I let my Honor drop to 0 and close my eyes and open my mouth to kiss the hequet.
Something bitter drips onto my tongue.
I snap my eyes open. The hequet is squeezing her cheek, pushing out drops of green fluid that plat into my mouth.
“Agh! Hepatodes!” I try to kick her away, but she holds me down. I clamp my mouth shut but I can already feel the tiny creatures spreading along my tongue and commingling with my spit.
“I thought—ptttt— only male hequets—”
She smiles. “First impressions.” She has a much deeper voice all of a sudden, and I remember the telltale sign you’re supposed to look for with men versus women: the Adam’s apple. I never thought to look for an Adam’s apple on an other normal!
“Are you …” I start. I try to say, Are you going to kill me? but my tongue has gone heavy and dead. It protests the whole idea of working for me and sits in my mouth like a hunk of fish. My toes clench up. My feet freeze. I try to grab the hequet to escape, but my hands won’t respond.
Mortin, Ada, Leidan, and Iyatra walk into the room.
81
WHAT’RE YOU DOING? I TRY TO YELL, BUT it comes out “Hrrgrbbbb …”
“You got him?” Mortin says.
“Secure,” the hequet says.
“Poor guy,” Leidan says. “I don’t blame you, little traveler. It could have happened to any of us.”
“Not me,” Ada says. “I can’t believe you, Perry. I didn’t think you’d go for it.”
“Earth men are all animals,” Iyatra says. “This one was well-behaved, to tell the truth.”
Mortin slings me over his shoulder. “Perry, sorry it had to end like this, but we saw no other choice.”
“Nurrr … ,” I say. My war hammer sits useless on the bedside table.
“The hequet poison will wear off soon. You’ll be fine.” Mortin carries me out of the room. My eyes face the floor. I see Ada’s sparkling toenails as she follows us to the stairs. I try to beat Mortin but I can’t move.
“Consider yourself lucky,” Ada says. “We can’t do an orbitoclasty on you here, so you’re going to remember all this. Most people who come never remember.” Downstairs, Mortin carries me behind the bar. Leidan pulls the lever to open the trapdoor. Iyatra waves good-bye with her dancing girls, and they all curtsy to me. The male, the one who poisoned me, bows.
“Don’t tell anyone about us when you go back,” Mortin says. “They’ll just send you to the mental institution.”
Below the bar, in the “safe pit,” Ada lights candles on the wall. We’re surrounded by bottles and barrels—Leidan looks at them longingly, but I guess he really is trying to dry out because he shakes his head and pulls aside a burlap sheet on the floor. A thakerak sparks underneath, like it expects me.
No! Let me go! I want to scream, but what comes out? “Uhhhrrrrrr …”
“It’s okay, Perry,” Ada says. “Next time just be a little more suspicious when strange women come into your bedroom.”
“Mmmmmrrrrr!” I manage, which is the paralyzed way to say, I’m sorry; I don’t hate you; I actually might love you!
“Check his wounds,” Mortin orders. Leidan looks at my palms, my leg, my ankle.
“They’ll think he just fell. It’s not a very good camp, right?”
“It’s a ghetto camp. Perry,” Mortin says, “I want you to understand something. I owe you my life. In addition to that, I think you’re a pretty cool guy and I’ve had a good time hanging out with you. I have a feeling we’ll see each other again. But for now, you have to put all this behind you. You never should have gotten caught up in it, and it got out of hand. If I hadn’t had my addiction to pebbles—and you know now I have two days clean, that’s a big step—I never would have been smoking over in your world, and I never would have been caught by you, and I never would have had to bring you over here for correspondence analysis, and so on. So just think about it as a really great dream and go back to your life, and let us worry about the princess and Ophisa and all the rest. Enjoy being safe.”
Dead, I want to tell him. I’m dead when I’m safe. All my life I’ve been dead and I didn’t even know it.
“You remember how this works, right?” Ada asks. Mortin rests me on the thakerak. “Don’t think of Camp Washiska Lake....”
I try not to think of something else so that I think of something else. I try not to think of India, Australia, Antarctica, a place I can appear and instantly be killed so this will all be over. But the brain is a slippery thing. The image that comes to me instead is me, in the dining hall, pulling my pants down—I am going back to a world where I’ve just made an irretrievable fool of myself—I can’t—please—I’d rather—
The thakerak springs to life and sends me back to
CAMP
WASHISKA
LAKE
82
THE ITCHING HARDLY BOTHERS ME THIS time. I come to on the ground in the dark and as soon as I feel it, I hit myself—a good strong punch to the face—and it dissipates. I crawl to Sam’s clothes, which I left by the tree. Someone’s messed with them. I remember leaving the pants folded with the shirt on top; now the shirt is folded with the pants on top. I spin around. I was followed.
“Dale?”
It has to be Dale. I think back to the acne handout I got at the nurse’s office, the one where I wrote Ryu = Eric Chin. I need another paper and pencil, to write Dale Blaswell = Officer Tendrile. It’s not just the mustache; Dale was following me when I escaped the dance. Then, when I went to the World of the Other Normals, Officer Tendrile was following me. That can’t be a coincidence.
But he’s not here now. Maybe the light of me coming back scared him. Or maybe Dale is biding his time because he knows about the World of the Other Normals. Maybe that’s why he works here. Maybe he knows what a “special place” Camp Washiska Lake really is.
Screw him. I raise my foot over the patch of mushrooms next to the Logo Spermatikoi battery. I pause—do I want to do this?—yes— I slam my foot down and squish them all, over and over, flattening them into a pale paste, cursing as I do. I know it doesn’t make a lot of sense, but when you get emotional, things that make no sense make a lot of sense. I probably spend forty-five seconds stomping on the mushrooms before I realize—how am I going to get back?
“No no no … ,” I say. I kneel down and touch the negative end of the battery. I put my finger in the mushroom biomass. Nothing. I’m stuck on Earth.
“No!”
I spot Mortin’s tail lighter, still by the tree. I go stomp on that until it’s splinters in the dirt. That makes me feel better, and I don’t mind that I’m barefoot: I have soles of steel.
I put on Sam’s clothes one by one—like a small boy, like an old man. I’m crying but I don’t acknowledge the tears. I let them fall to the ground without wiping my face as I walk back to camp wondering what the hell I’m going to do.
83
MAYBE I SHOULD BURN DOWN CAMP. See what kind of correspondence that causes for my “friends” in the World of the Other Normals. Maybe I should tell everyone what happened and test out some padded walls for a while. I want to hurt Mortin; I want to hurt Ada; I want to hurt myself. Then I realize one thing I can do: I can actually kiss Anna Margolis.
They don’t think I’m up to it—Mortin hardly even asked me this time. They’ve given up on me. But I’d like Ada to know it happened. I’d like her to watch me kiss Anna, actually, and see how that feels. It’s going to be challenging (because of the whole indecent exposure thing), but I can handle a challenge; I already have. I’d like to do it to prove to Ada that it was wrong to trick me and send me back. Not to save the princess: fuck the princess. I’d like to do it out of spite. I know spite is supposed to be a terrible emotion, but it stops my tears from falling and puts a smile on my face and gets me motivated as I get back to the dining hall.
The music of the dance is still pumping out. The banner is still over the door: WELCOME TO CAMP WASHISKA LAKE! I don’t see any couns
elors looking for me or girls comforting Anna. Did something happen to erase what I did? How incredible would that be? It would be like coming back from the dead!
I put my hand on the wooden banister and go up the steps. Inside, boys and girls are distributed in the same formations I left them in. The wallflowers are still on the wall; the dancers are still dancing for one another’s benefit; Miss K is still at the punch bowl. I did it—or my correspondent did. I took it back!
I jump and click my heels; I can’t think of another appropriate action. A kid sees me and snickers, and I snicker right back. What a stroke of luck. Now, where’s Anna?
“Perry!” a voice calls behind me. “What’re you so happy about?”
Standing at the wall—a wallflower, who knew—is my brother. He has his head bent to one side and his shoulders slung back in the kind of pose he always uses to get people to notice him.
“Jake?” I do a double take. I hug him. I haven’t hugged my brother in a long time.
“Whoa, whoa! What’s the matter? Everything okay?”
“How’d you get here?”
“Excuse me? I work here. C’mon, Perry, you’re embarrassing me!” He hugs back reluctantly. He feels like a man. And he doesn’t smell like liquor.
“Jake—I didn’t expose myself to any women at this dance, right?”
“Not that I know of … Why?”
“And our parents, they’re not dead, right? No bad correspondences?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Just come outside for two seconds.” I pull him onto the dining hall porch.
84
JAKE LOOKS SO MUCH BETTER: CLEAR-eyed, open, younger. His hair is cut short, like mine. (Well, not quite like mine: I still have the three-quarter bowl going on because of the knife other-normal Ryu threw at me.)
“Tell me everything. Please. Pretend I know nothing. How’d you get here? What are you, a counselor?”
“I’m a counselor’s assistant. You know that. I saw you, like, five minutes ago.”
“You didn’t go to rehab?”
“Rehab? That’s weird—I had a dream about rehab. It was one of those middle-of-the-day nap dreams just before dinner. Why?”
I laugh. Inside, the crowd whoops as DJ Cowboy Pete cues up a thick summer jam. For the first time, I think it might be fun to go in and dance. Not obligatory, not part of some mission. Fun.
“Have you ever heard of a person named Mortin Enaw?”
“No. Is that a real name?”
“Have you ever been to a place called the World of the Other Normals?”
“No. Are you on drugs?”
“That’s the next question. Do you do drugs?”
Jake leans in close. “That’s none of your business.”
“I think I know who your correspondent is.”
“What?”
“I can’t believe he didn’t tell me. Thank God he stopped smoking pebbles. The whole time we were there, we were changing you, and now look at you—you look better!”
“What are you talking about?”
“I just—the universe isn’t all the same, okay? There are some universes where people do different things. There’s a universe where Mom and Dad are married and a universe where they never met. And I know for sure there’s a universe where you’re in rehab, and—”
“Perry, maybe you should go to the nurse—”
“And remember what you told me about the Odyssey and honor? You’re right, you can’t be honorable all the time. Heroes lie—”
“Perry.” He grabs my shirt and shakes me.
“Whoa. Are you allowed to do that, as a camp employee?”
“I’m allowed to do whatever it takes to calm you down.”
“I need my book. The Other Normal Edition. And my pewter mini. The nurse said they were in Dale’s cabin. Can I get them back?”
“What are you talking about? What book?”
“Creatures and Caverns? The game I play?”
“You don’t play any role-playing games. Jesus. Girls hate that stuff. C’mon, we need to go back in. This is the only coed activity for a week, you know that?”
85
I DON’T PLAY ANY ROLE-PLAYING GAMES? How can I not play role-playing games? That would be like coming back to Earth and suddenly being gay!
“All right!” DJ Cowboy Pete says into his mic. I’m back inside; Jake is doing his counselor-assistant duties by breaking up a pair of campers who are dancing pornographically. “It looks like everyone’s having a great time, but are you ready—are you set—for the chicken dance?”
The crowd groans. I approach Sam. Ryu and his henchmen eye me—whatever crazy correspondences I’ve set into motion, they still seem to hate me. I couldn’t care less. “Hey, Sam, what’s the chicken dance?”
“Can’t talk, man.” Sam’s chatting with a girl. I back off. I guess I haven’t made him any more willing to interact with me. I try to look cool, standing with my head cocked, like my brother did by the wall.
“Please form a square,” DJ Cowboy Pete says. “This is a square dance, so don’t be shy. Boy-girl, boy-girl, find a partner and give it a whirl.”
The counselors start herding us into a human square. I see that the people who aren’t proactive, who don’t grab someone, end up next to someone they don’t know or like. I spot Anna across the room and approach.
“Hi, I’m Peregrine. Remember?”
“Uh, hi. I think when we met, you called yourself Perry.”
“That works too. I’m getting more comfortable with both. You want to dance with me?”
“The chicken dance, you mean?”
“If that’s what we’re doing. It’d be a real honor.”
“Have you ever done the chicken dance? It’s not an honor.”
“I haven’t. Can you tell?”
Anna smiles. “You look different.”
“Better?”
“Less nervous. I guess I have to admit that’s better.”
We get in the square as DJ Cowboy Pete announces, “Here we go!” and starts up some music that sounds like a demented local mattress commercial. “The chicken dance goes like this!” He folds one arm in front of his face and sticks his wrist over his nose so that his hand sticks out like a beak. “With a beak beak beak!”
He waves his hand up and down, imitating a chicken’s beak.
“And a wing wing wing!”
He folds his arms out and sticks his hands under his armpits, flapping up and down.
“And a tail tail tail!”
He pushes his rear end out and bops it up and down.
“Bwak bwak bwak bwak!”
The music makes chicken noises in sync with the DJ. Then it repeats, “With a beak beak beak! And a wing wing wing! And a tail tail tail!” as he does the same absurd motions. Then it goes into an incongruous lilting bridge with an Italian feel. It’s the dumbest piece of music I’ve ever heard, and there’s no way anyone is going to—
I turn to my left, and there’s Anna, beak-beak-beaking. I ready my hand at my nose. Around the room, everyone in the square is chicken dancing, from the hardest-edged boys to … well … me.
“Second time’s the best! Switch to your left! Chicken Dance a-gain!”
I switch positions with Anna, shaking my tail-tail-tail at her while the music cavorts along. I’m dancing! Not like last time, when I was dancing in a way that was going to get me made fun of. In the chicken dance, it’d be foolish to get made fun of; it’d be tautological.
“Let’s meet!” I yell at Anna over the music.
Propose that you meet in a romantic location to continue your conversation.
“What?”
“Let’s meet, me and you!”
“Like a date?” She laughs.
“Yeah, exactly like that!”
“I’m on the other side of the lake!”
“So? It’s a little trickle of water! I’ll walk across!”
“What are you talking about? It’s a lake.”
> “It’s full?”
“Yes!”
“Huh. Then I’ll sneak over in a canoe!”
“You wouldn’t!”
“I would. I will!”
“One week, then!”
“One week from tonight?”
“Yeah!”
“Midnight! I’ll meet you at the girls’ waterfront!”
“You’re crazy!”
“I know!”
“Bwak bwak bwak bwak!”
We switch partners. I face Ryu. He stands there with his arms folded. “You think you’re cool?” he asks.
“Ryu! Why don’t you chicken dance?”
“No, don’t touch me, okay? I’m here to give you a message. You ever heard of White Lotus Crew?”
“Ah … no?”
“That’s who’s gonna kill you. You understand? Kill you.” Ryu puts his hands up to his nose and does a beak-beak-beak.
86
WE SLEEP ON THE FLOOR IN THE YURT. I understand academically that this is how yurts work, but it’s not until I’m down there, with my feet facing the center, in my underwear on top of my sleeping bag, that I realize what a terrible setup it is. Jaxson, Kolby, George, JB, Ryu, Sam, and I produce a heap of nocturnal sweat. Everyone’s odors combine to form one rank nimbus.
Even if I were in a fragrant spa, I wouldn’t be able to sleep; I’m worried about Ryu’s “White Lotus Crew.” I end up getting strange snatches of half-sleep where I dream I’m fighting a gas demon.
Breakfast is at eight in the morning, back in the dining hall. It’s bright and cavernous—all the boys from all the age groups fit inside at once. It smells so much like breakfast food—like eggs and bacon and those diced potatoes that you only find in hotel buffets—that I think I might pass out. My whole body aches. My leg feels freshly bitten. Across the room, the kitchen door swings back and forth. Inside are the steam and machinery needed to feed two hundred campers and counselors three times a day. The younger boys surround us like horrible reminders of what we used to be. They’re yelling, chewing, scraping plates … kids are fighting over orange juice. Once you take soda away, it’s amazing what people will fight over. Our counselor, Ken, sits with our yurt, drinking a muscle shake.