Disruption (6 page)

“I have no idea what those numbers mean,” I said, “but look at them. My scores, if that’s what those are, are worse than almost everyone’s, not higher.”

“Um, yeah,” Angie said. “Those numbers are errors. Higher numbers mean more errors. You hardly have any. You messed up less than everyone else.” She leaned over and examined the screen. “This isn’t your first camp, Matt Cambridge. In fact, I bet this isn’t even your first command.”

Rylee started in on me next, grumbling about how I’d lied to her and how it didn’t make any sense. However, I wasn’t really listening. I just kept shaking my head. Low numbers were good? It was suddenly very obvious what had happened. When my dad put my name on the roster, he must’ve seen the other kids’ scores and thought he’d help me fly under the radar by giving me scores that would be below average.

“Blend in, Matt,” Dad had said when he dropped me off.
Yeah, thanks, Dad. Not enough that you put me in this situation to begin with, but now you’ve made it so I’m expected to be an overachiever. Great, just great.

I turned back to my team. In the time it had taken for me to consider my dad’s lies, they’d gone back to unpacking. They kept glancing at me, as if each of them had a question they wanted to ask, but no one spoke.

I opened my mouth to say something, yet words didn’t come. What could I say? That my dad had manipulated some records to get me into this camp and screwed up? I’d already told the truth that this was my first camp and it was part of my punishment to be here, so they must’ve thought I’d lied about at least one thing already. Besides, I didn’t know these guys. Even if I trusted them, and even if I managed to convince them of the truth, I still had to consider the possibility they’d tell someone in the camp. Then maybe that person would tell someone else, and before long it would get back to whoever was in charge—probably Dalson—and I’d be kicked out. I wasn’t sure what would happen to my dad if I got booted from camp—until that moment I wasn’t entirely sure I’d cared—but I guess I didn’t actually want him getting fired or anything.

Pull yourself together, Matt.

Expectations are high, but who cares? It’s a camp. A weird camp, with strange rules and bizarre campers, but it’s just a camp. I probably was better than most of these freaks anyway. If I had gone to a bunch of camps, I probably would’ve gotten better scores. Besides, it was this or Alaska. I took a deep breath and blew it out in a single breath.

It was just a camp. I could do this.

Chapter 9

We spent the next hour or so unpacking.

Angie, who had seemed like such a laid-back and free-spirited girl, became almost compulsive with the way she transferred her belongings into the plastic chest. She even had cardboard dividers so she could keep things organized. In contrast, Juno just unzipped his bag and shook the contents into the bin, and Yaakov, well, he didn’t unpack anything. He just put his whole bag into the plastic bin. I think he might have been copying me. Poor kid, no one at this camp should use me as a role model.

There was a sharp rap at the door.

“Sir?” a girl’s voice called.

Everyone in the room looked at me. I guessed I was the
sir.

I cleared my throat. “Um, come in.”

The door swung open, and a girl a year or two younger than me and about as thin as a javelin stood in the opening. Her bony arms were pressed firmly to her sides, and a serious expression was etched into her face. She had brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and a red T-shirt with a graphic picture of a bear on the chest and the words CAMP FRIENDSHIP written below it.
Please tell me those aren’t our team uniforms
, I thought.

“Captain,” she said, her words coming out in a quick burst, “I’m to tell you that the preliminary rankings challenge will begin in ten minutes at the soccer pitch.” She glanced around the room. “It’s a Delta event.”

Preliminary rankings? Delta event? I was pretty sure “soccer pitch” was another way of saying “soccer field,” otherwise I wouldn’t have understood much of what the girl said.

“Fine,” I said.

“Ten minutes,” the girl said again.

“I heard you,” I snapped.

She recoiled a step and then swallowed and forced herself straight again.

I sighed. “Sorry. Thank you for delivering the message. I’ll be there.”

She nodded, then turned on her heel and jogged away.

I turned back to my team and found them all staring at me.

“
Sorry
?” Amara asked.

“What?” I said.

“Deltas don’t apologize if they accidentally stab you in the throat,” Juno said. He pointed out the door. “And you apologize for raising your voice?”

“You’re not like other Deltas, are you, Cambridge?” Angie asked.

I shrugged and then pointed at the door. “You guys coming?”

“Didn’t you hear the runner?” Rylee asked. “It’s a Delta event.”

I felt my forehead crease and my eyebrows draw together. “Then . . .”

Angie stood up from her bed and strolled across the space between us. “You’re on your own,
mein
Spielführer
.” I had no idea what
Spielführer
was, but she patted me on the back, so I decided to believe it was a good thing. “Make us proud.”

I made a mental note to take Rylee aside and ask her why these guys were so special. They seemed like a bunch of misfits to me.

“Remember,” Amara called behind me as I stepped out of the cabin, “don’t get killed. You die, and we all get kicked out of the program.”

I waved away his sarcasm and didn’t look back.

In retrospect, I probably should have realized that Amara wasn’t the joking type and doing my best not to get killed was probably sound advice.

Chapter 10

Dalson stood on the sidelines and lifted his chin at me as I approached the field.

“Ah, Mr. Cambridge, we’ve been expecting you.”

A shorter man with gray hair and a tall, slender woman with brown curls stood together just a few yards to the right of Dalson. Three other adults were positioned around the field’s perimeter. They all looked like angry linesmen, only, rather than flags, they carried clipboards, and each stood, pen in hand, ready to take notes. Presumably the notes would be on whatever I was about to do.

“Cambridge,” a deep unmistakable voice said from behind me. I spun to see Mr. Smith towering over me and jumped back in alarm. Someone that big should not be able to sneak up on anything. He didn’t smile, but his eyes glinted with pride. I imagined he was pleased that his presence elicited such a response.

I looked between Mr. Smith and Mr. Dalson. “Um,” I began, “I was told I had some kind of Delta challenge?”

“That’s right,” Dalson said breezily. He turned and looked out at the soccer field and brought his hands to his hips. He reminded me of a sailor standing on the bow of a ship, looking out over the ocean.

“Do you see that ball?” he asked.

The field was completely deserted except for an official-looking soccer ball positioned about ten or fifteen yards from the goal. It was difficult to miss.

“Uh, yeah,” I said, “I see it.”

“Your test is quite simple. Put the ball into the net.”

I laughed and then stopped myself abruptly when I realized that neither Dalson nor Mr. Smith was smiling. “That ball?” I pointed at the only item on the field and felt dumb for doing so, but I thought there must be a trick.

“That’s the one,” Dalson said.

I didn’t know what to say. All the kids seemed at least reasonably healthy. Some looked like straight-up jocks. If it weren’t for that, I’d have thought maybe this was a camp for children with disabilities that made simple tasks, like kicking a ball, a challenge. But no one in my cabin seemed especially challenged in that department. This test had to be more than just kicking a ball into an empty net.

Mr. Smith spoke next. “You’ll be scored by how well you accomplish the task. Do you understand?”

I nodded. Though I didn’t understand at all.

“Do you have any objections?”

I shook my head.

Mr. Smith raised his hand over his head. There was a whoosh
as green tarps were raised in overlapping segments around the field. Suddenly everything and everyone outside the tarps were cut off.

“Listen carefully,” Dalson said, “because you’ll get this clue only once.” He paused for a beat. “This challenge can set the tone of the whole session. You may use anything in the confines of the wall to accomplish your task. You’ll be judged on a number of things, but in the end, speed counts above all else.”

He raised a single eyebrow, and I got the impression he was giving me a chance to speak. I stared back. I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t make me look like I was completely clueless.

“Very well,” he continued. “Your time begins as soon as you take a step.”

Speed counts above all else.

I considered the possibility that that’s all this really was, just some test to see how fast I was. I wasn’t really worried. I once put a cherry bomb in one of the jack-o’-lanterns at a Halloween display in the mall and had to run away from three surprisingly fit security guards, so I knew how to move.

But then maybe it was something else. The time would start when I took my first step, so I tried to take in the entire scene. I studied the observers around the field and peered at the ball and then the net, looking for some sign this wasn’t entirely straightforward. With the exception of the fabric walls around the field, nothing looked . . . weird.

I blew out a breath and told myself not to overthink it. It
was
a test of speed, and the winner probably got a new set of cleats or a pair of gloves for the team goalie. I gave a quick nod and then sprinted forward. I made it ten or so feet before something clicked
under my foot. I figured I’d stepped on a sprinkler head and didn’t look back, at least I didn’t until I heard something burst behind me and felt something splatter against my back. I whipped around.

A device about the size of a hockey puck sat on the grass, and a cone of red paint marked the grass behind me. I wiped at the wetness on my back and my hand came back covered in the same red paint sprayed on the grass.

“What the . . .” I stepped back. Another click
from under my foot, and I instinctively stepped away. I watched as another hockey puck–like object popped out of the grass. When it was about chest high, a blast of yellow paint burst out and covered me from chest to thigh.

I glanced over my shoulder at the sidelines. Mr. Smith and Mr. Dalson watched me curiously while the people with clipboards jotted notes at a blurry pace.

“Paint land mines?” I stood there for another second and added, “Cool.”

Energy surged in my chest. The point was obviously to kick the ball into the net while getting splattered with the fewest colors. I narrowed my gaze at the soccer ball down the field and took off at a mad sprint. Each time I felt a click
under my foot, I’d dart to the right or to the left, and I managed to avoid the other bursts entirely. The little paint poppers were everywhere.

I reached the ball running full speed and kicked it as hard as I could toward the net. As it left its place on the ground, three mines popped off the ground. I didn’t have a lot of time to think. Less than a second, I imagined. But I figured each mine was aimed a different direction so there was only one way to avoid the blast. I dropped and flattened myself to the ground.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The explosions happened in quick succession and echoed in my ears. Heat, like a giant beast made of flames, lashed out with blazing limbs and scorched the back of my neck, arms, and legs. Flooded with disorientation, I rolled onto my back and blinked at the cloud of black smoke hovering just above my body. A gust of wind spun the smoke into evil shapes before pulling it apart and clearing the air.

I pushed myself up onto my elbows and coughed. Bits of twisted metal and singed grass surrounded me.

“It blew up?” I muttered. I coughed again. That wasn’t a paint bomb. The weight of what had just happened hit me all at once. In a frantic rush, I ran my hands over my body checking for injuries, and glanced at my arms and hands, expecting to see them caked with blood. They weren’t. With the exception of the ringing inside my head and some burned hair, I wasn’t injured. I collapsed back onto the grass and heaved one breath after the next, trying to will my heart to stop hammering out of control. I didn’t succeed.

Dalson suddenly stood over me, blocking out the sun. He looked like a shadowy superhero with his hands fisted at his hips and the sun forming a halo around his head. He leaned over, grabbed me by my arm, and heaved me to my feet.

I gestured at the bits of debris and choked on my words.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “all the rest are deactivated. You can step freely now.” He didn’t sound upset, but then his voice was tinny and weak through the ringing in my ears.

I took a step back, but when I moved, it seemed the ground moved too, and I staggered a couple paces to my right. I managed to stay on my feet, barely, and to will the earth to stop spinning. Dalson clamped a firm hand on my shoulder and steadied me.

I drew a couple deep breaths, and the ringing lessened to a dull buzz. I scanned the field. A woman, one of the linesmen I’d seen before, sprayed the path I’d made across the field with something that was turning the paint-splattered grass green again. The other linesmen compared notes, and Smith crouched on the field where I’d started. He had what looked like a fisherman’s tackle box beside him and held up one of the land mines, no doubt trying to sort out if any of the other ones were as defective as the last ones I’d triggered. He snatched another hockey-puck mine out of the tackle box and carefully placed it in the grass.

“He’s resetting them.” I meant it as a question, but it came out like a statement and sort of sounded like I was tattling on the beefy counselor.