"That flute guy" was the wind instructor, a French dude name Jean-Paul something or other. He was kind of hot, in a scruffy-looking French kind of way. But he was a little old for me. I mean, I like my men older, and all, but I think thirty might be pushing it a little. How weird would that look at prom?
"I don't know," I said as our line moved closer to the water. "He's Do-able, I guess. But no Hottie."
I hadn't realized Karen Sue Hanky was eavesdropping until she spun around and, with flashing but deeply circled eyes, snarled, "I hope you aren't speaking of Professor Le Blanc. He happens to be a musical genius, you know."
I rolled my eyes. "Who isn't a musical genius around here?" I wanted to know. "Except you, of course, Karen."
Ruth, who'd been chewing gum, swallowed it in her effort not to laugh.
"I resent that," Karen said, slowly turning as red as the letters on the lifeguard's T-shirt. "I will have you know that I have been practicing for four hours a day, and that my dad's paying thirty dollars an hour to a professor who's been giving me private lessons over at the university."
"Yeah?" I raised my eyebrows. "Gosh, maybe you'll be able to keep up with the rest of us now."
Karen narrowed her eyes at me.
But whatever she'd been going to say was drowned out when the lifeguard—who was also pretty cute: definitely Do-able—blew a whistle and yelled, "Birch Tree!"
My fellow birches and I made a run for the water and jumped in simultaneously, with much shrieking and splashing. Some of us were better swimmers than others, and there was much choking and sputtering, and at least one attempted drowning, which the lifeguard spotted. Shane was forced to sit out for twenty minutes. But, otherwise, we had a good time.
I was teaching them a new song—since Pamela had put the kibosh on "I Met a Miss"—when Scott and Dave and Ruth and Karen strolled by with their campers. All of them, I noticed, looked a little bleary around the edges.
"I don't understand how you can be so wide awake," Scott said. "Didn't they keep you up all night?"
"No," I said. "Not at all."
"What's your secret?" Dave wanted to know. "Mine were bouncing off the walls. I had to sleep with a pillow over my head."
Ruth shook her head. "Their first night away from home," she said knowingly. "It's always the toughest. They usually settle down by the third or fourth night, out of sheer exhaustion."
Karen Sue exhaled gustily. "Not mine, I'll bet." She glared at some passing Frangipanis, who giggled and tore off along the path, causing all of us to chime, in unison, "Walk, don't run!"
"They are little monsters," Karen muttered, under her breath. "Won't do a thing I say, and the mouths on them! I never heard such language in all my life! And all night long, it was giggle, giggle, giggle."
"Me, too," Ruth said tiredly. "They didn't nod off until around five, I think."
"Five-thirty for me," Scott said. He looked at me. "I can't believe that Shane of yours just slipped off to Slumber land without a fight."
"Yeah," Dave said. "What's your secret?"
I honestly didn't know any better. I said, cheerfully, "Oh, I just told them all this really long story, and they nodded off right away. We all slept like stones. Didn't wake up until reveille."
Ruth, astonished, said, "Really?"
"What was the story about?" Dave wanted to know.
Laughingly, I told them. Not about Rob, of course, but about the killer car, and the appropriating of some of Mr. King's works.
They listened in stunned silence. Then Karen said vehemently, "I don't believe in frightening children with ghost stories."
I snorted. Karen, of course, didn't know what she was talking about. What kid didn't love a ghost story? Ghost stories weren't the problem. But the fact that a three-year-old could be kidnapped from a mall and not be found until two years later?
Now that was scary.
Which was why, instead of joining my fellow Birch Trees for breakfast that morning—even though I was starving, of course, after my swim and my Fiddle Faddle dinner of the night before—I snuck back into the camp's administrative offices, in the hopes of finding a phone I could use.
I scored one without a lot of trouble. The secretary with the NASCAR-driving boyfriend wasn't in yet. I slipped into her chair and, dialing nine first to get out, dialed the number to the National Organization for Missing Children.
Rosemary didn't pick up. Some other lady did.
"1-800-WHERE-R-YOU," she said. "How may I direct your call?"
I had to whisper, of course, so I wouldn't be overheard. I also assumed my best Spanish accent, just in case the line was being monitored. "Rosemary, por favor."
The lady went, "Excuse me?"
I whispered, "Rosemary."
"Oh," the lady said. "Um. One moment."
Jeez! I didn't have a moment! I could be busted any second. All I needed was for Pamela to walk in and find that not only had I abandoned my charges, but I was also making personal use of camp property. . . .
"This is Rosemary," a voice said, cautiously, into my ear.
"Hey," I said, dropping the Spanish accent. There was no need to say who was calling. Rosemary knew my voice. "Taylor Monroe. Gainesville, Florida." I rattled off the street address. Because that's how it comes. The information, I mean. It's like there's a search engine inside of my brain: insert name and photo image of missing child, and out comes full address, often with zip code attached, of where child can be located.
Seriously. It's bizarre, especially considering I've never even heard of most of these places.
"Thank you," Rosemary said, careful not to say my name within hearing of her supervisor, who'd sicced the Feds on me once before. "They're going to be so happy. You don't know—"
It was at this point that Pamela, looking troubled, came striding down the hall, heading straight toward the secretary's desk.
I whispered, "Sorry, Rosemary, gotta go," and hung up the phone. Then I ducked beneath the desk.
It didn't do any good, though. I was busted. Way busted.
Pamela went, "Jess?"
I curled into a tight ball underneath the secretary's desk. Maybe, if I didn't move, didn't even breathe, Pamela would think she had seen a mirage or something, and go away.
"Jessica," Pamela said, in the kind of voice you probably wouldn't use if you were talking to a mirage. "Come out. I saw you."
Sheepishly, I crawled out from beneath the desk.
"Look," I said. "I can explain. It's my grandma's ninetieth birthday today, and if I didn't call first thing, well, there'd be H to pay—"
I thought I'd get brownie points for saying H instead of hell, but it didn't work out that way. For one thing, Pamela had looked as if she'd already been in a bad mood before she saw me. Now she was even more upset.
"Jess," she said in a weird voice. "You know you aren't supposed to be using camp property—"
"—for personal calls," I finished for her. "Yes, I know. And I'm really sorry. Like I said, it was an emergency."
Pamela looked way more upset than the situation warranted. I knew something else was up. But I figured it was some kind of orchestra camp emergency or something. You know, like they'd run out of clarinet reeds.
But of course that wasn't it. Of course it turned out to have something to do with me after all.
"Jess," Pamela said. "I was just going to look for you."
"You were?" I blinked at her. There was only one reason for Pamela to have been looking for me, and that was that I was in trouble. Again.
And the only thing I'd done recently—besides make a personal call from a camp phone—was the whole ghost story thing. Had Karen Sue ratted me out for that? If so, it had to be a record. I had left her barely five minutes ago. What did the girl have, bionic feet?