“This is the most fucked-up, unfair competition I’ve ever seen,” Max said.
“A bunch of bullshit,” Cobie Petersen added.
We should have seen it coming.
Because Jupiter was so far in the lead of the interplanetary games, the counselors collectively decided to make the final competition worth so many points that any cabin who won the last event would be named overall camp winners. And there was a prize at stake, which was this: The boys of the winning planet—and their counselor—would get to take the Camp Merrie-Seymour for Boys van and spend the entire day Friday, which was our last full day trapped in our miserable planets, at the Little America Mall, where there was electricity and video games (which most of the boys of Camp Merrie-Seymour for Boys salivated over) and clean toilets and pretzel stands and teenage girls (which only a few of the boys of Camp Merrie-Seymour for Boys salivated over), and so on.
“We should have seen this coming,” I said.
And Max said, “Yeah, but you never know.”
On Wednesday morning during our sixth week at Camp Merrie-Seymour for Boys, the day before the contest was to take place, Larry gave us the disturbing news about the event before dispatching us to breakfast.
Max stirred his oatmeal sullenly. Cobie Petersen had a determined and focused expression on his face; he stared off into the woods, concentrating. Robin Sexton rocked back and forth slightly, dull eyed, plugs inserted, fingers twitching and stabbing at nothing, kite string dangling below his chin. And Trent Mendibles scratched his balls and tried not to listen to anything we were talking about.
The next day’s event was going to be the longest and most challenging contest of the six-week session. And unfortunately, it was also quite possible that any planet would get lucky and win it. It was an orienteering challenge in the woods that sounded like the sort of event where Camp Merrie-Seymour for Boys might end up a few boys short when all was done.
Every cabin would be provided with a compass and a topographical map of the forestland around Camp Merrie-Seymour for Boys, along with written instructions detailing where the individual teams were supposed to go. Each planet had a personalized flag that had been hidden somewhere in the forest, all of them three miles away from Camp Merrie-Seymour for Boys. The instructions told us where to go to find our flags, which were hidden in different spots, so as to keep the planets from engaging in warfare or any other kinds of dirty tricks. So the game depended on the ability to judge distances on our own, use a compass to determine direction, and figure out what all the lines and patterns on a topographical map actually meant.
None of us had ever done anything like this before. But the planet finding their flag and returning it to camp first would win the competition—and the prize.
Six miles, considering the unlikely out-and-back shortest possible route, may just as well have been six hundred to some of the boys at Camp Merrie-Seymour for Boys.
I seriously doubted we’d be able to inspire Trent Mendibles or Robin Sexton to give it his best.
“We need to win tomorrow,” Max said.
Cobie Petersen looked at Trent Mendibles and Robin Sexton, then shook his head. And he said, “I have a plan.”
Of course Cobie Petersen had a plan. He always had a plan.
Cobie said, “Stay here. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
And with that, Cobie Petersen stood up from the breakfast table and bolted off into the woods.
We didn’t find out what Cobie Petersen’s plan involved until the next day, after they sent the five boys of Jupiter out into the woods, alone with a compass, a map, and some impossible instructions to direct us to our flag.
- - -
We could all see—well, Max, Cobie, and I could—that Larry was stoned.
We had just gotten back to Jupiter from lunch, which Larry, as usual, did not attend with us.
Cobie Petersen raised his hand. “Having a good day, Larry?”
Larry fired a dirty look at Cobie.
“Why do you want to know?”
“I care about you, Larry,” Cobie said. “I think I’ll miss you in three days when we get to go home.”
“So write me a letter, kid.”
“You might be too busy with the fat boys.”
“There’s a fat-guy boss on level thirty-three of BQTNP that’s like impossible to beat. It took me over a week,” Trent Mendibles said.
“Really?” Max said, “That’s fascinating, and also really sad all at the same time. And how do you propose helping us win the game tomorrow with all your awesome skills?”
“Fuck you, dude. I swear to God, before we go home you and me are going to go outside and have it out,” Trent said.
“Have what out? Do you mean you want to go upload some streaming data with me? No thanks, I’m a solo artist.”
“Dude, you’re so fucking gross,” Cobie Petersen said. “Anyway, I know exactly what these two dudes are going to do to help us win. I have a plan. They want to get out of here for one day just as much as we do, and so does Larry, I bet.”
“I hate you all.” Trent Mendibles plopped down on his cot—crumple!
Robin Sexton stared blankly at the ceiling and twitched.
And Larry said, “Sure, I’d like to go to the mall. But it’s up to you fuckheads. Normally, the day before the last game is Carving Day, where we let the kids carve shit on the walls of the cabins. But after that Bucky fucker tried killing himself on day one, they told us no sharp shit allowed for the entire six weeks.”
Cobie Petersen raised his hand. “Larry? I pledge allegiance to Jupiter, and to you, Larry. And I also pledge to not stab myself in the throat if you let us carve our names in the wall. Please? Are you guys willing to take the pledge of not stabbing ourselves with me?”
Our general, back in action.
Faced with three raised hands, because Trent Mendibles and Robin Sexton didn’t care about anything, Larry sighed and sat up on his bed. And he probably would have given in to Cobie Petersen’s Pledge of Non-Self-Injury, too, but at that exact moment we heard the jangling war cry of Mrs. Nussbaum trumpeting her arrival at Jupiter’s door.
“Boys! Boys! Hello! It’s me, Mrs. Nussbaum, coming to pay my final visit!”
I looked from Max, to Cobie, and back to Max again.
We were now, officially, all terrified of Mrs. Nussbaum. After all, there were more than enough reasons why: She seemed to know everything about us; she wanted to eradicate males—something we all happened to be—from the human species; and, most frighteningly, she knew that I’d read her book.
The screen door swung open.
“Are you all dressed?” she crooned.
The cat had landed on the planet of mice.
Here, kitty-kitty.
Cobie Petersen raised his hand. “Mrs. Nussbaum? It’s a good thing you didn’t come in five minutes later. Trent there was about to get into a fistfight with Max, and I just about had Larry talked into letting us carve our names in the walls.”
“You mean have it out means he really wants to fight me?” Max said.
“Oh my!” Mrs. Nussbaum said, “Well, I think carving your names would be a lovely thing for you boys to do. But what’s this about fighting? We can’t have that! No fighting allowed! You boys are supposed to be friends!”
Trent Mendibles rolled over on his bed—crumple!—and faced the wall.
Mrs. Nussbaum looked at each of us, frowning slightly. Robin Sexton ignored it all. He just stared at the ceiling and mouthed inaudible lyrics.
Mrs. Nussbaum cleared her throat. “Larry, would you mind leaving me alone with our boys for a bit?”
“You can have ’em till Saturday, for all I care.”
Larry stood up from his bed, a bit woozy and red eyed, and made his way out of Jupiter.
Mrs. Nussbaum sat down on the foot of Larry’s bed, facing us.
“Sit down, boys! Let’s chat, shall we? Max? Cobie? Ahh-riel?”
We sat on our beds.
Cobie Petersen raised his hand.
“Mrs. Nussbaum? What about those two?”
He pointed at the oblivious Robin Sexton and sulking Trent Mendibles.
“Yoo-hoo! Robin! Trent! Yoo-hoo!” Mrs. Nussbaum squealed.
“Please make it stop,” Max whispered.
Trent Mendibles crumple-rolled over on his bed so he could see our therapist. Robin Sexton removed his toilet paper earplugs and sat up.
And Mrs. Nussbaum told them this: “You two boys can run along. Why don’t you go outside and play? I would like to spend today’s time concentrating on Cobie, Max, and Ahh-riel! I feel they need me more, at this point in their lives.”
And when she said the word lives, I truly felt terrified.
“What are we supposed to play?” Trent Mendibles asked.
“Oh my! Why not just go outside and have a chat about Battle Quest: Take No Prisoners?” Mrs. Nussbaum said.
Trent and Robin looked at each other.
Trent Mendibles shrugged. “Sure. That sounds fun. Do you play, kid?”
Robin Sexton nodded.
And as they walked out, Trent Mendibles asked the twitching kid from Hershey, Pennsylvania, “What’s your user name? I’ll look for you when we get home.”
And that was that.
We were alone with Martha K. Nussbaum, MD, PhD.
“I wrote some more stuff on my index card, ma’am,” Cobie Petersen, laying on his West Virginia–boy accent, said.
“I filled up a whole side of my second one,” Max added.
I’d never revisited my choice about where I’d rather be than at Camp Merrie-Seymour for Boys since our first session with Mrs. Nussbaum.
“That’s fine! That’s fine! But, honestly, boys, I’d rather talk about something else today. Would that be all right with you?”
Mrs. Nussbaum smiled and made eye contact with each of us. I glanced away as soon as her eyes met mine.
“What would you like to talk about today, Mrs. Nussbaum, ma’am?” Cobie Petersen asked.
“Oh, Ariel! Is something bothering you? You seem nervous,” Mrs. Nussbaum said.
I didn’t answer her. I was too afraid. I shook my head.
Mrs. Nussbaum cleared her throat and smoothed her white doctor’s skirt past her porcelain knees.
“Tell me—what did you think about my book, Ariel?”
I felt the blood drain from my head. I was suddenly so cold.
I didn’t know what to do, so I just shook my head again and shrugged.
Mrs. Nussbaum was not pleased.
She said, “So it seems our Ariel has reverted back to his nonspeaking behavior. That’s a shame, poor boy. I’ll bet you’ve plenty of stories to tell, don’t you? About where you came from? Or perhaps the sad things that happened to you in the refugee camp, you know, before you met Major Knott?”
I felt dizzy. I also felt Cobie Petersen and Max looking at me, but I didn’t raise my eyes from the floor. She was playing a game, and she was about to make me cry, too, and I suddenly hated her.
“Tell me,” Mrs. Nussbaum said, “you boys don’t truly belong here, do you?”
“I’ve been saying that for six weeks,” Max said.
“And why do you suppose your parents sent you here, then?” Mrs. Nussbaum asked us.
Max said, “Because it’s free.”
Mrs. Nussbaum smiled and shook her head.
“No, no, no . . .”
Then Cobie Petersen raised his hand and said, “Ma’am? I think I know why, Mrs. Nussbaum, ma’am.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Nussbaum’s voice returned to her usual delighted squeal.
Cobie Petersen looked Mrs. Nussbaum directly in the eye and said, “Because I think at least one of us is chipped, and I reckon Alex Division is kind of scared of you, ma’am, if you’ll excuse me for saying so.”
Mrs. Nussbaum continued smiling, looking at each of us. She said, “Well! I suppose they’d never get away with something so predictable as sending me a six-toed cat! And you boys make such handsome biodrones.”
Then Mrs. Nussbaum leaned forward and put her face directly in front of each of us, as though we were all living television cameras. She said, “Tell me—Jake, Colton? Would you really do that to your own children? Your very own sons? You would, wouldn’t you?”
And that’s when I threw up, all over my shoes and socks, and the dirty pine floor of Jupiter.