Breakout!

by Stacy Davidowitz

  Melman put a hand on his shoulder. “Dude, you OK?”

  “Uhhhh.”

  “You’re acting like a wet dog.”

  “Are you good at camp trivia?” he blurted.

  “Eh. Better at sports,” Melman said. “Wish I were doing the backward foul shot.”

  “Yeah, and I’m way more suited for the chocolate bar event. I can eat an entire Hershey’s bar in six seconds.”

  “Eek. I doubt Lieutenant Shale can do it that fast.”

  “I know. And he’s basically a camp encyclopedia. He should be doing the trivia. We should switch!” Play Dough lunged forward. “HEY, SHALE!”

  Melman gripped Play Dough’s shoulders and pulled him back. “PD, you know there’s no switching. Pull yourself together. You’re gonna be great. We’re gonna be great.”

  Play Dough nodded, but he wasn’t so sure. He got time and a half on tests in school. Could he ask for that now? Why hadn’t he been born with Steinberg’s brain? Or Dover’s? Why had his mom declared that his Ritalin was only for the school year?! He really wished his Gramps’ recovery wasn’t riding on him. That his team wasn’t riding on him.

  “Oh, I forgot about . . .” Melman pulled a piece of pink stationery from her bell-bottom butt pocket. “This is from Jamie.”

  Play Dough narrowed his eyes. “Why did Jamie write me a letter?”

  “I have no idea,” she admitted. “She was blabbing on about how everything she’d told you about Jenny was a lie, but I wasn’t really paying attention, ’cause, like, you know, we’re at the peak of war.”

  Play Dough took it, his heart slamming. He may have been mad at Jenny, but after crushing on her for four summers, and then kissing and falling in love with her, he didn’t have much control over his body. He unfolded it and read to himself.

  He could feel his face turn beet red. Tomato red. Strawberry red. All the reds. He looked up at Melman. “You’re right. We’re gonna do great.”

  Melman laughed. “Wow, Jamie really knows how to inspire her opponents.”

  “You could say that.” Play Dough scanned the crowd for Jenny and spotted her beside Sophie, chanting for Blue. She spotted him—pomegranate-faced and gaping, with the letter in his hand. She grinned the most beautiful grin. He nearly melted.

  “What’s happening?” Melman asked, snapping him back.

  “You look like you’ve been punched in the face.”

  “With love.”

  “Excuse me?”

  General Power was suddenly between them. “I need one of you to stay back while the rest of the officers set up the Apache on the basketball court.”

  Play Dough shot his hand up. “I got it.” He was juggling so many emotions, he could use some rallying time with the team. And Jenny, specifically.

  “I was hoping you’d volunteer,” General Power said. “Melman actually understands sports equipment.”

  “I agree,” Play Dough declared, smiling ear to ear. He wasn’t dumb—he’d registered the dig. He was just so elated about Jenny and so terrified about the upcoming trivia to get bogged down by General Power’s insults. Play Dough knew his own strengths. He knew what he was capable of. He knew when life was full of possibility!

  General Power raised his eyebrows curiously. Melman shrugged. Then they headed toward the back doors. “See ya in a bit, PD,” Melman called over her shoulder.

  “Yup.” Play Dough grabbed a wireless mic and tapped it twice. Then he threw his fingers into a peace sign and swept the peace sign across his forehead. “Yodel, yodel, yodel, yodel, yodel, yodel-oo!”

  Blue shouted back with the same peace sign move. “Yodel, yodel, yodel, yodel, yodel, yodel-oo!”

  Play Dough chanted: “Groovy, hippie, Psychedelic Blue!” It was followed by complete silence. Blue had gotten good at getting quiet on demand. “In just a few minutes, we are going to compete in the most intense Apache Relay there ever was. That aside, I want to say thank you. Thank you, Blue, for letting me lead you and for reminding me what this war is all about. Tonight’s alma mater stole our hearts, which is the only kind of stealing that’s moral.” He shoved the mic under his armpit and gave a double thumbs-up. “To quote Jenny Nolan: ‘You’ve done so well. When you fell, you pushed on with spirit. The Hatchet is not the heart of this war.’” Play Dough pointed the mic out to the crowd.

  They sang back: “We’re fighting for the people in it!”

  “Inspiration-sauce! As for the rest of the song, I don’t know what ‘cuddle-spooning’ is, but if there’s food on a spoon, I’m down with cuddling, too.”

  Blue chuckled. Dover yelled out, “Play Dough’s the man!” and someone else yelled, “Cuddle-spooning’s cool!” He imagined that made Jenny feel good, so that made him feel good, too.

  “Also, if I’m tripping up or making no sense, blame it on the ’shrooms.” He pointed to the mushroom piñatas. “I inhaled a lot of paint today while decorating them, which is making them look even more psychedelic, which, BT dubs, has nothing to do with deli sandwiches.”

  Blue got hysterical.

  “So, yeah, us officers are going to pour all we’ve got into this tiebreaker. But remember, Blue team, no matter the outcome, we’ve already made camp history.”

  Play Dough dropped the mic and the crowd went wild. “GO DOUGH OR GO HOME!” morphed into “FEEL THE DOUGH!” which then morphed into “LET THE DOUGH RISE!”

  Through the window, Play Dough saw General Power jogging back from the basketball court, his face creased with annoyance. He hustled inside, stepped in front of Play Dough, and waved his arms to quiet his team. Nothing. He tried the peace sign move and the yodeling. Nothing. Play Dough offered the mic, but he slapped it away. The chanting had gotten so chaotic, General Power had to stand on a chair and blow his whistle three times to get noticed. Play Dough left the mic by General Power’s feet, just in case he changed his mind, and once Blue finally hushed, the General bent down and grabbed it.

  “Glad to see the high energy, Blue, but all I asked of Lieutenant Garfink was to stay back with you. Not make an Academy Award speech to the whole camp over the mic.” There was some laughter, but it was mostly awkward. General Power shook his head anxiously. “In the army he’d get chewed out for this.” There was no laughter; it was entirely awkward. This was not how either of them deserved to go out.

  Play Dough tried to pluck the mic from General Power’s hand, but General Power held it tight, like a greedy toddler.

  “May I, General?” Play Dough asked as politely as he could, which made him sound British. Some kids up front giggled.

  General Power dropped his eyes and surrendered. “Sure,” he said. “Do whatever clown act you want.”

  Play Dough thought about correcting him and saying “stand-up,” but he knew better. He also thought about honking General Power’s nose. But he knew better than to do that, too. He took the high road. “Thanks,” he said and then faced Blue. “So, before I take my place on the court, I want to give one final shout-out to the face of the war, the man who’s been leading tirelessly this week with precision and decision and cognition and ambition and volition.” Play Dough did not know what four-fifths of those words meant, but he knew they rhymed and so that was good. “Stand up and go crazy for my hero and your one-and-only GEN-ER-AL POWEEERRRR!”

  Blue cheered like mad. Play Dough rubber-snake danced through the crowd, chanting: “POWER’S GOT POWER, SO WE’VE GOT POWER!” As the cheering grew louder and the hype got hyper, Play Dough looked back at General Power in the center of the hall. He was rubber-snake dancing, too. Play Dough handed him the mic, and this time he took it, with something unrecognizable on his face. It was a smile. Huh.

  Play Dough strode to his place on the basketball court, the Blue cheers whipping at his back. It was Apache time.

  In the center of the basketball court, Play Dough shuffled around, nervous and distracted. Beside him, Melman was picking at her cuticles. Jamie and Totle were quizzing each other with random camp trivia that neither knew
the answers to.

  With the officers in their places and the teams in the bleachers, TJ brought the megaphone to his mouth. “On your marks.” Set up in the corner of the court, General Power and General Silver picked up their bows and strung their arrows. “Get set.” They pulled back their bowstrings and aimed for the center of their scoring rings. “GO!” The camp roared as the arrows flew.

  Play Dough watched it unfold in a flash. The Generals ripped bull’s-eyes. Lieutenants Saad and Burrick bounced a tennis ball on their racket in quick buh-bounces. Lieutenants Figg and Kasnett were neck and neck as they swept those same tennis balls through identical obstacle courses of orange cones using brooms. White gained momentum when Lieutenant Kreitzer lapped Lieutenant Finkelstein as they Rollerbladed around the perimeter of the court. White team’s General Ferrara swooshed the backward foul shot on her third try, just as General McCarville picked up the basketball to start. On McCarville’s sixth try, the basketball hit the backboard and fell through the net! Blue dropped their arms with a collective “Whoosh.”

  As TJ gave a play-by-play on Lieutenant Wagner’s and Lieutenant Shale’s chocolate bar ingestion, Play Dough’s stomach rumbled. He wasn’t hungry, just insanely nervous. He kept seeing flashes of his Gramps beaming as the other Garfinks shared their Color War victory stories over Thanksgiving dinner. He wanted to be showered with congratulatory drumsticks, too, not be the dumb turkey.

  “Done!” Wagner cried.

  “Open your mouth and stick out your tongue,” TJ instructed, checking for any hidden chunks. “And . . . swallowed!”

  Play Dough checked out Lieutenant Shale nibbling on a square. He was only halfway through the bar. C’mon, it’s chocolate, not poop! Shale took another fly-size bite as Wagner passed the baton to Jamie.

  “All right, White,” the Captain announced. “You’ll be quizzed on Rolling Hills history of the 1960s. Blue, when the time comes, you’ll be quizzed on Rolling Hills history of the 1980s. A fun reversal. First team to get a question right wins. And I mean WINS.” The cheering got eardrum-popping. Play Dough’s pits began flooding. Shale needed to hurry the cocoa up. “White,” the Captain plowed on. “What were the very first Rolling Hills Color War themes?”

  Easy, Play Dough thought. Blue Hollywood versus White Broadway. Gramps was General that first summer. For SING, he’d entered the Social Hall in a top hat, cane, and tap shoes, while the Bunker Hillers spritzed him with water à la “Singing in the Rain.” Huge success.

  Play Dough eyed Totle, who was totally still except for his fingers, which were stroking an invisible beard. Jamie was hopping from foot to foot like she had to pee. Was that a part of her thinking process? “Blue Outerspace versus White Cyberspace!” she cried.

  “Incorrect,” the Captain said. “The correct answer is Blue Hollywood versus White Broadway. OK, next—”

  “I’m done! It’s swallowed!” Lieutenant Shale broke in. TJ quickly checked his mouth and nodded with approval. Shale passed the baton to Melman.

  “In that case,” the Captain said, “the next question is for Blue.” Play Dough felt a ripple of relief. Then a ripple of nausea. The war really would come down to his wandering smarts. He pressed his temples to keep his brain in place. “In what year of the eighties did the seven-year White streak get broken?” the Captain asked.

  Play Dough’s mind raced. He knew it couldn’t be 1984 or 1985, since his Aunt Denise had won in 1984 and his Pops had won in 1985. “1986?” he asked Melman.

  “I know nothing,” Melman said. “If you think it’s 1986, go for it.”

  “1986!” Play Dough cried.

  “Incorrect,” the Captain said. “The correct answer is 1985.”

  “Uhhhh.” Play Dough scratched his head. “I think that’s a mistake. 1985 was White Fiction versus Blue Fact. White won.”

  “Blue Fact won and that’s a fact,” the Captain said. TJ threw in a cymbal crash: Ba-dum-tish.

  Play Dough felt his head clog with confusion. He played back all the victory stories his Pops had told him, about how he’d set the record for fastest Rope Burn, and how he’d restrategized Bucket Brigade, and how he’d earned his team one hundred Sportsmanship points with his cheering madness. But had his Pops ever said his team had won overall? Now he couldn’t remember.

  “Moving on,” the Captain said. “White, what year in the sixties was the Hatchet Hunt tossed over a disqualification?”

  Focus, Play Dough told himself, trying to push his blown mind. He watched Jamie and Totle whisper in each other’s ears and then separate with in-sync nods. Totle stepped forward. “1968.”

  Play Dough sighed with relief. That couldn’t be right. That was the year that Great-Uncle Garfink had found the Hatchet in an apple tree by the Canteen. He’d climbed the tree because his blood sugar was low in the middle of a tennis match and he’d wanted a snack, but then, voilà! The Hatchet was just sitting there, nestled in the branches.

  Booya! Blue’s turn! Play Dough cheered himself on. This was it. This was going to be the question he and Melman guessed correctly. This was going to be the question that turned this war the color of the sea.

  “Correct,” the Captain said.

  Play Dough stumbled forward. Correct?! Surely, his ears had missed the “in” part of “incorrect.” He waited for the Captain to deliver the right answer. Instead, she tossed the trivia cards in the air. He waited for her to ask Blue a question from memory. Instead, she just stood there, smiling all lovey-dovey at TJ.

  Play Dough racked his brain, trying to remember the story just as his Great-Uncle Garfink had told it. Yes, he’d climbed the apple tree. Yes, the Hatchet had just been sitting there. Yes, he’d grabbed it. Except . . . Suddenly, Play Dough’s memory center lit up like a lightbulb: Great-Uncle Garfink had found the Hatchet in the middle of a tennis match! You can’t ditch activities to hunt for the Hatchet! Plus, he was buddy-less! The hunt must have been thrown out, just like it had been this summer!

  Play Dough took a breath, released some gas, and tried to process it all: He’d thought all his family stories of greatness were about winning. But, now that he looked back on them, no one had actually claimed they’d won—he’d just assumed they had. If the Garfink family was proud of their Color War successes despite losing overall, then did it really matter if he lost overall, too? He’d had so many victories this week—his family’s pride couldn’t possibly ride on his answers to a few random questions. The Garfinks had left a legacy because they saw themselves as winners, and now, Play Dough thought, maybe so should he.

  TJ joined the Captain center court. They kissed, which was . . . weird. “The winner of this summer’s Color War,” they announced together, “is WHITE!”

  White flooded the basketball court with the spirit of a tsunami. Play Dough felt his heart bob around in his chest. He watched Blue clap feebly. He spotted General Power and General McCarville hug sort of lamely. And then Play Dough saw Jenny jumping up and down like a lunatic, holding Jamie’s hand, and something inside him burst with happiness.

  He threw a Blue Bunker Hiller named Petey, or maybe it was Parker, onto his shoulders and ran up and down the sidelines. “Blue huddle! Blue, don’t be blue! You did psychedelic-sauce!” But with the war over and no one leading, the chaos was too chaotic for a mic-less Play Dough to rein in. He put the giggling Bunker Hiller down and felt a tap on his shoulder.

  He swung around. It was Jenny. “We’ve been trying to get your attention,” she said with that same beautiful grin.

  “Huh?”

  She took his sweaty hand and led him to the Faith and Hamburger Hillers, all huddled up. “Now we can group hug for realsies,” she said.

  Jamie pulled Jenny in and Smelly pulled Play Dough in, and the group squeezed together tightly. Play Dough’s nose was buried in Missi’s frizz, his arm was tangled with Dover’s arm, and his cheek was pressed against Wiener’s bony shoulder—it was the best, most awkward, coolest huddle he could ever imagine. “You guys really are the saucest friends
ever,” he said.

  Apparently that pushed a button. The group hug became madder than a madhouse. Everyone started crying and laughing and sputtering nonsense like “Camp can’t end! It can’t be legal!” and “Camp’s the bestest place—I want to take all the hills home with me!” and “I can’t, just, I can’t!” and “I heart you guys more than life itself!” and “Never let go, Hamburgers, never let go.”

  Then Jamie started singing the Blue alma mater: “So hug it out and let me in, hey friend, we win . . .” Then Jenny started singing the White alma mater: “Each day goes quickly, cherish the moments, don’t let them pass . . .” Soon enough everyone was singing their opponent’s almas with and over one another. Once Play Dough and Smelly launched into their falsettos, though, the group cracked up and let the almas go. Everyone de-clumped a little, and their huddle became a circle.

  “You see?” Jenny said. “No matter what, we’re always friends at the end of the war.”

  Jamie giggled, wiping her tearstained cheeks. “But there were a lot of hoops this time around.”

  “I guess,” Jenny said. She looked at Play Dough and he swore her eyes sparkled. “But it was worth jumping through every last one.”

  Burying the Hatchet

  “Here it is!” Play Dough said, grandly gesturing to a sorry, hacked-up tree stump in the middle of the forest.

  Jenny tried to smile, but it turned into a yawn. She’d dance-partied it up with the Faith Hillers until five in the morning, and so had almost bailed on Play Dough’s plan to meet before reveille. But now she was glad she’d dragged herself out of bed. She’d always dreamed of standing where the Color War officers held their traditional end-of-war ceremony. She was told from past Lieutenants that they typically stood in a circle around the tree stump, alternating White and Blue, rooting on the Hatchet finder as he or she hacked it with the Color War Hatchet. Their version of “burying the hatchet,” or making peace.