Let’s get one thing out of the way here.
My name is Rafe Khatchadorian, and if you already know me, then you know that trouble tends to follow me around like a bad smell. But if we’ve never met before, I just want to say—it’s not my fault! (Okay, not always.) I hope you can trust me for a little while and give me a chance to explain.
In fact, I don’t know if this has ever been done, but I’m going to give you the short version of this story—right here, right now—so you know what you’re getting into. It goes like this:
I went to summer camp. I did some stuff. Some of it, I’m proud of. Some of it… not so much.
Then, before the full eight weeks of camp was up, things went kind of crazy (okay, a lot crazy), and I ended up packing my bags early.
It might have had something to do with this:
Or maybe it looked more like this:
It also could have had something to do with this:
And I can tell you for sure that it definitely had something to do with this:
Somewhere in all of that, there’s an ending to this crazy story. There’s some middle in there too. And yeah, okay, some of it didn’t exactly happen like that. What can I say? I like to keep things interesting.
But don’t worry. I’ll always steer you straight… eventually.
The point is, my summer at Camp Wannamorra basically went the same way a lot of my life goes. There were some ups, some downs, some good luck, and a whole lot of bad luck before it all came crashing down around me in a giant ball of flame. (Not a real one—that was my last book.)
But that’s as much as I’m going to tell you for now. If you want all the gory details, you’re just going to have to read this whole thing.
Because, as the Booger-Eater always said, getting there is half the fun.