circled the camp was a kind of safe zone. I’d have to remember that. The last thought I had before I finally fell asleep was that Chase would be out to get me even more if he thought I’d actually gotten one up on him.
That idea made my stomach and the side of my face hurt even more.
Chapter 17
My schedule for Day Two started with Archery. I didn’t feel hungry after the night I’d had and decided to skip breakfast. I made my way to the range only to find it deserted. That suited me just fine. Ten target boards were set up on stacks of straw, behind which was the forest. Waist-high wooden poles, each with a bow and quiver of arrows, were set up about forty feet in front of the targets.
I glanced behind me. A dozen or so campers hustled along the path around the camp perimeter. I remembered what had happened the night before and reminded myself, again, not to step off the path unless I was in Grizzly territory.
I wandered along the row and stopped at the pole farthest to the right. I ran my finger along the bowstring and then the feathers of one of the arrows. I’d always wanted to shoot an arrow, but if you don’t go to summer camp, it’s not exactly something you do on your own at the park or in the backyard.
I waited another few minutes and then lifted the bow off the wooden pole. I raised it the way I’d seen a million times on TV. Then I pulled an arrow out of the quiver. I glanced back one more time at the walkway. It was clear.
One shot, I decided. I could take just one shot before the instructor came and gave us the lame rules that no one needed. Shooting these things wasn’t exactly rocket science. I slid the notch of the arrow on to the string, then pulled it back. Drawing it back was actually a lot more difficult than I’d expected, and the string bit into my fingers. But I heaved harder, and then all of a sudden my hand was by the side of my face and it didn’t seem so hard anymore.
I imagined I was in the final event of the Olympics, about to compete for the gold medal. When I was certain I had the arrow aimed properly, I released the string . . . and screamed.
It felt like a whip had struck my forearm. The bow dropped from my hand, and I hopped around like a crazy person, cursing and rubbing my arm over and over.
“It’s called string-slap.”
I turned at the familiar voice and rubbed my arm some more, but stopped jumping around. “What are you doing here?”
Juno reached down and plucked the bow from the ground. “Same thing as you.” He pulled an arrow from the quiver and notched it in the string. “Archery.” He drew the string back and closed one eye. “The trick,” he began, “is to make sure you have a bow with the proper draw length—which you had—and also to have proper form.” He shifted his eyes at me. “Which you did not have.” He kept his gaze on me and released the arrow. The twang that resonated from the bowstring sounded like it had been made by a guitar, and the arrow rocketed toward the target, but when it hit, it splintered into a dozen pieces.
I tilted my head, not entirely sure what I’d just seen.
Juno looked up at the sky and shook his head. “The other thing to remember is that no one actually learns archery at these camps, so the targets are probably not meant to be used.”
“W-what?” I asked.
He sighed and put the bow back on the wooden post. “Of course it’s a prop. I can’t believe I thought this was a real target range.” He gestured to the target. “C’mon, help me clean that arrow up before the instructor gets here and I get demerits or something.”
“Props?” I muttered as I followed him on to the range. I picked up a shard or two of broken arrow and then walked up and touched the target. “It’s made of concrete,” I said, mostly to myself. Juno didn’t seem surprised, and I figured that must’ve been what he was talking about when he said “props.” I slid my hand along the cool surface. It was
That idea made my stomach and the side of my face hurt even more.
Chapter 17
My schedule for Day Two started with Archery. I didn’t feel hungry after the night I’d had and decided to skip breakfast. I made my way to the range only to find it deserted. That suited me just fine. Ten target boards were set up on stacks of straw, behind which was the forest. Waist-high wooden poles, each with a bow and quiver of arrows, were set up about forty feet in front of the targets.
I glanced behind me. A dozen or so campers hustled along the path around the camp perimeter. I remembered what had happened the night before and reminded myself, again, not to step off the path unless I was in Grizzly territory.
I wandered along the row and stopped at the pole farthest to the right. I ran my finger along the bowstring and then the feathers of one of the arrows. I’d always wanted to shoot an arrow, but if you don’t go to summer camp, it’s not exactly something you do on your own at the park or in the backyard.
I waited another few minutes and then lifted the bow off the wooden pole. I raised it the way I’d seen a million times on TV. Then I pulled an arrow out of the quiver. I glanced back one more time at the walkway. It was clear.
One shot, I decided. I could take just one shot before the instructor came and gave us the lame rules that no one needed. Shooting these things wasn’t exactly rocket science. I slid the notch of the arrow on to the string, then pulled it back. Drawing it back was actually a lot more difficult than I’d expected, and the string bit into my fingers. But I heaved harder, and then all of a sudden my hand was by the side of my face and it didn’t seem so hard anymore.
I imagined I was in the final event of the Olympics, about to compete for the gold medal. When I was certain I had the arrow aimed properly, I released the string . . . and screamed.
It felt like a whip had struck my forearm. The bow dropped from my hand, and I hopped around like a crazy person, cursing and rubbing my arm over and over.
“It’s called string-slap.”
I turned at the familiar voice and rubbed my arm some more, but stopped jumping around. “What are you doing here?”
Juno reached down and plucked the bow from the ground. “Same thing as you.” He pulled an arrow from the quiver and notched it in the string. “Archery.” He drew the string back and closed one eye. “The trick,” he began, “is to make sure you have a bow with the proper draw length—which you had—and also to have proper form.” He shifted his eyes at me. “Which you did not have.” He kept his gaze on me and released the arrow. The twang that resonated from the bowstring sounded like it had been made by a guitar, and the arrow rocketed toward the target, but when it hit, it splintered into a dozen pieces.
I tilted my head, not entirely sure what I’d just seen.
Juno looked up at the sky and shook his head. “The other thing to remember is that no one actually learns archery at these camps, so the targets are probably not meant to be used.”
“W-what?” I asked.
He sighed and put the bow back on the wooden post. “Of course it’s a prop. I can’t believe I thought this was a real target range.” He gestured to the target. “C’mon, help me clean that arrow up before the instructor gets here and I get demerits or something.”
“Props?” I muttered as I followed him on to the range. I picked up a shard or two of broken arrow and then walked up and touched the target. “It’s made of concrete,” I said, mostly to myself. Juno didn’t seem surprised, and I figured that must’ve been what he was talking about when he said “props.” I slid my hand along the cool surface. It was
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