Crossing Over Read online

  Steinberg’s fading gaze drifted to the judges’ table, but no one was there. He felt like a fish on land. Chaim was firing directions in slo-mo and all Steinberg could think about was whether Kiki had done this on purpose. “How could you, Kiki?” he whispered.

  “It’s OK,” the Captain said calmly. He hadn’t even realized she was beside him. He went limp in her arms. “Stay up, Robert. Keep breathing. Nice and slow.” Steinberg tried, but it was hard when Sophie was sobbing and the guys were crowding around and all he could see were blurry, scared faces.

  Suddenly, there was a loud pop. Steinberg twitched upward and inhaled a plume of black smoke. Kiki 2.0 was looking right at him when suddenly her jar-lid face crashed to the pavement, a flame blazing where her mouth used to be.

  “Her internal fan!” Steinberg wheezed at Play Dough. Dover had made the fan out of duct-taped Frisbees and it must not have triggered in the literal heat of the moment.

  “On it!” Play Dough said, grabbing Yoshi’s canteen from the bleachers and dousing Kiki 2.0 in water.

  “No!!!!!!” Steinberg said, jolting forward out of the Captain’s grasp. It was too late. Kiki popped and crackled as her internal peanut butter and jelly organs burst in every direction like an explosive piñata. It smelled like burnt bread and sounded like lightning striking a telephone pole. Steinberg watched the Rolling Hillers point and laugh and duck and scream and run and hide from the robotics catastrophe.

  Steinberg collapsed into the Captain’s arms. His heartbeat soared and his breath got shorter and his eyes fluttered to blackness and his mind short-circuited until he was caught in a dream where his fingers were electric and everything he touched drew sparks, which was cool until nobody wanted to be his friend except for Yoshi, who spoke only in Japanese, but suddenly Steinberg understood the words, because failure was a universal language.

  TJ: Good morning, Camp Rooooolling Hills! Who’s ready for Haunted Hills Day?

  Captain: Boo!

  TJ: AAAHHHHH! [There’s feedback] Sorry, honey, I thought you were a ghost.

  Captain: No. It’s just a white bedsheet. It’s not scary at all. All you brave Bunker Hillers and One Tree Hillers—don’t be frightened when you see us dressed up. It’s all pretend.

  TJ: That’s what the ghosts want you to think.

  Captain: Ghosts aren’t real.

  TJ: Debatable.

  Captain: TJ!

  TJ: Tonight we’re bringing back our traditional Ghost Court evening activity, where we call you out on all the embarrassing things you’ve done this summer! This is the last call for nominations. I repeat: This is the LAST CALL FOR NOMINATIONS. Don’t be rushing up to me in the dining hall all [Puts on a high voice], “TJ, omigod, Lauren did something sooooo embarrassing yesterday, and you HAVE to call her up.” TOO. LATE. Tell me now, if you haven’t already. The more embarrassing, the better.

  Captain: But remember, this is all in good fun! TJ, give them an example.

  TJ: For example, I could nominate the Captain for eating little Sara Beth’s birthday cake when the poor girl was in the infirmary with the stomach flu.

  Captain: TJ! Or I could nominate TJ for dressing himself in unclaimed clothes from the lost-and—[Squeal!]

  “Coming through!” Melman warned, guarding her Canteen pizza close to her chest. She navigated through the hungry, barbaric masses shoving toward the Canteen counter behind her. Flailing arms and waving Canteen Cards and sweaty bodies made it challenging, but Melman ducked, dodged, and pushed past. It’s frozen pizza, people. Calm yourselves, she thought, finally breaking through. She surveyed her steaming snack for damage. Surprisingly, all good.

  A cool breeze blew in from the open door, cutting through the stifling, smoky air from the Canteen grill. “Thank you,” Melman murmured, sighing it in. She skimmed the lounge for Slimey until she spotted her ponytail. It was swooshing in the far left booth next to Smelly and across from Totle.

  Melman plopped the paper plate on the table, and her friends erupted with applause. “You’re my hero,” Totle said, grabbing a slice and scooting over.

  Melman squeezed in. “I better be. I was breathing into Sampson’s wet armpit for twenty minutes before I got served.”

  “Ew.” Slimey cringed. Melman watched Smelly casually check out his own stains under the guise of a chin-to-shoulder scratch.

  “You’re fine,” Slimey said, calling him out.

  “What?” he asked, playing dumb as his face turned beet red.

  Totle leaned over the table. “If you think his armpits are sweaty, you should check out his hands.” Smelly’s eyes widened. “Not yours, dude. Sampson’s.” Smelly relaxed. “He’s like a human Slip ’N Slide.” Totle mimicked Sampson attempting to catch a ball and it slipping right through his grip.

  Melman laughed so hard, a bite of crust flew out of her mouth onto the table. Totle picked it up and ate it. No shame, Melman thought admiringly.

  Totle licked the sauce from his finger. “I hope they call him out on it.”

  “At Ghost Court?” Slimey asked.

  “Yeah, I mean, it’s embarrassing enough. And then maybe his Ghost Court sentence will be to get banned from being goalie,” he said, nudging Melman. “TJ will have to bring you back.”

  Melman felt her stomach launch into an excited flip and then sort of hang there upside down. It had taken a whole week for her frustration about the “boys-only rule” to blow over. If there was even an ounce of possibility she’d be able to replace Slip ’N Slide Sampson, then she’d never quit hoping and she’d keep on hurting as long as it didn’t happen. Melman needed boys’ soccer out of sight, out of mind. “Doubt it.”

  Totle gave a shrug and finished his slice.

  Smelly cocked his head. “So . . . What is Ghost Court, exactly? They didn’t do it last year.”

  “It’s a biannual thing,” Totle said. “Happens every other summer. It’s like this awesome, scary version of Judge Judy. The staff dress like ghosts and call kids out for all sorts of hilarious reasons. The accused always plead guilty, ’cause it’s funnier that way.”

  Smelly’s face drained.

  Slimey threw her arm around him. “I swear, it’s so fun, Bobby. Everyone hopes to get called out.” She nudged him. “Even people who don’t love attention. Jamie’s mom went to Rolling Hills, and she still talks about how she got accused of hanging out in the HC too much. For being a camp director wannabe. And her sentence was that she had to trade places with the camp director for a day. She got to do the announcements and everything!”

  “Huh,” Smelly said. “That does sound like fun. Have any of you been called out?”

  The three of them shook their heads sadly. Melman had hoped she’d get called out during both her One Tree Hill and Lauryn Hill summers, but the first year, Sophie had been chosen for making a batch of fake blood during Cooking, and then, the second year, Jenny had been chosen for bringing the most clothes to camp.

  Slimey rested her elbows on the table and mischievously tapped her fingers together. “Who do you think they’re gonna call up in our age group tonight?” she asked.

  The guys looked at each other. “Play Dough,” they said together, then high-fived.

  Smelly explained: “He got this package with a ton of food in it. His mom didn’t even bother hiding it in his socks. Play Dough assumed TJ would be the one checking and wouldn’t care, like last summer, but the Captain checked, and she did care because . . .”

  “A chipmunk had gotten inside the box,” Totle said mournfully, “and eaten a scone.”

  “Aw!” Slimey said, clasping Melman’s wrist. She loved her some chipmunks. “What about the Faith Hillers? Who do you think they’ll pick?”

  This was a no-brainer for Melman. She opened her full mouth, mid-chew. “Missi.” Jenny nominated her, and then Jamie had nominated her because Jenny had told her to, and then Missi had nominated herself because she knew it would please Jenny to see her plan work. Three nominations? Winner for sure.

  “Becaus
e of the . . . ?” Slimey motioned to her upper lip.

  Melman nodded with a smirk. She noticed the guys were looking at her quizzically. “Missi got a Snapple bottle suctioned to her mouth. She had to go to Nurse Nanette, and when it finally came off, her whole lip was black-and-blue!”

  “That’s what happened to her mouth?” Smelly asked. “I thought it was from her flute or something.”

  “How’d she get a Snapple?” Totle asked suspiciously. “Glass bottles? That’s contraband.”

  “Did I hear someone say, ‘Contraband’?” Wiener asked, sidling into the conversation, seemingly from nowhere. “You need something, Melman?”

  “No.”

  He towered over her and sniffed her hair. “What is that delightful smell?”

  “It’s pizza,” Melman said flatly.

  “Well, whatever oils keep the locks hydrated.”

  Melman widened her eyes at Slimey, who was pressing her lips together to contain herself.

  “Well, pardon me, ladies, while I use the restroom,” Wiener said with a bow.

  “You’re pardoned,” Melman joked. She glanced out the window—the sky was glowing hazy golden, like the sun was about to set. It was time to make moves toward Ghost Court. She hustled the group outside and they started their trek to Forest Hill.

  Melman kicked at the dirt road, dribbling a pebble along the way. She and Totle trailed behind Slimey and Smelly, who were holding hands, and it was just a smidge hard to watch. She missed the times when she and Slimey shared Twix bars bite for bite, walked arm in arm, and didn’t think twice about boys. She was happy for Slimey. Smelly was sweet. But it was times like this that she felt weird having an empty hand.

  Just then, she felt Totle’s wrist brush against hers. He must’ve accidentally knocked it, since they were now trekking it hard uphill. He was weirdly quiet, too, and Melman wondered if he’d rather be walking with Smelly. Maybe they both just wanted to hang with their friends.

  Their hands collided again. “Sorry,” Melman said, wondering if it had been her carelessness all along. Either way, it was awkward, so she went to put her hand in her pocket, except her shorts didn’t have pockets, so she itched her thigh like she had a bug bite. Why am I acting like a crazy person? she thought. Who cares if I knocked Totle’s hand? She’d tackled him on the field and that hadn’t been awkward at all.

  Melman wished she hadn’t lost the pebble she’d been dribbling. She wished Slimey wasn’t now half a soccer field ahead. She wished she didn’t hear actual crickets in such a cliché cricket moment. She almost wished Wiener would sidle up beside her with a bouquet of wild flowers. That would literally be less awkward.

  They finished climbing Forest Hill, the greatest of all the hills—the steepest and the prettiest since it overlooked the lake. Finally, Melman thought. She flicked her hand up to her waist to wave good-bye, but Totle smushed it with a hug.

  “See ya,” he said, his voice cracking. Melman hoped he was OK. He was acting strange. Maybe something bad had happened in the bunk. Or at home. Maybe he needed someone to talk to, or not to talk to, since they’d pretty much walked in silence the whole way.

  Melman split to find Slimey on the Girls’ Side of the hill. She plopped down next to her best friend on the dewy grass and rested her head on her shoulder. Their quietness wasn’t awkward—it was as comfortable as their Anita Hill sweatpants.

  Together, they looked out at the big white screen that the Captain set up twice every summer for “drive-in” movies (no cars, just sleeping bags). To its side was a folding table lined with lit candles. Creepy, Melman thought, feeling chills on her neck. The sun was setting behind it all, the lake reflecting the whirling Creamsicle sky.

  “Totle likes you,” Slimey blurted out.

  Melman lifted her head from Slimey’s shoulder and they both sort of looked at each other expectantly. Sure, Totle had been acting weird the past five minutes, but before that, he was nice and funny and a great offensive player, so . . . yeah, she liked him, too. “He’s cool,” Melman agreed.

  Slimey pulled away and pressed Melman with a stare that said How are you not understanding what I mean? Melman understood the stare, and then it hit: Totle liked her. Her heart did a swan dive into her belly. She wondered if that meant she didn’t like him back. “Should I like him?”

  Melman couldn’t believe she’d just asked that. She knew she should like him only if she liked him, but still, as silly as it was, she wanted Slimey’s input.

  “I mean, sure,” Slimey said with a hopeful gleam in her eye. “And not just ’cause everyone talks about how hot he is.”

  That hadn’t even crossed Melman’s mind. She guessed he was handsome in a Disney star sort of way—tall with dark wavy hair, athletic, a newly deep voice that cracked only once in a while—but she wasn’t sure he was her type. Did she have a type?

  Slimey shrugged like she’d read Melman’s mind. “You two just seem to have a connection.” Melman gave her a skeptical look. “Not in the way we have a connection,” Slimey explained, “but still . . . like, a good connection, you know? I mean, you’re both into sports, right?”

  Before Melman could give that any more thought, what sounded like the score to a horror movie blasted over the PA. Six figures sporting bedsheet ghost costumes and holding fiery Tiki torches made a surprise entrance from the boating shack. Five of them took seats at the folding table, and the sixth one went and stood behind a makeshift podium of stacked life vests. The whole camp seemed to gasp, clutching one another in tight rows on the hill. Ghost Court was about to start.

  Melman was relieved to have her mind off Totle and onto Ghost Court. She had a lot of non-feeling feelings to sort out before she gave Slimey a definitive answer. Wait . . . Did she need to give Slimey an answer? Then what would happen? Just thinking about it made her belly rumble. And for the first time—pretty much ever—it wasn’t anything a cheeseburger could solve.

  The ghost at the podium raised her arms like she was conducting an orchestra. “All riiiise,” she said in an accent that could only be described as a Dracula knockoff.

  Melman glanced over at her row of cabinmates. Jamie rose from Jenny’s lap with Missi’s help, and Sophie was so overstimulated, she hopped from foot to foot like a bunny with a bladder on the verge of explosion.

  “Ghost Court is now in session,” the Dracula voice said. “Judge Casper residing. Please be seated.”

  A light shone on the big white screen, casting a shadow on a ghostly figure behind it. The crowd gasped. The last Ghost Court? Not this cool.

  The shadow’s voice echoed over the PA. “I am Judge Casper,” he said with a rasp. Melman couldn’t tell which ghost was Rick and which was TJ, but she guessed the Captain was Dracula, since her walkie-talkie was bulging from her ghost toga.

  “Will the jury please stand and raise your right hand?” Casper continued. The table of ghosts did as they were told. Casper talked at the speed of a side-effects disclaimer. “Do each of you swear you will fairly try the case before this court”—then faster—“and that you will return a true verdict according to the evidence”—then even faster—“and the instructions of the court, so help you, Rolling Hills?” He took an enormous breath.

  “I do,” the ghosts said.

  “You may now be seated.” Judge Casper’s shadow somehow grew double its height. The murmurs in the crowd grew to screams.

  “Order in the court,” Captain/Dracula shouted, hitting the life vests with a broken oar. The audience laughed and settled down, because as funny as this was, it was also edge-of-the-hill thrilling.

  “Our first defendant,” she continued, “hails from . . . Wawel Hill. Stephen Greggs, please make your way to the court.”

  Melman turned around to the hooting and hollering coming from the older boys on the other side of the hill. Stephen raced down with his arms raised high.

  “So, Stephen,” Captain/Dracula said, “does the number eighty-seven mean anything to you?” He looked up in thought and then
shrugged a no. “Eighty-seven,” Captain/Dracula articulated. “That’s how many letters your Grandma Millie has sent you this summer.”

  The Girls’ Side let out a collective “Awww!” while the Boys’ Side hooted. Stephen laughed sheepishly.

  “Sorting the mail used to take me twenty minutes,” Captain/Dracula said. “Now it takes me two hours!”

  The camp roared. Melman and Slimey nudged each other and giggled. Even they’d heard of Grandma Millie—some of her mail had accidentally made its way to Slimey, whose real name was Stephanie Gregson. Stephen Greggs covered his face, laughing hysterically.

  “What do you plead, Stephen?” Captain/Dracula asked.

  “Guilty!”

  While Stephen got sentenced to sorting the camp’s mail for a week, a coveted responsibility for kids like Wiener who were super-organized and liked to feel important, Melman got pumped for round two.

  “Our next defendant,” Captain/Dracula said, “hails from . . . Hamburger Hill.”

  The Faith Hillers, Melman included, shifted to their knees to get a look at the guys. Play Dough held one hand over his heart and his other up in the air, channeling his inner celebrity. Wiener mimed snapping Play Dough’s photo like a paparazzo. Totle had his button-down shirt off and was whipping it in circles above his head. Dover played chicken with Totle’s whip, pressing his face in and out of the shirt’s way. Smelly doubled over with laughter.

  Captain/Dracula cleared her throat and waited a few seconds for ideal suspense. “Robert Steinberg, please show yourself.” Steinberg! Melman watched the guys roar and Play Dough throw both his hands in the air with comical disappointment. She looked for Steinberg but couldn’t spot him.

  Suddenly, hundreds of eyes shifted back toward the boating shack, where the second defendant inched out from behind the screen like a deer caught in headlights. Well, he was sporting a headlamp, so more like a deer with a lamp on his head. Without Steinberg’s focused light, the shadowy ghost behind the screen faded into the darkness.

  Steinberg tugged at his shirt like it was too hot for clothes, even though it was chilly enough for a Rolling Hills zip-up. The horror music was paused, but he nervously bopped his head anyway. His Adam’s apple slid up and down with what looked like forceful swallows.