Shells, Smells, and the Horrible Flip-Flops of Doom Read online

  I looked up the camp website and downloaded the schedule while Mom and Dad thought I was playing my half hour of computer games. I didn’t copy it down, but I remember the basic idea of the schedule. It was:

  Go to camp.

  Take off clothes and silver sneakers.

  Put on swimsuit and flip-flops.

  Get wet and cold in the pool.

  Take off swimsuit and flip-flops.

  Put on clothes and silver sneakers.

  Get sweaty doing rough sporty stuff.

  Eat in the “mess hall” (whatever that is, but it does not sound like a place anybody would want their food to be).

  Take off clothes and silver sneakers.

  Put on second swimsuit and same old horrible flip-flops.

  Get cold and wet again.

  Take off swimsuit and flip-flops.

  Put on clothes and silver sneakers.

  Do more boring sweaty sports that require skills.

  Sing.

  Go home.

  No wonder Mom had so many sighs coming out of her.

  I somehow convinced my parents to send me to Clothes-Changing Camp. And it starts in five days. I have to work on my courage a little bit more, I think. Also changing without letting anything private show. Also maybe sports skills, eating messes, and flip-flop walking without ending up on my face.

  July 1, Thursday

  I hate summer break.

  It goes too quickly.

  I’ve hardly done anything, and here we are already partway into July. The days are just flying by.

  July 2, Friday

  Xavier Schwartz and Gianni Schicci came over for a double playdate today.

  They have both been to Camp GoldenBrook before. They said it is the best camp and so much fun and basically all you do is play all day. You have to hold your towel in your teeth and just change behind it—no big deal. The counselors are awesome and teach the kids songs with bathroom words in them and sneak us extra cookies. I am so happy I made the decision to go there. I love playing and cookies, and probably I will also start to enjoy songs with bathroom words, too.

  After we had a battle with my knights and talked about how awesome camp is going to be, we made up a game called Houdini. Two of us would tie the other one up using Elizabeth’s jump rope and hair bands, the blanket from my top bunk, and Dad’s weights, which we attached to the hair bands at the feet. Xavier and I tied up Gianni and covered him with a blanket. Then we left the room to see how long it would take for him to get out.

  It took a long time.

  We thought maybe he died.

  But he didn’t.

  Then we had a snack.

  July 3, Saturday

  My little sister Elizabeth is so excited she might burst open like a whacked piñata, she says.

  “You are a whacked piñata,” I said.

  “Justin,” Mom said.

  Elizabeth can’t wait for Art Camp to start on Monday. She already packed her yellow-and-blue camp bag with no swimsuits or flip-flops, just markers and colored pencils and a snack in it. She is going to sit next to her boyfriend Buckey at lunch and sing silly songs they make up together. She already started one. It’s called “I Am a Whacked Piñata, a Whacked Piñata, a Whacked Piñata.”

  When she was younger, Elizabeth was scared of everything, and I had to comfort her. Now I sometimes accidentally wish she could be a gerbil instead of a sister.

  July 4, Sunday

  We went to watch the fireworks at the high school with my grandparents, who brought me two more more knights, each with a matching horse, when they came over. They are excellent grandparents except for the little problem of what happens when we go to the fireworks. It is the same thing every year.

  Gingy, my grandmother, keeps yelling, “Ooooh!” or “Ahhhh!” or “That was the best one!”

  And Poopsie, my grandfather, says, “I think that was the Grand Finale!” after every single firework, even the first one.

  July 5, Monday

  When we got home last night, there was a big surprise.

  I thought we had been robbed by a dangerous criminal.

  Dad said no.

  It turns out Qwerty, who is huge and slobbery and scary strong enough to drive away any bad guys, is terrified of fireworks.

  I understand about being terrified. I used to be terrified of a lot of things. I used to be afraid of food that jiggles, bad guys, teachers who are yellers, one of my stuffties (Snakey), death, one of my friends (Xavier Schwartz), and dogs, including Qwerty. Now I am not completely terrified of any of those things.

  Just partially terrified.

  Well, I am still completely terrified of death and Jell-O.

  But what I do when I am terrified is hide in my bed and scrunch up as small as possible.

  What Qwerty did when he was terrified is tear open the garbage and also the couch and redecorate them all over the entire house.

  So today I could not spend the day getting good at sports for camp, which starts tomorrow.

  Instead, I had to spend it playing with Qwerty in the backyard because he was so freaked out by the rug shampooer Mom had to rent from the hardware store to clean up the mess he had made. When she turned it on, Qwerty started yelping while running around in tight circles, chasing his tail and trying to bite it.

  “He is going to eat himself up!” Elizabeth screamed, and started crying and yelping, too. “He is going to gobble up his tail, and then his legs and body and…”

  “Justin,” Mom screamed, “take Qwerty and your sister OUTSIDE!”

  Qwerty is very enthusiastic, but he doesn’t get that in the game of Fetch, it is the DOG who is supposed to go get the stick, not the kid. So that didn’t work. Also Elizabeth was still running around in crazy circles until she fell down, which made Qwerty bark even more and pay even less attention to fetch.

  It took a while and a few games of Time Machine to calm them both down. I had to bring them to Colonial Virginia and then a medieval village (where we slayed a dragon, played by the big rock in the Way-Back of our yard) before we all stopped running around in crazy circles.

  Even those of us who were only running around in crazy circles deep down on the hidden inside.

  That rug shampooer thing really was horribly loud and slightly terrifying, even though I would never admit it or be scared of it for real myself, too much.

  I got to come inside when Xavier Schwartz called on the telephone. By then Mom was done with the machine and our house smelled weird, but I guess better.

  Xavier said, “Hi Justin Case this is Xavier Schwartz.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “Um,” he said. “Who are you sitting with on the camp bus tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I’m sitting with Gianni Schicci.”

  “Oh.”

  “No offense. He’s my best friend.”

  “I know.”

  “You can sit across the aisle from us,” Xavier said.

  “Okay.”

  “We’ll save you a seat if we get on the bus first. If you get on first, you save us a seat.”

  “Okay.”

  “Well, bye.”

  “Bye,” I said, and hung up. I didn’t go outside to where Elizabeth and Qwerty were stranded in a medieval village, waiting for me to come back. I know I promised them I would, but right then I really had to go lie down on my top bunk instead and just rest for a while. I wasn’t worrying about who in the world I am going to sit with on the bus tomorrow morning because I am not a worried kid anymore.

  It is a good thing I am not, too, because if I were, I would not be able to sleep all night tonight worrying about that thing I hadn’t even realized would be a thing to worry about.

  July 6, Tuesday

  I sat with Montana C.

  She gets on the bus right before me. When I stepped up into the bus, she yelled from near the back, “Hey, Justin Case!”

  “Hi,” I said, and waved a little.

  Heads of
other campers popped out into the aisle to look at who in the world is named Justin Case. Apparently it was me.

  So I just stood in the bus aisle for a little longer than might have been necessary, having nickname thoughts, like instead of saying hi maybe I should have said, “No, it’s me—Sharkey!”

  But I didn’t. I just stood there sort of smiling and waving weakly toward Montana C.

  “I didn’t know you were coming to Camp GoldenBrook, Justin Case,” Montana C. yelled. “Awesome! Sit with me!”

  So I did. Montana C. is the most popular and the most friendly girl in my whole grade at school. The seats in the bus were the kind where you can’t see anybody in the other rows. That is my favorite kind of bus seat. We slumped down with our knees on the seat in front of us and saved the seat across from us for Xavier and Gianni.

  “This is gonna be an awesome summer, don’t you think?” she asked me.

  “Yeah,” I said, but my voice did a weird dance move during the “yeah,” so it kind of sounded like maybe I was yodeling. I didn’t want to seem odd, so I did another couple of yodels then, like sometimes I just yodel in my spare time. Montana C. seemed a little concerned about that new hobby of mine.

  So then I stayed quiet the rest of the ride to camp.

  And then the day just got worse from there.

  July 7, Wednesday

  I am a Hawk.

  That is the group name of the kids going into fourth grade. Our counselors are a beautiful teenager named Natalia and an ugly teenager named either Jay or James. When James or Jay or whatever his name is first smiled at us, it looked like he was actually just showing his fierce teeth. His voice sounded like a mean dog growling. I think he said we Hawks better be the best group in camp, but I don’t know really.

  Because it just sounded like we were already in trouble.

  I am not sure why we would already be in trouble. We just got off the bus. We were still holding our backpacks full of bathing suits and towels and name tags.

  But Camp GoldenBrook is not like regular life.

  There’s no getting used to it—you have to jump right into the cold pool.

  At lunch we took food off the platter with our grubby hands, which we didn’t have to wash first. The food was called hockey pucks.

  With full mouths, all the Hawks talked about the fact that we hate girls. Girls are so gross.

  The boy next to me said, “You hate girls, don’t you?”

  I shrugged and said, “Duh. What do you think?”

  “Yeah. Duh.” He smiled. I guess I gave him the right answer.

  The reason I was having a sweat attack and couldn’t even eat my cookie after that is to me girls are actually still okay. Maybe I will stop liking them soon, but so far I can’t.

  And that was my first day of Camp GoldenBrook.

  Well, that and also I had to run around so much and sweat and play sports without stopping except when you get knocked down and then you have to get right back up so much because people whose names are either James or Jay—and you don’t know which—are shouting, “GET UP GET UP SHAKE IT OFF.”

  Yesterday and today, I fell asleep on the bus going home. The bus driver yelled my name to wake me up both times, which made the campers who were still on the bus laugh and laugh.

  On the Camp GoldenBrook website, the campers’ faces looked calm and happy, rosy cheeked and sparkly. Not mean and mocking like those guys on the bus when I was blinking, trying to figure out what bad dream I was in the middle of. Not droopy and exhausted like mine when I got home and went straight to hide in the bathroom and not talk about how Camp GoldenBrook was going.

  That is called false advertising, I think.

  At dinner last night, Mom and Dad had gentle faces on when they asked how it went at camp. “Was it okay, Justy?” Mom asked.

  She only calls me Justy when I am scared and unsturdy and need to be cuddled up. But I am not unsturdy anymore. I am rock solid.

  So I picked up my head off the table and said, “It was fine. Fun.”

  “What are your counselors’ names?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “May I be excused?”

  “You okay?” Mom called after me.

  I am doing fine. I can handle Camp GoldenBrook. I got through the second day today. I didn’t throw up or fall asleep and drool on the long long long bus ride to camp or get hurt badly or chosen last for any game all day yesterday or today.

  So everything is fine.

  Kind of.

  July 8, Thursday

  My Question: How is Newcomb not volleyball?

  The Reason I did not ask my question: James or possibly his name is Jay says things like “Just shut up and play” to campers who ask questions. When James/possibly Jay talks, his nostrils flare out like his nose is a two-car garage.

  So I will not be asking any questions this summer.

  Anyway, I will be too busy changing my clothes. And trying not to keep getting hit in the head with balls of all colors and sizes. That is enough of a challenge for me apparently.

  At first swim today, James/Jay shouted, “If you swam any slower, you’d be swimming backwards!”

  I am not sure if he was yelling that at me or Gianni Schicci or some other random slow kid. It definitely wasn’t Xavier or Cash, the new kid who hates girls. Xavier hangs around with that kid all day instead of Gianni—they are the two fastest Hawks.

  Maybe it was Gianni he was yelling at. I know from being in class with Gianni last year at school that if a teacher is yelling a kid’s name that name is pretty likely to be the name of Gianni. Occasionally it is the name of Xavier. It is almost never the name of Justin, which is the reason I am happy that my name is Justin.

  So it probably wasn’t me that the counselor was saying such a mean thing to.

  Also there is no way a person, even a slow-swimming person, can swim backwards. I am pretty sure that is impossible. Which means the counselor James/Jay wasn’t warning us of a danger. He was just being nasty. To kids. Even though he is supposed to be a counselor.

  I do not think that is allowed, even at a place like Camp GoldenBrook.

  I think he is a bad person, maybe.

  Another bad thing is a food called hockey pucks for lunch in The Mess. They just call it The Mess. And that is a good name for that place.

  First swim in the morning is Free Swim. That is very bad.

  Changing in the locker room, standing barefoot and shivering on the cold concrete floor, even behind a towel bitten by my teeth and hanging down in front of me like a limp curtain is worse.

  But swim test tomorrow is the winner of Worst Things.

  Still, when Dad asked, “How was camp, Champ?” I said the lie, “Great.”

  The nickname of Champ is even better than the nickname of Ace or Sharkey and infinitely times better than the nickname of Justin Case. So that made it hard for me to complain. Somebody who has just been called Champ doesn’t say, I got water up my nose at swim, and The space between my big toes and my second toes is very sore from my horrible flip-flops, and I think maybe this camp is too rough for me.

  A person called Champ just says, “Great. Camp is Great!”

  I am not so sure I will still be called Champ after the swim test tomorrow, so I have to enjoy it today while I can still get it.

  July 9, Friday

  What I hate:

  1. Changing clothes.

  2. Biting into an apple bruise.

  3. Swim tests.

  4. The color red.

  What I did at camp today:

  1. Changed clothes.

  2. Bit into an apple bruise.

  3. Took a swim test.

  4. Got into the group RED, which is the lowest group, also called Shallow.

  What I did not do at camp today:

  1. Get any of the pennies the awesome swim counselor named Mike threw into the shallow end, which is a very cool camp activity apparently.

  2. Swim well enough to get into a good swim group.

 
3. Cry.

  4. But it was close.

  What I did not do after camp today:

  1. Tell Mom and Dad about it.

  July 10, Saturday

  We went to Gingy and Poopsie’s beach condo. The reason I did not want to go swimming was not just because of the possibility of sharks in the ocean or grandmothers in the pool. I flat out needed one darn day off of swimming for goodness’ sakes.

  Also I think it should really be illegal to have a test in the summer. Poopsie is a lawyer so I might ask him later if I feel like telling anybody there was a swim test.

  After Elizabeth swam the whole children’s hours’ time in the pool, we got kicked out of the pool area by the old man Gingy secretly calls Mr. Cranky Pants, and we all went down to the beach. Mom, Dad, and Gingy settled themselves on beach chairs to read. Poopsie decided we had no patience for nonsense like that. Poopsie said explorers like him and me and Elizabeth had to go on adventures.

  We had to walk down the beach toward the ice-cream stand.

  On our way, instead of discussing if summer testing of children is against the law in this country, we had a contest of jumping off the dunes. I got the farthest. Elizabeth got the complete forward-roll prize. Poopsie got the Funniest-Looking Dune Jump in History award.

  Then we all got triple scoops.

  So we all won.

  On the way back, I found a tiny shell. It practically glowed on the sand, like it had been waiting there for me. Elizabeth asked if she could have it, but I said no because it felt right away like this was my shell. I let her hold it, carefully, and then gave Poopsie a turn.

  Poopsie let out a long whistle, admiring it.

  “It’s perfect,” I whispered, taking it back.

  “It is, Justin,” Elizabeth whispered. “Perfect.”

  “It’s not often you find a perfect thing,” Poopsie said. “When you do, you’d better keep a hold of it.”

  “I will,” I promised, more to my shell than to my grandfather.

  I kept it in my hand the whole way back to the condo and didn’t drop it or even drip any ice cream on it. I am not going swimming now even though it is afternoon kids’ hours in the pool, because I am very busy admiring my shell and deciding where I am going to keep it from now on. Because this shell and I are going to stick together forever.