Camp Gorebury

Chapter Thirty Two

Xavier  

In the trees, someone bellows, "FISHER!" Or maybe they said: "FISH!"  After this, several things happen very quickly. Rueben flies out of the forest like a bullet, hurtling towards the same pond that Beckham dived into. Then I see the black cloud following close behind. It takes my brain a moment to process this, and to realize that the cloud isn't a cloud— it's a swarm of bees. No, they're hornets, just like Beckham said.  I blink a few times. The swarm is still moving towards us.  "Jump, you idiots!" Gretchen shouts.  At the sight of the hornets closing in on us, Matthew, Gretchen, Landon, Rueben, and I forget all about winning or losing the game and throw ourselves into the murky waters of the pond.  For a few seconds, the world is nothing but a swirling, silty brown haze, punctured by the occasional muffled shout. A foot kicks past my face, churning up even more mud. My eyes start to burn. I press my lips firmly together, sure that if I open them, I'll inhale either a mouthful of tadpoles or some mutated strain of flesh-eating parasites. Some slimy underwater plant tickles my leg another tickle, and I have to repress a scream.   I stay underwater for as long as I can, and then, when my lungs are finally begging for air, I tentatively raise my head above the surface.  The hornets, thank God, are gone. Next to me, Landon is wiping mud off his face, black eyes blazing with fury. Gretchen emerges a few feet away, hacking up pond water. Matthew is already sloshing his way towards the bank. Beckham is pushing through the cattails, water streaming off her camp shirt and down her tan legs. The only person missing is Rueben.  For a split second, I worry that the flesh-eating parasites got him and already chomped their way through his brain (which can't be that big to begin with); but then the surface of the pond splits apart as Rueben shoots out of the water with the same amount of rage with which he dove into it. His expression is crazed, but I doubt it's because of parasites.  He scrambles towards the edge of the pond and drags himself through the cattails onto dry land. Even coated in a thin film of pond muck, I can see the welts on his skin— he ran pretty fast, but apparently not fast enough to escape the hornets.  I start laughing. I can't help. Seeing Rueben all beat-up is more satisfying than winning a week of guaranteed no-kitchen-duty.  "Get a grip, Fish," Landon growls at me, wading past. He's also a mess, and his poor chinos (which I'm sure cost more than what I'd make in a summer of working at Bobby's Burger Shack) look beyond salvageable. The sight of his ruined pants pushes me over the edge. My laughter turns hystEdrickal, and I keep laughing all the way to the edge of the pond, where I finally drag myself out of the water and onto terra firma once more.  The combined commotion of (a) angry swarm of hornets and (b) six campers jumping into a pond has attracted quite the crowd. A good dozen or so campers stand watching us shake the pond water out of clothes and hair, their expression a spectrum of amusement and horror. Somehow, the counselors haven't arrived yet. It makes sense— they're always there when you don't want them to be, and never when you actually need them.  Beckham turns to Rueben. "Ouch," she says.  It only takes this one word to change his expression from angry to murderous. "You did this to me," he growls, as if the realization has finally dawned on him.  "You did this to yourself," Beckham replies. For someone who just sprinted a good mile though the Alaskan wilderness, outran a swarm of hornets, and performed an Olympic worthy dive into a muddy pond, Beckham looks impressively calm and collected. "Don't blame me for your own f**k-ups."  A muscle jumps in Rueben's cheek. "My f**k-ups? You planted your flag in a f*****g hornet's nest!"   (Speaking of the flag, Rueben isn't holding it. Not that it Matthewers— Emily beat him to the creek anyways— but it makes victory taste even sweeter, knowing that Rueben dropped the flag during his frantic flight from the hornets.)  Beckham just smiles sweetly at him and says, "And you were stupid enough to pull it out."  "You're sick. You're f*****g twisted, you sick little—"  "Before you insult me again, Rueben, I suggest you take the time to think about how every time you've tried to chWellingtonge me, you've lost. I can do this for the rest of the summer. You..." Beckham gestures at Rueben's disgruntled state. "Well, you don't look like you're gonna make it through the week."  A few of the campers ooh. I'm sure they're just eating this up. The whole scenario is quality drama; everyone knows that Rueben and Beckham hate each other, and everyone wants to see the two toughest kids at camp battle it out. There's nothing the campers here love more than a good fight.  "You won't get away with this," Rueben snarls.  "That's funny. I think I already have."  "You'll pay for this, Fisher. I'll make sure that you pay."  There's something terrible in Rueben's eyes that finally makes me stop laughing. Beckham got her revenge, and it was awesome, but now I'm almost scared for her. Because right now, Rueben looks as angry as the swarm of hornets and just as ready to sting someone.  The counselors still aren't here. And all of the other campers are clamoring for blood. If a fight were to break out between Beckham and Rueben, there would be nobody here to stop it— hell, the campers would probably place bets and egg them on. And I'm afraid. I'm afraid, because even though Beckham is crazy smart and strong, Rueben has a good sixty pounds on her, and if they got into a physical fight, I don't think he'd hold anything back.  It occurs to me that Beckham is my closest friend at this camp. And not only that, but I like her. A lot. (Which is something that I'll probably have to deal with in the future. Probably.) I don't want Rueben to hurt her. But I have the awful feeling that he will if someone doesn't step in and put a stop to this madness.  Which is why I throw myself forward and say, "It was me. I'm the one that put the flag in the hornet's nest. It was me, not Beckham."  The words fly out of my mouth before I even have time to reconsider my insane plan. Rueben's head snaps towards me, and Beckham fixes me with a dangerous glare that says, what the hell do you think you're doing? But I can't stop myself. The words keep falling out.  "I planted the flag. I found the nest while I was running and thought it would be funny prank." Beckham tries to cut me off, but I talk over her, even louder than before: "That's what you get for shooting a cat with a BB gun, you bastard."  "Xavier!" exclaims Beckham. Her face has gone all pale and tight; she looks nothing but betrayed. "How could you—"  "Campers!" Another voice rings out across the rippling waters of the pond. Three counselors, Olly, Sienna, and Christian, stride out of the trees. Even though they're painfully late on the scene, their timing is perfect— now, Beckham doesn't have time to call my bluff. "What's going on?"  A hush falls over the crowd. We must be quite the scene: six campers dripping with pond scum, two of the said campers facing each other like they're about to throw down in a professional wrestling match, and one of them peppered with welts. The counselors take it  in surprisingly well. I guess that they've seen stranger things. (At Gorebury, strange things must just be part of the job description.)  Landon is the first to break the silence. "Somebody kicked a hornet's nest," he says. All of the anger from earlier has been washed from his face, and his expression is blank and trustworthy. Leave it to Landon to clean up our messes with his magical words. "There was a swarm of them. We had to jump in the pond to avoid being stung."  "Was anybody hurt?" Olly demands.  "No, the hornets just forgave me for knocking their nest over," Rueben snaps, his face turning pink. "Do you see these stings? I could have died!"  For a moment, I'm stunned that Rueben is going along with Landon's lie. But then I realize— his hands are tied. If Rueben told the counselors it was my fault, that would raise questions as to why I felt the need to plant the flag in the first place. And those questions would lead into dangerous territory, because I don't think there's anything in the camp handbook that says it's okay to torment animals... and I'm pretty sure you can get kicked out of camp for stashing a weapon, even one as lame as a cheap BB gun. Also, there's no way Rueben can ever prove that the flag was purposely planted. Nobody saw Beckham hide it there. And without any witnesses, Rueben can't say a damn thing about it.  "Alright, alright, let's all calm down. Rueben, Sienna will take you to the Med Cabin to put some ointment on those stings. Was anybody else stung by the hornets? Or sustained any other injuries?"  Fortunately, any of the campers unlucky enough to get caught in the hornet's warpath managed to jump in the pond or escape into the woods. The only person actually hurt during the game (besides Rueben, of course,) was Tima, and that's because she tripped over a rock and scraped up her elbow.  The lack of injuries placates the counselors enough that they stop pressing the issue of the hornets. Sienna goes to help Rueben to the Med Cabin. When she isn't paying attention, though, he looks over his shoulder, points at Beckham and me, makes a gun with his fingers, and points back at me. When his fingers jerk upwards, I can almost feel the imaginary bullet lurch through my chest, ripping through my lies and deception.  Rueben smiles wickedly at me, his message as clear as if he'd written it in blood. I suppose it's only a Matthewer of time until he does. I knew I was dead-meat as soon as I said the words, it was me. But two months of harassment from Rueben and his goons... I can deal with that, if it means Beckham is safe.  "Well then," Olly continues, "That was quite the bit of excitement. Congratulations to the blue team, who managed to bring home a victory despite all the... hornets."  Emily takes a bow. "You're all welcome." The entire red team booes her.  "Good job," Beckham mutters, her voice thick with bitterness, and not at all sounding like the glorious winner. Then, she shoots me a look sharper than knives, and I feel my throat dry up. Clearly, Rueben isn't the only camper whose bad side I got on today.  "Lucky, lucky," Olly says, completely oblivious (as usual) to Beckham's steadily brewing anger. "Not for you all, of course," he says, chuckling to himself as he takes in the equally sullen expression of the other team. "Kitchen duty for the next week! Have fun with that! Of course, I hope that there's no hard feelings. At the end of the day it's just a game. Now! I say that we all head back to camp and have some lunch. I don't know about you all, but I am starving."  "Um, Olly? Can we please change first?" asks Gretchen, her voice stiff with a concealed anger. "So we're not covered in literal s**t?"  Olly finally seems to remember that a good portion of his camp is still soaking with pond water. "Yes, of course. You can meet us back at Mess Hall when you're done."  Christian blows his whistle and beckons for the crowd to follow him. Landon and Gretchen shoulder past me without a word—  their gestures speak loudly enough. Matthew ambles up behind me and punches me lightly in the shoulder. "That was f****d-up, bro. I didn't think you had it in you. Rueben's totally gonna kill you, though."  "f**k off," I mutter at him. He just chuckles to himself and moves on.  Out of all the campers muttering angry things in my general direction, I still don't see Beckham. I glance over my shoulder, my mouth already open and an apology on my tongue— but she's not there. The path behind me is empty. As far as I can tell, Beckham didn't stick around for the rest of Olly's speech.  She just left.  And all of the words I meant to say to her— how I only took the credit for her prank to protect her, not ruin her revenge— die in my throat, as stupid and useless as our Capture the Flag victory.