Summer on the Short Bus Page 2

  The older man smiles, forcing his beady eyes to disappear into the folds of his cheeks. “I’m a chef. A good chef. Not a cook.”

  “That’s right, Sam,” Rainbow agrees with a nod. “You are a chef !”

  “Hey, Cricket, I’m Pete.” A twentysomething guy with strawberry-blond hair and more freckles than Rainbow takes my hand before I can contemplate what’s wrong with the little gnome-chef. “I’m in charge of applying Band-Aids,” he says.

  “Among other things,” Rainbow interjects. “Pete’s a second-year medical student and a far cry from Band-Aid distributor, though he does do that sometimes. And very well, I might add.”

  “I do apply a mean Band-Aid,” he says, winking at me with one of his startlingly light blue eyes.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.

  “And last, but not least, is Quinn.”

  My eyes wander to what is sure to be the biggest joker in this poorly dealt hand. But as I take in his tanned body and eyes that are the same color blue as my favorite Slurpee, it’s all I can do not to melt into a puddle right here on the ground. “Oh my God,” I whisper, suddenly breathless. “You look just like . . .”

  “Please don’t say it,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Please don’t.”

  “Un-uh, Quinn!” Fantine is now at my side, laughing. “She has every right to tell you her opinion. Go ahead, girl. He just loves it when people tell him who he looks like.”

  I raise my glasses for a better look.

  “Straight up, Cricket. This is his favorite part of camp,” Colin adds from miles above me. “That’s why he’s blushing. He loves it.”

  “You guys suck, you know that?” Quinn shakes his head while a grin starts inching its way across his face. “For the record,” he says, “I don’t play basketball, I never sing in public, and I definitely don’t dance.”

  “He’s never even seen High School Musical,” Pete adds, not wanting to be excluded.

  “You’re just . . . I mean, you’re so . . .” Good God! What is wrong with me? “You look just like him!” I finally squeal.

  “Wait until you see the campers with him.” Rainbow sidles up beside Quinn and traps him beneath one of her long giraffe arms. “Last year it took a couple of days for them to stop calling him Zac and start calling him Quinn. They asked him for his autograph for weeks!”

  “Can I pleeeease have an autograph, Mr. Efron?” Fantine says with a snort and drops to her knees in front of him. “Just one autograph?”

  The entire group, including Quinn, bursts into laughter.

  “It’s unbelievable,” I say, and realize I’m laughing, too. “But at least you look like a hottie. Can you imagine how much it would suck if you were mistaken for some deformed freak . . . like Quasimodo?”

  Rather than the laughter I expect, all I get is an earful of deafening silence. What the hell? I take in the faces of everyone around me—every open jaw and wide eye gaping at me.

  “Um . . . right. Okay then, everybody,” Rainbow says and drags a hand across her forehead. I’m not sure how it’s possible, but she’s paler than she was five seconds ago. “Fantine, why don’t you give Cricket the five-dollar tour while we finish getting things ready for the arrivals.”

  “With pleasure,” Fantine mumbles. She glances at the rest of the staff before sauntering past me without another word. I look up at Quinn, his face as unreadable as everyone else’s, and realize that I’ve just committed some forbidden camp counselor crime.

  “Whatever,” I say, and turn to follow Fantine. It’s not like I care what a bunch of dorks in matching white T-shirts think about me anyway. Even if one of them does look like a movie star.

  THREE

  Our first stop on the half-assed tour is the mess hall, aka the needs-to-be-condemned building I saw when we first drove in. All meals are eaten here, which means I can add food poisoning to my growing list of fears. The mess hall is also the location for special activities like movie night and the end-of-summer battle of the bands. It’s all so riveting I can hardly stand it.

  “The archery range and pool are down that way,” Fantine says while nodding toward a paved trail that cuts through a grassy field and disappears behind what looks like an outhouse. “Over here is where the boys sleep.” She hesitates in front of a large, A-framed cabin with a BOYS RULE, GIRLS DROOL sign hanging from the door. “Colin and Quinn stay in there, and that’s their bathroom.” I look up the hill and see a tiny building with a bright orange roof and faded red door. From my vantage point I don’t think Colin could fit through it, let alone get comfy enough to take a dump.

  “Uh . . . where’s our bathroom?”

  “On the other side of the hill by our cabin. Come on.”

  Fantine scurries up the hill with the dexterity of a panther, while I am left to struggle through the sticks in my Marc Jacobs flip-flops with my thousand-pound bag hanging off my shoulder.

  “God, Fantine, this is heavy! Can you just wait a second?”

  “You don’t do much for yourself, do you?”

  “What?” I pause to catch my breath and look up to find her standing a few feet above me, her hands on her hips and a smirk on her face. “I’m carrying the bag myself, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “Right,” she says coolly. “That’s exactly what I meant. Do you think you can make it another ten feet, or do I need to call for an ambulance?”

  “Very funny!” I say before redirecting wisps of blonde hair from my face with a sweaty arm. Fantine sighs and continues up the hill again. I follow along, groaning the entire way.

  “This is our place,” she says, pointing to yet another ramshackle building. The sign hanging above the screen door says GIRLS RULE, BOYS DROOL. How original.

  “Come on, I’ll show you where you can put your stuff.”

  My tour guide blows through the door as if it were a five star resort, while I’m left slugging my bag up the rickety, wood-rotted steps in the nine-hundred-degree heat.

  “You know, you took the hard way.” She pops her head through the doorway just as I reach the landing sweat-soaked and completely out of breath. “I think the ramp would’ve been a much better choice for you.”

  I glance to my right and see a long, wood-planked ramp that runs the length of the building all the way to the platform where I stand. Now she tells me.

  She props the left of two doors open with her Nike-covered foot, inviting me into the dank space with a cold stare. The moment my foot hits the worn floor my stomach drops.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “About what?”

  “About this!” I say, motioning to the eyesore around me. “You don’t actually sleep in here, do you? It smells like wet socks, and there’s no carpet on the floor.” I peer down at my dirt-covered feet and nearly burst into tears. My pedicure is totally ruined. “You can’t tell me that parents actually pay for their children to sleep in accommodations like these.”

  “Actually, they do. The ones that can afford to, anyway,” she says with a look that could make puppies cry. “And for the record, their children love it. Our beds are in here.” Sliding a faded yellow curtain from the wall, she reveals a tiny room housing two wood-framed cots, a cracked window no bigger than an economy-fare porthole, and a shelving system made of plywood, cinder blocks, and about two thousand spiderwebs. “You can have the top shelf.”

  I seriously consider bolting and running for my life, but I can’t move. My feet are cemented to the floor and I’m having trouble breathing.

  “Why are you even here?”

  “What?” I ask, still trying to catch a breath.

  “Why are you here?” she asks me again, her dark eyes burrowing into my soul. “It’s pretty obvious you don’t want to be.”

  I swallow through a newly formed knot in my throat—I hope she’s not violent.

  “The way I see it, there are only two kinds of people who show up here at the last minute. There’s the last-ditch, need-something-impressive-on-my-college-a
pplication people who think they can come here for the summer and skate through without making any real effort. And then there’s the stuck-up rich kids who get busted shoplifting and are avoiding their juvy sentence by opting for community service. So tell me, Cricket. Which one are you?”

  “Oh my God! Do I look like I belong in juvy?”

  She raises a sculpted brow.

  “My dad set this whole thing up because he wants me to be more grounded or something,” I say, quickly rethinking my initial strategy of telling her to screw off. “Trust me. There are about a thousand other places I’d rather be than here.”

  “Well, aren’t we the lucky ones,” she says and takes a slightly less aggressive stance, which does little to pacify my nerves. “All right, here’s the deal, Cricket. It goes against my instincts, but I’m willing to assume that you’re only acting like a judgmental bitch because this is a new experience for you. I know this isn’t your typical summer camp and it takes some getting used to. But what you need to understand is that we love this camp, we love these kids, and we take our jobs seriously. It’s a lot more than something Daddy just arranged to keep us out of trouble. So if you think I’m going to let beach-blanket Barbie with her Fendi bag roll in here and ruin my summer, you got another think coming. You feel me?”

  I suddenly feel like I’m playing the lead in a bad ABC Family movie where I’m the pretty rich girl whose parents die and is forced to live with foster parents in the inner city. Their biological daughter hates me because her gangster boyfriend, who’s actually smart and misunderstood, likes me more than her, so she challenges me to a dance-off or cheer competition.

  “Yeah,” I say in a near whisper, “I feel you.”

  “Great,” she says with an unconvincing smile. “Now, you’ve got about fifteen minutes to unpack before the campers arrive. There are three T-shirts under your pillow. You’re expected to wear one whenever you’re on duty. The towels are up at the bathroom, bug spray’s on the windowsill. You’ll figure out the rest as you go.”

  And just like that, J. Lo’s evil twin disappears through the plastic curtain, and I’m left wondering how the hell I’m going to get myself out of here before she kills me.

  Despite my fear of contracting a skin-eating disease, I plop down on the rickety cot and try to gather my thoughts. It’s obvious that Dad isn’t going to cave on this horrific wilderness experiment, but I’m practically an adult. Surely they can’t keep me here against my will. I pop another peppermint into my mouth and chomp down on it. I need to talk to Katie. Her dad is a big-shot lawyer—if anyone will know how to get me out of here it’s him.

  I pull my phone from my bag, only to fall back into the pit of despair when I see there’s absolutely no cell coverage. Freaking perfect.

  Too pissed to cry, I start unloading my stuff before Fantine comes back and puts a cap in my ass. I’ll figure out where AT&T lives later.

  Using the strap of my bag to dust off the top shelf of the makeshift dresser, I lay my shorts, tanks, bras, and undies in neat piles on the wood, promising myself I’ll burn them the second I get home. I swap my YSL tank for one of the standard-issue Hanes T-shirts, and finally trade out my flip-flops for the Asics trainers that have never set foot outside of a gym.

  Looking like a walking yard sale, I return to the front entrance and find Fantine standing alongside Pete the doctor and Sam the gnome chef.

  “All set?” Fantine asks. She’s wearing a smile that I can’t determine is of the sincere or I’m-going-to-kill-you-in-your-sleep variety.

  “Yeah,” I say cautiously. “Thanks.”

  I fall in line beside her and return a wave to Colin and Quinn, who are standing on the steps of the mess hall. Apparently my Quasimodo faux pas has been forgiven.

  “Okay, gang.” Rainbow approaches with a clipboard in hand and sunglasses stationed on her carrot-colored head. “The buses just radioed in. They’re pulling off the highway and will be here in a couple of minutes.”

  “Finally,” Fantine says. “I feel like we’ve been waiting forever.”

  “I know!” says Rainbow. She’s so excited she’s practically bouncing.

  I’m just about to ask what the big deal is, when I notice Pete and Colin in an all-out hug, giggling like kids on Christmas morning. I’m beginning to wonder if I’m starring on a hidden camera reality show, because an eternity passes before two streaks of yellow finally appear through the thick of trees.

  “Oh my God!” Fantine says while pressing her hands against her mouth. “They’re here! They’re here!”

  “Don’t you just love this?” Rainbow adds, squeezing her hand. “I cannot wait to see Meredith!”

  Several minutes and a ridiculous amount of anticipation later, the buses roll to a stop in front of us. I squint behind my glasses, covering my nose and mouth from the dirt rising from the ground. Then the already too-familiar CAMP I CAN logo comes into view on the side of the bus.

  A short bus.

  I station myself at an equally safe distance from the squatty vehicles, watching as Rainbow waves wildly to the driver of the first bus, who responds with a heavy-handed honk. “I love it when he does that,” she says. The engine goes silent and the dual glass doors at the front groan before squeaking open.

  Fantine, Sam, and Pete have all wandered toward the other bus and are exchanging hellos with the driver, when a loud clanging noise draws my attention back to bus number one. A square door slowly opens from the side of the bus, creating an open-air lift. Seconds later a pigtailed redhead appears in the world’s tiniest wheelchair.

  “Hello, Raaaaaaainbow,” the girl calls over in a voice that makes me think her tongue is too big for her mouth. “Did youuu miss meeee?”

  “Did I miss you?” Rainbow bellows back. “Nah, never!”

  The little girl answers with a laugh as strange as her voice, before her miniature body begins moving in ways that can’t be good for you. Her hands are fisted, flailing in front of her face, while her neck contorts into an Exorcist move. I’m too freaked out to keep watching, so I turn my attention toward the other bus and find Fantine hugging a boy whose eyes are spaced entirely too far apart. His face is swollen, and I can’t be sure, but it appears he’s walking with a limp.

  What the hell kind of freak show is this?

  More yelping and laughter draws my awareness back to the first bus. The pigtailed, funny talker is now on the ground in her neon-yellow wheelchair (complete with an old-school Hannah Montana sticker plastered on its side). Then a dark-skinned boy with thick-lensed glasses sidesteps his way out of the bus, a pair of crutches in his hand.

  And it dawns on me . . .

  Oh. My. God. I’m spending my summer with a bunch of retards.

  FOUR

  “Cricket! Cricket, can you hear me?”

  “Huh?” My eyes flutter open. Pete’s freckled face is just inches from mine.

  “Can you hear me?” he asks again, louder this time.

  “Yes, Pete”—I wave him away with a swipe of my hand—“I can hear you. You don’t need to yell in my face. What the hell happened?”

  “You fainted, that’s what happened. Can you try and sit up?”

  “I think so.”

  Pete shimmies through the gravel and gently transitions me from lying flat on my back to propped up on my elbows.

  “I feel a little . . .”

  “Just take a few deep breaths and get your bearings. That was a pretty nasty fall.”

  I brace my elbows firmly into the dirt and hoist myself upright. The second I’m vertical, I drop my forehead against my knees. I haven’t hurt like this since the morning after Tommy Kleeger’s keg party.

  “Any idea why you fainted?” I know he’s just doing the whole bedside manner thing, but running his hand up and down my back isn’t helping. “Are you dehydrated? When was the last time you ate?”

  “It was probably the heat,” I hear Fantine say. “She’s probably only used to air-conditioning.”

  “I don’t kn
ow what happened, just stop rubbing my back!” I say, wiggling away from Pete. “I’ve never been dehydrated before, so I don’t know what that feels like, and it’s not that hot. I have no idea why I fainted.”

  “Well, what’s the last thing you remember?” Pete asks.

  “I don’t know. I . . . I guess I remember unpacking my stuff in the bunkhouse. . . .”

  He nods. “That’s good. What else?”

  “Um . . . I remember waiting for the buses.”

  “Good, good. Keep going.”

  I’m just about to say, “I’m not a retard, Pete, you can shut up now,” when a bright yellow object enters my peripheral vision, stealing my ability to speak. I glance over my shoulder and am immediately greeted with a picture of a prelesbian butch-cut Miley Cyrus and her enormous horse teeth.

  “Are yooooou okay?”

  I make a visor with my hand and squint up at the voice above me. The vision of two enormous pigtails sends my head into a tailspin as it all comes rushing back.

  “Oh God,” I mumble, burying my face in my knees.

  “You remember now?” Pete asks.

  “Oh yeah. I remember everything.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear. What we need to do now is get you inside and out of the sun. Do you think you can stand up?”

  “I can try.”

  “Okay, let’s get you up on your feet. Quinn, can you take her on the left side please?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Until this very moment I’ve only been aware that Pete, Fantine, and “Hannah Montana” are within range, but as I raise my head I see that a large crowd is circling, and yours truly is sitting center stage. There’s a kid with an eye patch, another kid with drool trailing down his chin, and though I’m not sure who they belong to, a very BeDazzled pair of crutches sparkling in the sunlight. No wonder I fainted!

  Before I can break into tears, Quinn approaches me. He looks as beautiful as I remembered, with the addition of a few worry lines etched in his forehead.