Chapter Two: Welcome to Camp Omigosh
Once we were out of the tunnel and sunlight returned, the blonde girl let go of my hand. She still had her book in front of her, acting like nothing had happened.
"My name is Connor," I said. I had the feeling this was the start of an amazing friendship. But she didn't even look at me. She just said, "I'm trying to read." That shut me up.
Outside the window, I could see a valley surrounded by mountains. Armies of trees marched along river banks. The sky was a perfect blue, matching the sapphire-colored lake placed in the center of this postcard moment. In the distance, I could see little cabins at the water's edge. For the first time since my mother signed me up against my will, I was actually looking forward to camp.
Until I saw the camp up close. Then I wanted to go back to military school. We turned off the deserted highway and headed down an even more deserted dirt road. It got pretty bumpy. I expected us to get another flat tire. We passed underneath a sign that read:
Camp Omigosh – “A fun place to spend your summer!”
But the letters were faded and the metal sign was rusted over. There was a cartoon sun with sun glasses (which is ironic if you think about it), but someone painted angry eyebrows and a mustache, making the sun mascot look cruel and ridiculous at the same time. The three buses entered the parking lot, and I could see the rest of the buildings were even more run down than the sign. The cabins looked like a ghost town.
On my long car trips with my parents, back in the good old days, I remember riding through the flatlands of places like Kansas and Oklahoma. We would pass farm houses with dilapidated barns, old flimsy structures that would fall over if you gave them a good poke with your finger. These cabins looked like they were in about the same condition. There was even one cabin with a gaping hole in the roof. With my luck, I’d be stuck sleeping in that one. Now it all made sense. Mom sent me here to punish me.
The convoy of buses came to a stop. Everyone gathered their stuff. I was anxious to get away from the evil blond girl. I grabbed my backpack and hurried down the aisle. Someone tripped me and everybody laughed as I hit the floor. When I finally got off the bus, I noticed the two other buses parked nearby. All those excited “other bus” kids were talking and looking around. They had no idea who I was, unlike the Bus of Haters. I was about to jog over to the new batch of marks - I mean kids - when the blonde girl poked her head out the window. "Hey Connor," I thought she was going to say something mean, but instead she said, "I'm Tasha."
"Oh," was all I could think of as a reply. And then I ran away and hid in a group of kids who had no idea what kind of jerk I was.
Mr. Warren's antique Pinto sputtered into the parking lot. He pulled out a squeaky, obnoxiously loud bull horn and called for everyone to gather around. I was still mesmerized by how run down everything was.
"When was the last time someone camped here?" I asked to no one in particular.
"It's been closed since the 70s," replied a kid with long rocker hair and an acoustic guitar. "That's why it was so cheap to sign up. This place is a fixer upper."
"What?"
"Weren't you at that stupid meeting?" he asked. "They expect us to clean up and do work and stuff."
