Chapter Text
Over the pond (which everyone refers to as a lake), the sun begins setting on the first night of camp, casting its orange, red and purple hues into the rippling waters. Camp Foxwood Lake, famous for its beautiful sunsets and crappy mess hall food, certainly lives up to expectations this night. Michael is not happy though, his stomach turning.
He never wanted to come here at all. His parents said it would be good for him “to go out and do some real activities this summer, instead of sitting inside playing video games and getting chubby.” But what’s wrong with that, Michael wonders, sitting out on the dock, dipping his toes into the moving water beneath him. Maybe it was an okay idea when it was first conceived several summers ago, except Foxwood activities include paddle boating and swimming in the greenish brown pond water, making lanyards, and dying of heat stroke, and in comparison to video games, those activities suck. And they suck even more when you’ve been subjected to them for four consecutive summers.
He always imagined as a kid that camp would be like in the Parent Trap or Heavy Weights (before Tony Perkis took over), but no. It was never as cool as Hollywood would like you to believe. Sure some kids have fun, but they are the super-social kids who could have fun talking to a stump. The ones who make friends always dread leaving, but Michael’s been at camp for several years he has never made even one new friend.
Across the pond, Michael observes other docks: the one for the Fat Camp, the one for Jock Camp, and the one for Sad Camp. Sad Camp sucks even worse than the Generic Camp of which Michael is technically a part. That particular camp is known as Sad Camp by all the other Foxwood camps, because it’s for kids whose parents can’t afford one of the other camps, or who are depressed, or who have cancer, or who don’t have parents at all. The specific demographic changes every month.
Michael’s heard that Jock Camp will have cheerleaders soon and that sort of excites him, because they all share the pond, so maybe he’ll see some bikinis or something other than all the dudes and nerdy chicks at Generic Camp.
He hears footsteps on the dock behind him. “I can’t wait to get out of this shit hole,” a deep-for-a-sixteen-year-old voice states.
Michael recognizes the voice quickly as belonging to his long-time friend, Ray. He pats the dock next to him. “As soon as we get out of here, you’re coming over and we’re playing X-Box,” Michael promises, glancing to his right as his dark-haired friend sits down and takes off his shoes.
Ray dips his toes in the water and smirks. “We’re totally going to get a foot fungus from this.”
“Shut up and enjoy the sunset, you asshole.” Michael playfully punches Ray’s arm.
“You think the cheerleaders will be here soon?” Ray wonders, rubbing his arm.
“I always feel like we get lied to,” Michael admits. “Like the counselors probably do it.” Michael deepens his voice to pretend like he’s one of the twenty-somethings running the camp. “‘Yeah, let’s tell the little shits that hot girls are coming tomorrow, but it’ll just be band camp. That’ll kill their little boners.’”
Ray laughs and plays along. “‘And their spirits, and that what really counts.’” He glances around to the docks, too. “I think new Sad Campers should be arriving soon, too,” Ray added, in his normal voice.
“Man, I hate the Sad Campers,” Michael groaned. “It’s like a dark grey fog of depression descends on the lake and swallows up any of our remaining joy whenever they show up.”
“The Fat Campers usually make up for the sadness, in my opinion,” Ray confesses. “I like those guys. They always have the best food.”
“You know it’s all smuggled in, right?”
“But at least they’re kind enough to share.”
“It’s because the football players from Jock Camp threaten to turn them in if they don’t.”
“Ah, just gotta love classic summer camp blackmail,” Ray sighs nostalgically, pushing his glasses up his nose.
Behind the two boys, the loud sound of the warning horn rings out, telling campers that it’s nearly lights out. By this time, the sun has set and the water is reflecting the moon rather than the rainbow of colors that first greeted them.
“Guess we’d better get back to Barracuda,” Michael mumbles. All the cabins at Generic Camp are named after animals this year. The older kids (tenth through twelfth grade) get sea animals, the middlers (eighth and ninth grade) get land animals, and the young kids (sixth and seventh grade) get flying animals. The camp can never seem to make up its mind though, and the theme changes every year. It used to simply be colors, then it was precious minerals, and last year it was patriotic terms like “Brotherhood,” and “Liberty.” (“Only in Texas,” Ray had mumbled upon seeing his assignment in the “Freedom” Cabin). Despite there being three grades represented in the Sea Creatures category, they were the most outnumbered group of kids. This was likely due to most senior high schoolers being able to convince their parents they had out grown camp. And so only an unfortunate few were left by the age of fifteen. Michael and Ray were a part of that pathetic group.
The only benefit to being an older kid at camp is that the counselors pretty much leave you alone. When you realize the people running the camp are young enough to be your brother or sister, you lose respect for them. Also, the older you get, the easier it is to detect that someone has been smoking weed. So classic camp blackmail comes into play and BAM the older kids can get away with whatever they want with the counselors as long as they get back to their cabin before the counselors get back to theirs.
As Ray and Michael mosey back to the cabin holding their shoes, they watch as the sobered up counselors guide the younger kids back into their cabins and roll their eyes. Michael snickers as he sees one counselor telling a kid off for wearing a shirt with a pot leaf on it, knowing that he’d seen that same counselor sharing a bong with some softball player from Jock Camp last summer.
Just as they enter their swelteringly hot cabin, Ray sighs in exasperation. “I can’t wait for those cheerleaders.”
The next day, Michael decides to eat his breakfast of toast and jam outside the mess hall on a picnic bench and Ray joins him shortly thereafter.
“Watchin’ for the bus?” Ray asks, spraying toast out in front of him.
“Kinda,” Michael admits. “It’s so damn boring here. It’ll be the most excitement to come all week.”
Faintly, in the distance, Michael can hear a puttering sound, like an engine. “Yes!” Michael cheers. Then, over the hill, he can see a yellow bus. But instead of turning right toward Jock Camp, it turns left to Sad Camp. “No!” Michael boos. He can barely read the name on the side of the bus from across the lake. It says “Hope,” in a gross scrawl. Then the kids begin to disembark with their duffle bags and suitcases. A few ladies and one man step off after them. For the most part they look like basic, normal kids though. They’re not in all black, they’re not wheeling IVs after them, no wheelchairs, and no casts from what Ray and Michael can tell.
A counselor strides up beside the two of them, holding forbidden-to-campers coffee. “Orphans,” he states. Michael turns to his left and sees the counselor. It’s Ryan, one of the older ones. “Sad shit, huh?” Then he walks away.
“That Ryan guy always kinda gives me the creeps,” Ray whispers.
“Pretty sure he’s an axe murderer,” Michael agrees.
Ray perks up slightly. “Well, I’m glad they’re just orphans and it’s not Eating Disorder Camp.”
Michael shrugs. “Let’s go to the dock and get a closer look at them?”
“Sure.”
The two boys half-jog to their hangout spot and lean out to try and catch a glimpse of the campers.
“Well, they’re not cheerleaders,” Ray states.
Michael’s eyes follow one particular camper who seems to be struggling with carrying his suitcases and walking at the same time. He trips and face-plants. Michael starts cackling.
Ray sees the kid trying to stand back up, too. “Oh geez, he bit it.”
“Come on, Ray,” Michael encourages. “Let’s sneak into their camp and meet the face-plant kid.”
Ray shakes his head. “No way. You know how much I hate meeting people.”
The trees around the lake make a cage for the camps and Michael figures nothing bad could happen as long as they stay in the clearing. “Come on, it’s not like you actually have to exert that much effort; there’s a path and everything.”
“Nope,” Ray refuses, turning back toward Barracuda, his Vans shoes squeaking on the sanded wood dock as he does. “I’ll be in the cabin with my DS if you need me.”
“You’re such a loser,” Michael hisses at him. “I’ll see you later.”
Michael leaves the dock and circles around to the right of the pond. Sad Camp is the closest camp to Generic Camp, so the walk takes only five minutes before Michael is there. No one seems to notice that he’s on the camp ground, so he walks around curiously, having never ventured out this way before. He’d never wanted to before. The Sad Campers were usually the kinds of kids you wanted to leave alone to their therapy and rehabilitation. But this year, Michael feels like he could probably befriend one of them. They couldn’t possibly be as miserable and stuck-up as the Generic Campers.
Their camp surprisingly looks the same as his, with the same cruddy mess hall and same kind of cabins (but with names like “Change” and “Passion”). It, however, is littered with a considerable amount of motivational posters. It takes a few minutes of wandering before someone finally notices him. “Hey!” a voice shouts at him.
Michael snaps around to see a kid with dust on his pants and fly-away hair standing there looking at him with his hands on his hips wearing baggy cargo pants.
“You weren’t on the bus,” the kid notes, oddly enough, with a British accent.
“Hey, you’re the face-plant kid!” Michael replies excitedly, recognizing him, taking note of his big nose and smooth skin. “I came over here to meet you in person. I’m a big fan of your work.”
His sarcasm met a baffled audience. “Wha-What?” the kid stuttered, his face reddening.
“I’m at the camp there,” Michael explained, gesturing to the Generic campground. “I watched you walk off the bus and trip.”
“Oh… Well, I’m not always so clumsy. It’s just my bags were heavy, you know?”
“Well, you sure don’t look big enough to carry them. What do you weigh? Like 108?”
The boy kinda scoffed and chuckled at once. “What’re you called?”
Michael smiled back at him. “What am I called? I’m called Michael.”
The boy smirked crookedly. “Well, I’m Gavin.”
“Well, I guess it’s nice to meet you, Gavin,” Michael says, a sardonic tone still painting his voice.
Gavin looks away to the ground behind him. “I think I should get going and…uh… unpack?”
“This your first time to camp?” Michael asks, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jean shorts.
Gavin nods shyly.
“You’re, like, what, 15? Why’ve you not come to camp before?” He can sense that Gavin wants to walk away, but he came all this way to meet him, so he might as well talk.
“I’m actually sixteen,” Gavin informs him, avoiding the other question.
“Me too,” Michael says cheerfully. “Anyway, I guess… I might see you around?”
Gavin looks at Michael inquisitively. “You want to see me around?”
Michael stutters a bit. “Well—uh, I guess, you know? Same pond and all.”
“Then I’ll see you,” Gavin agrees with a nod, his floppy hair flopping.
Michael watches as he walks with long strides toward a cabin called “Importance” and calls out to him, “Hey! Welcome to Foxwood!”
Gavin turns around and Michael can just barely see a toothy and lopsided grin forming on the skinny kid’s face.
Michael scoffs. “Stupid Brit.”