Summer Camp Adventure (5 page)

S
plash!
Before Mr. Wheaten could tweet, Buddy had barreled down the steep bank in a half-run, half-slide. He slipped on some rocks and tumbled into the stream headfirst. When the horse tripped, his front legs collapsed, and Jonathan went flying out of the saddle like a human cannonball. He landed on the other side of the stream, his top half on the muddy embankment, the rest in the water. He lay motionless while Buddy regained his footing, sloshed out of the water, and stumbled up the slope. The horse stood dripping wet and quivering, his front right knee a mass of blood.

“Chad,” Mr. Wheaten yelled, jumping off his horse and running down the embankment, “get the kids and their horses calmed down! Skye, the first-aid kit’s in my saddlebags. Bring it to me!”

Skye flew off Champ’s back, retrieved the kit, and rushed down to the streambed where Mr. Wheaten was already helping Jonathan stand. The boy’s cockeyed helmet, along with the top half of his skinny frame, was covered with mud and grit. The rest of him was soaked to the bone.

Mr. Wheaten gently turned Jonathan to look him square in the eyes. “Thank the Lord he had his helmet on,” the man said to Skye. “Ask him if anything hurts.”

Skye set the kit down and signed.

“This,” Jonathan said, holding his right arm up.

Carefully, Mr. Wheaten probed the boy.

“Does that hurt?” Skye asked every time Mr. Wheaten touched him.

“No.” Jonathan shook his head.

“Ah, here’s the problem,” Mr. Wheaten said, seeing a bloody elbow. “It’s all scraped open. Looks like a little bit of a cut there too. We need to get antiseptic on that. Skye, tell him he should go all the way into the stream and clean off that mud. Then we’ll fix his arm.”

“Is he okay?” Chad yelled from the lineup on the bridge.

“Yeah,” Mr. Wheaten said, glancing at Buddy. “Just a couple of scratches. Looks like that’s all that’s wrong with the horse too.”

“Should I check Buddy?” Skye asked.

“No, I’ll do it.” Mr. Wheaten started walking up the slope. “You tell Jonathan what I want him to do, and open the kit. Get the antiseptic—and some bandages. I guess you were right, Annie,” Mr. Wheaten added. “He
is
the Master of Disaster.”

Skye touched Jonathan, who was already busy adjusting his helmet, and she took a deep breath.
I have just about had it with you
, she had right on the tips of her fingers. Smiling at this moment was the farthest thing from her mind. “Jonathan, what were you doing?” Her hands chopped angrily at the air.

“I like water!” he signed. Then that same sly grin, even through the mud on his face, proclaimed another Martin victory. “And I wanted to see if Buddy liked water too!”

Skye’s second week at Camp Oneega found her home-sick for Mom and Dad Chambers, fuming at Chad, and totally frustrated with Jonathan.

Hot, humid weather had settled on the camp like a wet blanket. Because of the muggy heat, all horse-related activities had either been moved to early morning or were cancelled. More Bible classes, arts and crafts, and chapel services helped fill the void each day, along with unlimited swim time and water games at the slide and lake. After lunch on Wednesday, everyone welcomed the chapel service in the air-conditioned gym.

Onstage, Skye sat with nine others in the staff “orchestra,” playing her violin while the campers sang choruses. Next to her sat guitar-strumming Chad, whom she tried to totally ignore. Mr. Wheaten, dressed like a clown, played a recorder and encouraged the kids to sing their hearts out as he led the music. For the next part of the program a girls’ trio sang “Jesus Loves Me.”

Mr. Wheaten answered his cell phone and then leaned toward Skye. “Annie, we need you to sign the rest of the service to Jonathan,” he whispered. “My wife just called. She has a migraine.”

“What about Tim and Linda?”

“Tim went with Bill for supplies, and—well—I’ve seen Linda sign. You’ll handle this much better.”

“Oh, great! I can’t do this! I’ve never signed a service before.” Skye’s voice conveyed raw panic.

“C’mon. You’ll do fine. Just go down there and sit on that chair in front of Jonathan. All you have to do is sign what’s happenin’ up here. It’s a piece of cake. You can do it.”

“Mr. Wheaten, I can’t.”

“Sure you can. You have to. There’s nobody else. Now go on.”

Skye swallowed the golf ball in her throat, and her heart raced like she had run ten miles.
Me? Sign? In front of all these kids
and
the staff?
She gulped again—hard—then placed her violin on the chair. Slowly she made her way down off the stage like she was marching to the firing squad.
I can’t do this!
she told herself.
The whole world is watching
.

She sat on the folding chair in front of Jonathan, the sole occupant of the front pew.
I know just how you feel, kid
, she thought,
totally alone
. Her mind went blank. She stared at the pew, wanting to crawl under it. Not one sign she had learned made its way through the fuzz cluttering her brain.
Dear God, I need you. Help!
Skye prayed as she stared at Jonathan. Softly a hand touched her shoulder, and she looked back into Mr. Wheaten’s painted clown face.

“Just sign from your heart, little lady,” he said, smiling. “Do it for the Lord.”

“Okay, I’ll try,” she said with more assurance than she felt.

“That’s all we ask,” he said, hustling back up on the stage. “Now, boys and girls,” he boomed through the microphone, “we’re gonna praise the Lord by doing three skits and singing a big bunch of songs.”

The room erupted in applause, laughs, and scattered grunts.

Skits. Oh, great!
Skye grimaced.
I don’t know how to do skits!

Sign from your heart
, Mr. Wheaten’s words echoed, so she began.

Onstage, Chad and three other volunteers performed a skit about the Good Samaritan and being nice to your neighbor. “But who is your neighbor?” Chad directed his scripted words to the girl next to him.

“The Bible says that your neighbor is anyone who needs help,” she answered.

Embarrassed by her inability, Skye’s face flushed hot while she struggled to make sense with her signs. Jonathan’s eyes darted back and forth, to the skit, back to Skye. The actors might as well have been speaking Russian. Skye had to sign many strange words like “Samaritan,” “traveler,” “Pharisee.” She had to spell them—slowly. Soon she trailed four or five sentences behind. Jonathan let out a string of yawns, his eyes heavy with sleep. Before long he slumped down, rested his head on the back of the pew, and closed his eyes.

“Duh!” Skye mumbled to herself. “Something tells me I’m not getting through—at all!” Reaching out her foot, she kicked Jonathan’s sneaker, jolting him awake.

“Who is your n-e-i-g-h-b-o-r?” Skye signed.

“Mr. Wilson,” Jonathan signed back with sleepy hands. “He lives across the street and has two dogs.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Skye signed angrily. “It’s a question from the skit!”

Shrugging his shoulders, Jonathan threw his hands up in despair. “I don’t understand.”

“Oh, never mind,” Skye signed.

Unfortunately, the next two skits were no easier.

“Has Jesus made your heart clean?” Skye signed.

“I didn’t know my heart was dirty,” Jonathan answered, his eyes barely open.

“Did Jesus ever come into your heart?”

“Nope. He won’t fit,” Jonathan signed. Finally, he stretched out on the pew and fell fast asleep.

Skye’s hands fell silent on her lap. Frustrated beyond words, spoken or signed, she sat staring at the child who had won again. Or had he?
There’s so much he doesn’t understand
, she reasoned,
especially about Jesus
. Fighting back tears and that golf-ball feeling in her throat, Skye’s face grew hotter. As Mr. Wheaten began the choruses, Jonathan lay as still as a newborn baby, sound asleep, oblivious of the fun all around him.

Hot liquid streamed down Skye’s cheeks, but brushing the tears away only made room for more. “I can’t help you. I don’t know how,” she cried. Out the side door she ran until she reached a cluster of trees. Slumping to the ground, she buried her face in her arms and sobbed.

“Skye, what’s the matter?” a familiar voice sounded concerned. “I saw you running out. Are you okay?” A hand softly touched her shoulder.

It was Chad.
Linda’s Chad!

“Oh, just leave me alone!” Skye snapped without looking up.

“You’re not sick, are you?”

“No, I’m not sick,” she wailed. “I’m fine. Just leave me alone.”

“Then what the heck’s wrong? You’ve been actin’ funny since we got here.”

“Well, if you don’t know, I’m not gonna tell you,” Skye growled. Then looking up into his brown eyes, her tone softened. “Please—Chad—just leave me alone.”

Chad’s genuine concern curbed his dimpled smile. “Okay, if that’s what you want. But I’m here anytime you need me. Just ask.” Turning away, he walked back through the door.

Inside, the campers sang at the top of their lungs while the building swayed to “I’m in the Lord’s Army.”

And outside all alone, Skye cried as though she had lost one of the best friends she ever had. Maybe she had.

B
edtime and lights-out in all the cabins. While the Five Ferns girls slept soundly, Skye and Morgan sat in their cabin’s bathroom with the door shut tight. Skye was crying her eyes out again while Morgan held a box of tissues and fed her a steady supply.

“I wanna go home!” Skye tried to muffle her wail. She blew her nose for the umpteenth time and banked the soggy tissue ball off the wall into the waste can. “I can’t help that kid. He’s ruining my life!”

Morgan sat still and relaxed. The day’s activities had taken their toll on her body, so much that her freckles even seemed pale. “Skye, cool it!” she whispered. “You keep forgetting one little thing.”

“What?”

“You can’t cure all these kids’ problems by yourself. In fact, you can’t cure them at all. This is teamwork—you, me, the staff, and God. He’s got to do the fixing. We’re just here to show his love. You will get through to Jonathan, but it’ll take time. For Pete’s sake, we’ve only been here a little over a week, and the whole summer is ahead of us. So just take a deep breath!”

“But he won’t listen—to me—to anyone.”

“And who does that remind you of? Huh? Somebody very near and dear to both of us. You! And not too long ago at that.”

“Oh, Morgan, stop always reminding me of my past.”

“Hey, Skye, my past’s nothing to be proud of either, but God gave both of us one more chance with Mr. and Mrs. Chambers. I don’t think we should forget that. And we can’t stop praying for these kids. Ever.”

Skye filled another tissue and bounced it into the can. “Oh, I guess you’re right. You’re always right when it comes to these things. But what am I gonna do about Chad?”

“Chad, schmad.” Morgan frowned in disgust. “Remember—and I’ve said this before—he’s not yours. You’ve never even dated. You know Mr. and Mrs. C.’s rules about that.”

“Date? Yeah, right. I won’t see that day until I’m sixteen. By then he’ll probably be in college or married or something.”

“You know, you’re ridiculous. What if—what if—what if! How many times have Mr. and Mrs. C. and Pastor Newman told us to not worry and to trust in God? The right one will come along.”

“But it hurts so bad when I see him with Linda,” Skye cried.

“You’re telling me?” Morgan flipped back her red curls. “Remember last year how I had it so bad for Drew? He didn’t even know I existed. But I’m over him now.”

“Yeah, and what’s this with you and Caleb?” Skye forced a smile after hours of nothing but tears.

“Caleb? He is such a doll.” Morgan couldn’t help but giggle. “And Drew is history. Skye, that’s the way it’ll be with you and Chad. It’ll either happen or it won’t. Just give it to the Lord.”

Suddenly, Skye’s entire body felt limp. Her throat burned, and her eyelids felt like lead weights. Through
the tears, she strained to see her watch. “Wow! It’s almost midnight,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Morgan said as she reached back and opened the door. “We’ll both feel and look like dog meat tomorrow if we don’t hit the sack now.”

“Morgan,” Skye said softly.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

“No problem, sis.”

“Let’s pray for Jonathan right now,” Skye said.

“And for us,” Morgan added. “We need all the prayer we can get.”

The next day brought cooler weather, so Skye had another riding lesson with Jonathan. In one of those rare times, the lesson went fine with Jonathan behaving and Skye controlling her temper. The rest of Skye’s morning activities passed with no crises. By lunchtime, she felt like her life was back on track, not only with Jonathan but also with her feelings about Chad.

In the cafeteria, Skye and Morgan helped their cabin girls get lunch trays and settle down. Skye sat at the Five Ferns table and watched Tim and his cabin boys line up with their trays for food. She spotted Jonathan halfway back in the line and burst out laughing.

“Morgan,” Skye yelled to the other end of the table, “look at Jonathan. He looks too ridiculous for words. Sometimes he can be as cute as a puppy.”

Morgan turned and burst out laughing too. “He looks like some weird insect from another planet,” she yelled back to Skye. “Too cool.”

Jonathan had made his appearance in the food line wearing a gigantic pair of sunglasses with red and white frames striped like a candy cane. Poking the glasses back
on his nose to keep them in place, he had quite a time sliding his tray along. The arms of the glasses wrapped all the way around the back of his head. To keep the glasses on his face, Jonathan walked with his nose in the air while he tried to grab food from the line and place it on his tray. He walked to his cabin’s table, balancing both the sun glasses and the tray like a juggler. He was facing Skye.

Skye saw a camper at the table reach for the glasses just as Jonathan sat down. Jonathan scowled at the boy and slapped his hand—hard. Skye’s eyes searched for Tim, who was busy with another camper’s milk that had spilled all over the other end of the table.

“Uh-oh. I smell big trouble,” Skye said. “Morgan, watch our kids, will you? We’re gonna have a major problem on our hands if someone doesn’t get to Jonathan right now.”

Skye charged over to Tim’s table, watching every move Jonathan and the camper made. Again, the boy reached for the glasses. This time Jonathan gave the boy a shove and then followed up with his trademark gesture—sticking out his tongue. The boy shoved Jonathan back. The glasses flew off Jonathan’s face onto the floor. That did it! Jonathan picked up a Styrofoam dish full of pudding, cocked his arm, and prepared to do battle.

“Jonathan! No!” Skye screamed, reaching across the table to stop him.

Splat!
Skye took a full dish of chocolate pudding right between the eyes!

Pudding flew everywhere, big globs of it landing on the camper next to Jonathan. The boy picked up his own pudding and threw it. Jonathan ducked, the chocolate splattering all over the shirt of the boy sitting to his right. The boy looked down, started wiping the pudding off, but then grabbed his dish of applesauce. He scowled and took aim.

“Stop it!” Skye screamed.

But no one was listening to Skye. Jonathan picked up his full plate of spaghetti and dumped it right over the head of the boy who had grabbed for his glasses and started the whole mess. At the same time, Jonathan took a full dish of applesauce right on
his
head!

“Food fight!” another boy at the same table yelled.

“Food fight!” the rest of Tim’s boys echoed.

In seconds, “Food fight!” rang through the entire cafeteria. Chaos reigned in the large room as chocolate pudding, spaghetti, applesauce, and milk cartons flew everywhere. Buttered bread sailed through the air like Frisbees.

Skye wiped her eyes clear of pudding and looked for Tim.

Splat!
A wad of warm spaghetti hit her on the side of her head, clogging her ear. She spotted Tim, who had just taken a glob of pudding in his left eye. She turned to look for Morgan, and a milk carton whizzed by Skye’s head. Ducking low, she peeked toward the Five Ferns table.

Above the screams, Skye could hear Morgan yelling, “Stop it, girls! Stop it!” Morgan was waving her hands in front of her, trying to keep the food tide from carrying her away.
Splat!
She took a full plate of spaghetti square in the face.

By this time, the entire room had erupted into loud screams, banging chairs, kids running after one another with plates full of food, and cooks cowering behind the counter.

The staff had lost control and could do nothing but duck. The walls dripped with pudding, and the wagon-wheel chandeliers had been festooned with spaghetti noodles dripping with red sauce.

“Sit down!” Skye wailed, warding off food bullets with her hands.

Splat!
Another bomb, cold and gooey, exploded on the back of Skye’s head.

“Where’s Mr. Wheaten!” she screamed at Tim.

“There!” Tim yelled as he dodged cartons and plates. He pointed at the door.

Mr. Wheaten had just dashed into the room, his eyes bulging at the sight. Quickly he pulled out his whistle. Just as he started to blow it, a pudding bomb exploded in his face. The clogged whistle only sputtered like a fizzling firecracker.

“There’s Mr. Wheaten!” some kid in the corner yelled.

As if officially welcoming the director to their party, every camper in the room threw what was left on their plates—or shirts—in Mr. Wheaten’s direction. In a mad dash, he scrambled toward the counter where the cooks were hiding. He ducked, but his black Stetson took a blow from a carton of milk and flew into a pool of slop. His silver crew cut peeked above the counter, and this time his whistle let out an earsplitting shriek that bounced off every wall.

In seconds, the place grew as quiet as a graveyard. Was it more from the campers’ having nothing to throw than from Mr. Wheaten’s whistle?

By now Skye’s nerves had her whole body quivering. She reached for a napkin, the only thing she could get her hands on that was clean, and made an effort to wipe her face. Trying to grab a normal breath, she gazed around the room at every staff member and volunteer who was now doing the same. Mr. Wheaten came out from behind the counter, spaghetti and pudding dripping from him like he had been dunked in it. What little showed of his chocolate-covered cheeks flushed bright red.

“All right! Everyone sit down! Right this minute!” he yelled, his hands anchored on his hips. “Staff, get them seated, and go back to your posts!”

Skye started toward her table, sliding on a floor as slippery as ice. She balanced herself, setting chairs upright and helping campers sit. Standing at the end of
the Five Ferns table, she glanced at Morgan in her wheelchair, covered in sauce to match her hair. Her panicky face reflected Skye’s feelings exactly.

Skye glanced around the room. Every camper, covered with slop, was sitting in puddles of food on their uprighted chairs. Most were giggling or pointing fingers at others and laughing. Some were crying. The staff members, cloaked with food and embarrassed beyond words, were trying to quiet everyone.

Skye looked for Chad. Busy at a table in the corner, his blond hair was all that she could recognize.

Mr. Wheaten pulled a large red handkerchief from his back jeans pocket and wiped his face. “Now, I want to know, right this minute, who started this!” he barked. He folded his arms and waited.

“He did!” a camper sitting next to Jonathan yelled and pointed. Almost in unison, like a choir perfecting their song, every camper in the room pointed at Jonathan. “He did!” they squealed.

There Jonathan sat, chocolate-covered glasses anchored on his nose, arms folded, and a grin along with his lunch plastered all over his defiant face.

“Tim, bring him to my office! Now!” Mr. Wheaten ordered.

Jonathan, you’ve done it this time
, Skye reasoned.
You are history!