Chapter Eleven: Off Work

Shakes held the flashlight as carefully as she could, keeping it low to the ground so that only a hint of light escaped. Sarah crept slowly towards the bed that contained her target, shaving cream bottle in hand and feather picked up from the waterfront in her other, with her heart racing. The area around the bunk that Smurf and Hotshot shared was a mess, since Smurf apparently had been raised in a barn and didn't understand the concept of folding clothing and putting it away. But somehow, she managed to tread silently, and she knelt carefully next to the bed.

Smurf's blankets were all askew, mostly kicked off the bottom or to one side; one of her hands was buried underneath her pillow, the other flopped off the bed, and one of her feet had kicked free of her sheets. Her hair was coming out of its ponytail, and snarled around her head, and though she moved around in her sleep a lot—otherwise the bed couldn't possibly have been that messy—she seemed to be a very heavy sleeper. Or at least, Sarah hoped so.

What Sarah had really wanted was to get Hotshot, but Hotshot had the top bunk, and that would have made it too difficult. Smurf would do. She took a deep breath and let go with the can of shaving cream, into the palm of Smurf's hand, and almost shrieked as Smurf rolled a little, but she was only shifting in her sleep. Sarah finished piling on a large dollop of the stuff and shot Shakes a quick thumbs up, then crept to the end of the bed and began to use the feather. Carefully, gently, she tickled Smurf's nose, and noted to herself it was big enough to present an easy target.

It took a second, but Smurf finally began to react. She sneezed a little—Sarah didn't realize it was even possible to sneeze without waking up, but at least that meant Smurf really was a heavy sleeper—and shifted in bed again. Sarah tensed and waited for the moment of truth. Slowly, unconsciously, Smurf freed her hand from under the pillow, rubbed her nose, and rolled over.

Sarah threw a desperate look over at Shakespeare, who shrugged, and then decided to give it another shot. But just as she was reaching out with the feather, someone else sat up. Not Smurf, but Chauncey, their counselor.

Shakespeare killed the flashlight as soon as Chauncey began to sit up, and Sarah crouched behind Smurf's bed. Given the bed and the clothes piled around it, she figured she had enough cover to shield her from a sleepy counselor, but then, Chauncey wasn't like most counselors. Chauncey was scary.

After what seemed like forever, Chauncey lay back down. Shakes didn't dare risk turning the flashlight back on, and a minute later Sarah crept nervously back to her own bed. It hadn't worked… But on the other hand, shaving cream didn't just disappear, and something interesting was bound to happen come daylight.

*

Smurf said nothing as she got up. Sarah waited nervously for something, any sign that she realized something had happened during the night, but got no reaction. Smurf just walked to the bathroom, washed her hand and then got ready for the day. Sarah gave Shakes a confused look, and Shakes shrugged.

It wasn't until they were all on their way out the door that Smurf tapped her shoulder. Forcing herself to sound more calm than she felt, Sarah snapped, "What?"

"That was really amateur, is all. You want to try pranks? Hotshot and I'll show you how it's done. You can count on it." And then Smurf sped up and caught up with some of her friends in Murphy Two and went back to ignoring Sarah, who was suddenly experiencing a feeling of dread.

Breakfast was always a fairly subdued meal, and Sarah ate quietly and tried to forget about Smurf's semi-threat. The meal ended and the day's announcements were nothing exciting, and she started back to her bunk, only to be interrupted by one of the boys.

"Hey—hey, wait up. You're David's sister, right? Sarah?"

She paused and glanced at him; he was the blond one with the eyepatch. She knew most of the campers on sight by now, if not by name, and was fairly certain he was in David's bunk.

"Yeah," she answered. "And you are…?"

"Blink," he supplied. "Look, the rumor is that you were trying to get Smurf last night."

"So?"

"So I'm all for pranking Smurf. Seriously."

"Okay…" she said, confused, but she did remember something about him fighting with Smurf. She'd definitely overheard them a few times; neither one of them seemed to know how to speak below a yell.

"So I'm just saying, if you're looking for ways to piss her off, I've been keeping a list for the last few years. If you want help." He grinned.

"What's the deal with the two of you, anyway?"

"Long story. Let's just say I can't stand her and her stupid blue hair, okay? And making her summer miserable is my number one goal for camp."

Sarah considered that. "Okay. Let's talk. But… How did you know about it so quickly?"

He grinned. "Through the grapevine. Smurf was complaining to Trixie, Trixie thought it was funny so she told Mush, Mush thought I'd be interested. Haven't you noticed that around here? Everyone knows everything about everyone."

So it's not so different from school after all, Sarah mused as they walked.

*

It was soon after breakfast that Race dropped in on Jack and David, having been volunteered by his mother to pick up their clothing and such to use while they were stuck in the infirmary. He wasn't supposed to stay long for risk of spreading germs, though he had been sick with chicken pox years ago, but did stay long enough to see that Jack and David were getting along well. More than well.

"You're a life saver," Jack mumbled as he dug through his backpack and found a set of clean clothes. "I feel so gross right now."

"Yeah, you look pretty gross, too," Race agreed. During the past two days, the pox had spread from the boys' torsos to their limbs, and sores were now visible on Jack's and David's faces, as well as arms. David sat up sleepily, not even having awakened at the first bell, said a quick thank you and disappeared to the bathroom for a cold soak, which would hopefully help stop the itching. Or so Triage claimed, anyway.

Race hesitated, then sat down on David's bed and faced Jack.

"Yeah?" Jack asked.

"Nothing," Race said, then paused. "Jack, you're staring after him like some sorta puppy dog. You know that, right?"

Jack shrugged.

"Jack. You gotta tell him."

"Why?"

"'Cause… Look, you two are pretty good friends, and Dave doesn't seem like the type to freak out on you."

"Not a lot of people seem like the type, Race," Jack muttered. "Last time I told a guy I liked that I liked him, I ended up bleeding in the school parking lot the next day."

"Dave is too sick to hurt you, even if he wanted to. Which he wouldn't," Race argued.

"So maybe he ain't violent. That doesn't mean he'd be thrilled about it. And if he is freaked out, what if he tells everyone else? I mean… I know I don't have to be worried here, really, but I'm so sick of people looking at me different just because of my family and when you put that on top of it…"

"He didn't tell anyone about your family, did he?"

"That's different. It doesn't involve him. But—you know what he said? He said I could go visit him when I'm in New York, if I don't want to go to my dad's." He smiled.

"You know, Jack, that could be a good sign." Race shrugged. "If you tell him how you feel. And if you tell him now instead of later, he's less likely to freak out when he does find out. Which he will eventually, because he's definitely not stupid, and you are."

"I am not."

"Uh huh."

"Shut up." Jack sighed. "Just… I just don't want to have him hate me, you know?"

"He won't hate you."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I'm sure. And if he's going to hate you, don't you think he'll hate you more if you keep it a secret?"

Jack shrugged. "But…"

"If you're that scared, just don't mention that you like him," Race suggested. "At least not for awhile. Let him get used to you being gay before you spring that on him."

"You really think I should tell him?"

"Yes."

"What if he does freak out?"

Race managed not to roll his eyes. This was the reason he was glad that he didn't have to be Jack's only confidant anymore; he understood why Jack was nervous to talk to people, but it was still irritating when he knew he was right and Jack didn't believe him, or when he was the only person Jack would turn to when he started to freak out.

"If he freaks out, tell him to talk to me, okay? I'll get him calmed down. Promise." Which Race only promised because he was certain David wouldn't freak out.

"I guess you are the crisis line guy…" Jack mused, referencing one of Race's many extracurricular activities, volunteering to answer phones for the local crisis line. Jack was always amazed how much Race managed to do in a day during the school year and still keep up his grades, though he had the feeling that Race's mother had a lot to do with it, and that given a choice, Race would drop a handful of activities in favor of a few minutes of free time.

"So you'll do it?"

"Yeah, fine. But if this goes to hell, I'm blaming you."

"Fair enough. I should get going, though," Race said. "I'm picking up the slack at riding since you're gone."

"Your mom's making you?"

"Yeah. I don't mind too much, just get well soon, okay?"

"I'll work on it."

"Okay. See you, Jack. Tell David I say hi."

"I will," Jack promised, and Race left him to his own devices. He relaxed on his bed, stared out the window, and wondered how to tell David that he was gay.

*

The minutes dragged by. Bumlets made an effort to watch the kids more than his watch, but it was difficult, and during the last activity hour, Medda actually asked Bumlets if he was feeling well or if he needed to go lie down, because he was so distracted. He forced himself to focus for the rest of the afternoon, but the thought of just getting out refused to leave his mind.

He finished running the youngest kids through the routine he'd been attempting to teach them, wondered why he had to have the youngest kids when he'd reached his most tired by the end of the day, and checked his watch. Specs reminded him on the way out that they'd be leaving right after dinner, and he threw hastily threw together a backpack full of clothes for the next day and hung out with his four campers until dinner.

Dinner dragged as much as the rest of the day had. He'd been moved to Jack's table, since it no longer had a counselor, and ate as little as possible, thoughts of food with flavor dancing through his mind. And finally, finally, Mrs. Higgins announced the after dinner activity for the evening and released them, and Bumlets very nearly danced the way back to his bunk, grabbed his backpack, and met Specs and Dutchy outside. The hike up to the parking lot was fairly fast, and that was where Bumlets first saw Specs's car.

"Huh," was about all he managed to say.

"Isn't it fantastic?"

"It's… Different," Bumlets said, which caused Dutchy to start laughing, which made Specs sulk. Bumlets stared at the car in front of him. It was an aging station wagon, nearly as old as he was, and mostly brown, aside from the spots that were rusted, and the parts that were covered with bumper stickers. Which was a fairly significant amount; the bumper was full, the back of the wagon was full, and they'd begun to creep around onto the sides of the car. From his vantage point, Bumlets could see stickers for a handful of bands he'd never heard of, the Apple computers logo, a Boston University decal, a Fergangi Business School decal, a few with environmental slogans, an aging Gore/Lieberman 2000 sticker, a more aging Clinton/Gore '96 sticker, two fading right-to-choose slogan stickers, and at least four rainbow colored gay rights stickers.

"It's very me," Specs said.

"You're a gay tree hugging hippie feminist democrat Trekkie indie rocker?"

"Well, the Trek ones were my dad's, and the Apple and Clinton/Gore/Lieberman ones were my sisters. I just added a few, and then a few more, and then it became this thing. At least my grandmother doesn't give me socks for Christmas anymore, just bumper stickers. Actually, that's all I get for Christmas now."

"There aren't that many…"

"The rest wallpaper his room at home. It's nuts," Dutchy explained.

"Wow."

"Yep." Specs unlocked his door and leant across the seat to let in Dutchy, who claimed shotgun unnecessarily and let Bumlets into the back seat. "I've had the car for… almost five years. My sister had it for three before that, and Dad had it forever. She's old, but she's sweet. Lots of memories of this old beauty…"

Dutchy swiveled in his seat to look back at Bumlets. "Just smile and nod, he's going to keep talking for awhile," he commented.

"Oh, shut up. You love the car too."

"Uh huh."

"It's true." Specs turned it on and fingered the gear shift in a disturbingly phallic manner. "He only loves me for the free transportation."

"Hey, I pay my share of the gas money."

"But not maintenance! Baby is old, she needs a lot of work. But oh, when she works…"

"He really loves the car," Dutchy said again.

"Yeah, I'm kind of getting that feeling."

"Rob, darling, if you keep mocking me you can walk to town," Specs threatened, but since as he said it he pulled out of the parking space, it didn't carry much weight.

Bumlets could see part of Specs's reflection in the rear view mirror, and Specs was grinning. Bumlets began to relax; Specs and Dutchy seemed to be fairly relaxed about their relationship. As he'd said several days before, it didn't bother him and he was far from homophobic, but he wasn't entirely sure how to act around them as a couple.

"Music?" Specs asked after a minute, as the country roads whirred by outside.

"Sure," Dutchy said.

"Just hit play."

"No."

"Oh, come on."

"I know what CD you have in there, and I am not listening to it again. You made me listen to it for four hours on the drive here. No."

"You know you love it."

"I really don't."

"Uh…" Bumlets mumbled. "What CD?"

Specs let go of the wheel with one hand and grabbed the CD player from Dutchy and hit play. It was hooked to the stereo by an adapter cord, and Bumlets noted that the sound was surprisingly good for such an old car.

Then he noted that Specs was listening to Justin Timberlake.

"Oh."

"It's fabulous," Specs continued. "Once you give it a chance."

Dutchy muttered something under his breath, and ejected the adapter from the tape player, tuned the radio to the first station that came in, and relaxed.

"You're no fun at all," Specs sulked.

"Four hours, Rich. Four. Hours. Never again."

"Loser."

"Just tell me why."

"Because." Specs put the tape adapter back in.

"I've told you before, you can't do that." Dutchy ejected it, and Bumlets wondered why they were talking so strangely all of a sudden.

"Fine, then. I'll cry instead."

"Cry me a river."

Specs broke into a grin. "You quoted Justin! Ha!"

"And I just won. You're easy, Rich."

"Wait!"

"Too late."

Dutchy rolled his eyes, and Bumlets ran through the conversation again in his head. "How long were you two quoting lyrics for?" he asked.

"Oooh, good ear," Specs congratulated him. "Not too long. Most people don't even realize what we're doing. We've been doing it for awhile."

"Um. Okay."

Dutchy turned around again. "We started doing it in high school. It's a game; one person starts talking in lyrics and the other person has to respond. Whoever can't come up with a lyric first loses. And there's the added fun of people not realizing you're playing, once you get good at it."

"We did it for a full four periods one day senior year before our math teacher caught us," Specs added.

"Hmm." Bumlets considered it for a second. "You two are weird," he finally declared.

"So we've been told."

They drove in silence for awhile, until Dutchy began to fiddle with the radio station, he and Specs bickered about the music for a bit, and finally Specs pulled into the parking lot of a small restaurant. "Just wait. This place is—it's all home cooked. And it's good. My god, this is good food," Specs said enthusiastically, practically bouncing as he lead them inside. Dutchy rolled his eyes, but was smiling as he watched Specs, and Bumlets still thought they were weird.

Specs was right, though. The food was excellent, and while maybe not home cooked, Bumlets noted that the cook was probably significantly better than anyone who had ever cooked in his home. It wasn't even expensive, and after two weeks of camp food, it seemed even better.

The hotel room was small, with a queen sized bed and a king sized bed, and while Specs diplomatically asked Bumlets which bed he'd prefer, Dutchy dropped his bags on the king sized bed, waved over at them, and wandered off to the bathroom for a shower.

"Well, that answers that question," Specs muttered, rolling his eyes. "You don't mind?"

"You two are sharing the bed, it makes sense." Bumlets tossed his bag down and collapsed on his own bed. It was approximately eight hundred times as comfortable as his one at camp. He'd stayed in a hundred hotel rooms just like this one before, but had never noticed how comfortable they were before. "So…" He paused. "What exactly is going on with you and Stage?"

Specs grinned and sat down facing him on the bed he and Dutchy were sharing. "Stage is in love with me."

"Um… Does she know you're gay?"

"Yeah, she's pretty clear on that."

"…Okay."

"Well, she didn't know the first year she was at camp, and I was the local Theater Boy. Pretty much like Mush is now, but gayer."

"Is he…?"

"Well, he says he's not." Specs shrugged. "And Stage was thirteen and had a thing for me, and I had just come out a few months before and freaked out because no one at camp knew yet, and after a few weeks of her following me around with puppydog eyes, I flipped out a little bit. It's kind of possible I freaked out and screamed at her a little."

"That seems a bit mean."

"You've never had a camper have a crush on you," Specs answered. "Basically, I was a bit unnecessarily mean. And Maverick yelled at me and I apologized and explained that I was gay, and had a boyfriend, and she demanded to see pictures of him—Dutchy wasn't there that summer—and so I showed her a picture of me and Dutch together and… You know, she decided we were the cutest couple in the entire universe. She met him the next summer, and suddenly 'Specs + Dutchy 4ever' appeared on the wall backstage." He shrugged. "She still chases me around, but now she's just joking."

"Right."

"Well, mostly joking."

"Right."

"Hey, she's not as bad as Hotshot, whenever she's at the waterfront. You know, usually I don't mind sitting around shirtless on a hot day, but she makes me feel kind of…"

"Does she know you're gay?" Bumlets asked, not wanting to know what it was Specs felt, given that he seemed to shudder at the mere thought of touching a girl.

"I made it a point to let her in on that."

"Gee, it must be hard, having so many girls chasing you."

"Hey, you actually like girls."

"So it would be no problem if it was, like, Mush?"

"Yes, but they would be a different set of problems." He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Dutchy gets jealous."

"So, how did you two get together? I mean, you said earlier you were in high school together…"

Specs smiled to himself. "Dutchy is in a band." Bumlets raised an eyebrow, curious. "Well. Our school did a Christmas assembly every year and they'd have student acts and Dutchy's band was playing. And the band kind of sucked, but Dutchy was just over in the corner playing guitar and he rocked, and looked so hot doing it—I hadn't come out yet, it was halfway through tenth grade.

"Dutchy was out. I mean, Dutchy was never really in the closet. And there he was, this gorgeous, guitar playing, blond gay guy, and I fell in love."

"Really?"

"Well, in lust. He was in my history class, but never actually went; I was kind of a suck up and so I always got to pick my own partner for projects. Three months later, a month after I came out, he finally got the idea."

"Awww."

"Yeah." Specs smiled. "We figured we'd probably break up when we left for college, but since we both ended up at BU, we're still going strong. Over four years now."

"Wow."

"Yeah. It's pretty… Pretty fantastic."

"So he's still got a band?"

"Different band; guys from college. They're much better." He paused. "I get the fun job of being the official roadie, because I'm the only one with a car that'll transport all of their stuff."

"Well, that's gotta mean more roadtripping, right? And I know you love your car."

"Yeah." Specs laughed. "Any excuse to drive it for hours on end, stuffed full of equipment and four other sweaty guys."

"Definitely sounds like a good time."

"Hey; the info packet we got said you're starting Boston College in the fall. You should go see them sometime. They're pretty good."

"Yeah, I'll try to, if I can. I mean… I don't really know how everything's going to go yet."

"Don't worry, freshman year is way easier than people think."

"Yeah, so I've been told…"

"Seriously."

"Yeah."

They lapsed into silence, and the shower turned off; a minute later, Dutchy walked out of the bathroom, still dripping wet, a towel around his waist. Bumlets threw a glance at Specs, who looked like he might start drooling at any moment.

"So, what's up?" Dutchy asked, sitting down on the bed without getting dressed, wrapping one of his legs around one of Specs's, placing a damp hand on the side of Specs's neck.

"Uh," Specs said.

Bumlets rolled his eyes. "I think I'm going to take a walk. For an hour or so."

"Told you he'd be a good roommate," Dutchy murmured in Specs's ear.

Specs nodded, and dug into his pocket, found his car keys and tossed them to Bumlets. "Here. Go explore. Just—" he cut off abruptly as Dutchy kissed his neck. "—just don't—" another kiss, and he sounded more and more distracted with every word, "—scratch her, or—"

"I'll be careful," Bumlets promised, and laughed. "You two are… Something else."

So Dutchy was in a band, and Specs was easily distracted by his dripping wet, naked boyfriend. The first fact got filed under "interesting," and the second one as "obvious." Bumlets grabbed the card that let him into the room and shut the door behind him.

He had a city to explore, such as it was.

*

The doctor's office visit had been just about as pointless as David suspected. They confirmed that yes, the kids with chicken pox did, in fact, have chicken pox, and to treat it should continue to do exactly what they'd been doing already. David didn't have the energy to be properly annoyed by it, though. Instead, he dozed off in the van on the way home, Les half-lying across the seat next to him, and wondered what the rest of his bunkmates were doing. He half-heartedly wondered if Sarah was getting along okay, but figured she probably was; she always did.

He was the one with no social skills, after all. Except here at camp it seemed so much different; here there were people he actually wanted to talk to, who seemed to like him back. He was friends with everyone in his bunk, he supposed, though closer to Mush and Race, and he was even better friends with Jack. The fact that they were practically locked in a room together twenty-four hours a day now hadn't even made them want to kill each other yet.

Not that they'd have had the energy to fight if they'd wanted to.

The van pulled back in by the infirmary, the campers piled out, and Jack put a hand on David's shoulder. "Uh, Dave?" he asked.

"Hmm?"

"Just… When we get inside, can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Sure. Yeah, of course. What's up?"

Jack shrugged. "I've just… Got some stuff to tell you."

[End Chapter Eleven]
Chapter Twelve: Rolly Polly Fish Heads
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