Camp Wild by Pam Withers Page B

Herb,” Claire addresses him. “I’m Claire, a junior counselor, and this is your cabin mate, Wilf, who has been attending Camp Wild since he was seven years old.”
    Great, she knows my whole life’s story, and now Herb thinks I’m a Camp Wild groupie or something.
    â€œReally?” Herb’s eyes light up, and he looks me over like a little kid who has just met his hero. I avert my eyes from his Mickey Mouse watch. “You’re so lucky. It’s taken me a couple of years to get my parents to believe I can handle being away from them for two weeks.” Then he blushes and drops his gear bag, which reads “City Bowling League.” Eight (I repeat,
eight
) books spill out.
War and Peace
is on top. Is this guy for real?
    â€œI’m so glad there’s another camper my age,” he rambles on. “And someone to share a cabin with.” He’s blinking again. “I’ve never camped before, so Ikind of need someone to show me the ropes.”
    Ropes, eh? I picture myself handing him a rope shaped like a noose. I’m really not that nasty; I swear. I can’t help it if a picture like that drops into my mind from out of nowhere. But how did I get the King of Nerds as a cabin mate? And we’re the only seniors. Oh well. All the more reason to exit stage left as soon as I can. Let the little kids show Herb Green the ropes. He’ll fit right in with them.
    Claire leans down to pick up Herb’s bowling bag and hoists it into the truck, then gives Patrick a thumbs-up. Unbelievable. She’s strong, she’s cute and she’s only a year older. Too bad I’ll be outta here before she can decide if she likes younger guys.
Dream on, Wilf. She’s a baby-sitter. And you’re one of the babies.
    â€œTwo to pick up, and two now collected,” Patrick announces. “Jump in,Herb and Wilf. We’re off to do wild things at Camp Wild.”
    My sarcasm detector detects none. My respect for Patrick drops like a boulder off a cliff. Is Claire in training to become a brainwashed tool of the regime too? Maybe I can save her from her fate, whisk her off the grounds before it’s too late. I flash my best bus-station grin at my three truck mates. Then I sigh and nod graciously at Herb the Greenie, my soon-to-be ex-cabin mate.

chapter three
    The kids press around me wide-eyed as I strike the match. Slowly, carefully, I bring the flame close to my upper left leg, just below my shorts. I smile as I apply it to the black backside of the tick that has dared to bury its head in my leg. The kids “ooh” and “ahh” as some leg hairs singe. I’m concentrating so hard that I barely notice the obnoxious smell of burning hair.
    â€œLook! It’s working!” shouts a little brat called Charlie Carson.
    â€œOf course it’s working,” I pronounce as the tick withdraws its head in a hurry. “They don’t like lit matches on their butts while they’re feeding. You either smother ‘em with Vaseline or touch ‘em with a match to get ‘em to back out.”
    â€œWhy not just pull them out?” Charlie asks.
    â€œBecause the head usually breaks off and stays in,” Claire begins.
    â€œAnd then you might get an infection,” Patrick finishes.
    I pick up my half-fried assailant, show him around the little crowd as they chant “yuck,” then toss him at Charlie.
    â€œHey,” Claire chastises me as the other kids giggle and clear away, but Charlie, scoundrel that he is, catches the little bug and starts chasing some girls with it. He holds the tick high above his spikes of dirty red hair and waves it like a trophy.
    There’s no putting off that little horror, who has been following me around every moment he can. He’s like an embedded tick himself, I reflect, but seniors aren’t allowed to apply matches to the behinds of first-year harassers.
    I sneak a smile at Claire and