Part 1: The Worm In The Apple
By Tarowen ([email protected])
Pairing: Jack/Ty
Summary: Jack encounters Ty at summer camp after second season, leading to persecution and revelation.
Author's Notes: When I was trying to think of new DC characters to slash, I recalled Jen's second season fling, Bible Boy Tyson Hicks. I'd always found him rather enigmatic, his hypocrisy, actions, and 'explanations' never ringing true. When I reread the scripts from the slash angle, however, all his paradoxes fell so neatly into place I wondered if the writers had planted him as a closet case for someone to find. In any event, I felt that Ty's relationship with Jack was rich with possibilities, though it would have to be handled with care and deliberation to be believable. If Ty were ever to come out, it would take lots of time, realization, and inducement, and would certainly not be gentle for either him or Jack. All of which, of course, is just an excuse for rambling on for seven chapters!
AUTHOR'S NOTE TWO: This is half slash and half camp story. As it was written out of deep affection and nostalgia for the many camps I have attended, I refuse to apologize for all the excess details of camp life. You can always skip over them!
Warnings: My dubious theology may offend the religiously devout. Minor violence.
"Wow." As Jack stepped off the plane, his eyes were immediately drawn to the flame-edged peaks of the mountains, sharp and stunning in the sunset light. He'd seen them from above on the roller-coaster flight in, but now in the westering light, they loomed even more impressive. "Toto, I don't think we're in Capeside any more," he murmured, shouldering his pack.
"Excuse me." Someone bumped into him, and Jack lowered his eyes to head for the smallest airport he'd ever seen. The flight attendants were pulling bags out of the commuter jet themselves, loading them onto a cart for the few yards to the terminal. The air around Jack lingered cool and clean, and the dark green waves of firs convinced him, if he needed more confirmation, that he had truly left Massachusetts behind. Despite the endless day of bumpy flights, tiny seats, plastic food, and the uncertainty of what lay ahead, Jack heaved a thankful sigh.
As he entered the minuscule building, someone called his name. "Jack McPhee?" Peering around, Jack found a tall man of about thirty-five with tightly curled brown hair and a square-jawed face waving at him. He wore a battered plaid jacket, jeans, and hiking boots.
Jack hitched up his pack and crossed the floor. "Mr. Greenwood?" He extended a hand.
"Call me Travis," the man grinned. He had a firm grip. "Welcome to Port Angeles. Do you have a lot of luggage?"
"A couple of duffel bags." Jack glanced towards the baggage area. "They're there, now."
"Let's go, then."
Jack grabbed one and Travis grabbed the other, and in two minutes they were in the parking lot, headed for a disreputable-looking van crouching next to a Mercedes. Once again Jack's eyes lifted to the mountains.
Travis followed Jack's gaze as he untwined one of the van's back doors. "Glorious, aren't they?" He affirmed. "Did you get a good look coming in? Mostly it's cloudy or raining, but I'd think tonight they would look wonderful."
"Yes, they were pretty impressive," Jack nodded. "I've seen mountains before, of course, but eastern mountains are less...spectacular." He peered doubtfully into the the van, cluttered with objects ranging from saddles to paint cans to soccer balls to rolls of canvas to cardboard crates to oars to Jack didn't know what else. "Should I just--toss it?"
"Sure!" Travis laughed, pitching the first bag in. "There's nothing breakable in there, and it's not as dirty as it looks. We haul everything from hay to kids in this old thing." He patted the van fondly as he slammed the back door and rewrapped the twine. "Nothing like good baling twine," he commented. "We use it for everything up at camp." He nodded towards the passenger side. "Hop in. It's not locked--we never bother."
Gingerly Jack pulled himself into the front of the van, where the cracked vinyl was patched with duct tape. A rather forlorn-looking homemade dreamcatcher hung from the mirror, and floor and seats were cluttered with coffee cups, notes, maps, baling twine, pens, and an incongruous life jacket.
Heaving the driver's door shut, Travis roared up the engine, and they reversed out of the nearly-empty lot. "So you've never been to the Northwest before?" Travis questioned as they looped around to the highway.
Jack's eyes traveled everywhere, taking in the dark evergreens, the scatter of houses, and what he could see of the mountains. "No--this is my first time."
"You'll find it hard to leave," Travis predicted, making a turn. "Oh--I forgot to ask whether you had any dinner? We could run by McDonald's if you'd like."
Jack grimaced. "They fed us on the plane--if you can call it food."
"We'll stop, then," Travis chuckled. "A last taste of civilization."
"How far is the camp from here?" Jack queried.
"Forty-five minutes or so--less when you have a real car."
"Do most of the counselors drive?"
"About half," Travis replied. "A lot of the kids from local schools carpool, then share days off. But you don't really need a car; you can almost always bum a ride for your day off, and when you're at camp, there's no reason to go into town." He smiled. "If I had my way, I'd probably never leave." Turning on his blinker, he headed for a McDonald's drive-through in a small strip of stores. They seemed dwarfed by the surrounding firs, gathering darkness as the sunset waned.
A few minutes later, McChicken and Coke in hand, Jack munched quietly and pondered how he had ended up here, 3,000 miles from Capeside.
To say it had not been a propitious year would be putting it mildly. What with the disaster of his poem, his break-up with Joey, the fury of his father, and Andie's breakdown, he'd felt a desperate need to escape. Capeside was a tangled, almost incestuous web of intense emotion, and especially with his unintentional 'outing' of himself--when suddenly the most private recesses of his mind seemed fair game for every bigoted, gossipping--... Jack swallowed, recalling the daily gauntlet. Bad enough to have to cope with his new realizations himself, but so much worse to try to cope under the scrutiny of the town. And then Andie...
He didn't want to think about Andie. And he certainly hadn't been able to face a summer in Rhode Island with his father, so one day, in desperation, he'd done an extensive Internet search for a way out. And he'd found it.
Jack couldn't recall who'd suggested camp counseling, but he'd grasped the idea fervently. He'd always loved camps, and he liked working with kids. After pondering locations, he'd settled on Washington State; it was 3,000 miles away, had cool summers and mountains, and he knew not a single person there. After applying to several local camps, he'd accepted his first offer, Secret Creek Camp in the foothills of the Olympic Mountains.
As Jack ate, Travis talked about the camp, which he and his family had run since its founding in the 1920s. Secret Creek was an old-fashioned, coed, overnight camp, featuring hiking, swimming, sailing, horseback riding, drama, arts and crafts, archery, games, campfires, songs, and everything else Jack recalled from his own camping days. Secret Creek was small--only about 100 kids per session and 30 staff--and backed right onto the Olympic National Forest and Olympic National Park.
"We do most of our overnights and day hikes in the Forest," Travis told him, negotiating a long, narrow highway between endless evergreens. "Some of the rides, too, though we've also got a lot of trails on our own property."
He slowed for a curve, brights flashing off rough, straight trunks and drooping needles--there were no street lights and few houses. Jack felt distance and darkness wrap him round like a coverlet. He could be anyone he wanted to be, out here. Who would know? He could be adventurous, reckless, an only child, rich, intellectual...or straight.
As Jack finished his fries, he felt the clutch of grim determination. That was really why he'd come so far, so alone. He wanted to be straight. Well--wanted the life that came with being straight, however briefly. No taunting, no sly looks, no hate mail in his locker... He would be accepted again, welcomed without reservation. And God knew, he needed that. He was tired to death of struggling.
Forcing away all thoughts of Capeside, Jack turned to Travis and began asking questions about the summer. He learned about the camp's tent group philosophy ("teamwork and respect"), events like TWT (Talent? What talent?) night, free time activities ("log-sitting is very popular with the thirteen year olds"), staff meetings, staff week schedule, ancient camp traditions (many seemed to involve throwing people into Secret Creek), overnights, singing ("there's a nice, rollicking song about the Titanic and another favorite about black flies picking your bones"), hot dog cookouts ("it's a good thing raw hot dogs don't kill you"), chores ("latrine duty vies for popularity only with corral duty"), and so much more Jack's head reeled.
"I'll never remember half of it," he avowed.
Travis laughed. "Don't worry--you'll pick it up quicker than you think. And you'll have a great time. It'll probably be the most challenging job you've ever had--camp is pretty nonstop--but it's worth every minute," he promised. "I couldn't stand an office job, myself. What other job would require you to make s'mores?"
"There is that," Jack agreed with a laugh.
A quiet moment passed as Jack settled back into the worn seat. It was a comfortable silence; Travis didn't seem like one of those people who need always be talking. Curious, Jack glanced at his companion, face unevenly illumined by the dash lights. "Did you always want to run the camp?" He asked. "You said it was a family thing, so do you have any brothers or sisters who were interested?"
Throwing him a brief glance, Travis shifted his seat. "I... have an older brother. Keith," he said. "He...loved camp--still loves camp--but he decided it might be too...restrictive for him to run the place. He went to law school at the UW and works in Port Angeles. He drops by most weekends, though. Can't stay away."
Jack's brows drew together. "Does he...try to tell you how to run the place, or something?"
"Oh, no." Travis threw Jack a forced smile. "Keith and I've always gotten along great. I just think...maybe he did really want the camp, but..." The director shook his curly head. "He's probably right, though; he wouldn't be happy tied to the place. He's better off where he is."
But Jack could tell Travis wasn't convinced. Oh well--none of Jack's business. To cut the tension, he asked more questions about the program, and Travis relaxed once more.
They talked sporadically as the drive went on, dark and deserted, rife with trees. At length Jack caught the glitter of the moon on water. "Is that the lake?" He queried.
"Teardrop Lake," Travis nodded. "That's where we take the kids for sailing--we have a dock and boathouse. Camp's only a mile or so away now." He glanced at his companion. "You must be pretty worn out, being on east-coast time and all."
Jack nodded, stifling a yawn. "Sorry."
"My wife's made up a bed for you in our house for tonight; I figured you could use it. You can move into your tent tomorrow."
"Are any of the other counselors already there?"
Travis slowed, turning the van onto a dirt road, evergreens huddled overhead. "A few. My assistant director's in his cabin, and our head riding counselor's been up for a week so people could bring back the horses at their convenience--we lend them out in the winter. And one of our maintenance guys is here. Most everyone else will arrive tomorrow. Some will drive in by nine to help with the rest of the tents, and then returning staff arrives for lunch and a meeting. New staff comes in mid-afternoon. That's when the fun really starts."
Jack had to hang on as the van jounced over ruts and puddles. The clutter in the back crashed and clashed, and the dreamcatcher spun wildly. "I guess you don't need speed bumps," Jack commented as he nearly clunked his head on the roof.
Travis laughed. "Nope. All-natural. And here we are." He pulled the van up beside a rambling old farmhouse, cozily lit. Stumbling with weariness, Jack managed to get himself and his bags inside, greet Travis' wife (the kids--too young for camp--were already asleep), brush his teeth, and fall gratefully into the guest bed. The night outside was brooding dark, quieter than any he'd ever heard. For a brief moment he missed the song of the eastern cicadas, but in the next moment sleep claimed him, and he knew no more.
Jack woke to misty skies and silence. A glance at the clock showed him six AM--nine on the east coast. He felt wide awake, rested, and ready for anything. The night before Travis had told him he could get up whenever he wanted; breakfast would be at eight, but he could forage if he were starved. Throwing off blankets, Jack rose, shivered, took a hot shower, and dressed in jeans and fleece before letting himself out of the quiet house.
All around the property the evergreens--spruce, douglas fir, hemlock--loomed dark and dripping, like wet crows. The Greenwoods' yard featured a patchy conglomeration of scrubby grass and weeds, littered with fallen needles, twigs, and toys. Gravel crunching, Jack walked down the short drive to the camp gates.
Inside the gates, the dirt road stretched through a large, open clearing flanked by several worn buildings. First on the right was a covered dining porch, concrete floor painted red, the roof supported on peeled log pillars and beams. A score or so round white laminate tables were topped by cheerfully painted stools, and an enthusiastic if inartistic sign proclaimed this "The Rainforest Cafe." Jack was about to walk on when he heard the creak of a door, and scented the enticing aroma of coffee. Glancing up, he saw a a rather scruffy, bearded man in a dilapidated hat exiting the kitchen, mug in hand.
The man's eyebrows rose when he saw Jack. "McPhee?" He questioned.
Jack stepped onto the porch and stretched out his hand. "Jack, yes."
"Stu Sanderson. Riding staff," the man introduced himself laconically. "You're up early."
"East coast time."
"Trav up?" Stu sipped his coffee.
Jack shook his head. "Just me. He said breakfast at eight."
Stu nodded. "Want some coffee? Kurt--the cook--lives back of the kitchen, and he puts the pot on a timer. He left some doughnuts, too."
"Thanks. Do you...usually get up so early?" Jack queried.
Stu shrugged. "Sometimes. Today I've got an early horse delivery." He nodded towards the kitchen. "Go get your coffee. If the Cartwrights aren't here by the time you're done, I'll give you the nickel tour."
Mounting the shallow kitchen steps, Jack entered the door conspicuously labeled "In." The public area of the kitchen was small, bounded by counters. All around the walls hung wooden signs, proclaiming such things as "Rebecca's Raccoons," "Fred and the Lost Boys," "Mike's Tower of Terror Troop," "Todd's Cheez-Whiz Chumps," or "Cindy's Cineplex Scentsations," all accompanied by bright, incomprehensible paintings.
Jack selected a mug (chipped) and poured the coffee (hot), then selected a doughnut (powdered). Exiting the "Out" door, he joined Stu on the outer steps. "Does it really rain that much here?" He gestured to the sign.
Glancing up, Stu rolled his eyes. "They named it that about three years ago, when we had a really rainy summer--I think there were only two days the whole summer when it didn't rain. The Snowmelt flooded, and they had to chainsaw the Secret Creek dam. Anyway, that's when they renamed the dining hall. Before that it was just Kurt's Kitchen--Kurt's been here forever."
"How long have you been here?" Jack questioned, chewing his doughnut.
"Including as a camper? Fifteen summers," Stu told him, gazing down the road to the gate.
"That's...a long time. Do most of the counselors come back? Were a lot of them campers?"
"About half were campers, and most counselors spend at least two summers here. I'll keep coming back so long as the Greenwoods run the place. It's an easy job, and it's free room and board. So to speak." He finished his coffee and set his mug on a table.
"What do you do the rest of the year?"
"Whatever. College sometimes. This year I was in South America, working construction." He glanced at Jack. "You finished?"
Hastily Jack disposed of the rest of the doughnut and the coffee. He brushed powdered sugar from his fleece. "Lead on."
Stu stepped onto the road and headed for an extremely decrepit, wood-sided building across from the dining porch. It faced a small weedy field, and a larger, more impressive structure of fieldstone and logs on the other side. "These are the lodges--fondly called TR and FDR," Stu told Jack, shooting him a sidelong glance.
Jack thought quickly. "Roosevelts?"
Stu pursed his lips. "Good." He gestured to the older building. "Trav's great grandfather built that in the '20s. He had a thing for Teddy Roosevelt and the national park system, so he tried to copy a park lodge--not very successfully," Stu added as they viewed the front of the building. "Not a single square corner. Eyeballed it. But he named it after Roosevelt, so when they built the new lodge--" He indicated the other building, "they had to call it FDR. And it looked kind of like a WPA project anyway. We have all our meetings and talent shows and dances and whatnot in FDR. TR's for hanging out after the kids go to bed--it's got a good fireplace, anyway."
The road forked in front of TR, one branch going straight, the other heading to the left beyond the lodge. "That goes to the boys' staff tents. You'll see them later," Stu said. "Over there--" He gestured to the right as they passed a high clump of bushes and the swimming pool, "--is the Art Palace and the Drama Den." Jack saw a big, old-fashioned red barn between the trees. "Drama's up top, art on the bottom," Stu explained. "Other side of it's the big field for games and archery, and Secret Creek. The Greenwoods dam it in summer so you can swim and do some minor boating. Campfire circle's across the creek. You'll see it later."
"Can you see the mountains on a clear day?" Jack queried, eyes on the hovering mist. It lent an air of unreality to the scene, and once more Jack felt very far from home.
"There's places you can get a good view," Stu replied. "Mostly the angle's too steep, and the foothills block you. But up at Secret Falls it's pretty impressive."
They were ambling under more trees now, and in the widely-spaced wood Jack saw wooden platforms for the tents he would be helping raise later. "Girl's section," Stu pointed right. "And the Health House. Boy's section on the left. Corral's right ahead." Jack could see it, and soon they emerged before a row of stalls. The corral lay behind the row, and beyond that, more trees. There were no horses in the stalls.
Anticipating his question, Stu said, "Horses are out in the back pasture. I'll bring them in tomorrow when the shoer gets here--hay's coming today, though."
As they viewed the solid stalls and more dilapidated tack shed, Jack decided to ask his question. "Stu..."
Stu flicked him a look.
"If you've been here fifteen summers, you must know the Greenwoods pretty well."
Stu nodded. "Family friends. I grew up playing with Greenwood cousins, though Trav was always a lot older than us."
"Can I...ask a question?"
Stu started ambling back towards the road. "Shoot."
"I was...talking to Travis last night, and his brother came up," Jack began. "And I just got the feeling that maybe I was...I don't know, getting into something personal. Should I keep out of it?"
Stu kicked at the mud ruts. His boots looked as though they'd seen many hard summers. "It's no big deal," he shrugged. "Trav just feels guilty that he got the camp, but he and Keith have always been close."
"Did Keith want the camp?"
"Maybe. But he thought Trav would run it better. And he's right." He shot Jack a look. "You'll meet Keith, though. He's always around--good at fixing things." Stu paused, listening. "I think I hear a truck--probably the Cartwrights."
"Do you need any help?"
Stu shook his head. "Wander if you want, but meet back at Trav's for breakfast. We'll do the tents after that."
"Thanks for the tour."
Stu shrugged again. "No problem." He slouched off, leaving Jack to explore on his own.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur for Jack. Breakfast with Travis and his family (the kids eager to pass on their intimate knowledge of camp to a stranger) and the other few counselors was friendly and filling, and the work on the tents exacting and exhausting. But Jack met many more counselors, both male and female, and everyone seemed remarkably cheerful and welcoming. He learned lots of names, heard lots of camp stories and inside jokes that made no sense, and shared his own carefully edited story.
Lunch--macaroni and cheese with little smokies--was served in the Rainforest Cafe, with lots of laughter and groaning and a few food fights, along with a handless jello-scarfing contest that Jack, surprisingly, won. For the first time in months he felt completely at ease, accepted, and happy. He felt as though a tight knot inside him had loosed, and the long-building tension finally eased.
After lunch the returning counselors met, so Jack unpacked in his new tent. Shared with seven others, it was a dim cave of orange canvas filled with rusting but serviceable bunks, wooden crates, and a kerosene lamp. After he'd shoved his empty duffels under his bed, Jack wandered back across the lodge field, past the Art Palace (Why not Art Barn?), and down to the dark waters of Secret Creek. A fire pit and manmade sandy beach flanked the small swimming hole, and a short pier extended into the water. A bridge led to the ten-foot-diameter Potlatch Island (complete with totem pole and teepee), and further down a bridge over the dam led to the main campfire area. Dusky cedars and spruces rose from the far shore, dipping their needles into the slow-moving water.
Collecting a few stones, Jack practiced his skipping. He and Andie used to have contests in the summers, and she--Miss Perfection--always won. Now he watched as one of his stones hit a record seven skips, and wished she could be there to see it--to share this with him. She needed a new world, too.
"Well, well, well. Jack McPhee."
Jack froze. His heart bumped painfully in his chest. That voice... It couldn't be. It couldn't possibly be, he told himself firmly. He was imagining things. Slowly gathering his composure, he turned.
And felt his new-born contentment scatter like autumn leaves.
Tyson Hicks. Of Capeside, Massachusetts. Standing there, impossibly, at Secret Creek Camp, wearing that faintly smug expression Jack had seen all too often this past year. The stones fell from Jack's hand, dropping noiselessly to the beach.
Jack had heard everything from Jen about her brief fling with Ty. He knew Ty for a Bible-thumping hypocrite, church-boy by day and self-proclaimed "rat-packer" by night, playing piano and drinking in Capeside's seediest dive. Knew also every sly, sneering comment Ty'd made about "fruitflies," "playing for the other team," and "if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it must be a duck." Knew Ty believed homosexuality was a choice, plain and simple, and those who chose it were medically and morally damaging America.
Jack also knew how Ty had treated Jen, pursuing her relentlessly, then when she fell for him and was willing to take the relationship further, breaking off and accusing her of "tempting" him. All but called her a slut to her face, further damaging an already shaky and bruised ego. For any of that Jack would have condemned Ty, would have been delighted never to see him again. But in Capeside, Mass., and at Capeside High, it wasn't that simple.
Ty had unfortunately shared most of Jack's classes, though Ty had made it a point to sit as far from the other boy as possible and had refused to participate in any of Jack's small-group activities. Frequently Jack had looked up to find Ty's hazel eyes on him, expression ranging from smug to sneering to angry to judgemental to amused to enigmatically blank. Sometimes Jack had found notes on his desk or in his locker: Bible verses condemning homosexuality, 'hotlines' for 'redemption,' and book titles like 'Choose Family' or 'AIDS: God's Judgement.' And every look, every note, every sly comment had torn one more leaf from Jack's fragile self-confidence. Ty had never made any threats or gotten in Jack's face, but the subtle persecution had proved far more effective.
So now, seeing Ty at Secret Creek, Jack's stomach twisted. He felt the blood drain from his face. "Why..." He licked dry lips. "Why are you here?"
Ty proffered a condescending smile. "I have family in Seattle. I was looking for a summer camp job, and they suggested Secret Creek. Why are you here?"
"To get away from you," Jack answered quietly. He brushed sand from his hands, internally reconstructing his armor. "Do you plan to make my life hell here, too?"
"Hey, I'm just the messenger," Ty spread his hands. "I don't make the truth."
"News to me," muttered Jack, thrusting hands in his pockets. His gaze was narrow. "You planning on telling everyone about me?"
"You mean they don't know?"
Jack gritted his teeth. "I'm not making that mistake again."
"Interesting." Ty's brows rose. "Are you just playing straight, or are you really trying to turn around? Make a fresh start?"
"You've just crossed the border into None-of-your-Business land."
"Just asking," Ty tossed his brown head. "Because if you're really trying to change, you know I'll do anything I can to help."
Jack's stomach soured further. "Cut the crap, Ty. Are you going to tell, or not?"
Again Ty raised his hands. "Well, Jack, you put me in a difficult position. On the one hand, it's my moral obligation to tell Travis, since he's responsible for his campers and responsible to their parents."
"Are you implying--"
"On the other hand," Ty continued smoothly, "far be it from me to stand in your way if you're playing for the home team again--or trying to. I'd truly admire you for the effort. Either way, I'll keep you in my prayers."
"Spare me your hypocrisy," Jack snapped. "You'll do whatever gives you the biggest charge, though I should point out that if I'm fired, you won't have the whole summer to torture me. Why don't you wait until the last week, when it will be so much more effective? When I have friends and kids I care about? Wouldn't it be much more satisfying to bring me down then?" He wheeled to leave, but then thought of something. "Why didn't Travis tell me you'd be here?" He demanded. "You'd think he'd find it a bit of a coincidence to have two Capesiders suddenly apply to his camp."
"He did," Ty nodded. "He told me about you when I applied, but I asked him to keep me a secret. To surprise you." Ty smiled. "He was glad to think we would each have a friend from home."
Jack simply stared at him for several minutes. Then he swore, softly, "God, you make me sick." And he strode off into the fine drizzle now glistening on the conifers.
When Jack reached the dining porch again, it was milling with counselors in jeans and gortex, like an REI fashion show. All were chatting, laughing, filling out papers, and deploring the weather. Travis' father Ray--white haired and rangy--was taking polaroid head shots.
Passing out folders, Travis waved Jack over. "Hey, Jack." He smiled. "Ty find you?" He offered Jack a folder.
"Yeah. He found me." Taking the handout, Jack pivoted to go.
"Something wrong?" Eyes sharp, Travis halted him.
Jack pondered. "Ty's...not a friend. He...dated a good friend of mine and treated her pretty much like crap, so..." He lifted his brows.
With a casual greeting Travis dispensed a folder to a black-haired Asian girl, but his eyes stayed on Jack. "He said he was a friend of yours. Why would he say that?"
"Who knows?" Jack shrugged. "Maybe that's just how he describes everyone he knows slightly."
Travis looked unconvinced. "Will this be a problem for you, Jack?"
Blinking, Jack collected his senses. "No. I'll just--steer clear of him."
"That can be hard at camp." The director nodded to some newly arrived counselors, and distributed more folders.
"I'll be fine," Jack assured him. "It won't affect my job, I promise."
"Well...let me know if it becomes an issue," Travis warned. "I like to know what's going on at my camp, if it might affect the kids or the program."
"Understood." Dipping his head, Jack retreated.
The first day comprised a chaos of meetings, name games, papers, tours, and laughter. Before dinner they played a quick muddy game of backwards baseball on the big field, a Secret Creek tradition Jack quite enjoyed, even as he ruefully examined his mud-encrusted jeans.
Dinner--turkey noodle casserole with somewhat chilly vegetables and fabulous cheese bread--was welcome, but less welcome afterwards was learning that Ty was one of the songleaders. As he and a girl--Teresa--played their guitars and the the returners sang blithely "Way down yonder on Secret Creek," Jack had to admit Ty was good. Beyond that, he refused to consider.
After dinner came another meeting, then their first campfire: complete with songs, an 'inspirational' story by Ray to which the counselors attended politely if not enthusiastically, a disgusting game involving large quantities of marshmallows and a bit too much drool, and skits by each tent group. Jack's group (thankfully not including Ty) had lacked imagination and so had settled for the old skit about the troll who kicked the gentle Trids down the mountain, and the rabbi who thought it looked like fun but was told, "Silly rabbi--kicks are for Trids!" Ty's group actually did a pretty funny skit based on the old Pac-Man video game, and Jack was grimly pleased when Ty ended up in Secret Creek, courtesy of Stu. For the first time Jack appreciated the cold, dank night, with the wet evergreens shuddering drops onto the gathering.
Staff snack followed the campfire. After chocolate chip crisp cookies and leftover cheese bread, most of the counselors migrated to TR, where Stu started a fire. TR was filled with battered, loose-spring chairs and sofas, scarred tables, moldy books, and pictures from seventy summers mildewing on the walls. They could hear the scrabble of bats in the attic, but soon the cheerful cacophany of the counselors overrode it, and--on the opposite side of the room from Ty--Jack settled in for a pleasant evening with the 1983 edition of Trivial Pursuit. As he correctly identified the capital of Massachusetts, Jack thought just maybe his summer could be salvaged.