Camp Rolling Hills by Stacy Davidowitz

Author:Stacy Davidowitz
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Abrams
Published: 2016-03-07T16:00:00+00:00

I finally made it backstage, Bobby thought to himself. He stumbled in the dark toward a wooden bench in the wings, where he’d officially be on deck for his Campstock performance.

It had been three whole days since everything had changed for the worse, but being back here was a fresh slap in the face. And to top it all off, if the residual pain from the Midsummer Dance didn’t kill him, he was sure performing in front of the whole camp would. He hadn’t practiced or slept well, and due to his mom’s terrible packing, he was stuck wearing the same stupid, too-hot-for-summer outfit, minus the bow tie and, of course, the cape. If only I hadn’t learned the guitar, he thought, I’d be an anonymous face in the crowd right now instead of about to be the laughingstock for three hundred people. He walked hard into something metal.

“Ow!” Bobby yelped, holding his left shin. That’s it, forget it. If he couldn’t see where he was going, he would just wait for Rick in the audience. He turned, took two steps in the direction he’d come from, then remembered that being backstage in the dark was better than where he’d been—pre-on-deck next to Jamie and Jenny, who had been placed—what do you know?— right after him in the Campstock order. Sitting beside them had made him so uncomfortable, he’d started to hyperventilate. And then he’d nearly fainted onto Jamie’s lap. He’d go for a second backstage bruise over joining the angry J-squad again.

“Right over here!” someone whispered. Bobby turned around and was blinded by a flashlight.

“I can’t see when you’re shining . . .”

“Oh, sorry, dude.” A shadowy figure moved the flashlight to illuminate a bench. Bobby limped to it and took a seat. The light disappeared and reappeared, illuminating Steinberg’s face. He had a mic’d headset on and was holding the flashlight below his chin. “You have forty-five seconds, Smelly. No pressure.”

“Right. No pressure. Thanks.” Bobby nervously dug his fingers into the underside of the bench, right into a semi-hard glob of gum. Great. He yanked his hand out and tried to soothe himself with Missi’s flute music. He couldn’t tell if she was any good—he had no idea what she was playing—but whatever she was doing sounded nice and devoid of squeaks. He couldn’t see much of her from the wings except her frizzy strawberry hair through a crack in the curtain.

“Thirty seconds, dude,” Steinberg whispered next to Bobby. “Are you sure you wanna go through with this?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“You still look upset. Just surprised you wanna sing and stuff for you-know-who in front of the whole camp.”

He didn’t. He absolutely didn’t wanna sing and stuff for you-know-who in front of the whole camp. What on earth was he doing?

Steinberg gave Bobby a send-off nod. “Be right back. Tear all your ligaments.”

“What?”

“Break legs.”

“Yeah . . . ,” he croaked.

Rick had promised that performing would get Bobby back on his feet, but he knew Steinberg was right: now was not the time.

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