Breakout! Read online

  Play Dough had split his shorts/pants before. It happened once when he was alone in his basement, playing Wii golf. So he’d just taken his sweats off and continued the game in his underwear. Another time, he was trying to do a split at a bar mitzvah to win a T-shirt with the DJ’s name on it. He ended up winning the shirt, and being that it was an XXL, it went down to his knees, so no one noticed the hole in his crotch.

  But this split was different. The shorts were torn from the top of Play Dough’s butt crack all the way to the elastic waist in the front. He was basically wearing a mesh skirt. And Wiener’s T-shirt was too small to cover all of his stomach rolls, let alone anything that far down. Play Dough crossed his legs and bent over to hide the tear, pretending to take the hippie dance to a new, weirder level. It seemed to work all right.

  But then General Power quieted the team, and the dancing stopped, and Play Dough had to roll back up to standing so as to not look like he had problems. His priority was blocking the tear, though, so he kept his legs crossed and let his arms casually hover over his front. Then he tried to breathe through his nose to keep his face from turning the color of ketchup. General Power was saying stuff that Play Dough didn’t hear, because he was too busy praying that the meeting would immediately terminate.

  “Lieutenant Melman, you may begin!” was the first coherent thing he heard General Power say.

  Uh-oh, Play Dough thought. Begin what? ‘Begin’ is the opposite of ‘terminate.’

  Melman leapt forward and threw her hands up. Play Dough hoped that movement would not be required of him. At this point, he wouldn’t be able to untwist his legs or move his arms from his front without exposing himself.

  “What’s up, Blue team!” Melman shouted. “I’m Lieutenant Melman of Faith Hill Cabin, what-what!” She waved her bandana in the air and ruffled up her short blond hair that somehow already had streaks of blue in it. “I’m so pumped to Blue this week up!” After the team cheered for her, Melman looked back at Play Dough. When he didn’t move, she waved at him to leap forward next to her and introduce himself.

  Play Dough began to shake. Mostly because his twisted position was super-challenging to hold, like in Zumba, where his fitness-trainer mom dragged him once a week. She liked to start each class with a series of planks.

  “Lieutenant Play Dough, is something wrong?” General Power asked in front of the whole team, which everyone knew was not what you were supposed to do to a kid in a split-shorts crisis.

  “Uhhhh, nope.”

  “Do you want to introduce yourself?”

  “Uhhhh, yup.”

  And that’s when Play Dough remembered that he wasn’t in Zumba with really fit stay-at-home moms or at a bar mitzvah with skinny punks. He was at camp, where there was a different definition of cool. Maybe split shorts would become the new Color War dress code. He’d heard his dad talk about wanting a president he could, in theory, grab a beer with. Well, maybe his team wanted a Lieutenant they could, in theory, hang out with in their underwear. He leapt forward and threw his arms up like he’d seen Melman do.

  Wiener’s shirt tore at Play Dough’s pits. The shorts split through the elastic and fell down to his ankles. The team roared with laughter. Play Dough hammed it up, sniffing his armpit holes and doing the rubbery-snake dance again in nothing but his tighty-whities and torn T-shirt. “I’m Lieutenant Play Dough, and I’m a hippie who doesn’t like being confined by clothes!” In the crowd, Play Dough spotted his teammates Smelly and Dover waving tie-dyed streamers over their heads, laughing hysterically. Play Dough felt like a hippied-out Hulk and Bruce Banner wrapped in one!

  He tried to find Jenny, excited to see her pretty, proud smile. He could only imagine how very impressed she was right now. Her friend was Lieutenant and killing it! He finally spotted her beside a blue-wigged Sophie. Jenny’s face was the pink of tomato cream sauce and her eyes were puffy like pumpernickel mini-bagels. She did not look entertained. She looked miserable.

  And then, something totally unexpected happened. Someone in the crowd yelled, “Traitor!” and another yelled, “Blue betrayer!” Play Dough had no idea why. It crossed his mind that he wasn’t the only one aware of his family history on the White team. Or maybe his teammates were upset he’d torn up his blue clothes? As “Traitor, traitor, Blue betrayer” became a chant on repeat, the Highgate and Sherri Hill Lieutenants approached Play Dough, holding a bucket of something. They pointed at his tighty-whities, shook their heads, and splashed his underwear area with blue paint. It was cold and sticky and hardened against his clothes and skin.

  Play Dough tried to keep a smile stuck on his face and go along with the whole gag, but his insides were all knotted up. He didn’t like being called a traitor or a Blue betrayer. He didn’t like being naked-ish in front of everyone. He didn’t like getting paint thrown on him or how the paint chipped at the fatty parts of his belly. He didn’t like that Jenny had her face buried in her hands and not in a I can’t stop laughing at my hilarious friend way.

  Play Dough then caught a glimpse of General Power, his face twisted in confusion. “All right,” Power said, raising his fingers in a peace sign to hush the crowd. “Acting stupid does not a war hero make.” He cocked his chin at Lieutenant Finkelstein to step forward and introduce herself. She did, keeping her distance from Play Dough and all the wet paint.

  Play Dough then had to stand there in the line of officers for what felt like the longest Zumba class in the world. Without even looking to his left, he could feel the Awesome Eighties team cutting glances at him, curious about all the commotion. And he could feel the Blue team not really paying attention to the other Blue officers and their introductions. How could they when they had a blue-painted fatty to snicker at?

  Play Dough was pretty sure standing naked-ish in front of a crowd, without being able to make a joke of it, was an ancient torture technique. He feared he looked deranged as he fought to keep his smile plastered to his face, so he let it go and made himself look serious. But he only ever looked serious when he was angry, and he wasn’t angry, exactly. More like he thought he might crumble.

  Luckily, the meeting eventually ended, and the Captain and TJ announced that it was time for the very first Color War event: Tug-o-War! The Generals were called on to set up the rope that stretched from one corner of the net-free tennis court to the other, while the Lieutenants were left in charge to lead their teams in more cheers. At which point, one of the older, bigger girls threw Play Dough a pair of her shorts. He put them on, unsure if the extra six inches of fabric down his thigh made him look any less like a fat moron. He led his team with: “B-B-L, B-L-U-E, Blue team to victory!” and tried to transfer all of his embarrassed energy into just being really loud.

  The Captain tapped the mic three times. “Blue and White Lieutenants, please join your Generals on the court. Lieutenants will tug. Generals will motivate.” Play Dough was aware that “motivate” meant that the Generals would be running up and down the rope, screaming in their officers’ faces. He knew what was up. He’d seen this happen from Tennis Hill four summers in a row.

  The Captain continued: “Psychedelic Sixties on the left and Awesome Eighties on the right.” Play Dough’s brain short-circuited between pumped-up excitement and residual embarrassment that he was wearing girl shorts. No one will think I’m a fat moron after this, Play Dough assured himself, taking his place as anchor, the position at the end of the rope reserved for the heaviest teammate.

  Play Dough checked out the Highgate Hill White Lieutenant who was anchoring opposite him. Play Dough estimated that he had about eighteen pounds on his opponent. This was going to be as easy as pie. Or more like as easy as cereal, because pie was actually pretty hard to get right.

  Play Dough looked out at the rest of the Blue team, standing on top of Tennis Hill, clapping and cheering. After this tug I’ll be a fat hero! he told himself, smiling for real. Just you wait.

  General Power had his hands on his knees, whispering strategy to Lieutenant Melman, w
ho was first in line, also a very important position. Then he headed straight for Play Dough and bent down in the same hands-on-knees position. Play Dough was ready for whatever “motivation” he was about to get. Even his belly rolls hardened with confidence.

  “Lieutenant Play Dough,” General Power said, “we both know you tend to act silly for attention.” Play Dough didn’t think that was true. He acted funny for attention, because one day he’d be a stand-up comedian. Or a lawyer who made everyone, including the whole jury, roar with laughter. “Silly” was what his little sister was when she tried to feed her dolls to their cats.

  Suddenly, Play Dough realized General Power was waiting for him to nod in agreement, so he did, just to get the pep talk over with. Then, as if being called “silly” wasn’t hurtful enough, General Power proceeded with a fat-person dig: “It’s not every sport that the heavier you are the more power you have.”

  Play Dough couldn’t resist delivering a comedian-worthy comeback. “Well, there’s sumo wrestling and hot dog eating and bowling, if you’re the ball.” Boom! Silly, my butt!

  General Power just stared at him, the joke going right over his military buzz cut.

  “Sorry,” Play Dough croaked.

  “The anchor holds all of the power. Don’t let us down.”

  “I won’t,” Play Dough said, kicking his legs together again.

  TJ tapped the mic. “All right, everybody, listen up.” The teams went quiet, in fear of losing any points. Play Dough checked out the Captain standing center court, holding the exact middle of the rope marked by blue and white duct tape. There was a large chalk circle drawn at her feet. Whichever team pulled the rope so that the duct-taped middle made it over the chalk circle to their side first, won! Play Dough wouldn’t be able to see the chalk from where he was, all the way in the back, so he reminded himself to just keep pulling until the Captain blew her whistle and announced a Blue victory.

  TJ carried on: “The winning team of each major Color War activity is awarded a Sealed Envelope, which contains a mysterious, predetermined amount of points ranging from zero to five hundred. The winner of Tug-o-War will get the first Sealed Envelope of the summer. Sealed Envelopes will be opened the last day of the war. Any questions?” When no one made a sound, TJ lowered his voice, trying to sound extra-intense for the war. “Please pick up the rope.”

  Play Dough picked up the end of the rope, wrapped it around his middle like he’d seen all of the anchors before him do, and bent his knees.

  “Remember,” General McCarville whispered down the line, “the best strategy is looking up and pulling extra hard on three.” The Lieutenants nodded, ready to do just that. Play Dough looked up at the sky. Normally, it was so blue. Today, there were whipped-cream clouds. This was not a good omen.

  TJ boomed into the mic: “On your marks, get set . . .” He held the mic to the Captain’s mouth, where a whistle was resting between her lips. She blew.

  The teams went wild: “P-U-L-L, pull the rope! P-U-L-L, pull the rope!”

  Play Dough leaned back as hard as he could. In no time, General Power was in his face, screaming: “One, two, PUUULL!” Play Dough pulled just enough on the “One, two” so that his team didn’t trip forward, and then pulled extra hard on “PUUULL.”

  For a while, probably ten seconds, both teams were at a standstill. Blue shuffled back and then White shuffled back, but no team was making real progress. Then, miraculously, White must have gotten tired and Blue must have gotten Hulk-ier, because Blue made huge strides back! Blue’s cheering soared. General Power’s eyes lit up like a bonfire.

  Then Play Dough started to sweat. He felt it bead on his neck and forehead. He felt it on his palms as the rope slipped a little through his fingers. He felt it dampen his chest. He felt it drip down to his belly, around where the rope was. The chipping paint near his waist turned gloopy. Suddenly, the rope was gliding through the gloop around his middle. He didn’t have time to wait to pull extra hard on “PUUULL.” He needed to pull now, as hard as possible. So he did. The rope slipped, spinning him twice around like a not-yet-dry, not-yet-ready dreidel.

  Play Dough watched it all like an out-of-body experience. First, he teetered backward and fell on his butt. He might have split his girl shorts. And then all of his Lieutenants skidded forward. Their faces contorted like they were constipated. They tried leaning back and looking up at a sky of white, but they just tripped over their feet and moved closer and closer to White’s side. The White team roared, “Awesome Eighties! Awesome Eighties!” and General Power’s eyes went from bonfire-bright to charcoal-scary. “PUUUUUULLL!!!!” he growled.

  But it was too late. Melman stumbled toward her opponents, and the duct-taped middle of the rope surpassed its chalk boundary. The Captain blew her whistle and motioned to White for the win.

  Both teams dropped the rope. The White officers began jumping up and down. Lieutenants Totle and Jamie hugged. General Silver and General Ferrara performed the moonwalk, and up on Tennis Hill, the White team waved neon streamers and sang, “We’re electric, boogie-woogie, woogie!” Meanwhile, General Power paced to the edge of the court, trying to collect himself. The Blue team hung their heads and clapped weakly. “We’ll get ’em next time,” General McCarville said. Jenny had disappeared.

  Melman began huddling up the Blue officers, probably for a dumb, reinspiration speech, but Play Dough didn’t budge from the corner where he’d fallen. He had his legs out straight, afraid to check if the girl shorts had actually split. The blue paint had started to drip-dry and crack around his belly again.

  “Hey, Lieutenant Play Dough, you joining us?” she asked, smiling through her disappointment like a pro.

  Play Dough didn’t want to be pathetic and say, “No, my shorts might be split again,” or “I don’t deserve to join the huddle because losing Tug-o-War was all my fault,” so he just shrugged and said, “Nah.”

  General Power strode back toward the huddle. He paused when he reached Play Dough and took a breath, like he was going to deliver a pep talk, but then he just sighed really loud, like Why bother?

  NOVELTY RELAYS

  Sewing Relay. A large spoon is tied to a spool of yarn. Standing in a line, the campers sew themselves together: down one person’s shirt and shorts, up the next person’s shirt and shorts. Your parents will thank us for teaching you this skill.

  Egg Toss. Toss the egg to your partner. Both then take a step back. Repeat until egg breaks. DO NOT EAT THE EGG. We will feed you cooked food later if you’re hungry.

  Sneaker Relay. Campers’ sneakers are mixed together in a heaping pile. At the whistle, each camper must find their sneakers, put them on, and tie the laces. Velcro is a no-go!

  Scooter Relay. One camper rides the scooter; the other pushes him or her the length of the court. Protect your fingers. This is how fingers get lost!

  Hula-Hooping. Hula-Hoop until it hits the floor. No hands. Or hips. Just kidding.

  Shuttle Relay. Sprint back and forth, picking up and dropping blocks halfway down the court. We will have inhalers on site. Thanks to Steinberg for the generous donation.

  Frozen T-shirt Contest. Each officer is given one completely frozen folded T-shirt. Thaw it! The first team with all of their shirts on (arms through), wins. Hypothermia is a risk, but one worth taking.

  How to Unfreeze a T-Shirt in Seven Obvious Steps

  In and out and in and out and in and out and in.

  Jenny watched the Sewing Relay from the basketball bleachers in the exact same spot she’d sat yesterday when she was contemplating her Lieutenantship with Play Dough. There he was now, on the basketball court, under the bug-swarming lights, threading yarn from the bottom of his sweats up through the top of his T-shirt, living out his dream. And there on the opposite side of the court was Jamie, threading yarn from the top of her T-shirt to the bottom of her velour sweats, living out Jenny’s dream.

  Ever since the war broke out fifteen hours ago, Jamie had been giving Jenny the silent treatment. She had
n’t comforted Jenny. Or apologized for stealing Jenny’s dream. Or reassured Jenny that the Color War packets had a major typo. Instead, Jamie had soaked up the glory that came with being Lieutenant, ignoring the fact that this was obviously a case of mistaken identity.

  During Rest Hour, Jamie had Missi face-paint AWESOME ’80S on her forehead, and paint her nails white, and cover her stringy hair with baby powder. Meanwhile, Jenny’d had no one to help her Blue herself up—Melman had been busy writing rosters for the Novelty Relays, and Sophie had been listening to the soundtrack of Hair for Psychedelic Sixties research. Jenny wondered if Jamie knew that the baby powder made her look like she was celebrating her eightieth birthday and not the 1980s. Normally, she’d tell her Best Friend that she was a fashion disaster, but not now when things were so awkward between them. If Jamie wanted to look like a senile grandma, then that was her problem.

  Jamie pulled the giant spoon from her pant leg and held it above her head. Then Lieutenant Totle, who was standing beside her in the relay, twirled her in celebration. Jenny had never seen Jamie twirled by anyone besides her. She’d never imagined Jamie could have that much fun without her. That Jamie could do so well without her help. Jenny felt her heart pinch.

  As with all Color War activities, just in case there was a disqualification or a penalty, both teams had to finish what they’d started. So, last in line, Melman threaded the yarn up through her shirt, cheering as if it actually mattered: “Almost, almost, almost!”

  Jenny wanted to scream. “Almost” was the word of a loser. Almost winners were losers. Almost Lieutenants were title-free nothings.

  Melman unyarned herself, and the Captain blew her whistle. “The Sewing Relay goes to . . . WHITE!” White screamed.

  Yay, awesome job, Jenny thought sarcastically.

  “Jenny, you’re up!” Melman called as she jogged off the court.