by R. L. Stine
“We thought you could use some basic lessons in first aid,” Peter added. “It’s important to know first aid at camp.”
“Everyone always talks about first aid,” I said. “But no one ever talks about second aid. Why is that?”
Patty and Peter stared at me as if I didn’t make any sense.
It’s so hard being the smartest one in the room. I sometimes wish I was half as brainy as I am!
“Why will we need first aid?” Handy Sandy asked.
“Don’t you know anything about camp?” Peter asked. “Things get pretty rough when everyone is battling to be Camp Champ.”
Nervous Rex started to shiver. “I don’t like it when things get rough,” he said. “I once got into a wrestling match with a stiff pair of pajamas, and I almost lost.” He shivered again.
“Camp Champ?” Adam Bomb said. “What’s that?”
SIX
I’m Babbling Brooke. I’ll take the story from here.
Patty and Peter Perfect stepped around our bags and suitcases and made their way to the armchairs against the wall.
Peter pointed to the floor. “You should pick up that chocolate bar,” he said, “before it melts.”
“It isn’t chocolate,” Cranky Frankie told him. “Our dog Pooper is only four. He isn’t housebroken yet.”
Patty Perfect sneered. “We trained our dog not to poop,” she said.
Rob Slob let out a long burp. He then tapped his belly. “That’s the last time I’ll have lima beans for breakfast,” he murmured.
“Why did you have lima beans for breakfast?” I asked him.
“Because I couldn’t find the pinto beans,” he said, then burped again.
“Would anyone like a snack?” Junkfood John asked. He held up a brown-and-white teddy bear.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s awesome,” John said. “It’s a Cheese Bear. A plush teddy bear filled with cheddar cheese.” He pushed it toward me. “Want to try a leg?”
Luke Puke made an ULLLLLP sound. He pressed his hand over his mouth and went running to the bathroom.
“So, tell us about Camp Champ,” Adam Bomb said. “What does that mean?”
“It means the winner is champ of the camp,” Peter Perfect answered.
“We’re all going to play a lot of sports at camp,” Patty said. “All kinds of games and sports and competitions. And everyone who wins gets points.”
“Winning makes me nervous,” Nervous Rex said. “Too much pressure. And winning makes me feel sad for everyone who doesn’t win.”
“When did you ever win anything?” Cranky Frankie asked.
“I won a staring contest once,” Rex said. “I was competing against myself in a mirror. And believe it or not, my reflection was the first to blink.”
“If you don’t play sports, you can’t be Camp Champ,” Peter said.
“You mean Camp Chump,” Cranky Frankie muttered.
“Do you always have such a bad attitude?” Patty asked him.
“Not always,” Frankie said. “Just when I’m awake.”
“The camper who is the biggest winner is named Camp Champ,” Patty Perfect said. “You get to boss everyone around, and eat whatever you like, and do whatever you want.”
“Everyone else has to bow down to you and serve your every wish,” Peter added. “It’s like being an emperor for a whole day!”
“You get to eat whatever you want? Seriously?” Junkfood John said. He took a big bite of his cheese-stuffed teddy bear.
“Sounds like fun!” I said. “I’ll do a cheer for the Camp Champ. Who do you think will win?”
“Well, you all can forget about winning,” Patty said. “Peter and I are Camp Champs every year.”
“One summer,” Peter said, “we stayed home. We didn’t even go to camp and we were still voted Camp Champs! So . . . don’t start thinking you have a chance.”
“You’re wrong,” Adam Bomb said. “This year, one of us will be Camp Champ.”
Patty and Peter fell off their chairs and rolled around on the floor laughing their heads off. They laughed so hard, they actually had to give each other artificial respiration. Then they picked themselves up off the floor and left. I guess first aid really is important.
“What’s so funny?” I asked. “I don’t get the joke.”
Rob Slob burped again. It was such a juicy burp, I could see it!
“There must have been something wrong with those lima beans,” Rob said. “Are lima beans supposed to have green and blue lumps growing on them?”
SEVEN
Hey, it’s me, Cranky Frankie. Shut your yaps and let me continue the story.
I don’t want to talk about our bus ride to Camp Lemme-Owttahere. For one thing, Luke Puke got bus sick. Bet you couldn’t see that coming. The bus had only gone two blocks when Luke did his thing.
It was a pretty smelly ride the rest of the way.
Babbling Brooke wanted to sing camp songs. But we don’t know any camp songs because we’ve never been to camp.
So she stood up and did one of her cheers. She jumped up so high at the end of the cheer the driver had to stop the bus and pry Brooke’s head from one of the storage racks.
She was quiet after that.
Junkfood John passed around some of his favorite snacks—bags of Malted Goat Intestine Chips and Red Hot Sushi Cheese Balls—in case anyone got hungry. I begged him not to, but Luke Puke ate a handful of Sushi Cheese Balls. And then he did his thing all over again.
I was one of the lucky ones. He didn’t get any on me.
We passed by a lot of little towns and farms, and soon we were in the woods. The bus turned into a narrow dirt road, and we bumped along—not singing camp songs but covering our noses and mouths—until we reached the front gate of Camp Lemme-Owttahere.
My friends are all lame-brained good-for-nothing fatheaded moron creep faces, and I’ll smack anyone who says I don’t love every one of them. But, believe me, I couldn’t wait to climb off that stinky bus.
And I wasn’t the only one. It was a sunny day without a cloud in the sky, and the tall trees all around us shimmered like emeralds. I hate shimmering trees—don’t you?
I was gazing at the rows of wooden cabins when Rob Slob bumped up against me with a big grin. “Hey, I won the farting contest!” he declared.
I frowned at him. “Rob, you were the only one playing. Of course you won the contest.”
He is such a tough competitor, he didn’t notice that the kids near him had all moved to the back of the bus.
Rob Slob loves contests. He has a trophy in his room for winning the head lice contest.
But that’s another story.
The driver hauled our bags off the bus. And then he hauled Nervous Rex off the bus.
“Fresh air makes me nervous,” Rex said. “I mean, what if it isn’t that fresh? And who knows where the air has been? Did you ever think of that?”
None of us had ever thought of that. But we explained to Rex that his plan to stay on the bus until the end of summer probably wasn’t the best plan.
The driver groaned and grabbed his back as he dropped my bag on the ground. You see, I didn’t listen to my friends. I brought my bowling ball to camp anyway. Just in case.
What’s the big deal? It’s just a bowling ball.
We all turned when we heard a shout. A bouncy bald guy in an enormous red sweatshirt and white shorts was running across the grass and waving at us with both hands.
Camp was about to begin.
EIGHT
“Ricky ticky, everyone!” the man shouted, bouncing up to us. He had sweat pouring down his round face—from running, I guess—and he picked up a clipboard and grinned. “Ricky ticky to all you new Lemmes!”
I turned to Brainy Janey. “What language is he speaking?”
Janey shrugged. “Beats me. I think it’s camp talk.”
The man mopped beads of sweat off his bald head with his free hand. “Let’s all go plummy!” he shouted. “
Welcome! Welcome! Are you all as plummy as I am to be here today?”
He looked disappointed that none of us answered. But we didn’t know what he was saying.
I turned back to Brainy Janey. “Are you feeling plummy?” I whispered.
Janey shrugged again. “I’m not sure.”
“Ricky ticky!” the man repeated in a booming deep voice. “Booyah! Plummy days, everyone! Let’s go, Lemmes!”
Babbling Brooke pumped her fists in the air. “Let’s go, Lemmes!” she shouted. Brooke thinks everything is a cheer. I stared at her. I think Brooke actually understood him!
“Ricky ticky and booyah!” the man boomed. “I’m Ernie Cousin. I own this camp. Rah-rah gopher grits!”
The man’s eyes moved from camper to camper. “Gopher grits?” he demanded. “Rah-rah gopher grits?”
We all muttered something in response.
“Yes, I’m the camp owner. I’m Ernie Cousin,” he repeated. “But everyone here calls me Uncle Cousin!”
“He’s starting to make sense,” Wacky Jackie said.
Uncle Cousin let out a cheer. “Gopher grits gumbo! Go for it! Ricky ticky! Go for it!”
Nervous Rex hid behind me. “Can I get b-back on the bus?” he stammered.
I didn’t have a chance to answer him. A woman came marching up to us, poking a long wooden cane in the grass as she walked. Squinting into the sun, I saw that she was also wearing a red sweatshirt and white shorts.
She was a young woman, and she had purple hair and tiny eyes. She strode up to us and pounded her cane into the grass.
And I gasped. We all gasped.
We knew her.
It was Mama—the woman Brainy Janey had hired to play our mother when we needed one a few months ago.
Mama was a disaster. And I’m not being cranky when I say that. She drove us all crazy. And it took everything we could think of to get rid of her.
And now here she was, stomping up in the big biker boots she always wore, dressed in the camp sweatshirt and shorts, and waving her cane at us.
Uncle Cousin slapped her on the back. “Plummy!” he declared. “Plum pudding! Booyah!”
Mama moved up to us, shaking her head and muttering under her breath.
“Ricky ticky, Lemmes!” Uncle Cousin said. “Meet our head counselor. You can call her Mama.”
Mama swung her cane and slapped Adam Bomb on the back with it.
“OWWWW!” he wailed, and fell to his knees.
“I remember you, Ferret Face!” she cried. “That’s a camp welcome for you!”
Mama turned to the rest of us. “I remember all you dum-diddies!”
Nervous Rex poked me in the back. “P-please bury me right here,” he whispered.
I wasn’t happy to see Mama, either. She swung a mean cane. And her idea of being friendly was to call us horrible names and trash everything we did.
“Welcome to camp!” she cried. “Or should I say, welcome to your worst nightmare!”
Uncle Cousin laughed. He thought she was joking. But we knew she wasn’t.
Mama jammed the tip of her cane into Rob Slob’s foot, and he hopped away in pain. “Hey, cluck-cluck,” she called after him. “Man up! No pain, no gain!”
Uncle Cousin nodded his sweaty, round head. “It’s a long way to Tipperary!” he boomed.
“K-kill me now,” Nervous Rex begged.
“You cluck-clucks are going to play your hearts out at this camp,” Mama said. “Or else you’ll die trying! Hahaha. Just messing with you. Not!”
“Plummy!” the camp owner agreed.
I promise you’ll have fun—or I’ll beat it out of you! Hahaha.”
Mama was definitely in a good mood.
She swung her cane at Adam Bomb again, but this time she missed. She swung so hard she hit herself in the head. Dazed, she staggered back against a tree.
Uncle Cousin motioned for us to follow. “Ricky ticky, everyone!” he called. As he walked, he lowered his eyes to his clipboard. “Cabin assignments,” he said. “Cabin assignments. Every Lemme in a cabin. Plummy!”
We followed the camp owner across the grass. Junkfood John and I were at the back of the line, and I turned to him and asked, “Are we having fun yet?”
He rubbed his belly. “When’s lunch?”
NINE
Adam Bomb here. I think I’d better take over the story from Cranky Frankie.
Yes, I was ready to explode when I saw Mama again. And I was very unhappy that she was our head counselor. But as I followed the weird camp owner to the cabins, I started to cheer up.
Here I was with my best buddies, in the woods on the shores of beautiful Lake Bleccch. We had the whole summer ahead of us to have fun in the fresh air and play sports and hang out and swim and have campfires in the great outdoors.
What could be bad?
The boys’ cabins were on one side of the lake, and the girls’ cabins on the other. As we passed by, Peter and Patty Perfect waved to us from in front of their gigantic, two-bedroom tent. They were already dressed in red and white, the camp colors.
Three workers in camp uniforms were installing their hot tub. And a pennant was flying on a flagpole beside their tent. In the bright sunlight, it was hard to read. But I think the pennants said PLUMMY.
Patty and Peter really wanted to be Camp Champs.
I hoped this was the year we could stop them.
We said goodbye to the girls as Uncle Cousin pointed the rest of us to Cabin Number 4. Wow. All six of us in one cabin together. Sweet!
But we had a surprise when we stepped into the cabin. We counted three bunk beds and a cot—room enough for seven. And a seventh kid—someone we’d never seen before—had already claimed one of the top bunks.
The kid turned when we piled in and we all gasped in surprise. He looked a lot like us!
He seemed shocked to see us, too. “Dudes,” he said. “Dudes.”
“Hey,” I said, and flashed him a friendly smile. “How’s it going, dude? Where are you from?”
He smiled back. “Dudes,” he said again. He seemed to be stuck on that word.
“They call us the Garbage Pail Kids,” Rob Slob said.
“Whoa.” His eyes grew wide. “They call me a Garbage Pail Kid, too!” he exclaimed.
“Weird,” I said. “Where do you come from?”
“Somewhere in that direction,” he said, pointing behind him. “But I grew up over there.” He pointed to his left.
“You don’t know where you’re from?” I asked.
He blinked. “Am I supposed to? Will I be quizzed later?”
We told him our names. Then we waited for him to tell us his.
“Pat Splat,” he said.
He climbed down from the bunk bed, raised a hand, and started to cross the cabin toward us as if we were all going to do the secret Garbage Pail Kids handshake. (It’s such a secret, none of us knows how to do it.)
But he tripped on a skateboard in the middle of the floor, went sailing over the cot, and slammed into one of the bunk beds. A heavy wooden camp trunk then fell on his head.
SPLLAAAAAAT.
“I think we know how he got his name,” Cranky Frankie said.
TEN
Handy Sandy here to continue the story.
Head Counselor Mama led us four girls to our cabin on the other side of Lake Bleccch. Cabin Number 12. Her biker boots thudded over the grass.
“You dib-dabs have the best cabin,” she said, pointing to the square log cabin with her cane. “The window doesn’t close, and the floorboards are loose, and there’s a few leaks in the roof. But trust me, yuk-yuks. It’s the best cabin.”
“Is there a bathroom?” Babbling Brooke asked.
Mama scowled at her. “A bathroom? What do you think the woods are for?”
“But—but—” Brooke started to protest.
“There’s a bathroom twenty minutes away in town,” Mama told her. “A shuttle bus leaves twice a day.”
“Oh,” Brooke said. “That’s bett
er.”
We walked up to the front door, which seemed to be stuck open.
“I forgot to mention the fruit flies,” Mama said.
Wacky Jackie squinted at her. “Fruit flies?”
Mama nodded. “Yes. They come with the cabin. But don’t worry, you don’t have to pay extra.”
“The fruit flies are free?” Jackie asked.
Mama nodded again. “But we do have to charge extra for the mosquitoes.”
“Makes sense,” Jackie said.
“Why are there fruit flies?” I asked. “Is there fruit in the cabin?”
“There better not be, dum-dum!” Mama snapped. “No fruit allowed in the cabin!”
“I did a study on fruit flies,” Brainy Janey said. “The odd thing is, they are neither fruit nor flies. They are actually legumes.”
“Wowser. That is so interesting,” Mama said. She then stuck two fingers down her throat and pretended to gag.
As I followed the other girls into the cabin, we all waved our hands frantically in front of us, trying to brush away the fruit flies.
When I could finally see, I counted three bunk beds in the cabin. And I recognized the girl resting in one of them—Nasty Nancy.
We had already met Nancy and her friends at the Smellville Pet Show a while back. They claimed to be Garbage Pail Kids, too. But how is that possible?
Nasty Nancy jumped up from her bunk and frowned at us.
“You again!” Babbling Brooke exclaimed. “Are you happy to see us?”
“Am I happy to get a skin rash?” Nancy replied. “Can we vote on who stays—you or the fruit flies?”
“You will never be Camp Champ with that attitude,” I told her.
“You’ll never be Camp Champ with that big red lump on your head!” Nasty Nancy replied.
“I don’t have a big red lump on my head,” I said.
Nancy pumped her fists. “I can give you one.”
“Hey, you cluck-clucks. No violence at this camp!” Mama cried. She swung her cane and smacked Nancy in the back with it.
“Don’t make me teach you lame-brain pig-faced losers a lesson,” Mama said. “No violence, and no name-calling.”