Camp Gorebury

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Xavier  

A miracle is taking place on the Green. The entire camp is lined up on the grass, but no fights have been started, no makeshift shivs put to use, no insults hurled back and forth over enemy lines. The only camper to earn a mark is Matthew, and that's because he was stupid enough to make a dirty joke when Leona was in earshot. Bitter grudges have, for the moment, been put to rest. I even catch a few people grinning.   For the first time since Initiation, camp doesn't feel entirely awful.  Everyone has been in a good mood since breakfast, when the Director announced that due to our good behavior for the past week, today will be a Game Day. Her voice was as flat as a slashed car tire as she spoke through Sienna's megaphone, as if the thought of us actually enjoying our summer was physically painful.   The rest of the camp was ecstatic. Game Day means getting a break from regulated activities, an earlier lunch, and— of course— games. The counselors refused to comment on what the games will be, which only added to the anticipation.   Nowhere to go but up, I think, tilting my chin back to breathe in the clear air. The weather's week-long tantrum of rain and fog has finally ended, mellowing into a bright, sunny day in the balmy mid-sixties. I watch the breeze sweep across the meadow, tracing whirling circles in the dewy grass.   A couple of yards away, Beckham flicks one of her braids back over her shoulder, blinking into the sun. There are crimson roses embroidered on the pockets of her jean shorts.  Something twinges inside my gut, and I look away. Maybe Landon is right— maybe I do think about Beckham too much. I wish I knew how to stop. All of these feelings are getting inconvenient.   Olly steps forward. "Who's ready for a game of Capture the Flag?"  The camp erupts into cheers. After weeks of tense silences and pent-up emotions, it feels good to let some of it out.   Beckham catches my eye and grins at me. She points a finger at me, and then back at herself— you, me, a team? I bob my head up and down eagerly, until I remember Landon's words and try to nod like I could care less.   Olly hashes out the rules efficiently, (although I can't imagine anybody here not knowing how to play Capture the Flag), and then we're counted off into teams. I get sorted into a solid group with Beckham, Lakhan, and Tima. My heart sinks as I see Rueben, Landon, and Matthew getting shunted off onto the opposite team.   Rueben mimes slitting his throat at me— or maybe Beckham, I can't tell— and mouths something along the lines of  "you're going down". Both Beckham and I respond with a vulgar gesture that only increases the wattage of his blindingly white smile.  One of the counselors— Leona, I think— hands me the flag; a place-mat sized piece of blue fabric tied to a three-foot-long stick. I pass it off to Beckham, who's been unanimously voted in as the group leader. Ever since she kicked over that chair in Sharing Circle, the rest of the campers have been drawn to her like moths to a flame.   On the other side of the field, a similar flag is being gifted to the red team. I'm slightly surprised to see Rueben accept the flag— I would've picked Landon as their leader, but maybe he decided to sit this one out. Steering clear is probably a wise decision. Picking fights with Rueben has the same risk-factor as lighting matches next to a kerosene tank.  "Okay everyone, listen up," Sienna shouts through her megaphone. "The rules are simple. The red team owns the woods to the right of Boulder Creek, and the blue team owns the woods to the left. You can pick where to hide the flag, but it has to be visible and accessible. I know you all think you're pretty clever, but trust me, you won't be the first campers to hide a flag up a tree."  "Also, don't forget that camp rules still apply here, which means no pushing, hitting, tripping, swearing, etcetera. And don't think for a second that you'll get away with any funny business because counselors will be posted at random throughout the woods. We will know if you break the rules, and you will be sorry if you do. Are there any questions?"  Matthew raises his hand. "Yeah. What do we get if we win?"  "The Director has decided, for extra initiative, that the losing team will take over kitchen duty for a week, regardless of how many marks you have. The winning team will get extra ice-cream at dinner tonight."  Sienna shushes us loudly through the megaphone. "Alright, settle down, the game hasn't even started yet. Teams, head to your side of the creek. Capture the Flag will begin when I blow the whistle."  My team races to the woods. Beckham hides the flag between two boulders in a small copse of white spruce trees -- the blue fabric is still visible, but the rocky landscape will slow the other team down long enough for our guards to tag them out.   After the flag is safely hidden, we do a team chant (Tima comes up with "we're going to blue away the competition") and then split off into our separate directions. Beckham and I jog to the creek, the border between the two sides. Running together feels like muscle memory.  I've never seen Beckham so cheerful before. She's in such a good mood that she insists on passing the time by telling me all of her cheesy knock-knock jokes. I laugh, even at the ones that aren't even funny, because it's Beckham— and if she's happy, I'm happy.   "Hey, Xavier," Beckham asks, after telling her last joke, "Do you believe in magic?"  Her question throws me for a loop. I didn't take Beckham for the type to be interested in fantasy— maybe she's setting up another punchline? "I mean, maybe," I reply. "There's a s**t ton of crazy stuff in this world already. Why not magic, too?"  "Well, do you believe in clairvoyance?"  "Like, seeing the future?"  "Yeah. And the past, too."  "Can't everybody see the past? Isn't that like, your memories?"  "I'm not talking about memories, moron. I'm talking about past events that you never saw. Never even heard about. Ones that just appear to you, like a vision."  "I dunno. I've never really encountered that kind of stuff before.  My sister, Henley, made me go to a psychic with her once— she was super interested in tarot a couple of years ago, I still have no idea why. It was one of her weirder phases. Anyways, the psychic told me that I was gonna marry rich and have six children or something along the lines of that. Also, she said that my Uncle Elijahie wants to say hello from the other side."  Beckham glances at me out of the corner of her blue eye. "Do you think she was right?"  "As far as I know, the only uncle I have is named Floyd, so unless there are family members that I don't know about...."  She laughs and jostles my shoulder with her own. "You're such a weirdo. It's probably for the best that she was wrong— having six children sounds like torture."  "Tell me about it. I had to grow up with two little parasites clinging to my legs, copying my every move. Kind of turned me away from the whole parenting thing."  "I didn't know you had younger siblings."  "Yeah, two twins, which means they're equally evil."  "I used to want siblings. Then my parents had Iliana, and I learned how terrible younger sisters can be."  "I tried to sell the Twins at a garage sale once. It did not go down well with my mom."  Beckham snorts at this. "Well, at least we get to suffer together."   We continue to talk about less mystical things, like what the Mess Hall is going to serve for lunch tomorrow, or whether we'll ever have another game day. By the time we reach the enemy line, I'm feeling confident that we're going to win.  We slow down at the edge of the creek. The white water twists and splashes in front of us, throwing up icy droplets that speckle the bottom of my jeans.  My roommate is waiting for us on the other side, leaning casually against a mossy boulder. His hands tucked into his pockets, and one leg of his chinos crossed over the other— I can't tell for sure, but I bet he's smirking, too.   "I would say that I wasn't expecting you," he shouts over the roar of the water, "but that would be a lie."  "How'd you know we'd be here?" I yell.   Landon laughs, loud and harsh. "What, you didn't think I'd figure out where you were going every morning? You two are so predictable."  "It's fine," Beckham tells me. "He's not fast enough to outrun us."  "Oh, I'm not planning to outrun anybody." Landon grins at us. I have no idea how he overheard what Beckham said— sometimes, he's just freakishly observant like that. "Rueben already knows where your flag is, so please, feel free to cross over to our side. It doesn't matter if you make it past our defense. You'll still lose."  "There's no f*****g way that Rueben already knows where our flag is," I say. "The game hasn't even started yet. It's impossible."  "White spruce trees," Landon replies. "Ring a bell?"  "Who told you that?"  "Nobody told me anything. It's so obvious, a three-year-old could figure it out. But thank you, for confirming what I already knew."  I lurch towards the creek, one of my sneakers slipping into the frigid water. "Tell me who the hell told you where our flag is or else—"  "Careful, Xavier," Landon warns. "Don't make me tag you out."  I take another step, but then Beckham grabs me by the shoulder and hauls me back. "We need to go and protect the flag. Landon's just trying to waste our time."  "And succeeding at it, too," my roommate calls out across the stream.  I surge forward again, anger coursing through my veins, but Beckham only tightens her grip. "Xavier, forget about it. If we hurry, we might be able to beat Rueben to the flag."  "Slim chance," Landon says. "Even for the dream team."  Unimpressed by this new nickname, Beckham gives him, quite stoically, the finger. "Don't make me kick your ass, Lockwood."  "You're so sexy when you're threatening people, Fisher."  I shoot him one last dirty look before stalking back into the trees with Beckham. "There's no way he knows where our flag is. He has to be lying. That was just a lucky guess. Rueben can't know where the flag is. The game hasn't even started yet—"  Seconds after these words leave my lips, an earsplitting whistle pierces the air. Olly's signal.  Beckham and I exchange glances.  "We should probably run," she says.  We break into a sprint, heading for the corpse of spruce trees.  "I just don't understand," I continue breathlessly. "Even if Landon did figure out where our flag was, there's no way he did it all by himself. Someone must have told him. I'm sure of it."  "I am too," Beckham says. "It's the only reasonable explanation."  "I know, but what kind of person would betray their team like that? I can't imagine any of our friends telling Rueben where the flag is and signing up for a week of kitchen duty."  "I would," she says.  For a moment my brain doesn't register what she said. "You would what?"  "Before the game started, I let it slip to Matthew Connor that I thought the spruce trees were the best place to hide the flag." Beckham shrugs. "He must've told Landon and Rueben."  I stop mid-stride. Beckham keeps running, so I have to yell my words out after her: "You're shitting me, right?"  "Nope." She already has fifteen feet on me and she's not slowing down. "Are you coming or not?"  "I— I don't understand. You don't just let things slip. That's not you."  "You don't have to believe me for it to be the truth."  "I do believe you. I just don't understand why you'd do something like that."  At this point, Beckham seems to realize that I've stopped running, and she turns around and jogs back to where I'm standing. Her expression is perfectly calm, and she doesn't look at all insane, even though she must be if she told Connor (of all people!) where our flag is. "We have to hurry if we want to beat Rueben to the flag. Are you done?"  "No, I'm not! You can't just drop a bombshell like that an expect me to go along with it. Can you please explain to me what the hell is going on?"  Beckham shrugs at me again. "Don't have the time. Like I said, we have to hurry if we want to beat Rueben, so I'm leaving with or without you."   Of course I follow her. There's no other viable option. "Why are you doing this?"   "Rueben will find the flag, but he isn't going to win the game. Trust me on this."  "Trust you on what?"  "Landon's not the only one allowed to have plans, you know." Beckham's braids whip back and forth behind her back like miniature scythes. She flicks one away from her face, the movement a little too carefree for someone about to betray half the camp. "Have a little faith in me."  We're getting close to the spruce tree corpse, and my frustration is growing more and more with every step. "No more games, Beckham. What is going on?"  Now Beckham stops. When she twists around and meets my gaze, she's grinning broadly— and a little crazily, too. "What's going on," she says, "is my revenge."  "Your what?"  She ducks behind the thick trunk of a spruce tree and crouches down low to the ground. "If you're going to stay, I need you to be quiet. Don't f**k up my plan."  "If we lose, I'm blaming it on you."  Beckham winks at me. It's a promising wink, and it sends shivers down my spine. "Trust me on this one, Fish. We're not going to lose."