Um, how about because I am a mutated freak? But my mom stubbornly refuses to believe this. We mostly just let her live in her fantasy world, since it's easier than trying to drag her into the real one.

"And that's about it," Douglas said. "Got any messages for anybody? Want me to tell Rosemary anything?"

"Douglas," I hissed in a warning tone.

"Oops," he said. "Sorry."

"I better go," I said. I could hear someone coming down the hall. "Thanks for the heads up and all. I guess."

"Well," Douglas said. "I just thought you should know. About the guy, I mean. In case he shows up, or whatever."

Great. Just what I needed. Some reporter showing up at Lake Wawasee to interview Lightning Girl. Pamela wouldn't freak too much about that.

"Okay," I said. "Well, bye, Catbreath." I used my pet name for Douglas from when we were small.

He returned the favor. "See ya, Buttface."

I hung up. Down the hall, I heard keys rattle. Pamela was just locking up her office. She came out into the main reception area.

"Everything all right at home?" she asked me, sounding as if she actually cared.

I thought about the question. Was everything all right at home? Had everything ever been all right at home? No. Of course not.

And I didn't think it'd be too much of a stretch to say that everything would never be all right at home.

But that's not what I told Pamela.

"Sure," I said, hugging the padded envelope to my chest. "Everything's great."

C H A P T E R

4

I was forced to eat those words a second later, however, when I stepped outside the camp's administrative offices, into the sticky twilight, and heard it.

Someone screaming. Someone screaming my name.

Pamela heard it, too. She looked at me curiously. I didn't have time for questions, though. I took off running in the direction the screams were coming from. Pamela followed me. I could hear her office keys and loose change jangling in the pockets of her khaki shorts.

Dinner was over. The kids were streaming out of the dining hall and heading over toward the Pit for their first campfire. I saw kids of all sizes and colors, but the two to whom my gaze was instantly drawn were, of course, Shane and Lionel. This time, Shane had Lionel in a headlock. He wasn't choking him, or anything. He just wouldn't let go.

"It's okay, Lionel," Shane was saying. He pronounced it the American way, LIE-oh-nell. "They're just dogs. They're not going to hurt you."

The camp dogs, barking and wagging their tails delightedly, were leaping around, trying to lick Lionel and just about any other kid they could catch. Lionel, being so short, was getting most of these licks in the face.

"See, I know in Gonorrhea, you eat dogs," Shane was saying, "but here in America, see, we keep dogs as pets. . . ."

"Jess!" Lionel screamed. His thin voice broke with a sob. "Jess!"

There was a group of kids gathered around, watching Shane torture the smaller boy. Have you ever noticed how this always happens? I have. I mean, I know whenever I take a swing at somebody, people immediately come flocking to the area, eager to watch the fight. No one ever tries to break it up. No one ever goes, "Hey, Jess, why don't you just let the guy go?" No way. It's like why people go to car races: They want to see someone crash.

I waded through the kids and dogs until I reached Shane. I couldn't do what I wanted to, since I knew Pamela was right behind me. Instead, I said, "Shane, let him go."

Shane looked up at me, his eyes—which were already small—going even smaller.

"Whadduya mean?" he demanded. "I'm just showing him how the dogs aren't gonna hurt him. See, he's afraid of them. I'm doing him a favor. I'm trying to help him overcome his phobia—"

Lionel, by this time, was openly sobbing. The dogs licked away his tears before they had a chance to trickle down his face very far.

I could hear Pamela's keys still jangling behind me. She wasn't, I realized, on the scene quite yet. Clutching my envelope in one hand, I reached out with the other and, placing my thumb and middle finger just above Shane's elbow, squeezed as hard as I could.

Shane let out a shriek and let go of Lionel just as Pamela broke through the crowd that had gathered around us.

"What—" she demanded, bewilderedly, "is going on here?"

Lionel, free at last, hurled himself at me, flinging his arms around my waist and burying his face in my stomach so the dogs couldn't get at his tears.

"They try to kill me!" he was screaming. "Jess, Jess, those dogs are try to kill me."

Shane, meanwhile, was massaging his funny bone. "Whaddidja have to go and do that for?" he demanded. "You know, if it turns out I can't play anymore on account of you, my dad's going to sue you—"

"Shane." I put one hand on Lionel's shaking shoulders and, with the envelope, pointed toward the Pit. "You've got one strike. Now go."

"A strike?" Shane looked up at me incredulously. "A strike? What's a strike? What'd I get a strike for?"

"You know what you got it for," I said, answering his last question first. The truth was, I hadn't figured out the answer to his first question. But one thing I did know: "Two more, and you're out, buddy. Now go sit with the others at the campfire and keep your hands to yourself."

Shane stamped a sneakered foot. "Out? You can't do that. You can't throw me out."

"Watch me."

Shane turned his accusing stare toward Pamela. Unlike when he was looking at me, he actually had to tilt his chin a little to see her eyes.

"Can she do that?" he demanded.

Pamela, to my relief, said, "Of course she can. Now all of you, go to the Pit."

Nobody moved. Pamela said, "I said, go."

Something in her voice made them do what she said. Now that's an ability I wouldn't mind having: making people do what I told them, without having to resort to doing them bodily harm.

Lionel continued to cling to me, still sobbing. The dogs had not gone away. In the usual manner of animals, they had realized that Lionel wanted nothing to do with them, and so they remained stubbornly at his side, looking at him with great interest, their tongues ready and waiting for him to turn around so they could continue lapping up his tears.

"Lionel," I said, giving the little boy's shoulder a shake. "The dogs really won't hurt you. They're good dogs. I mean, if any of them had ever hurt anyone, do you think they would be allowed to stay? No way. It would open the camp up to all sorts of lawsuits. You know how litigious the parents of gifted children can be." Shane being example numero uno.

Pamela raised her eyebrows at this but said nothing, letting me handle the situation in my own way. Eventually, Lionel took his head out of my midriff and blinked up at me tearfully. The dogs, though they stirred eagerly at this motion, stayed where they were.

"I don't know what this means, this 'litigious,'" Lionel said. "But I thank you for helping me, Jess."

I reached out and patted his springy hair. "Don't mention it. Now, watch."

I stuck my hand out. The dogs, recognizing some sort of weird human/dog signal, rushed forward and began licking my fingers.

"See?" I said as Lionel watched, wide-eyed. "They're just interested in making friends." Or in the smell of all the Fiddle Faddle I'd handled earlier, but whatever.

"I see." Lionel regarded the dogs with wide dark eyes. "I will not be afraid, then. But … is it permissible for me not to touch them?"

"Sure," I said. I withdrew my hand, which felt as if I'd just dipped it into a vat of hot mayonnaise. I wiped it off on my shorts. "Why don't you go join the rest of the Birch Trees?"

Lionel gave me a tremulous smile, then hurried toward the Pit, with many furtive glances over his shoulder at the dogs. I don't think he noticed that Pamela and I had as many by the collar as we could hold.

"Well," Pamela said when Lionel was out of earshot. "You certainly handled that … interestingly."

"That Shane," I said. "He's a pill."

"He is a challenge," Pamela corrected me. "He does seem to get worse every year."

I shook my head. "Tell me about it." I was beginning to wonder if Andrew, whose cabin I'd inherited, had heard through the grapevine that Shane had been assigned to it, and then lied about having mono to get out of having to spend his summer dealing with that particular "challenge." Andrew was a "returner." He'd worked at the camp the summer before as well.

"Why do you let him come back?" I asked.

Pamela sighed. "I realize you wouldn't know it to look at him, but Shane's actually extremely gifted."

"Shane is?"

My astonishment must have shown in my voice, since Pamela nodded vigorously as she said, "Oh, yes, it's true. The boy is a musical genius. Perfect pitch, you know."

I just shook my head. "Get out of town."

"I'm serious. Not to mention the fact that … well, his parents are very … generous with their support."

Well. That pretty much said it all, didn't it?

I joined my fellow Birch Trees—and the rest of the camp—around the fire. The first night's campfire was devoted almost entirely to staff introductions and acquainting the campers with Camp Wawasee's many rules. All of the musical instructors were paraded out, along with the rest of the camp staff—the counselors, the administrators, the lifeguards, the handymen, the nurse, the cafeteria workers, and so on.

Then we went over the list of rules and regulations: no running; no littering; no one allowed out of the cottages after 10:00 P.M.; no cabin raids; no diving into the lake; no playing of musical instruments outside of the practice rooms (this was a crucial rule, because if everyone tried to practice outside of the soundproof rooms provided for that purpose, the camp would soon sound worse than a traffic jam at rush hour). We learned about how Camp Wawasee was smack in the middle of five hundred acres of federally protected forest, and how, if any one of us went wandering off into this forest, we should pretty much expect never to be heard from again.

On this encouraging note, we were reminded that the mandatory Polar Bear swim commenced at seven in the morning. Then, after a few rounds of Dona Nobis Pacem (hey, it was orchestra camp, after all), we were dismissed for the night.

Shane was at my side the minute I stood up.

"Hey," he said, rugging on my shirt. "What happens if I get three strikes?"

"You're out," I informed him.

"But you can't throw me out of the camp." Shane's freckles—he had quite a lot of them—stood out in the firelight. "You try to do that, my dad'll sue you."

See what I meant, about gifted kids' parents being litigious?

"I'm not going to throw you out of camp," I said. "But I might throw you out of the cabin."

Shane glared at me. "Whadduya mean?"

"Make you sleep on the porch," I said. "Without benefit of air-conditioning."

Shane laughed. He actually laughed and went, "That's my punishment? Sleep without air-conditioning?"

He cackled all the way back to the cottage, and accrued another strike when, along the way, he threw a rock—supposedly at a firefly, or so he claimed—which just happened to miss Lionel by only about an inch and ended up hitting Arthur—who took out his feelings on the matter with prompt assertiveness. I, relieved to see that at least one member of Birch Tree Cottage could defend himself against Shane, did nothing to stop the fight.

"Jeez," Scott said. He and Dave, their own campers having obediently gone on ahead to their cabins—and probably brushed their teeth and tucked themselves in already—paused beside me to observe Shane and Arthur's wrestling match, which was happening off the lighted path, and in what appeared to be a dense patch of poison ivy. "What'd you ever do to deserve that kid?"

Watching the fight, I shrugged. "Born under an unlucky star, I guess."

"That kid," Dave said, watching as Shane tried, unsuccessfully, to grind Arthur's face into some tree roots, "is just destined to take an Uzi to his homeroom teacher someday."'

"Maybe I should stop this—" Scott started to step off the path.

I grabbed his arm. "Oh, no," I said. "Let's let them get it out of their systems." Arthur had just gotten the upper hand, and was seated on Shane's chest.

"Say you're sorry," Arthur commanded Shane, "or I'll bounce up and down until your ribs break."

Scott and Dave and I, impressed by this threat, looked at one another with raised eyebrows.