Chapter Nine: Male Bonding and Mosquito Bites

The rain continued for the next few days, though rarely as hard as it had been during the original storm. It died down as far as a mere drizzle a few times, though it would always get worse again, so that it was more or less consistently gross outside. The cabin continued to leak, so Race's and David's bunkbed remained shoved up directly against Sneakers's, which caused a certain amount of discomfort. Sneakers could only get in and out of bed by climbing over Race, and kept waking up with all of Racetrack's blanket's shoved on to his bed. Race was even more annoyed, though; Sneakers tended to sprawl in his sleep, and Race kept complaining about waking up due to being kicked, which Sneakers denied vehemently until Race actually had a bruise one morning.

But at least the bruise on his face was fading, though that seemed to be one of the only good things about the situation. The rest of the focus remained on the rain and the leak, the steady drip, drip, drip of which irritated everyone.

And finally, when it seemed as though no one could take the miserable weather anymore, the downpour lightened to a drizzle, to a fine mist, and finally the gray began to lighten and blue sky broke through the clouds. Sunlight reappeared, the drip stopped, and the whole camp let out a collective breath of relief.

David didn't even realize how much time had passed until Sneakers's alarm clock went off an hour early one morning. Sneakers groaned and turned it off, but Racetrack grudgingly dragged himself out of bed. David dimly recalled that Race's family went to church on Sundays, and more excitingly, that he could get away with sleeping until noon on a Sunday as well.

He rolled over and fell back asleep.

That night after dinner was the first theater performance of the summer. The show was simple and went off without a hitch, now that the audience no longer had to worry about being dripped on inside the theater. Mush, playing the misunderstood wolf who really wasn't trying to eat Red Riding Hood at all, gave a spectacular performance and David began to understand why so many of the theater girls loved him. And they seemed to get worse after the show, since it took him a full fifteen minutes to sneak away from his admirers.

But what really drove home that David had been at camp for a full week and was now an eighth of the way through his summer exile was the next morning, when Lark reminded everyone to check the seating assignments for the new week before heading in for breakfast. He did so, not wanting a repeat of the lost camper incident, and found out he'd been moved halfway across the dining hall, in with a totally new group of campers, but that counselors stayed at the same table all summer.

He wouldn't be at Jack's table anymore.

David's mood began to sink as he let himself inside, though he couldn't explain why. It was just disappointing, he supposed; Jack had become one of his better friends, and since David didn't ever go near the riding unit, and after the incident with the Delanceys Jack didn't usually go to the evening hang out sessions anymore, meals had been about the only time they saw each other.

The new counselor's name was Reesie, and David supposed she was nice enough. And at least this week, he had an idea who some of the other campers at the table were; he recognized Spot and Itey from Ferguson, the other Senior Boys bunk, and knew Trixie and Katie, one of the Junior Girls, from the theater. Ten-Pin he didn't know, and Boots he recognized but also didn't know well, and there was one of the really little kids as well. The dance counselor, Bumlets, sat at the foot of the table; David knew who he was because he worked inside the theater a lot, and with the theater counselors.

He drank his coffee quietly, pleased to see the sun shining outside already, but still disappointed, until he glanced across the room and saw that Jack was looking over at him too. Their eyes caught and Jack smiled, and David smiled back nearly against his will. Things began to look up after that.

*

"…Three-four-five-six-seven-eight, one-two-three-four…" Bumlets counted, and ignored the urge to check his watch again. He knew it had only been a minute or so since he's last checked, and that at any second the counselor who supervised the group of seven and eight year old girls he was working with would tell them it was time to go, and he could head back to his own cabin and crash until dinner.

He knew it wasn't their fault they were uncoordinated, and seemingly unable to count to eight on their own (let alone silently in their heads), they were just young. But it was still frustrating.

"… six-seven-eight!" he finished, trying to sound more upbeat than he felt. "That was pretty good," he added.

At least the kids were having fun. He wondered again why he'd taken this job instead of spending the summer as he usually did, training, performing and competing. I wanted a normal summer, he reminded himself. And this is normal. It's a normal summer job, right? I fought my parents for this. It's normal. Yeah.

"Okay, kids," Fern, the counselor who'd been watching decreed, "let's all say thank you to Bumlets and go get ready for dinner."

There was a little bit of whining, which he took as a positive sign–the group really was having fun–but eventually the kids chorused a loud "Thank you!" and Fern herded them out of the area of the theater they'd cleared of benches to use. He watched them go, then grabbed his bottle of water and finished it off.

"They're looking better."

Bumlets glanced over his shoulder to see Specs, one of the theater counselors, sitting a few benches away.

"They're doing all right," he agreed. "For kids."

"Hey, your day off is Wednesday, right?"

"Um… Yeah."

"Cool. Actually, that's mine and Dutchy's too. You wanna go in for a hotel room with us?"

"What?"

"Trust me, it's better than coming back here for the night. The more time spent away on your day off, the better. And with three people paying, it's pretty cheap."

"Uh, okay. I guess. I mean, do you have a car and stuff?"

"My friend, you haven't experienced driving at its finest until you've ridden in my baby." Bumlets gave him an odd look, and he shrugged. "I really dig my car," he added.

"Okay. Sounds cool, then. Is there anything to do around here?"

"Not really, but it's still better than spending your day off at camp."

"Fair enough."

"Oh, one other thing. I just want to make sure that Dutchy and I won't bother you." He paused significantly, waiting for some sort of answer.

"Were you especially planning to bother me?" Bumlets finally asked.

"Not really, but some people get a bit uncomfortable when we, you know, share a bed and stuff."

"Oh." Bumlets thought about it for a second. "Oh. Well, that explains why it says 'Specs heart Dutchy forever' on one of the walls backstage."

Specs coughed a little. "That wasn't my fault," he said. "Blame Stage."

"Blame me for what?" Stage called from the stage, where she was finishing supervising the first read through for the new week's show.

"Nothing!" Specs called back innocently. "So it won't bother you?"

"Nah."

"Cool. We'll head off after dinner tomorrow, then." He paused. "And immediately head to a restaurant where we can get something edible."

"Thank God." Bumlets grinned. Specs gave him an encouraging smile–he wasn't sure why he was being encouraged–and got up to head back to the stage and the job he was supposed to be doing, leaving Bumlets to his thoughts.

*

David stared up at the roof, then glanced over at Mush, who was also staring up at the roof.

"Come on up, dude!"

"Um?" He couldn't see the entire roof from where he was standing, on the path leading to his bunk, but he could make out at least four people on top of it.

"The ladder's around the back," someone else added, and David recognized it as Racetrack's voice.

"Okay, but, what are you guys doing?"

"Patching the leak!" called someone else; David was less certain, but figured it was probably Blink. Mush started to circle around the bunk, looking for the ladder.

"That takes three of you?" David asked hesitantly.

"Three?" Race called down. "There's five–six now that Mush is on his way up–c'mon, the roof can hold one more."

"Uh." David paused, then figured that the worst that could happen was the roof collapsing, and it wouldn't really be his fault. He followed Mush and made his way up a rickety ladder and on to the roof. "Do I want to ask why this is taking the entire bunk?"

"It's male bonding," Skittery informed him.

"The leak wasn't that big."

"Yeah, but we don't know where it is, so we're tarring the whole thing," Race explained. "Sneakers and I talked to Mom about it, since sharing a bed was not our idea of a good time, and she said that since I know where the stuff to patch it is, we might as well do it ourselves, so…"

"Somehow, I'm not sure this is what she expected," Sneakers mused.

David glanced around, then started laughing. "You realize you're tarring yourselves into a corner?"

"What?"

He pointed at where the majority of his bunkmates, plus Sneakers, were clustered. They'd been tarring from the ladder at one corner to the corner diagonally opposite it, and had managed to get a decent section done, but were also blocking themselves from the ladder.

"Oh." Sneakers stared at it, then shrugged. "It's not so far to jump down."

"You're insane."

Sneakers stuck his tongue out at David and went back to tarring. David sighed and realized that he couldn't have crossed the roof to help them if he'd wanted to, without getting covered in tar, and there were a few huge, gooey footsteps where Mush had crossed. And Mush himself was no stuck to the roof by his shoes.

"C'mon, it washes off," Blink promised.

"You sure?"

"Well, eventually. I mean, it is waterproof, and that kind of makes it hard to get off with water," Race clarified.

"Great." David hesitated, the decided that if everyone else was willing to get coated in the stuff to keep his bed from being leaked on, he probably ought to help. He didn't particularly want to; he'd been feeling kind of down since that morning, lethargic and achy (probably from getting too much sun, he figured) and had a bunch of freaking mosquito bites on his stomach and back which were really itchy and annoying. But he ignored them and did his best to leap over the tarred area to join his friends, failed miserably, and could barely pull his sneakers out of the gooey black mess.

"Male bonding, huh?" he muttered, mostly to himself. "Now I remember why I don't have any friends at home."

Race laughed and slapped his back playfully, handed him one the buckets of tar to hold level, and they all got back to work.

*

The first bell was ringing. David groaned and rolled back over in his bed, buried his head beneath his pillow, and wished it would stop. He didn't feel well. He could hear people chatter around him and ignored them, even after the second bell rang.

"Uh, Dave?" Sneakers asked. "You should probably, you know, get up and stuff."

"Uhhhhhght," he groaned.

"You okay?"

"No."

"What's wrong?" Sneakers asked, and it occurred to David that it was the first time he could remember Sneakers actually sounding like a counselor.

"Want to die."

"Can you be a little more specific?"

"Urght." David made himself sit up. "Just… Achy. Tired. Headache. Lots of fu–freaking bug bites."

"Hmm." Sneakers considered it, then, "How about we send you to the infirmary instead of the dining hall?"

"Urgh."

"You already said that. C'mon, out of bed."

"Uuuuuuught."

"You can sleep there, promise."

"No, I'll be… fine." David forced himself to get out of bed, groaned as he stepped on to the floor, and immediately sat down on Race's bed.

"You okay?" Race asked, which David thought was just a bit redundant. He shook his head no anyway. He hadn't felt well the day before; now he felt downright awful.

"Right. Come on, I'm walking you to the infirmary before Triage leaves. The rest of you can get to breakfast okay on your own." Sneakers offered David a hand up, watched him carefully as he got dressed, and practically marched him out of the bunk.

*

"Hmmm." Triage glanced at David again, then down at his medical charts, then said, "Hmmm," again.

"What?" David groaned.

"May I look at those bug bites, please?"

"Uh, why?"

"May I?"

He shrugged and pulled his shirt up enough for her to see his stomach, and she frowned and told him that was enough. "They aren't bug bites, I'm sorry to say, David."

"Uh, they're not? What are they?"

"Well, I'll have to call your mother to make sure your chart is correct, but… I suspect those are chicken pox. If you had them as a child, there's no mention on your medical chart. You lie down for now, though, and don't worry. I'll get some cream to help take the itching away."

David did as she asked, deciding not to think about it. He was certain he'd had the chicken pox as a kid; Sarah must have, and he'd probably have done it at the same time. And even if she hadn't, Les would have, and he'd have gotten it. There was no way…

He drifted off on one of the infirmary beds, and slept soundly until he heard the first bell for lunch ringing and his stomach began to grumble. He sat up and glanced around the now empty infirmary, or at least, the part of it he could see.

The infirmary was a long, narrow building; the room all the way to the left was where Triage slept and lived, and there was a bathroom and a room with locking cabinets to keep medicines in next to it, on either side of the hallway. Then was the main entrance room, with the staircase down to the basement and Denton's office behind a door in the corner, and three more, smaller rooms, each with one or two beds. He was lying on a bed in the first sickroom, without much to look at. An aging poster of a horse hung on one wall, there was a bookshelf with a full selection of the first twenty Baby Sitter's Club books, another bed, and an armchair made up the rest of the furniture.

More time passed, and eventually he was bored enough that he picked up the first book in the series. He was somewhere near the end of it–it was a rather short and easy read–when he heard Triage return to the infirmary, clearly with a few other people in tow.

She let herself into the room he'd adopted and smiled. But then, David noticed that she was nearly always smiling, and he wondered if maybe she was demented or something. "I think I was right, unfortunately. Two of our youngest girls have it too."

"But… My sister and brother…"

"Your sister seems to have had it as a child. I'll need to ask your parents about that, too. I'm not sure we have all of the cases in yet, since something like this tends to spread around, so why don't you move to the back room? It's a little more private."

"Uh…"

"And there are Hardy Boys books back there, which you might like a little bit more than the Baby Sitter's Club, hmmm?"

He managed a weak smile. "Gee, and it was just getting interesting."

She laughed and he got to his feet and treaded down to the last room on the hall. There were no posters here, but there was a window, and the bed he lay back down on was more comfortable. Probably just used less, he figured, and Triage was nice enough to bring him a platter with lunch.

He finished his meal and drifted off, and when he awoke he wasn't alone any more.

*

Jack watched David sleep and wanted to smile, but he felt too wretched. David still had Kristy's Great Idea clutched in one hand, and was sprawled, tangled in the blankets, his curly hair mussed up. It was a pleasant sight, and Jack would have enjoyed it more, except he was pretty certain he was going to throw up any moment.

David stirred, dropped the book, rolled over and saw him watching. "Hey," he managed.

"Hey," Jack repeated. "You weren't at breakfast. Or lunch."

"Yeah."

"Triage says we've got chicken pox."

"You too?"

"Yeah. There's a couple others–us back here, the girls next door, and your little brother in the first room."

"Oh. Huh. I wonder why Sarah isn't sick…"

"Dunno. How you feeling?"

"Godawful."

"Me too." Jack paused. "But the company could be worse, I guess."

David smiled a little, and nodded. "Yeah, it's–"

He was cut off by Triage knocking on the door and walking in with a portable phone in hand. "Jack, dear, why don't you call home and talk to your mother? Then you can, David. I'll need to speak with them both before you hang up, of course, just give a holler and I'll pick up in my own room for privacy."

Jack nodded, but wasn't thrilled by the idea. He already felt bad enough, and didn't really want to pull his family in to the matter. But at least he'd have David to make sure he was okay after the conversation. If David still cared if he was doing okay, the way he had after the fight the week before… Jack doubted that David even know how much that had meant to him.

His stomach was tied in knots as he dialed, and he wasn't sure if it was because he didn't feel like talking to his family, because he didn't know if David would still want to make sure he was okay, the way he had the week before, or if he just felt sick.

The phone rang. "Hello, this is the Kelly residence, who's calling, please?"

Jack recognized his half-sister's voice, and the speech she always used when she picked up the phone. She was only seven, but she thought it sounded more adult to answer the phone the way her parents did. Not that they usually did it like that, only when they were trying to set a good example, but apparently it had worked.

Jack just found it irritating, though. "Jess? It's me, Jack… Yeah. Hey, is Mom around?"

He found out that yes, she was, and a minute later she picked up the phone. "Jack, this had better be important," was the first thing she said.

Well, he figured, I've gotten worse greetings. That's not so bad. "Hi, Mom. I missed you too," was what he said aloud.

[End Chapter Nine]
Chapter Ten: In the Infirmary
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