Make a Mess in the Mess Hall
I had a plan to make sure my name got on the cake decorating list. I figured my best bet that morning was to sit with my friends at a table near the front doors of the mess hall, skip eating breakfast, and be ready to move fast.
So while Nathan, Sebastian, and Pogo ate their eggs and pancakes, I sipped on OJ and waited for Director Mudwimple to tell us what to do. I wouldn’t have been able to eat even if I had wanted to with my stomach churning the way it was.
The anticipation of sign-ups obviously didn’t have much of an effect on Nathan’s and Sebastian’s appetites. They were having a contest to see who could cram the most food into their mouths in a single bite. Pogo jittered in her chair, cheering on Sebastian as he finished off his last three strips of bacon.
“That was a piece of pie.”
Nathan shook his head. “Dude, the saying is a ‘piece of cake.’”
“Does type of pastry really matter?” Sebastian asked.
Pogo laughed at them and then turned to me. “Do you feel okay? You aren’t eating.”
“I’m fine. I’m just nervous about choosing our electives. Remember Mindy said cake decorating fills up fast.”
“Don’t worry—I’m sure we’ll both get what we want.” She harpooned a piece of pancake onto her fork.
Nathan slapped Sebastian a high five as he folded an entire pancake in his mouth.
I shuddered. “Why do guys think that’s an accomplishment?”
“Wana-pla-tahtoh-n-barritos-witus?” Nathan mumbled.
“I can’t understand you when you talk with your mouth full of food.” I wrinkled my nose in disgust. “Plus, it’s gross.”
Nathan swallowed the pancake and washed it down with a tall glass of milk. “I said, ‘Do you want to play Tacos and Burritos with us?’”
I looked at Pogo and she nodded.
“Count us in,” I said, “but after sign-ups.”
Director Mudwimple climbed onto the stage, gripping the microphone. Within moments, it was so quiet you could hear a napkin flutter to the floor. “After you’re done eating, take your breakfast trays to the dish counter and unload them. The front porch is about to be pressure washed, so go out the back doors. There, you will find four tables, each with a sign-up sheet. Write your name under the elective you want. Your first choice may fill up right away, so please have a second option in mind.”
She waited for the murmurs and whispers to stop before she continued. “If you don’t get the elective you want and can find someone who is willing to trade with you, you may do so. But there will be no trading after tomorrow morning. And under no circumstances may you sign up a friend. If we see you do that, you will not get your elective.”
Coach Fox stepped up next to her and took the mic. It was only eight thirty in the morning, and he already had sweat stains on his shirt. “Also, if you do not clean off your breakfast tray, you will not get the elective you sign up for…and we have ways of finding out who doesn’t clean their tray.” He stared at us silently before continuing. “You’ll have free time until lunch, so we can organize classes and get prepared for you hooligans. You’re dismissed.” He didn’t really need the mic, but I think he liked being loud.
It was every man for himself.
The frantic smacking of dishes onto trays and chairs scraping against the floor filled the mess hall. Squealing and noisy chatter got louder and campers mobbed the dish counter to stack their dirty trays before bum-rushing the back door.
I grabbed my glass. “C’mon!”
Pogo threw her silverware and cup onto her tray, seized it, and followed.
I kicked myself for picking the table closest to the front of the mess hall. The door to the back was already jammed with campers—I knew I needed to move fast and get back there.
I wiggled and squirmed my way through the crowd to the tray counter. Pogo was a couple feet behind me.
“Hurry!”
At least half of the campers were already stampeding out the back door. I made it to the counter and tossed my juice glass down. I turned around to look for Pogo. She’d also found a clear spot and was unloading her plates.
“Almost done!” she yelled.
I spun around and crashed into Queen Victoria. A splash of her juice landed on her white polo. She looked down at her shirt and then scowled at me. “Watch out,” she sneered.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know you were right behind me.”
“Just look where you’re going.”
I looked over her shoulder. More kids were leaving through the back.
Pogo jogged past and motioned for me to follow. “Meet you at the lake in a few minutes!”
“I gotta go, Victoria. I’m sorry I bumped you,” I said, moving to the side.
She rolled her eyes at my apology.
I dodged around her, but before I could pass, her foot slipped out in front of me and I fell flat on my stomach.
“Oops,” she sang.
I rolled over and looked up at her as campers stepped around me.
One corner of her mouth turned up in a smirk. “Sorry. You really should look where you’re going.”
I clenched my fists. More campers scurried past me to the door—I was wasting time.
“Forget about it,” I said, standing up.
Her fork fell from her tray. She smiled sweetly. “Can you pretty please get that fork? My hands are full.”
I rolled my eyes but bent down to pick it up.
Seconds later, orange juice, bits of pancake, maple syrup, and eggs oozed down my head and splattered on the floor.
Victoria snickered. “Oh. I. Am. So. Sorry.”
I scrambled up and stared at her, heat surging through my body. “You did that on purpose!”
“Prove it.” She plopped the tray on the counter and crossed her arms. “Oh, and you really should wash out that shirt. Our housekeeper says orange juice can stain if it’s left on clothing too long.” She gave me one last smirk, turned on her heel, and walked out the back door.
I grabbed a handful of paper napkins and wiped myself down. A kitchen assistant came around the corner and freaked out when she saw the mess. She made me help her mop up before I could go to the sign-up table. I pretended it was Victoria’s perfect hair I was using to smear food across the floor instead of the dingy, old mop—it didn’t make me feel any better though.
No one was left at the sign-up tables when I got there. The cake decorating list had thirty slots on it. Slot number thirty read Victoria Radamoskovich. She’d even had the nerve to dot her i’s with hearts.