How Best to Avoid Dying (5 page)

She took her hands away and he started to remove the gun.

“No, no,” she said. “Leave it there.”

She leaned in and ran her nails along his scalp. The barrel rattled against his teeth. She was close, her breath on his scalp, her dark hair over his eyes, her breasts touching his chest, her smell all over him.

“See?” she whispered. “This is good. You feel close to it all.”

Tastes like lake water. That's what he kept thinking. Lake water.

She kissed his neck. “Now,” she said into his ear. “I want you to pull the trigger.”

His eyes were stinging and his mouth salivating. His throat cramped. He couldn't swallow his spit.

She moved one leg over him, and with a knee on either side, let her weight rest on him. Her face was in front of him. Floating. Blurry. Candlelight slowed to a smear. He couldn't read the numbers on the digital clock behind her. Couldn't remember her middle name. He didn't know her. Hardly knew her.

She put her hands on his cheeks, hands so hot. Her expression was serious now, like a teacher turning stern. “Do this now, or I leave and you will never see me again.”

He shook his head and moaned. A line of dribble fell from his lip. She leaned in, “Shhh,” and kissed his forehead, leaving her lips on him for a long moment. She leaned back. “This is happening,” she said.

Throw the gun. Throw it against the wall, he thought. He could feel the barrel in his mouth, feel his tongue near the hole, feel her heat, her breath, feel his hands on the handle, her legs around his. Could feel each space of flesh, each moving blood cell. It was Christmas in his home, with his wife. It was Christmas and there was lake water and her moving against him. It was Christmas.

HOLY

We have a new holy machine. It will make you a saint. But it will cost everything else. To the world you'll seem two steps north of brain dead. Dribbling and moaning. You'll wear a diaper. But you'll be seeing God the whole time. You just won't be able to tell us about it. No words, no profound acts. Just God. That's what you want, right? Just God. Come on. Let me strap you in.

THE MARTYRS OF MOUNTAIN PEAK

Kent is dead. All the kids at the camp are crying and singing and praying. They don't know that it was my turn, not his.

Rich is standing in front of us leading the songs. The ten kids who had Kent as a counselor are huddled in the front row. Already seven of them have announced that they've given their lives to Christ—although one is actually regiving his life, since he already gave his life to Christ as a sophomore, but since then he's been smoking pot. None of the kids I counsel have given their lives to Christ, but they look pretty sad.

We're singing “Desperado,” but with the words changed. The lyrics are flashed on a screen.

Desperado, why don't you come to love Jesus
,

You know that he sees us

For so long now…

It was Kent's favorite song. Pricilla Brone is helping Rich by leading the girl echo parts. She's got tears on her face and her hair is all shiny. She's so pretty it hurts to look at her, especially when she sings. When the song ends, Rich asks us to bow our heads and pray. All two hundred and six teenagers close their eyes and bow their heads, even the kids who hang out at the cigarette pit and usually make fart noises during the prayers.

“God, Father, Daddy—thank you for letting us know Kent. We're going to miss him,” Rich says. “But we know that now he's with you and your Son in Heaven. Thank you, Daddy. Amen.” People are crying and hugging, just like last week.

“Let me tell you a little bit about where Kent is now,” Rich says, his eyes twinkling. He's smiling like a TV dad. Everyone wants Rich to be their dad. He's kind and funny and tells great stories. Better than my dad back home in Houston who's always grumpy and sleeps all weekend.

“Heaven is a lot like Camp Mountain Peak, only better. You can bet Heaven's got horses like we've got. The angels help on the ropes course and the apostles run the four-wheelers and maybe Mary and Martha are scooping Kent a Snack Shack ice cream special right now. I bet Kent is playing disc golf with his halo—oh sure, and they've got a video arcade like us and a thirty-person hot tub like ours and an Olympic-size pool—maybe bigger even, and in Heaven I bet they even have a forty-yard, two-story-high waterslide. Only the one in Heaven won't have a low panel on the curve.”

A few kids sob out loud. Kent had been trying to beat the Camp Mountain Peak speed record on the waterslide when he died. According to the slide's digital timer, the record is 23.2 seconds, which I set way back in June. Kent was obsessed with beating it. He was competitive like that, which is totally not the point of Camp Mountain Peak. Rumor has it that when the panel gave he was wearing Speedos and had greased up with baby oil. Total pride. For one thing, counselors aren't allowed to wear Speedos or two-pieces in the swimming area. When I was a camper here five years ago, not even kids could wear Speedos or two-pieces, but they've laxed. And baby oil? I mean, what's Christ-like about baby oil? I was going to die on the ropes course, fully dressed.

“No, the waterslide that Kent is riding right now is faster and wilder than our slide and no chance of falling out, and even if he did, he'd just fall on a cloud instead of down a cliff. You know Kent is just loving that.” Kids nod along. Rich crouches down and kind of whispers so all the kids have to lean in to listen. “He's looking down right now on us here and feeling sorry for us. Probably wondering why we're so sad when he's having such a blast. Probably hoping that we're buying a ticket for the Camp Mountain Peak he's at. Only we can't afford that camp. We can't even make a down payment. The price is way out of range. You know why? The price for that camp is perfection. Anyone perfect out there?”

All the kids shake their heads back and forth.

“Didn't think so,” Rich says and stands up. “But it's okay because you know who bought the ticket for us? Jesus did. He is perfect and with his own blood Jesus bought us all a pass to the best camp you can imagine, and it doesn't last just two
weeks, it lasts forever and ever.” He stretches his arms out, trying to show how much forever is.

“And you got to know,” Rich says, looking real profound. “The waterslide is the only route from the ledge to the pool, and just like that Jesus is the only path that splashes into Heaven. Nothing else works. Jesus is our waterslide.”

I'd heard this several times before, though the part about the waterslide is new. Every two weeks a fresh group of teenagers from all over America comes to Camp Mountain Peak, and every two weeks a counselor dies. It's become an unofficial policy. Always an accident. One of us just acts a little less careful and the rest of us let it happen. It started early in the summer.

The first session was lame. Two hundred or so kids and twenty counselors. We prayed so hard. I remember praying until my head ached, but only one of my kids stood up on the last day to say he had opened his heart to Jesus. Overall only eleven kids stood up. Eleven kids! That sucked. Rich still got weepy and smiley and told the whole camp that the angels were celebrating, so we played “Celebrate” by Kool & the Gang and dropped balloons, but all us counselors were pretty bummed.

Session two was feeling a lot like session one. The kids loved the four-wheelers, the theme parties, the hot tub, the rappelling lessons, but didn't give a spit about the Lord and Savior. They were too busy making out behind the dining hall to care about God bearing the burden of their sin. I had this one kid from Denver in my cabin who said that his hobbies were “pounding beer and pounding babes.” I caught him having sex with a girl in the hot tub after hours. I told him that every time he puts his penis in a girl who's not his wife he's putting a nail into Christ. But he still didn't give a squat.

Then on the last day of the session, Will died. Will was a counselor who also took care of the horses and he was practicing a stunt for the Farewell BBQ and Hoedown when he got thrown. It was horrible. Like someone punched the whole camp in the stomach. We went ahead with the BBQ and Hoedown, but it was no fun.

That night, standing in front of all the kids, Rich looked tired and sadder than I've ever seen him. “You know what, I don't feel much like talking tonight. But you know what? Will would want me to tell you about Jesus.” Rich didn't move on the stage or crouch or whisper or spread his arms at all that night. Just stood in the center and talked. “That's what he'd want. Because, yeah, we've got some fun stuff up here, we sing some fun songs and the ribs tonight were pretty excellent, but the only reason, the only, only reason, is so we can tell you about Jesus. And Will would gladly die if it meant that just one of you would have a chance to meet Jesus.”

I mean, kids were falling over themselves to give their lives to Christ. One hundred and ninety-seven kids stood up and told everyone how they now love Jesus. And the ones who didn't stand up felt pretty stupid and probably came to Christ on the bus ride home. Even my hot tub kid from Denver stood up, all crying. He told me he was never going to pound a girl again.

“Except your wife,” I said, and we laughed. I gave him his own
Adventure Life New Testament
and hugged him goodbye. That was the best.

After the kids left and before the next group rolled in, we counselors started talking. Rich was right. It was worth dying to see kids loving Jesus. We stayed up real late in the Coffee House,
just the counselors, praying and singing and reading
Acts
aloud. And it was like the Spirit was leading us. There were four more sessions in the summer so we drew lots like the disciples did to replace Judas. I got session six, the last session of the summer. All the counselors were crying and smiling. They laid hands on the five of us and prayed. Pricilla Brone had her hands on me. They were warm. I was so happy, so filled with the spirit, so ready. I could hardly wait till my session. It was like promising to die made God more real. I could touch God. I was scared, sure. But Jesus was scared. He cried in the garden. I was scared like he was. At dawn we all climbed to Christ's Point and sang hymns.

After that we never spoke of the agreement, not letting our left hand know about the right hand. In fact, by the middle of session three, I was beginning to think nothing would actually happen, but then Crick Peppers “accidentally” locked herself in the kitchen freezer. In session four David Blankins “forgot” to open any of the garage windows while doing repairs on an idling four-wheeler. Becky Towt choked on a doughnut in session five. I have no idea how she managed that. My plan had been to “forget” to strap in on the ropes course on day ten of session six, but Kent had to go and slip out of the waterslide and fall off a cliff.

The kids I counsel are all somber as we walk back to the cabin.

“He must have been going damn fast to fly out like that,” one of the kids says.

“I heard he shaved his legs to make him slicker,” another says.

“Man, he was brave.”

I pray for these kids a lot. Every morning I wake up before Morning Bell and pray God will crack their hearts open like walnuts. I love them. How can you not love someone you're planning to die for? I used to imagine them all crying after I died on the ropes course, sorry they hadn't listened or gotten to know me. I pictured them standing up on that last day and telling everyone they love Jesus and then coming back to Mountain Peak years later with their kids or grandkids and pointing out the spot I died at and holding hands with their grandkids and everybody praying and thanking God for me.

I tell them to head back to the cabin and I'll be there in a minute. I don't have to worry about them sneaking out. Nobody sneaks out after a death.

I go walking toward the ropes course.

The stars are amazing up here. The camp is dark. They turn off a bunch of lights when things are sad so the kids can see the stars, especially the shooting stars. So many stars, and Jesus made them all. He knows them all by heart. He knows every single hair on my head. He knows I'm walking now, he is right here with me. But I can't think of anything to say, cause I'm kind of mad. God knew about that low panel. He knew about the baby oil. He knew it was my turn, but he let Kent put on those Speedos and shave his legs and fall out.

At the Buenas Vista View I stop and look out over the valley. It's windy, a little chilly, but I don't care. It was at this spot I opened up my heart to Jesus five years ago. I didn't need a dead counselor. I just heard all about the Father's love and my sin and how they whipped Jesus with this nasty whip with glass in it and then Rich said that if we wanted to have some time
alone we could go off and I walked out here and I prayed for a sign and God sent a shooting star right over Camp Mountain Peak. It was wild. Like God ripping the sky just for me. It turns out that you can see like three or four shooting stars every five minutes, but still. I've come back every summer since then. I was a camper twice and a junior counselor twice, then last year Rich made me a full counselor. This place is more home than home. It's my favorite place in the universe.

I walk on to the ropes course. It's spooky at night, all the trees and ropes making shadows. It's real dark too. Smells like pine needles and bark. I think I'm alone but then I see Pricilla sitting on the observation deck, dangling her legs. I go and sit by her and for a while neither of us says anything. Finally she says, real quiet, “So I guess you won't be dying then, huh?”