Bans on top of his head and began to Grapevine.
Missi’s smile was so big, she was pretty sure it was eating her face. Sitting on the basketball court, watching the footage from the last four weeks glow on the big white screen, she couldn’t stop it if she tried. Wiener was on her left. Jamie was on her right. The rest of the Notting and Wawel Hillers were surrounding her, sharing sleeping bags and blankets, popcorn and hot chocolate, giggles and hugs.
“By the way, your outfit is very Project Runway,” Wiener told Missi, tickling her cat ears.
“Never seen it,” Missi admitted, surprising herself.
Wiener and Jenny exchanged a We need to do something about this, STAT look.
“So are you hosting the PR marathon after camp or am I?” Jenny asked.
“I’ll air the first six seasons, you do the rest,” Wiener replied.
“Deal.”
Tonight’s screening of the new camper recruitment video was set up like a real Hollywood film premiere. A red carpet made of red spray-painted cotton balls lined the back of the court. Before the screening, the Bunker and One Tree Hillers had walked around, interviewing campers with mock-up microphones (Styrofoam balls on empty toilet paper rolls) and mock-up video cameras (cardboard boxes labeled “CRH News”). Everyone had been invited to wear their finest “you.” So, in addition to the felt cat ears, Missi was sporting a T-shi
rt with a tortoise playing a flute, khaki shorts over kitty leggings, and the well-washed purple Crocs that Wiener had once upon a time barfed on. Her cabinmates had agreed that her outfit was purr-fect.
As the film moved from a sports montage to backward footage of campers jumping off the trambopoline, Cookie squatted beside the group. “Hey, a surprise from TJ and the Captain,” she whispered. “Play Dough—your team won the Hersheypark Scavenger Hunt. Congrats, my man.” She pulled a Louie bagel from a paper bag and handed it over.
“Oh, sweet Louie!” Play Dough cried, holding it up like a baby Simba. “Never change, you precious bundle of carbs.”
“Put the bagel down, Wawel,” a Highgate Hiller said from behind them. “We can’t see.”
“Sorry for being a proud parent,” Play Dough scoffed. He lowered the Louie bagel, kissed it, and offered Wiener the first bite. Wiener accepted so enthusiastically, he gave himself a cream cheese ’stache.
“Oh, that reminds me!” Missi said to Wiener, whipping out the Hershey’s perfume from her shorts pocket. “It was sweet of Chico to give me this, but it’s cat poison. If I wear it at home, we’re all in trouble.”
Wiener laughed. “He definitely did not think of that.”
“Nope,” Missi said. “You want it?”
Wiener accepted without a single hem or haw. He sprayed all 360 degrees of his neck and sucked in the chocolate aroma. “I’m wearing this every day.”
Other than Dover, who had his tongue out to catch “perfume particles,” everyone brought their shirts up over their faces.
“Oh, come on,” Wiener said. “You know I smell delicious.”
And then, with impeccable timing, Play Dough burped, tainting the chocolate aroma with tonight’s Sloppy Joes dinner. As the smell wafted around a six-foot radius, there was a collective “ewwww” groan.
Missi cut hers short. “That’s us!” she blurted, squeezing Wiener’s hand so hard he yelped. “Happy” underscored the footage of them nursing a fawn, a chipmunk, and a salamander back to health.
“I can’t believe we fixed up the Nature Shack just in time for Visiting Day,” he whispered.
“I know!” Missi replied proudly.
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