At least, everybody else does.
As for me, I watch Corryn and the rest pack up and leave. Then, when I’m sure none of them can see me, I make the short walk to the front of camp. Passing the Recreation Barn, I squint when I hear strange, jangly music spilling from its windows. Somebody, somewhere in this camp, is square dancing today. I hope it’s not me.
The trees part from the path and sunlight spills down. On the right is the big parking lot and staff cabins, but to my right is the whole place laid out. Tennis courts and basketball courts, a big lawn for frisbee and soccer. Past that, on the lake, kids shriek as they jump in for the first time.
It’s not super-hot yet, so I bet Lake Sweetwater is more like Lake Icewater. I’m not looking forward to getting into it. If I’m lucky, the bright sun will warm it up before my swim test. (For the record, that’s basically delusional thinking. In a direct battle between the volume of water versus the available energy from the sun, volume wins every time. It’ll be blue skin and chattering teeth as far as the eye can see.)
When I reach the Great Hall, I consider my options. The infirmary is right there, but I think I’m supposed to talk to the director. She’s probably not in the canteen, although a shockingly chipper blonde is, arranging cherry Jolly Ranchers next to the candy cigarettes and Blow Pops.
There doesn’t seem to be anyone in the open Great Hall, so that leaves the camp office. I knock, then look up when Mrs. Winchelhauser opens the door. At first, she stares at me suspiciously. Then a spark of recognition lights the eyes behind her unusual glasses.
“Oh! You must be . . .”
“Tez,” I say before she tries to pronounce my first name. “Tez Jones.”
Mrs. Winchelhauser smiles and opens the door a little wider. “Yes, of course, come in.”
Stepping inside, I’m not sure where I’m supposed to be exactly. Stacks of papers tower out of control on every available surface. Two file cabinets stand sentinel by the door, and half their drawers are open. On top of the file cabinets there’s a microphone for the PA system, and a brass bell with a wooden handle—presumably the very instrument that Mrs. Winchelhauser uses over the aforementioned PA system to signal the end of an activity period.
The nameplate on her desk is upside down, and the huge camp map on the wall hangs so precariously that it might succumb to gravity at any moment.
I’d say it looks like Mrs. Winchelhauser is trying to rob the place, but I don’t see anything to steal.
“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Winchelhauser says, “I’m still trying to get organized for the summer.”
The door opens behind me, bumping my shoulder blade. I look back, and at the same time, Mrs. Winchelhauser exclaims, “Oh good, there you are.”
“You” is a woman in khakis and a nurse’s shirt. The shirt has hundreds of tiny stethoscopes printed all over it. Her name tag has the Camp Sweetwater logo, but nothing else—no name.
Plucking a label maker from the desk, Mrs. Winchelhauser hands it to the woman. “I wasn’t sure how to spell it.”
I look at her sympathetically as she starts to tick it out. Nobody knows how to spell—or say—my name either.
Archimedes Tesla Jones.
Special, right?
Instead of eating the hearts of their enemies to gain their strengths like the Celts did, my parents stole the names of their idols and gave them to their kids. They said the goal was to imbue us with their spirit and curiosity. Instead, it guarantees we’ll never, ever find a pencil or a bike license plate with our names printed on it. (My four-year-old sister is named Hypatia Marie. We call her “Hi.”)
“This is Miss Kortepeter,” Mrs. Winchelhauser says, clearing an edge of her desk to lean on. A book tips off the corner and plops into the trash can, but Mrs. Winchelhauser ignores it. “Miss Kortepeter is the camp nurse, and she’s been explaining your condition to me.”
“Marfan,” I confirm, then add, “loose joint syndrome. Did you know that Abraham Lincoln probably had it too? There’s no way to be sure; it wasn’t identified as a condition until 1896. President Lincoln enjoyed his last half play in 1865.”
Mrs. Winchelhauser looks at me blankly. “Fascinating. But as I was saying, Miss Kortepeter has filled me in, and I read the letter your parents sent—very helpful. When you write home, please thank them for me.”
“You bet,” I say.
“Yes, all right, what was I saying? Oh yes,” Mrs. Winchelhauser says. “Given your delicate condition—”
With a frown, I say, “I’m not delicate. I just can’t do stuff that pumps up my heart rate, or hits me right in the chest. Baseball, football, wrestling . . . bullfighting is probably out, but I didn’t see that on the camp activities list.”
Ha ha? My joke does a little death spiral, punctuated by the ker-chik! of Miss Kortepeter cutting the plastic label from the roll. She peels the tape off and plasters her name on her tag. “No rock climbing, horseback riding, soccer . . .”
All of this is stuff I know. I had to beg to come to camp, and part of begging was identifying for my parents every part of camp that might explode my potentially weak heart, and then promising them that I would avoid those parts completely. (PS, I’m pretty sure that horseback riding isn’t that exciting.)
Marfan syndrome has its perks: my joints are so loose I can bend all of them backward (an excellent party trick, or so I hear; still waiting to be invited to a party) and I’m probably going to be wicked tall. Good chance I’ll look great in a stovepipe hat.
It also has its issues: my aorta could split with a stiff breeze. No big. Twelve-year-olds drop dead from heart attacks all the time! I could even die falling out of bed.
That one bothers my mom, but not me. Statistically, anybody could die falling out of a bed. It’s the most common way to die in your own house! You could also kick it by falling out of a tub. Or off a chair. Your home is a deathtrap! But we don’t spend all day safely lying on the floor!
I’m ready to actually do some stuff (not dying; I can definitely wait for that adventure). Camp Sweetwater had promised I could have a “modified,” meaning non-fatal, schedule.
Which was sort of what I was waiting to hear. Prompting Mrs. Winchelhauser, I say, “So instead of sports stuff . . .”
Mrs. Winchelhauser smiles. “We thought you might enjoy helping out with some of the younger campers in arts and crafts until things like the photography lab and camp radio station are set up. We’re hoping to have them open soon.”
I blink. “You want me to work . . . with little kids.”
“Unless you had a better idea?”
Well, I knew I didn’t want to collect more wood. Starting haunted fires wasn’t high on my list of experiences to revisit. Definitely didn’t want to investigate the source of every known bug in Ohio turning up in Oak Camp Cabin Group C, so . . .
Flashing her my best impress-an-adult smile, I say, “Nope, that sounds great! When do I start?”
“Right after your swim test,” Mrs. Winchelhauser says. But then she looks to Miss Kortepeter. “Can he swim?”
Miss Kortepeter straightens her name tag. “No high dives, no belly flops, no chicken.”
“No problem,” I say, and slip away.
Long as I can keep my adventures with the kidlets in Bantam Camp under wraps, it’ll be no problem at all.