Tez
Everything at Camp Sweetwater is chaos. Or it could be entropy.
It’s hard to say which because I haven’t been here long enough to know what the natural state is. Whichever it is, my current state is somewhat unnatural. I currently know exactly one person, and that’s Corryn from the bus. We had an actual conversation, a good portent for this summer.
Unfortunately, other portents are more negative. Mary, the British counselor, has replicated.
Gavin, who is Mary in male form, drags us middle boys to one side of the flagpole. I can only hope they won’t spawn any further.
There are knots of kids scattered all over the front drive. Tall trees surround the gravel roads and paths at the entrance. Near the Director’s Lodge, there’s a paved parking lot, but it’s overgrown with low, heavy bushes and scrubby trees.
Counselors and camp directors and other official-looking people group us by age, then by camp, then by cabin.
With each separation, I try to wave at Corryn, but she’s studying the sky. There’s nothing up there but altocumulus clouds—white, fluffy ones, well-spaced. If she’s trying to tell the weather, it’s a waste of time. Altocumulus clouds just mean pleasantness, although it might also have rained yesterday.
It would be nice if we were in the same group. I could tell her all about clouds and precipitation. However, the chances of that seem to be dwindling.
From what I can tell from the Camper’s Guidebook, there should be about a hundred fifty of us here, give or take. It seems like way more as we swelter under the sun on the lawn, but as we get separated into smaller units, the numbers make sense. Eight cabins per camp, four people per cabin, plus the baby camp . . . yep, the numbers make sense.
Lake Sweetwater sits smack in the middle of everything, vaguely horseshoe-shaped. The littlest kids go into the Bantam Camp, right off the big path. It’s closest to the main buildings, like the Great Hall and the Rec Barn, and the infirmary. The seniors—the high school kids—drift toward the paths to the east.
That leaves all the rest of us to head to junior camp, along the west side of the lake.
“Hopkiss, Johnson, Jones, Kwan,” Gavin yells. His voice breaks, and a lot of people giggle. I feel kind of bad for him, but I pretend to giggle anyway. That way, I look like everybody else. That is paramount.
I just want to be a regular kid this summer, 100 percent normal. No “Poor Tez” or “Watch-out-for-Tez” or “It’s what makes you special, Tez.”
That last one, honestly, is the absolute worst.
The four of us shuffle with our bags again and find ourselves in a cluster, just us.
“Oak Camp,” Gavin growls, getting his voice as low as possible after that squeak. “Cabin Group A.”
According to the camp map, that puts us the farthest away from everything. We’re tucked at the upper northwest end of the lake. Past our cabins is nothing but primal forest. That could be cool or terrifying, depending.
Cool, I decide. It’s going to be cool. But it would be cooler with a friend.
“All right, you little mingers,” Gavin says, waving his clipboard at us. “I’m your counselor. When I call your name, I’d advise you speak up. Anyone left behind spends the summer in the woods with the wolves.”
I raise my hand. “There are no wolves left in Ohio. They were hunted to extinction in the early 1800s, along with the bobcats. There are coyotes and foxes. But they’re afraid of people.”
From the look on Gavin’s face, he is definitely thrilled to have all the facts. He approaches me. “What’s your name?”
Just to be on the safe side, I lean over his clipboard before he can try to read my full name out loud, and point to it. “I’m Tez. Tez Jones.”
“Right,” Gavin says. “From here on out, you’re Chickenlips.”
I start to say that chickens don’t have lips, but Gavin palms my entire face. His hand smells like sweat and his fingers are really hot. Since this probably means shut up, I do.
Moving on, Gavin calls out Chun Kwan. He takes one look at him and says, “Nostrils.”
Completely baffling; Chun’s nose is about as ordinary as a nose can get. This doesn’t matter to Gavin; he keeps going. Next on the list is Graham Hopkiss—Gavin dubs him Bowl Cut. It’s an extremely fair name; he has an awesome bowl cut. It’s shiny, auburn, and geometrically precise.
(Nostrils has soft, black feathers like Rob Lowe, and the other kid has a tight, boxy fade. This whole cabin has great hair, if you ask me.)
“Ryan Johnson,” Gavin says, and doesn’t even look up.
Warily, Ryan raises his hand.
Gavin looks him over, then rolls his eyes. “Hm. I’m calling you Knees. Look at you, just standing there with your knees.”
“Everyone has knees,” Ryan points out.
“Shut it, Knees,” Gavin says. “Or I’ll change it to something else that everyone’s got!”
Nostrils and Bowl Cut snicker. Clearly they’ve thought of something else Gavin could call Knees. I wonder if it’s Appendix. Or Pancreas. Pancreas would be hilarious.
Gavin’s not interested in hilarious. “So, like I said, you’re Oak Camp, Cabin Group A. No tradesies, no takesy-backsies, no transfers. Learn it, love it, get used to it!”
As we trade incredulous looks, Gavin barks out rules, which is unnecessary. We all have the Camper’s Guidebook. Also, the rules are pretty simple:
We eat with our cabin group, we have activities with our cabin group . . .
“You shower with your cabin group,” Gavin bellows.
Staggering into Bowl Cut, Nostrils laughs. “Our cabin group? Oh wow, man. We’re showering with the girls!”
“Your gob!” Gavin says. “Shut it!”
Nostrils and Bowl Cut snicker behind their hands. This counts as shut gobs, apparently, because Gavin goes on.
“So, right, then. No phone calls home. Pay phone doesn’t work; you can buy stamps at the camp store. Moving on! Every bloody cabin’s collecting beads. Brilliant bants? Earn a bead. Act like a tosser? Lose a bead. Spend them up at the end of camp for color war advantages. Clear?”
We all nod to agree that we’re clear, but I look to Nostrils and Knees. We’re definitely not clear. From context clues, it sounds like beads are extremely important. Possibly they’re even a disciplinary tool. I’m sure this will clarify itself. I make a mental note to watch for additional bead context.
As Gavin continues, the rest of his instructions get closer to American English. Swimming test before we can swim, no boats without supervision, sign-outs for equipment, etcetera, etcetera. I know there are going to be special restrictions for me, but I’m not going to worry about that. I always have extra rules. I just need to make sure no one else knows about them.
Restless, I start to bend at the knees. I’m wobbly and rubbery under the hot sun and the dull tirade. Looking around, I know I’m not the only one. Oak Camp Cabin Group A is not paying attention. But we are listening—to Gavin’s accent. Bowl Cut is already trying to imitate it.
I’m going to wait until I have a better sample size. I try to focus on Gavin’s words. Like, keenly focus, with all my attention. I keep getting distracted though, because he sounds like the bad guys in every movie ever. Also, he kinda acts like one.