Nothin But Net Page 2

  “Hey, you mugs!” Jody called back, flashing that grin again. “How’ve you been?” They all hugged and high-fived and started talking about people and events Tim knew nothing about. He could see that this was going to go on for a while, so he turned to Billy and said, “Come on, let’s go inside.”

  Eagles Nest was two stories high and had small rooms with two or three beds each. “It doesn’t say whose room is whose,” Billy said, dropping his duffel bag on the wood floor. “Man, that is heavy. My mom must have put a bunch of bricks in there!”

  Another counselor approached them. He had curly dark hair and heavy stubble, as if he hadn’t shaved in two days. “Hey, you guys,” he said, shaking hands with them. “I’m Tito. Welcome to Eagles Nest.”

  “Thanks. My name’s Tim. Tim Daniels.”

  “I’m Billy Futterman,” Billy said. “Say, where are we supposed to bunk?”

  “Let’s see,” Tito said, whipping a chart out of the back pocket of his shorts. “Billy Futterman? You’re in room three.” He continued looking at the chart. “Tim Daniels … Daniels … yep, here you are. Room sixteen.”

  “Huh?” Billy said, looking suddenly alarmed. “You mean, we’re not in the same room?”

  “Apparently not. Is that a problem?”

  “No!” Tim said quickly, not wanting Tito to think he was a baby or something.

  “Yes!” Billy said at the same exact instant. “We were supposed to be together. My mom requested it.”

  “She did?” Tim said, his eyes wide.

  “I can switch it around if you want,” Tito said.

  “Never mind, it’s no big deal,” Tim assured him. “What the heck, Billy — no biggie, right?”

  “I don’t know,” Billy said, shaking his head and looking at the ground. “My mom was very specific.”

  Tim frowned. So Billy’s mom had made a big deal out of it. He could believe it. Billy’s mom was like that. Still, from the way Billy was acting, Tim could tell it was Billy who had put her up to it.

  “Here — I’ll tell you what,” Tito said,. putting a comforting arm around Billy’s shoulders. “Don DeGeronimo’s not here yet — I’ll just switch him with you, Billy, and put you two guys together in sixteen.”

  “Thanks,” Billy said with a grateful smile.

  “No sweat,” said Tito. “Anything I can do, just ask. We aim to please here at Camp Wickasaukee.”

  “Great,” Tim said, with just an edge of annoyance in his voice.

  “First year here, huh?”

  “Uh-huh,” Billy said.

  “How many years for you?” Tim asked.

  “Seven. Once you get hooked, there’s nothing that can keep you away. Hey, you know who else is coming here for the first time this year?”

  “No. Who?” Billy asked.

  “Dick Dunbar.”

  “The forward at North Carolina?” Tim asked, his jaw dropping. “Second team All-American?”

  “That’s the one,” Tito confirmed. “He’s your other counselor, besides me and Jody.”

  “Awesome!” Tim said. Not only would he be getting tips from NBA players, but Dick Dunbar was going to be one of his counselors!

  There was a sudden commotion by the front door. “That must be him now,” Tito said, “judging by the noise level. Yo, Dunbar! That you?”

  They went back outside, where a dozen or so kids were mobbing the six-foot-eight-inch Dunbar. Tim knew his face from watching the NCAA tournament on TV. “How cool is this?” he asked, turning to Billy. “Come on, let’s say hi.”

  But there was no way they could get near Dick Dunbar. The other kids had him surrounded and were talking his head off, telling him all about Camp Wick-asaukee. Apparently, every one of them had been here for years and years.

  Tim felt a sudden, unfamiliar shiver of self-doubt go through him. If these kids had been getting coached every summer of their lives, they were sure to be miles ahead of him at basketball. Back at the playground, Tim had been a star. Would he be nothing but a scrub here?

  Tim and Billy unpacked their gear and said hello to some of their bunkmates. There was a friendly kid named Bobby Last, who had to be at least six foot three. Then there was a stocky, pug-nosed, freckle-faced kid by the name of Brian Kelly, who looked them up and down like they were defective goods, and shook hands with a limp handshake.

  Tim’s favorite right off the bat was Don DeGeronimo, a tall, slim, dark-skinned kid with a sly grin, who actually seemed interested in where they were from and what they were into besides basketball.

  All in all, it was a start at making new friends. Tim knew in his heart that if Billy hadn’t been there, stuck to him like glue and whining about his video game system, he could have made friends a lot quicker. But he didn’t want to make it someone else’s fault. After all, Billy couldn’t help it. Tim just wished he would let it go and try to get into Camp Wickasaukee the way he himself was doing.

  They trooped down to dinner, and Tim got his first look at the girls, whose campus was on the far side of the mess hall. Some of them were really cute. He could tell they were checking the boys out, too, giggling like girls do when they get excited about something. He wondered if the boys and girls here had any activities together, but he didn’t want to ask, for fear of looking too interested.

  That night, there was a campfire down by the lake. The campers gathered in large circles, by bunkhouse, and there was a bonfire for each group. This is cool, Tim thought, gazing at the fires blazing everywhere in the starlit night. He was starting to like it here already.

  “Ow,” Billy said, swatting at his bare arm. “This place is swarming with mosquitoes!”

  “They’re not bothering me,” Tim said. “Do you have any repellent?”

  “I slathered it on back at the bunk,” Billy said mournfully. “But it doesn’t help. These things are man-eaters.”

  “I haven’t gotten bit once,” Tim said.

  “Mosquitoes like me,” Billy informed him. “Sweet meat, my mom says.”

  Great, thought Tim. Billy had found something else to complain about besides his video game system.

  The veteran campers were hanging out together, trading stories and bragging about stuff they’d done during the past year — games they’d won, places they’d been, girls they’d dated — and bringing up memories of past summers at Wickasaukee.

  Tim tried to listen in, even though he felt left out of their conversation. He figured it was a way to get to know them and pick out which kids might be potential friends. They all seemed to think they were big-cheese athletes. Tim could well believe it about some of them, but others looked like they were just bragging.

  They roasted marshmallows and made s’mores with chocolate bars and graham crackers, and then it was time for ghost stories. Glancing over at Billy, Tim could tell he was a little scared, especially since the story was about a killer who searched the forests near Camp Wickasaukee, seeking campers to add to his collection of victims.

  It was Tito who was telling the tall tale, and Tim liked the way he really got into it, his dark eyes dancing in the flames from the fire. “They say the victims roam the woods to this day, carrying their severed heads in their hands, bouncing them like basketballs …”

  “Wooo-oooo …,” crooned several veteran campers, providing spooky sound effects to embellish the story. Glancing over at Billy, Tim saw him shudder.

  Apparently, someone else had noticed too. That night, just as Tim was drifting off to sleep, he heard the door to his and Billy’s room creak open. Dark shadows played on the walls, and he heard at least three campers tiptoe into the small cubicle. One of them seemed to be carrying something round in his hands. Tim kept his eyes half shut, pretending to be asleep. From across the room, he could hear Billy snoring.

  The intruders stifled giggles as the kid with the round object dropped it right on Billy’s stomach — just as another boy flicked on the room light. All three started yelling, “My head! My head! Aaaaah!”

  Billy shot st
raight up in bed, screaming at the top of his lungs. In his hands, he held a basketball with a wig on it. When he realized what it was, he threw it from him and glared angrily at the three laughing campers who had pulled the prank on him. One was Brian Kelly, the pug-nosed boy. The others were kids Tim had met only briefly, and he couldn’t remember their names at the moment, even though he was wide awake now.

  Jody, Tito, and Dick Dunbar all barged into the little room. “What the blazes is going on in here?” Jody yelled.

  “Billy boy got scared,” Brian said, giggling a piggy-like, snorting laugh.

  “My head! My head!” one of the others mimicked, and they all started laughing again. Tim found himself laughing, too, in spite of himself. Billy sure had looked funny, all scared like that, with the bewigged basketball in his outstretched hands, screaming like a two-year-old.

  Billy cast him a quick glance, and Tim wiped the smile off his face — but it was too late. He could see the hurt look in Billy’s eyes, and he felt a sharp pang of guilt, as if he had been the one who’d pulled the nasty prank.

  “Get back in bed, the three of you,” Jody ordered the offending campers, and they retreated from the room, still giggling and slapping each other five. “You’ve got bathroom cleanup duty all week, you hear?” he called after them. Even this punishment didn’t seem to ruin their good time.

  Dick Dunbar was sitting next to Billy with an arm around his shoulders. “Hey, man, don’t sweat it. They’re just giving you a hard time ’cause you’re the new kid. They’ll get tired of picking on you if you show ’em you don’t care.”

  “But I do care,” Billy said, his chin trembling. “I wanna go home!”

  “Billy,” Tim said, “your parents are already in Europe, remember? You can’t go home.”

  “Shut up, traitor,” Billy said, giving him that hurt look again.

  And Tim did shut up. However babyish Billy was being, what Tim had done was to him far worse. What kind of friend was he, anyway?

  3

  Billy didn’t say anything to Tim about the incident the next morning — not while they were getting dressed, not while they were making their beds and cleaning their room, not while they were lining up outside for flag salute — not even at mess hall during breakfast.

  The morning activity this first full day of camp was basketball, of course. They started out by doing drills on one of the outdoor courts. Jody ran the session, and the first thing he had them all do was run ten laps around the court. By lap number seven, Billy was dragging behind badly, along with one or two other campers who looked equally out of shape.

  Tim was pretty winded himself, but he was determined to show the counselors, and most of all, the other campers, that he could keep up with any of them. Midway through lap nine, Billy stopped running altogether and sat down cross-legged on the edge of the court, looking distinctly green.

  As Tim came around the court on lap ten, he wanted to stop and ask Billy if he was okay. But he knew if he did, he’d finish way behind the others, with the two other slacker kids. Tim was torn, especially after what had happened last night.

  As he came up beside Billy, he saw that his friend was panting hard, staring at the ground. Oh well, thought Tim, he won’t notice if I don’t stop.

  So he kept on going and finished right in the middle of the pack. When they’d all caught their breath, the other kids started hooting and hollering at the three who were still not done — most of all at Billy, who couldn’t have cared less.

  “Let’s go, let’s go,” Jody urged the three lagging campers, clapping his hands together. “Gotta get in shape, you guys! Gotta keep up!”

  Billy and the other two kids finished, collapsing on the ground to more hoots and applause from the others. “Come on, you slackers, get up!” shouted one of them, a slim, athletic-looking blond-haired kid.

  “Zip it, Gruber,” Jody warned. “Mind your own business.”

  They went on to do some drills — layups from both sides, fast breaks, five-man weaves — with Jody and Dick Dunbar giving coaching pointers along the way. It was Tim’s first chance to get a look at the other kids’ basketball skills and compare them with his own. He thought he stood up pretty well, but a few kids were way better than him or anyone else — especially Don DeGeronimo and the kid named Gruber.

  Of course, they hadn’t started shooting from the outside yet — Tim’s weakest area. He was dreading the moment he shot his first brick at the hoop.

  Billy looked like he was having a miserable time, but Tim tried to keep his distance. He didn’t want to be looked at as Billy’s nursemaid, first of all. And second, he wasn’t sure if Billy was still mad at him over last night’s prank.

  After drills and a short water break, Jody announced, “Okay, Donnie and Gruber, you two are captains for the scrimmage. Donnie, your team is the Skins. Mike, you’re Shirts, and you pick first.”

  While Donnie removed his shirt, Mike Gruber looked around at the assembled campers, considering whom to pick. “I’ve got Last,” he said, picking the tallest kid of the whole bunch. Donnie picked next, and they took turns until all sixteen campers were picked. Tim was picked twelfth — he guessed because none of them knew how well he could play — and Billy went dead last. Both of them were on the Skins. Tim winced at the sight of Billy’s shirtless, flabby frame. Nearly everyone else looked buff by comparison.

  The scrimmage began, and Tim watched from the sidelines as the starters went at each other. He was determined to show them all that he deserved to get picked higher than twelfth out of sixteen. He just hoped he got enough playing time to do it.

  He could see that some of the kids could really play the game. Well, no wonder, he thought. They’ve been coming here for, what, seven years? Bob Last was pretty good for a guy his size. He had a nice, soft jump shot, and boy, could he block shots and haul down rebounds. But Donnie, who was maybe two inches shorter, could jump higher and dribble rings around him, and he had amazing moves, not to mention being just as good a shooter.

  Mike Gruber, that blond-haired pip-squeak, was amazing at handling the ball. He was even shorter than Tim, but nobody could stop him, not even Donnie. He played — and shot the ball from the outside — the way Tim wanted to. Tim determined to make friends with Mike Gruber and learn everything he could from him.

  Ten minutes into the scrimmage, Jody yelled, “Subs in!” On each team, three kids headed for the sidelines, and the three who’d been standing around went in to replace them. Billy was subbing at center for Don DeGeronimo. Tim went in for the Skins starting point guard, Merrick Jones — an African-American kid with a shaved head whom the other kids called Cue Ball. In fact, every kid here seemed to have a nickname. He wondered what his and Billy’s would wind up being.

  Despite the fact that he was the Skins point guard now, Tim hardly even got his hands on the ball the whole time he was in the game. He would pass the ball, only to find that it never came back his way. Sometimes, it was because the other kids were hogging it, taking wild, forced shots just to impress everyone. But Tim got the uneasy feeling that some of the time, kids were just passing it to their friends, ignoring the kids they didn’t know. All the more reason to make new friends fast, he thought.

  Billy actually blocked a shot by Bob Last’s replacement — Rich Dauer, one of the three kids who’d pulled the prank the night before — and got a round of applause and amazed laughter, both from his teammates and from the Shirts. There were whispered comments and giggles, but Tim was proud of his buddy. He only wished he had the chance to show the other kids what he could do, too.

  Determined to make an impression, Tim decided that if he got the ball again, he was going to make the most of his opportunity. Not two seconds later, he saw an opening. He leaped into the passing lane to steal the ball from one of the Shirts. He raced downcourt, ignoring the shouts of his teammates for him to pass it to them. Two Shirts came over to double-team him, but Tim didn’t care. He tried to force his way through and lifted a long jumper tha
t caught nothing but air. He felt his face get red at the sound of the groans he heard, but did his best to ignore them.

  Tim touched the ball exactly once more that morning, picking up a loose ball. But instead of passing it upcourt like he normally would have done, he maniacally kept dribbling around the defenders who swarmed him. Before he knew it, the whistle had blown — he’d failed to get the ball up to half-court in time. He’d turned the ball over!

  The scrimmage ended with the Shirts ahead 21–17. Nobody came up to Tim afterward to say, “Hey, you’re really good,” or “Nice game,” or anything like that. He found himself walking back to the bunkhouse thinking that he had to improve in a hurry if he was going to meet the standards of Camp Wickasaukee. This place meant business!

  “This camp bites,” Billy muttered over his tuna casserole — not loud enough to be heard by the rest of the kids, but only by Tim, who was sitting next to him. The seat on Billy’s other side was empty. Apparently, none of the other campers had seen fit to sit next to the big, unathletic kid who was scared of mosquitoes and headless campers wandering around in the night.

  “Give it a chance, Billy,” Tim urged him. “It’s just the first full day, man — things are bound to get better.”

  Billy snorted. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “You’ll see, bro. Once they get to know you, they’ll see what a great guy you are.”

  Billy made a face. “This tuna fish tastes like metal,” he said, shoving it to the far side of his plate with his fork. “Probably full of mercury.”

  “Billy. …”

  “Man, I could have been in Rome right now, touring the Vatican. Instead, I get basketballs dumped on my stomach at night, and by day, I get to run around till I puke or faint. What a fun experience — not.”

  “Hey, we both need to get in better shape,” Tim said, meaning it.

  “I still say this camp bites,” Billy said, a little louder this time.

  Looking around, Tim saw that Brian Kelly was staring right at them. He could tell at a glance that Brian had overheard Billy. Tim felt a sudden surge of alarm go through him. If Brian Kelly knew, soon everyone in the bunk would know that Billy hated Camp Wick-asaukee.