Gifted by Beth Evangelista Page A

be?”
    They all looked right at me. The alarm I felt must have shown on my face because Sam explained quickly, “It’s gonna be Mr. Zimmerman.”
    I was confused. “I didn’t know he was a football enthusiast.”
    â€œHe’s not,” Sam said. “So we have to play it with shaving cream. Get it?”
    â€œI get it,” I nodded, without the slightest idea what “it” was.
    â€œAs soon as he falls asleep … he’s
ours
.”
    â€œOh!” I said, getting it and feeling my eyes grow again. “Where does one find shaving cream at camp?”
    â€œWe brought it with us.”
    I wondered how They knew the Music Man would be sleeping in Their cabin, but decided They would probably have smeared any unfortunate chaperone They had.
    â€œBut won’t we get in a lot of trouble?” I asked with a light laugh, trying not to dampen Their spirits. Still, it was an important point and one that I felt should not be overlooked.
    â€œNo way,” Sam said. “He won’t know who did it. He can’t punish the whole cabin, and the other guys won’t say nothing.”
    â€œBut what about the empty cans?”
    â€œWe’ll hide ’em,” came the reply, and I could see They’d certainly covered all Their bases. I looked around the room to catch a glimpse of our intended victim, but Mr. Zimmerman was nowhere to be found. He was probably off having his dinner in solitude. At school he always ate by himself in the music room. An
anti
social butterfly. Then I remembered what I had in my backpack.
    â€œWould mustard be helpful? I just happen to have some.”
    They looked at each other.
    â€œWhat kind?” Tim asked. I told him. For some reason They eyeballed each other as though conferring. Maybe this was an important technical detail.
    â€œCool,” Sam finally said. “You can use that. Unless,” he grinned, “you turn chicken. You’re not gonna chicken out on us tonight, are you George?”
    â€œOf course not!” I said, chuckling heartily, a thing I’ve never seen chickens do. “I do this sort of thing on a frequent basis!” Which made Them laugh, too, like a collection of hyenas, and I noticed the fuller Their mouths were, the harder They laughed. But They were my friends now, so I just looked away.
    To my relief, no more was said about the evening’s plans, and by the time dinner was over, it was almost dusk. The last two items on the day’s agenda wereMovie Time and Monday’s Special Activity, a bonfire on the beach. I was hoping that the movie would be something appropriate and inspiring, like
Jaws
. Instead, it turned out to be
The Old Man and the Sea
, killing two birds with one stone for the language arts department, as we just happened to be in the middle of a unit on Ernest Hemingway.
    Near the end of the movie, I saw Sam and Jason creep away from Their places on the floor. I wondered what sort of mischief They were up to, but didn’t feel confident enough to ask my new best buddy, Gabriel Arno, to clue me in. Gabriel still had an odd way of looking at me, as though he were dying to find out what my vital organs looked like, and I had no desire to show him. He was my friend now, but he was a
scary
friend. It was widely known that Gabriel Arno kept a king snake at home for a pet, and that one day when Larry the King Snake decided, ill-advisedly, to bite his master on the arm, Gabriel Arno countered the attack with a bite of his own, a bite so vicious that the serpent had to be rushed off to the vet for a course of antibiotics. It was
my
policy around Gabriel to always wear a blank look on my face and try never to make eye contact with him, and, of course, to resist biting him on the arm, all of which I did while we watched the movie. By the time Sam and Jason joined us on our walk down to the beach, I had forgotten They’d ever left us in the first place.
    The bonfire