There's a Bat in Bunk Five (3 page)

There's no one in sight, and the place looks as if it goes on for ever and ever. There's not a streetlight. I bet there's not a shopping mall for miles.

I don't even see any cabins.

Everyone in the car's still pouting.

Finally my mother says softly, “Martin, I just want you to take better care of yourself. I don't want you to become a statistic.”

My father nods. “Smoking is one of the few pleasures in my life, though.”

I feel sad for him, all of a sudden. Then I notice it's quiet. Peace. Another truce.

We get out of the car and look around. To the right of the parking lot there's a tennis court, a basketball court, and an area for volleyball. Oh no. Just like gym.

“Marcy,” Stuart yells. “Goats. Real goats.”

I look. There really are five goats, standing by a large bell.

“Those are probably the kids assigned to your bunk.” My father grins.

Stuart jumps up and down. “Kids—kids are goats—I get it. Very funny.”

“Your father likes
kid
ding around,” my mother joins in.

Sometimes my family gets very corny, me included. “Sounds like you're both butting in.”

Stuart lunges at me, headfirst. “Butt, butt.”

I stick my hand forward, to protect myself, and his football helmet bends back my finger.

I yell.

Both of my parents rush over.

My finger's starting to swell.

“Marcy. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you,” Stuart says.

“It's okay,” I say.

“Marcy, is that you?”

It's Ms. Finney, coming out of the building with some guy.

I run up to her.

We hug.

She's grinning. “You look wonderful. You've lost so much weight. But then I always thought you looked good.”

My family joins us.

Ms. Finney says, “Welcome, everyone. I'd like to introduce you all to my husband, Carl.”

My father reaches out to shake hands, saying, “Mr. Finney. I'm Martin Lewis.”

“Pleased to meet you. My last name's Klein; Barbara and I've kept our own last names.”

“It figures,” my father says, sort of under his breath, scowling and backing off.

“I'm sorry I'm so early,” I say.

“I'm not,” Ms. Finney says. “It'll give us some time to talk before everyone else arrives.” She grins.

Mr. Klein says, “Let me get your bags. We can load them into the van now and take them up to your bunk later.”

“A van. Where? It'll be Rabbit number fifty,” Stuart yells.

Stuart, my father, and Mr. Klein go over to the car to get my stuff.

My mother says, “How are you doing, Ms. Finney? I've often thought of you.”

She answers, “I'm doing well, very happy. My master's degree is completed. Carl and I've been married for six months now, and we love working at this camp. We were here last year and have the chance to do lots of new things. It's like a dream come true, to be at a creative place.”

“I'm so glad you're at a place where you're not hassled,” I say, thinking of the trouble she had at school.

She grins at me and then turns to my mother, “How are you doing?”

My mother says, “It was a little rough for a while, with my husband's heart attack, my job, and taking courses at the local college. But I'm managing. We're all managing.”

I think about how well she's done, even stopped taking tranquilizers.

Mr. Klein, my father, and Stuart return, followed by the goats. “The bags are in place,” Mr. Klein says. “Barbara, we'd better finish up our work before everyone arrives.”

“Carl and I'll be working in the main office, Marcy,” Ms. Finney says. “Join us after you say good-bye to your family.”

Everyone says good-bye to them and off they go, arm in arm.

I hope that someday I can be just like Ms. Finney, perfect and happy with someone.

We all look at each other.

My mother starts to cry.

Stuart yells, “I don't want to leave. Let me stay here. You can mail my clothes.”

“I'll write to you every week,” I say.

“You don't have to write to me. I'm staying.” Stuart holds on to my legs.

My mother says, “Write every day.”

I nod. I'd promise to write every hour just to get all of this over with.

They unloosen Stuart from my kneecaps.

We all stand there.

Finally my mother says, “I guess we should go,” and sniffles.

My father says, “Let us know if you need more money.”

I feel so mixed up—glad that they're finally going and afraid to be left alone.

Stuart runs toward the basketball court, screaming, “You're going to have to capture me to get me to leave.”

With my father racing after him, my mother starts to shout, “Martin. Be careful. Your heart . . .”

Stuart stops short and returns with his head hanging down.

I feel sorry for him.

My father comes up, puffing a little.

“Are you all right?” I'm scared.

He waves away my question. “You worry too much.”

Stuart yells, “Touchdown,” and runs up as if he's going to tackle me but hugs me instead.

I pat him on his football helmet.

It's time to say good-bye.

My mother hugs me.

My father pats me on my head and says, “I think we'll stop off in Woodstock and do a little sight-seeing.”

They get into the car and leave, screaming good-byes.

I feel deserted. Now that I'm alone, I'm not so sure I can cope. What if it turns out to be an utter disaster?

I look around the camp. It's beautiful. Any place this great looking can't turn into a disaster. But I bet people said that about the
Titanic
too.

I head for the main building and go inside. It must be the dining hall with all the benches and tables set up. There's even a fireplace.

The goats follow me.

Do goats eat people?

One of them starts to bleat.

Now I've done it.

Ms. Finney bounds down a set of steps on the other side of the room.

A goat rushes over to her.

“Get out. You know you're not supposed to be here.”

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I thought you said to come in.”

“The goats, not you, Marcy.” She laughs. “Come on. Let's get these beasts out of the dining room before the Board of Health decides to make a surprise visit.”

The goats get turned around and pushed out of the building. I've never touched a goat before. Ms. Finney obviously has. She's better at it than I am.

Once the goats are gone, I say, “Ms. Finney, I've really missed you. Since you left, there's no teacher I've had who's anything like you. It's so good seeing you, even if I'm expected to touch mangy goats.”

“The goats give milk for the children allergic to regular milk. Listen, since I'm not your teacher anymore, please, call me Barbara. Everyone else does.”

“Okay . . . Barbara.”

She rushes on. “I'm so excited about this summer. We'll put on plays, dances, concerts, publish writing, show artwork. It's going to be wonderful.”

I smile, thinking of how lucky I am to be here.

She twirls around. “I just can't wait. But now, we've got
to finish getting ready. We're stapling papers for the first meeting. Would you mind helping out?”

“Not at all.” I feel a little formal, no longer at home, not really a part of this place, even though she's being so friendly and bubbly.

I follow her up the steps and think of what a secret coward I am, how afraid I am of everything.

How the goats will eat me.

How scary it is to meet new people.

It's not easy being so frightened of everything. And when I think of how much I've improved in the last year, I wonder when I'll ever get finished with making changes and be really grown up.

Before I have a chance to think of any more terrors, we're at the top of the steps and Ms. Finney—Barbara—heads into an office, where Carl's running papers off on the ditto machine.

“Marcy. Carl.” She claps her hands. “Now you'll have a chance to get to know each other.”

Another fear. Men. I'm always afraid they're going to yell at me like my father does. Or be as unreasonable as Mr. Stone, my high school principal.

Carl smiles. “Barbara's told me so much about you.”

I say, “Nice meeting you,” and stare at the floor.

Barbara says, “The others'll be arriving shortly.”

“How many?” I ask.

“Thirty-three staff members and one hundred and twenty campers.” I knew the campers wouldn't be arriving for another week. “That gives us a chance to do staff training and to set up the camp.” Barbara picks up a stack of papers and hands them to me.

I staple them and think about the new staff members, hoping we'll all get along, that everyone doesn't pair up but me. I wish again for a boyfriend back home, so I wouldn't feel so alone. There was Joel for a while, but his father decided they should move to New Mexico. It wasn't a great romance, but it was a good friendship. I miss him.

My mood must show, because Barbara, who has been putting papers in piles, comes over to me. “Are you all right?”

I try to smile. “Does everyone at this place know each other? The staff, I mean.”

She smiles back. “Some are returning, some are new. Carl teaches ecology at a local college and gets staff members from there. Some are from other places. Don't worry. I've got a feeling everything's
going to be perfect. We've planned so long, so carefully, so hard, made some changes. Nothing will go really wrong.”

Carl says, “Barbara's the eternal optimist, always positive things will be wonderful. Marcy, by the end of the training week everyone will know everyone else. Everything will go well, I hope.” He crosses his fingers.

Feeling calmer, I smile a real smile.

We all go back to our jobs.

I staple.

Carl sorts.

Barbara piles.

I look at them. They look good together, happy. Barbara's hair's grown down to her waist. He's got a beard.

I staple my finger.

The points are in my index finger. How gross.

It hurts.

Carl looks up to see why our efficient system is no longer working.

I look at my finger. It's the same one Stuart bumped into.

Barbara comes over.

I still haven't said a word, waiting for the gangrene to set in. It doesn't really hurt much, but I figure that's because it's paralyzed or something terrible.

“Oh, Marcy,” Barbara says. “Does it hurt much? Let me go get a tweezers from the infirmary.” She rushes out.

I look at Carl. “You must think I'm awfully dumb.”

He shakes his head. “I once slammed my hand in a car door. Things happen.”

Barbara returns, pulls out the staple, wipes off the spots of blood with rubbing alcohol, and puts a Band-Aid on it.

“Marcy, I think you're going to live.” She grins. “I bet I could have even pulled it out with my fingers.”

“No amputation? I'm so glad. I was afraid my writing career was over.”

Carl says, “The first casualty of the camp season. I only hope the rest are so minor.”

I pull up the Band-Aid and say, “Minor? It looks like a baby vampire has gotten me.”

Barbara laughs. “Or one of the bats that live in the top of this building.”

Bats? I never even thought of bats. Now I've got a new fear to add to my long list.

Cars are honking below, suddenly.

“Hip, hip, hurray,” Barbara yells, jumping up and down. “Camp's begun.”

I follow Carl and Barbara downstairs and wonder whether anyone's ever been sent home for an acute case of stapled finger.

E
veryone's arrived. I've met my head counselor and seen my bunk. I wonder if it's too late to change my mind and go home. This is a little scary and strange.

I'm stuck with the upper bunk bed. Corrine, as senior counselor, gets first choice.

Some night I'll probably roll over, fall out, break several bones, and have severe internal injuries and bleeding. Or a rung of the rickety ladder will crack when I'm climbing up, and I'll fall on my head and get a concussion.

Corrine immediately puts a picture of herself and a guy on her cubby.

I put a writing notebook on mine.

As we unpack, I sneak looks at Corrine. She's got curly blond hair, bright green eyes, and an incredibly thin body, fashion-model skinny. I bet she can eat anything she wants without gaining an ounce.

She says, “Barbara tells me that you're a wonderful writer. I'm so glad. This year I want us to help the kids gain confidence in writing. I also want us to help them put out great newsletters and magazines, as well as their individual work.”

“Me too,” I say.

She continues. “I'm a journalism major at college. Someday I want to be an investigative reporter.”

Funny. I thought sure she'd want to work on a fashion magazine. I've got to remember not to stereotype, not to look at someone and make instant judgments. I hate it when someone does that to me, yet it's something I do, especially when someone's skinny.

A bell rings below.

“We can finish unpacking later,” Corrine says, grabbing a notebook. “Staff training's about to begin.”

I grab my notebook. “Do we get detention if we're
late for the first meeting? Do we have to stay after camp and wash the volleyball court?”

Corrine laughs. “You'll have to follow the goats around, pick up after them, and be in charge of their once-a-year bath.”

“Let's get a move on,” I say.

We rush out the door and down the steps. Lots of other people are also coming down the hill from their cabins.

Halfway there, someone yells, “Hey, Corrine.” Corrine stops. I stop with her. She waves to this absolutely gorgeous blond male who is by the pool, pulling something out with the skimmer.