“Youdidhate it,” Nash points out.
“I still kind of do,” Mandy replies. “But like... less.”
West raises his Capri Sun in a weary toast. “To Camp BALLS. May it be slightly less explosive tomorrow.”
“Unlikely,” says Jax.
McCormick stands and bellows: “Campers! Who’s ready formandatory bonding time and friendship skits?”
A chorus of shrieks echoes across the campgrounds.
Nash groans. “I’d rather take enemy fire.”
Brandt raises his eyebrows. “Again?”
They all groan. And laugh. And keep eating the mac and cheese like it’s the last good thing in the world. And outside the mess hall window, the sign sways gently in the summer breeze:
CAMP BALLS
Beyond the Army: Legion of Love Soldiers
The ketchup blob that smeared down the sign looks a lot like blood, fittingly.
Paper stars hang from the ceiling of the cafeteria. There’s a banner made of construction paper that says “Camp BALLS Has Talent!” with glitter still shedding off the word BALLS. A flashlight duct-taped to a broomstick serves as a spotlight.
The counselors stand side by side like they’re facing a firing squad. Because they are. A firing squad of pre-pubescent teens and ten-year-olds with ukuleles and interpretive dance numbers.
Mandy’s sitting behind a table labeledJUDGESin glitter glue. He looks like he’d rather be audited.
Brandt squints at the handmade sign. “Why is ‘Talent’ in quotation marks?”
Jax mutters, “Because what we’re about to see is aloose interpretation.”
West, clipboard in hand, blows the whistle like a man with authority he no longer believes in. “Alright, campers. You’ve got three minutes each. Keep it family-friendly, fire-free, and if anyone brings out another snake, I will walk.”
The first act begins. It’s a six-year-old girl doing aggressive ballet to a slowed-down remix of Metallica. Everyone claps. Mandy looks vaguely haunted by the song choice.
Next up, the Weenie Blaster 9000 crew performs a dramatic reenactment of the fire pit explosion using puppets made from hotdog buns and googly eyes.
Brandt wipes away a tear. “They grow up so fast.”
Then comes the nightmare.
“Next act,” McCormick booms, reading from an index card, “isNash and the Terrifying Twins,performing a magic show!”
Nash’s head snaps around. “I didn’t sign up for this.”
“You sure did,” Jax says smugly, holding up a paper with Nash’s forged signature. The twins bounce excitedly beside him, each holding an oversized magician’s hat.
Nash walks onto the stage like he’s approaching enemy lines. He opens the first hat. It’s empty. The second hat? Glitter bomb. It detonates in his face like a Lisa Frank IED. The kids cheer like he won a Tony Award.
Covered in sparkles, Nash deadpans to the audience, “Ta-da. I hate all of you.”
Mandy smirks from the judges’ table. “Ten points for flair.”
Jax is next, roped into beatboxing while a group of first graders freestyle about juice boxes, fart noises, and friendship. It’s objectively terrible, but everyone loves it.
“Yo, yo, yo, my socks are damp!
