Young Writers Society

Bunger Hill Dining Hall, 8:28 AM, Thursday

Chapter 3

Think On It

“I slept like a baby last night… if the baby was chucked across the room.” Michael Dencer says as we walk up to the mess hall doors.

“Really? Your ass must’ve been sleeping on the floor.” I say. “Those cots are better than the ones back home. You must’ve gotten too used to ‘em.”

“Yeah, I slept better than I do at home.” Quincy Karlile. Quincy was always sleeping. Jorge had to pour water on him to wake him up.

“Your ass is always sleeping, you coulda slept in the firepit an’ you woulda been fine.” Jack says.

Jack was always cracking a joke. Always up to something. Always somewhere.

We swing the mess hall doors open and a thick, heavy smell of food hits us in the face.

“Ooh, smell, that, food. Damn, you think they hired Brian to cook?” Seán says as he elbows me in the chest, which takes a bit of effort for him considering he’s the height of a leprechaun. It’s only fitting he’s Irish. Most of the troop likes when I cook, except the new kids, who are picky as hell. They’ll have to get used to the shit they serve back at home.

“Waffles with berries and syrup, they're making a good impression on us, we might have to staff later this Summer.” I say as I get my food.

“You better watch what yer eatin’, Jorge.” Connor says.

“Awh, shut up. I’m mostly muscle, I could pound yer face in.”

Jorge could. He’s built like a tank, big arms, big chest, big everything. He’s a mixed kid, so we don’t give him shit about it; he’s dealt with it enough. We sit down at the same table we did yesterday night. We’re joking around, excited for our first day, when a skinny kid stomps over to us.

“Hey, you three.”

“Who, us?” Jorge says.

“..Yes, you.”

“Okay, whatcha gotta say, kid?” Connor says.

“I want to let you know that if you even think of signing up for the tournament, your asses will be sorry, listen to me now, you-”

“Man, shut up.” I say. “Just shut up, like, now. Go back to your breakfast, because if you don’t eat enough, you’ll starve to death, because I just know from your gangly, lanky, figure, you’ll be begging for food by ten o’ clock. If yer so worried about us joining, we must be better than y’all, huh?”

“Uh, n-no.” The young scout looks as if steam is coming out of his ears.

“W-well, you better not! We’ll kick your asses at Gaga!” He stomps off back to his table.

“Hey! Now that’s impressive!” Michael says, and starts clapping. And then Jorge, and then Connor, and then Seán, and then everyone at our table. Soon the whole mess hall is clapping for me, and they don’t even know it. The only people who aren’t clapping are Troop 457, because they know why we’re clapping. They stare me down, one of them slices their neck. Vincent just smiled. The clapping eventually died down and we continued to eat.

I speak up. “You know, maybe we should sign up for the tournament. Who knows? Maybe it’ll be fun.”

Everyone at our table looks at me as if I’m delusional.

In unison, they all say,

“Nuh uh!”

“Didja just hear that kid? He was a-shooken up after what ya said, but c’mon, look at those guys. They want us dead.” Jorge says.

“Okay, okay. Chill, man.”

I shrug it off. But a voice in my head says to do it. Do it, sign up your troop, it’ll be fun. Just don’t lose your cool.

But I’ll lose my cool.

We leave the dining hall and I’m the last to walk out. I look down to tie my boot when something grabs me. They pull me behind a dumpster and shove me against it.

“Hey! What the hell, man?!” I shout.

“Now, you listen here, jackass. I don’t know who you think you are, but 457 rules this joint, it’s practically ours. Like Craig said, don’t even let it cross your mind about entering. Don’t go poking around The Pit, it's ours.”

I shove him off me and I just walk away.

“Hey! You remember what I said!”

I walk away and give him the finger. I walk out into the open so I’m safe. I then realize my troop went back to camp, and it's a bit of a walk back, so I start to walk back. Thoughts race through my mind. How far do these guys go to win? How far will they go with us around? What’s the worst that could happen, death? Sounds like bullshit to me. They’re just a bunch of teenage hooligans. Like one of them would commit a crime just for a summer camp tournament.

Right?

Trading Post, 3:39 PM, Friday

Chapter 4

Sign Me Up

“What's Ale8? This looks like some hillbilly type drink.” Jorge pulls out a green bottle out of the trading post’s fridge.

“Ya think I should buy it? Just to try it out? Says it’s got ginger an’ citrus.” He asks.

He hands me the bottle. “I dunno, Jorge. Try it out, tell us how it is, so we don't waste our money on it.”

“It looks good, it says it's from Kentucky. No wonder it looks like alcohol.”

He walks over to the counter and slams the bottle down.

“Yo! I’m buying something!” He grumbles.

A girl with reddish hair put up in a bun, round glasses, and rosy cheeks walks out from the back. She’s wearing one of the sea green staff shirts.

“S-sorry it’s my first time working at the trading post.” She fidgets with her fingers.

Jorge’s mouth just about falls on the counter. His eyes look up and down, he looks at her for a minute, a bit too long.

“Uhm, are you going to buy something?” Her voice is high pitched and squeaky.

He covers his mouth and hands the girl a dollar. She puts the dollar in the cash register and she slides the bottle back to him, leaving residue on the counter.

“Th-thanks! Come again soon.” She pulls out a rag and wipes up the counter. Jorge walks out of the store slowly, and he sits down at the bench just outside. I chuckle, walk up to the counter, and I put down an Ale8 and a flat brim hat with a Bunger Hill embroidery on the front. It has a frog on it with the hill in the background. I think it looks cool, just something to get. A souvenir.

“Just these, please. Oh, and are the pickles here any good?” I say as I point behind her to a huge pickle in a bag.

“O-oh, I don’t know.”

“Ah, I’ll take one.”

She types in the cash register.

“7.50, please.”

I pull out my wallet and I see her.

Liz.

An old photo booth picture we took back in ninth grade. I shake my head and pull out the money. She slides the bills in the register and slides the bottle back to me.

“I-if you don’t mind me asking, what happened with him out there?”

She points to Jorge who’s still sitting out on the bench, slowly drinking his Ale8.

“Oh, he’s just shy. Don’t worry about him. You did nothin’ wrong.” I say, me knowing damn well Jorge’s shy once in a blue moon.

I walk out of the trading post and crack open my drink. I take a swig and damn, I was expecting it to be just some basic ass soda. It’s wicked good. I see a bulletin board on the wall next to the exit. There’s a few papers, one talks about nature in the area, others just have schedules for when things are open. And directly in the middle, rests the signup sheet for the tournament, waiting to be signed.

It has a long list of troop numbers, there are about ten troops on the list. The troop at the top of the list, which to no surprise, was 457. I look at the sheet again, but I stop. I look down to see our name, Troop 15.

I’m in shock at who wrote our name down. I was the one who wanted to sign up, I was the one who wanted to win. Everyone else said, “Hell no! That’s a stupid idea!”, so who would sign us up? I look closer, squinting at the penmanship. Troop 15 is written with no errors, no scribbles, no mistakes, no nothing. It’s neater than all of the other troop’s. Then I knew.

Vincent.

His perfect penmanship was recognizable from miles away. Straight letters, even spacing, he even used a different pen then the one provided. I wasn’t angry, I was just…confused. Why would he sign us up? Why would he sign me up? He knew I wanted to, but he had given a damn good reason not to. And then I see him, he drops his pack. It leans against the picnic table. I walk up to him and grab his shoulder. He turns around.

“Hey.” He says.

“Vin, why’d ya sign us up fer the tournament? You said that it would get to my head!”

He sighs. “I talked to Bronson, he said it would be a good team building activity within the troop. He knew the consequences, but it's good to learn from experience.”

“I guess so, but did you hesitate?”

“I guess not. I was on board and agreed with his argument.”

I was wishy-washy on the idea, but so was everyone else.

“Alright, what do we do? No one in the troop knows how to play this shit.” I say.

“I’ll teach you, I know how to play. It’s easy.”

“You sure, Vin? Them 457 kids seem intense.”

“Don’t worry about them, they’ll fight hard, but I know a few tricks to deal with people like them.”

Vin walks into the trading post and I’m left alone. I look around to see Jorge still bright red from talking to the girl. I walk over to Jim’s ms sit down. Before I can speak, he starts.

“I just got so flustered, I couldn’t speak. It was such an awkward moment.”

He plays with his thumbs as he drinks his Ale8.

“I want to know her, but I know damn well I don’t have the confidence. You gotta help me, man. You’ve been with Liz for years. You gotta give me some advice, four years has gotta give ya somethin’.”

He’s right, I’ve been with her for four years now. I can’t barely remember a time when she wasn’t with me.

“I’ll tell ya somethin’. Don’t go on too strong, and don’t try to act like you know what yer doin’, act dumb. It’ll save your ass from rejection.”

“So…act dumb? Don’t try to use pickup lines or anythin’ like that. Just be you. You don’t even gotta act dumb, just be yourself.”

“Awh, shut up, Brian. But, thanks, man.”

“It’s nothing.”

Vin walks out of the trading post, wearing the same flat brim I got.

“We have a game soon, so let’s go ahead and head down to practice.” I nod and wave for Jorge to come along. We all walk down the wooden path down to The Pit. We pass Connor and Seán on the path. Vincent motions for them to follow him.

“Come on, it starts in an hour.”