Summer on the Short Bus (18 page)

We wait for her to disappear into the main room before I climb back into my own bed.

“That was one jacked-up dream,” Fantine says. “Don't you ever wonder why we dream what we do?”

“In this instance, no.”

“So you think Jell-O target practice is normal?”

“No, it's definitely weird,” I say, adjusting the scratchy covers. “I'm talking about the part of the dream that really scared her. The Rainbow part.”

“Why?” She props herself up on one elbow and narrows her
eyes on me. “You said it didn't bother you that your dad had a financial interest in the camp, but you're always grumbling about Rainbow under your breath. So which is it? Do you care or don't you?”

“No”—I blow out a sigh—“I don't care what he does with his money.”

“So what's your problem then?”

“My problem is her. Half the time she treats me like a bratty kid, because, if you remember, she told me I was one. And then she's commenting on my personal life. She knows stuff about me, Fantine. Stuff I've never told her—or anyone here.”

“Like?”

“Like . . . meat.”

“Meat? I thought we weren't talking about Quinn anymore.”

“Ugh, you are so gross. I'm talking about meat like from a cow. Tonight at dinner she said she knew I wasn't a big red meat eater but wanted me to try Sam's beef anyway because it was really good.”

“It
was
good.”

“Yeah, it was. But you're missing the point. I never told her that I don't eat a lot of red meat. She just knew it. How could she possibly know that about me?”

“A lot of people don't eat red meat, Cricket.” She dims the lantern on our bookshelf before collapsing into her pillow with a sigh. “She probably just figured you for one of those trendy
vegetarian, experimental lesbian types. I wouldn't read into it.”

“You're wrong,” I say firmly. “She knows things about me and my life, things she shouldn't know. And it's not just the meat thing. There have been a lot of other little things. This morning after breakfast she told me Sam was making cream puffs for dessert tomorrow because she knows they're my favorite. And yesterday I heard her tell Pete that I used to sleepwalk—”

“Whoa, take a breath. So she knows a lot about you, so what? You either ask her how she knows you so well, or you ignore her. I don't care which you do, but you gotta pick one because you're starting to ramble again. I'm about ready to rip my ears off.”

“Well, thanks for the help. And here I thought
I
was the camp bitch.”

“What can I say.”

“Fine. I won't complain to you anymore. But if something goes down with her you better have my back.”

“Oh, I got your back. I'll make sure the Mystery Machine is gassed up and ready for action whenever you need me.”

“Sometimes I really hate you,” I say, my grin going unappreciated by the dark room.

“I know. I hate you, too.”

“And I am
so
not a lesbian.”

NINETEEN

U
p until my arrival at camp, I'd been waking up on the same time frame as the cable guy: somewhere between ten and two. This six-thirty crap should be reserved for high school dropouts with paper routes.

I lumber out of bed, noting that Fantine's wool blanket is already spread smooth and tight across her empty bed, and grab my bathroom supplies off the tiny wooden shelf. I make my way through the bunkhouse, saying halfhearted good mornings to the campers, and walk out the door into the already warm morning.

“H-h-he-hello, Cricket,” James says, crutching by me with a fish-shaped oven mitt on his hand. “How are you t-t-today?”

“Peachy-keen, James. How are you?”

He stops suddenly and scratches his head with his salmon-covered hand. “Happy and t-t-tall,” he finally says. “I am h-h-h-happy and t-t-tall today.”

“That's good, James. Happy and tall beats the hell out of tired and bloated.”

I walk through the restroom's wide doorway, making my way
past the low sinks and the toilets with supporting hand rails to the middle changing stall, where I strip down to my birthday suit. It's a sad, sad sight. My once smooth skin is covered in bruises, Band-Aids, and dime-sized mosquito bites. But miracles happen when scalding hot water and scented shower gel come together. Within a minute I feel awake, alert, and slightly less disgusted with the day that lies ahead.

Fantine and the girls are waiting for me at the foot of the bunkhouse steps when I emerge from the bathroom.

“Hurry up!” Claire says. “We can't be late for breakfast.”

“I'll catch up with you guys in a minute,” I say, directing my comment to Fantine. “I need to put some new Band-Aids on the blisters.”

“Sounds good. Let's go, ladies. We'll save Cricket a spot.”

While they go on their way to the mess hall, I run up the steps and into the bunkhouse. I plop on my bed, brushing off my already dusty feet, and trade out my Bieber Band-Aids for some equally cool Pooh Bear ones. I tug on some socks, carefully slide my feet into my shoes, and am nearly to the door when I hear someone on the rickety front porch.

I push the door open and peek my head around the corner. “Oh boy,” I mumble, suddenly feeling sick. “Hi,” I say in a voice that's about four degrees south of nervous.

“Hey,” Quinn says back. “We need to talk.”

“Okay?” I step out onto the porch and tug the door shut
behind me. “What do we need to talk about?”

“You and Aidan.”

“Me and . . . Aidan?”

“Yeah,” he crosses his arms. “I just want you to know that I think it's really crappy you're using him just to get to me. It's not going to make me jealous if that's what you were hoping for.”

Well now, if this isn't an Edward/Bella/Jacob moment, I don't know what is. Where is Claire when I need her?

“Aidan is my
friend,”
I say, struggling not to crack a smile. “I'm not using him for anything, and I'm certainly not trying to make you jealous.”

“Oh really?” He drops his sly guy demeanor by taking off his sunglasses. “You expect me to believe that all of a sudden you're going to be best friends with somebody in a wheelchair? How stupid do you think I am?”

“Well, at this point I don't think you're stupid, but I am starting to think you're an asshole. Contrary to what you might think, my existence here doesn't completely revolve around you.”

“Oh, that's rich, Cricket. You have a come-to-Jesus moment two days ago and now you're suddenly a changed person? I'm the asshole?”

“Are you comparing yourself to Jesus now? First Efron and now Jesus . . .”

“Of course not. I'm saying that if you expect me to believe you've done a complete one-eighty just because of something
I said, then you must think I'm an idiot. People don't change overnight.”

“For the record,” I say, fighting a strong urge to poke my finger in his chest. “It wasn't something you
said
to me, it was something you
screamed
at me—in my face. And I never said I was changed, but I am working on it. A fact that seems to be acceptable to everybody else in this dump except for you.”

His eyes soften just slightly and for a moment I catch a glimpse of the guy I haven't seen in a while. “Why do you care what I think of you anyway? According to Rainbow, you're leaving as soon as your dad gets back.”

“Ah, yes. Good ole Rainbow!” I say with sarcasm. “Actually, I've decided to stay. Not that it makes any difference to you now, but . . . yeah, I'm going to stick around and see this thing through.” I feel that stupid knot of emotion building up again, but rather than burst into tears, I push by him. “You know what the really sad part is?” I call over my shoulder. “I'm doing exactly what you told me to do. I'm trying to be the person
I
want to be, and you can't even acknowledge that.”

TWENTY

O
ver the course of the next twenty-four hours, Claire, Meredith, and I spend more time analyzing Gwen Stefani and every freaking second of the “Hollaback Girl” video than even her most faithful stalker.

To my surprise, both of them have memorized the lyrics, though Claire still trips up every time we have to spell out the word
bananas
. Our choreography, on the other hand, is worse than I feared it would be. Claire maneuvering her enormous body in a cheerleader's uniform is nauseating. And as for Meredith, well, it seems her athletic skills are limited to the pool. The girl's got zero rhythm. I can't even imagine how much worse she'd be if her legs actually worked.

Fantine and her girls have decided to perform “Call Me Maybe,” while Colin's group is doing “Radioactive.” If I didn't know better, I'd think Ryan Seacrest was paying the bills around here instead of my dad.

And as far as Quinn's group, well, I suppose that will remain a mystery until the big night. Since our little chat on the porch the other morning, I've had very little interaction with him. He has
muttered a few words in my general direction, though I hardly consider “damn, it's hot today” to be very personal. All in all, I'd have to say Quinn is convinced I'm a self-centered, high-maintenance bitch who's never going to change. Which sucks, because I think I'm making pretty good progress, myself. I didn't even laugh when Claire started barking this morning. Swear to God.

But, as much as I'd like to dream the day away, imagining that Quinn and I have forgiven each other and we're back to our late night, PG-13 activities, I actually do have other things to think about. The group performance being the most obvious, and Rainbow's knowledge of my personal life, the most infuriating.

Since I'm hoping my father, who should arrive home today, will be able to cast some light on the Rainbow situation, I decide to try to remedy the first dilemma I'm faced with.

At Fantine's suggestion, I stop by the kitchen to see if Sam has any ideas about a final performance. At first I've got no idea why my bunkmate would make such a ridiculous recommendation, but seeing Sam's eyes light up when my question hits his ears, I remember what Quinn told me about him. First, that he was a brilliant chef. Second, that he knew more about Madonna than Madonna herself.

“Do ‘Vogue,'” he says. “It's weird, and people like it.”

“‘Vogue'? Like from the '80s?”

“March 20. March 20, 1990,” he says, not picking up on an ounce of my sarcasm. “Watch the Blond Ambition Tour DVD.
Japan is the best.”

Oh. My. God.

“Um . . . okay,” I say. “I guess I can climb the hill and try and download it to my iPad. . . .”

“Don't do that. Borrow mine. I have the DVD and a player in my trailer.”

“Okay, that'd be great,” I say. “Maybe I can get it after dinner tonight?”

He nods his head with great consideration. “I like helping you, Cricket. You're a nice lady.” His smile is so sincere, I actually find myself reaching toward him to offer him a one-armed hug, but he pulls away before I make contact. For half a second I feel like yet another man is dissing me, but remember Quinn said Sam didn't like to be touched. “That's awesome, Sam,” I say, giving him a thumbs-up from a safe distance. “You're helping me out a lot.”