Chapter 1 – Camp Pontchartrain
Fear nibbled with sharp teeth on the edges of my soul as I scanned Camp Pontchartrain’s dining hall, looking for the bully who would surely notice me. Fortunately for me, the bullies were currently targeting the art students, a group of girls silently weeping with their heads lowered. Thankfully, they left the Techies, technology kids like me, alone . . . for now.
I ran my fingers through my brown, curly hair, a self-soothing thing I did when I was nervous, which was a constant state of existence for me. Choosing a corner table, I set my tray down, then checked the seat for the all-too-familiar packets of ketchup or mustard left there to stain the pants of the unwary. Nothing was there this time. I sat and peeled open my grilled ham and cheese, then loaded it with barbeque potato chips and pressed them into the melted cheddar. After a sip of apple juice, I took a bite of the sandwich, the chips delivering a savory, satisfying crunch as I chewed while scanning the room again.
The walls, adorned in rich, dark wood paneling, and the sturdy hardwood floor stretching throughout the room gave me the illusion of being nestled within the belly of some gigantic tree monster. The wonderful aroma of grilled burgers, steamed vegetables, freshly baked bread, and other edible treasures created a colorful tapestry of delicious smells, pleasing the senses. Excited voices echoed off the walls, creating a cacophony of shouts and giggles intermixed with the sobs of humiliated victims.
The adults in the dining hall tried to control the chaos but were sadly outnumbered. Kids were experts at waiting for the adults to look away before launching a broccoli-bomb or lobbing a juice box-grenade. A group of older boys laughed and threw French fries at the drama kids, the demeaned victims picking potatoes out of their hair as they kept their heads down, hoping to avoid a second volley.
The sea of kids, ages 7 to 18, looked like a patchwork of colors. Each cluster wore their group’s t-shirt, the orange and brown lacrosse team sitting between the yellow and black wrestlers and the black and white chess players. A few kids didn’t wear their team’s jersey and instead wore the dark purple Camp Pontchartrain shirt, a large C and P emblazoned in gold across their chest. They were few in number and quickly learned that the purple shirt made them an easy target. Usually, everyone wore their group’s shirt; it’s what we did at Camp Pontchartrain. Sometimes, I thought it provided a bit of safety, a herd in which the small and weak could hide, but it also kept us separated. Isolated groups and cliques had flourished in the camp since my first visit many years ago, dividing the community and creating a fractured social landscape.
“You know, Cameron, it’s only four days until the annual Colossal Water Fight.” Bobby sat beside me and stuffed a massive spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth, brown gravy smudging his cheek. “This year, I’m going for a power soaker. I wanna drench people from far away, like the kids from the soccer cabin, before they can get close with their water balloons.”
I ate the last bit of my sandwich and shook my head. “You shouldn’t do that, Bobby. They’ll want revenge if you douse ’em with too much water.”
“I don’t care if I get wet; why should they? It’s a water fight, after all.”
“I know.” I opened a package of cookies, took a few, and slid the rest to my friend. “But you need to think carefully.” I lowered my voice and scanned the nearby tables, ensuring no bullies could hear. “If you get them during the water fight, they’ll torture you afterward. They might throw you into the lake, steal your bed, or try to lock you in one of the gym lockers.”
Bobby chuckled, then put both hands on his ample belly and shook it. “Cameron Poole, how long have we been coming to this summer camp together . . . since third grade? After three years, have you ever seen a gym locker that would fit me?” He slapped his stomach and laughed. “They don’t make ’em big enough for this.”
Wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his Robotics t-shirt, Bobby stood and carried his dishes to the kitchen conveyor belt. “Come on, Cam, we gotta get moving. The ropes course starts in a few minutes, and I don’t wanna be at the end of the line.”
The ropes course was my personal nightmare. Climbing those rope ladders always awakened my fears, the threat of falling making my blood run cold. They’d build the course over the shallow section of Lake Pontchartrain; getting injured in a fall was impossible. Tell that to my anxiety. Every time I tried the course, my fears took over, and I’d fail on the first rope ladder in front of all the other kids . . . it was humiliating.
I gathered my trash and piled it on the plastic tray, then slung my bookbag over my shoulder, my towel and robotics supplies bouncing about within the bag. Walking next to the wall, I followed Bobby toward the conveyor. I kept my eyes scanning the dining hall for threats. Being the smallest sixth grader at the camp made me a favorite target of those seeking to boost their self-esteem at my expense.
I added my tray to the mechanized parade of dirty plates and empty milk cartons, the refuse slowly moving into the kitchen on the stained conveyor belt.
“Come on, Cam,” Bobby said.
I turned to follow my friend and spotted them at the exit, a cold chill slithering down my spine. A group of baseball players stood near the doors, each wearing their gray and gold jerseys and harassing kids as they left. A sound, like the faint buzzing of a bee, flickered to life in the back of my mind. Sweat coated the palms of my trembling hands as I stared at the door, my tormentors waiting for their next victim. My heart pounded in my chest, a blacksmith’s hammer punishing an anvil and getting faster, my fear growing.
No, not again. I don’t wanna be afraid. The thought sent a shuddering wave of fear through me. My pulse raced as goosebumps crawled down the back of my neck. The anxiety’s coming; I know it. My anxiety amplified the fearful feeling, which produced more anxiety and intensified the fear again. My therapist, Dr. Jen, called it a “thought-loop,” but I didn’t care what name she had for it. This happened to me so often that it felt like a recurring bad dream.
What if they go after me? What if they take all my robotics stuff? What if . . . the what-ifs surged through my mind, each thought amplifying my fear.
The Beast . . . it’s coming. The words reverberated in my head.
The buzzing grew louder, an entire hive sounding their anger in my mind.
I stared at the writing over the door, large, gold letters written on a dark purple background: the Camp Pontchartrain’s Alma Mater, or the camp song. It was the same one written on the wall in the gymnasium, and now and then, the camp director, Mrs. Chakoté, made everyone sing it. Kids thought it stupid and annoying, but something about the lyrics gave me a tiny bit of comfort. I read the words silently in my head, hoping to distract myself from the anxiety creeping up on me like a stalking lion.
The hallowed shores of Pontchartrain,
Will always be our home.
No matter where our paths may lead,
And despite how far we roam.
Your majesty and history,
Are lessons for lifelong.
Alone, we strive to face our tasks,
But together, we are strong.
You taught us that our courage,
Shall shine a golden light.
And cast away the darkness.
For fears that we shall smite.
Camp Pontchartrain,
Our hearts belong to you.
Your sons and daughters sing your praise.
And to thee remain true.
My heart slowed a bit as the words tumbled about in my mind.
“We got to get moving, Cam, or we’ll be late.” Bobby wiped his hands on his shorts and then patted me on the back. “Come on.”
Bobby amazed me. The bullies targeted him just as frequently as me. His pimpled skin, loud mouth, and big belly offered ample ammunition to the bigger kids, their slings and arrows of hurtful comments meant to impale his self-esteem. But Bobby always seemed unfazed by it. He never wavered, his confidence and sense of humor seemingly indestructible.
“Bobby, the baseball players are at the door.” The buzzing in my head grew louder, the bees morphing into hornets. I tried to swallow, but my throat felt dry as dust. “We need to wait until they leave.”
“Don’t be silly.” Bobby smiled. “If we’re late, we’ll have to do push-ups or some other stupid exercise.” He turned to me, then glanced at the exit. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you past them.” Bobby chuckled, excitement twinkling in his eyes. “I’ll create a diversion, and you can slip by.”
“What kind of diversion?” I asked.
He chuckled. “Trust me. You’ll know what it is.”
And with that, Bobby marched straight for the exit, his full belly bouncing about, me three steps behind, head lowered.
“Hey, look who’s coming.” It was the team captain, Karl Macarthur. “It’s Blobby and his cratered face.” The tall sixth-grader laughed, his fellow teammates chuckling with him. “Looking at him is like staring at the moon.” Karl laughed again, then glanced at his companions and glared, forcing them to join in on the laughter. “You’re so big, Blobby. I’m wondering if you’re still in sixth grade, or did you eat your way into seventh?”
The other baseball players roared with laughter.
Bobby kept walking, but when he reached the door, he stopped directly in front of the baseball captain. “Let me ask you something, Karl. Do you think you’re hurting me by saying I’m fat? Do you?”
“Well . . . umm . . .?
“Do you honestly believe I don’t know that I’m overweight, and you’re revealing some great secret I’ve been hiding all this time?”
“Well—”
Bobby interrupted Karl before he could speak and took a step closer, pushing the ball player back with his stomach, allowing me to pass behind him and slip through the doorway. “Do you think you’re saying something I haven’t heard a hundred times? I mean, really, can’t you come up with any new material, or is this just the best you can do?”
Karl glared down at Bobby, a hand slowly clenching into a fist.
“When you get some new insults, let me know. I’d love to hear them.” Bobby chuckled as he turned and headed out of the dining hall, leaving an uncomfortable silence in his wake.
I waited for Bobby to catch up.
“You take too many chances with those bullies,” I said. “One of these times, you’re gonna get hurt.”
“Maybe, but not today.”
“Sometimes, I think you’re crazy.” I smiled as the buzzing in my head slowly faded away. My Beast, that’s what I called my anxiety, submerged back into the dark places in my mind, waiting, always waiting.
“You okay?” Bobby asked in a low voice.
I nodded.
“Great, let’s get down to the lake.” Bobby took off running toward the glistening waters of Lake Pontchartrain, robotics parts and electronics bouncing about in his bag.
I took a step toward the lake, then froze in place. A sensation, almost like a stab of electricity, jolted the bottom of my feet. It didn’t hurt; it just felt strange, like something from a dream. The hairs on my neck stood up as goosebumps spread down my arms. A tingling danced across my skin like the brush of invisible fingers tracing intricate patterns and ancient runes.
I’d felt this before but with only a fraction of the intensity. When it would happen at school, a bullying incident would sometimes follow the feeling as if the tingling in the soles of my feet was a premonition or warning.
But this time, it felt a thousand times stronger.
It could only mean the bully stalking me was a thousand times worse. Angry bees came to life in my head, their buzz filling me with dread. Images of what the bullies might do played through my head like an endless nightmare, amplifying my fears.
I shuddered and rubbed my arms, trying to erase the goosebumps and the prickly buzz from my flesh. To ease the fear, I did a slow 5-7-8 breath: breathe in for a count of five, hold it for seven, then exhale for eight heartbeats. I counted by sevens in my head: 7, 14, 21, 28, 35, 42, 49 . . . When I passed 105, it grew more complex and required greater concentration. This distracted me from the What-ifs. The bees grew quieter as my breathing and heartbeat slowed.
Finally, the sensation at the bottom of my feet faded away; I was me again.
“Come on, Cameron,” Bobby said. “We gotta hurry. I’m gonna do a cannonball off the high platform.”
“I’m coming.”
I sighed and tried to devise a way to avoid the ropes course, but I knew it was futile. If I didn’t show up, I’d get in trouble. Clenching my teeth, I followed Bobby, knowing failure awaited me on the shores of the lake.
