Summer on the Short Bus (4 page)

“Did I miss you?” Rainbow bellows back. “Nah, never!”

The little girl answers with a laugh as strange as her voice, before her miniature body begins moving in ways that can't be good for you. Her hands are fisted, flailing in front of her face, while her neck contorts into an
Exorcist
move. I'm too freaked out to keep watching, so I turn my attention toward the other bus and find Fantine hugging a boy whose eyes are spaced entirely too far apart. His face is swollen, and I can't be sure, but it appears he's walking with a limp.

What the hell kind of freak show is this?

More yelping and laughter draws my awareness back to the first bus. The pigtailed, funny talker is now on the ground in her neon-yellow wheelchair (complete with an old-school Hannah Montana sticker plastered on its side). Then a dark-skinned boy with thick-lensed glasses sidesteps his way out of the bus, a pair of crutches in his hand.

And it dawns on me . . .

Oh. My. God. I'm spending my summer with a bunch of retards.

FOUR

“C
ricket! Cricket, can you hear me?”

“Huh?” My eyes flutter open. Pete's freckled face is just inches from mine.

“Can you hear me?” he asks again, louder this time.

“Yes, Pete”—I wave him away with a swipe of my hand—“I can hear you. You don't need to yell in my face. What the hell happened?”

“You fainted, that's what happened. Can you try and sit up?”

“I think so.”

Pete shimmies through the gravel and gently transitions me from lying flat on my back to propped up on my elbows.

“I feel a little . . .”

“Just take a few deep breaths and get your bearings. That was a pretty nasty fall.”

I brace my elbows firmly into the dirt and hoist myself upright. The second I'm vertical, I drop my forehead against my knees. I haven't hurt like this since the morning after Tommy Kleeger's keg party.

“Any idea why you fainted?” I know he's just doing the whole
bedside manner thing, but running his hand up and down my back isn't helping. “Are you dehydrated? When was the last time you ate?”

“It was probably the heat,” I hear Fantine say. “She's probably only used to air-conditioning.”

“I don't know what happened, just stop rubbing my back!” I say, wiggling away from Pete. “I've never been dehydrated before, so I don't know what that feels like, and it's not
that
hot. I have no idea why I fainted.”

“Well, what's the last thing you remember?” Pete asks.

“I don't know. I . . . I guess I remember unpacking my stuff in the bunkhouse. . . .”

He nods. “That's good. What else?”

“Um . . . I remember waiting for the buses.”

“Good, good. Keep going.”

I'm just about to say, “I'm not a retard, Pete, you can shut up now,” when a bright yellow object enters my peripheral vision, stealing my ability to speak. I glance over my shoulder and am immediately greeted with a picture of a prelesbian butch-cut Miley Cyrus and her enormous horse teeth.

“Are yooooou okay?”

I make a visor with my hand and squint up at the voice above me. The vision of two enormous pigtails sends my head into a tailspin as it all comes rushing back.

“Oh God,” I mumble, burying my face in my knees.

“You remember now?” Pete asks.

“Oh yeah. I remember everything.”

“Well, that's good to hear. What we need to do now is get you inside and out of the sun. Do you think you can stand up?”

“I can try.”

“Okay, let's get you up on your feet. Quinn, can you take her on the left side please?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Until this very moment I've only been aware that Pete, Fantine, and “Hannah Montana” are within range, but as I raise my head I see that a large crowd is circling, and yours truly is sitting center stage. There's a kid with an eye patch, another kid with drool trailing down his chin, and though I'm not sure who they belong to, a very BeDazzled pair of crutches sparkling in the sunlight. No wonder I fainted!

Before I can break into tears, Quinn approaches me. He looks as beautiful as I remembered, with the addition of a few worry lines etched in his forehead.

“You okay, Cricket?” he asks me quietly and kneels down. He drops his hand on my shoulder and our eyes meet. For an instant I forget I'm the lead float in the freak parade.

“I think so.”

“Good. You had me worried for a minute.” He flashes a quick smile that makes my insides somersault.

“All right, everybody,” Rainbow says. Her distinct voice rips
through my divine moment. “Dr. Pete is going to take good care of Cricket. You'll all have a chance to meet her after she rests up a bit. Now, everybody up to the mess hall!”

There's a brief round of cheers before the campers begin bumbling, rolling, and crutching their way up the hill toward the mess hall.

“You okay?” Fantine asks over her shoulder as she pushes Hannah Montana across the dirt. I nod, and she offers a smile that's a little easier to read this time. “Good,” she says, honoring her word at giving me a second chance. “I'll check on you a little later. You guys take good care of her. She's not used to country life.”

“We will. You ready over there, Quinn?” Pete asks as he wraps his arm around my shoulder and pulls me against him. I really don't think this level of assistance is necessary, but if it means Quinn will play human seat belt on the other side of me, I'm all for it.

“I'm ready.” As hoped, Quinn repeats Pete's motion on my other side, securing his right hand around my waist. Under the circumstances, I know I shouldn't be enjoying this, but I just can't help myself.

“Well, a smile like that is a good sign. You must be feeling a little better,” Pete says, as the three of us lumber up the hill toward the first-aid office.

“Yeah,” I say. “Maybe a little.”

For the last half hour I've been laying on my aching, swollen ass with an ice pack on my head and a Lohan-size dose of Advil in my gut. My Hollywood heartthrob bailed about two seconds after we got here—thanks a lot, Quinn.

“Theriously, Pete,” I say as he shoves the thermometer under my tongue again. “I don't have a feeva.”

“Shhh,” he says. “I'm still a med student. I haven't mastered thermometer-in-the-mouth language yet. It's a lot harder than it looks.”

I'm too doped up on the graham crackers and warm apple juice Pete's been plying me with to give him a hard time. So instead I just flip him the bird.

“You're a spunky one, Cricket.” His grin widens into a full smile as he pulls the thermometer from my mouth. “You were right. No feeva,” he says, tossing the protective sleeve into the trash. “I think you're stable enough to return to work, so long as you promise you'll come back if your pain worsens or if you feel dizzy or light-headed, okay?”

I nod, though I have no intention of doing anything other than locating a cell signal. I slide my feet back into my tennies, make a quick adjustment to my ponytail, and fast-track to the door, when Pete offers up one last comment.

“It will change your life if you let it.”

“Huh?”

“This camp,” he clarifies. “I know it's a different summer job than lifeguarding or working at the Gap, but what we do here . . . well, it really means something. It's like we're part of something bigger than ourselves. If you allow yourself to enjoy it, and really experience what it's all about, I think you'll have one of the best summers of your life.”

Oh please! The Gap?

“Look, Pete, if that's what works for you . . . great. But the only thing I'm looking to change this summer is my father's mind about leaving me here. Otherwise, I intend to remain exactly the same person I've always been. Thanks for the ice.”

“No problem,” he says easily enough. “Just remember you promised to come back if you need to.”

“Right,” I call over my shoulder before pulling the thin wooden door shut behind me.

I slide my sunglasses back into place and quickly survey my surroundings. Hallelujah! Not a crippled soul in sight. Without hesitation, I haul ass back to the bunk house, grab my phone, and take off down a broken path that leads away from camp. I know my cellular liberation is out there—I just need to find it!

It's embarrassing how quickly I run out of breath. Within minutes, I'm hunched over, shuffling along the path while my phone searches for service.

“Come on, come on”—I tap my finger impatiently against the screen—“just give me a bar. Please, just one freaking ba—”

The distinct sound of leaves being crunched silences me. With very slow movements, I raise my head and look in the direction I think the noise came from. It's only now that I realize things don't look the same as they did when I started this little quest. I'm no longer in a maintained campground area peppered with outbuildings and designated paths. Instead I'm surrounded by boulders and scraggly brush. And it's sort of dark. Why is it dark in the middle of the day? I brave a look upward; my pulse quickening. Besides the few beams of dusty sunlight creeping in through the thick trees, I might as well be in a tomb. Or a bad horror movie.

A thorny bush just a few yards from me begins to shake, its tiny leaves crackling like dry wood on a campfire from whatever is leaning into it. I swallow back the knot of fear that's suddenly wedged itself in my throat.

“Shhh. You'll scare it away.”

I jump. The sound of another voice more than startles me, and I stumble backward while tripping over a rock in the process.

“Oh, geez! Cricket, are you okay?”

Heart still pounding out of control with pain radiating up my legs, I whip my head over my shoulder. It takes me a moment to recognize that it's Quinn running toward me and not a serial killer.

“I'm so sorry,” he says, already at my side and surveying my injury. “I didn't mean to scare you. I just didn't want you to miss seeing her.”

“Her?” I stare up at him, confusion already overriding my sense of fear.

“Yeah,” he says. “Look.”

I follow the point of his finger over my shoulder and catch the tail end of a deer leaping through the bushes.

“Oh my God!” I'm not sure if I should laugh or cry. “It was a freaking deer!”

He laughs. “Yeah, pretty cool, right?”

“Totally cool,” I say, trying my best not to sound awkward.

“Again, I really am sorry. Are you sure you're okay?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Quinn stands up first and offers me his hand for assistance, which I waste no time accepting.

“You're not off to such a great start here,” he says, motioning to my legs. I look down to see streams of blood trailing down both shins. “Are you notoriously accident-prone or is this just a particularly bad day?”

“I don't know.” I feel my cheeks redden. “A little bit of both, I guess. I gave myself a black eye with the refrigerator door once; it's why I don't snack in the middle of the night anymore. And last year I tripped over our dog and broke three toes on my right foot. But, otherwise, I think I'm pretty stable.”