Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. This is an alternate-universe story, and written for entertainment purposes only.
Author's Note: Thank you for the reviews, they are greatly appreciated. Keep it up, please, and pass the word if you like it.
Chapter 3 Playing Games
Jonathan lay on his bunk, turning the cigarette package over and over in his hands. He had a pretty good idea who they belonged to, the question was… How did the hotshot get a hold of them? None of the alternatives he could come up with spoke well of the kid's respect for rules, or laws for that matter.
At the same time… At the same time, these shouldn't have been here for Tucker to find in the first place, nor should have the beer. Not that either of those facts excused a break and enter but…
You're not as bad as you want to appear, kid. Like Malcolm, he doubted that Tucker had drunk any of the beer, and the trick with the cigarette had been cute too. Half a second after it was lit, he'd taken it out of his mouth, never to return it. Didn't inhale once, did you? So it had all been an act, a means to an end. But what end?
And then there was Malcolm. He did buy Tucker's story, at least as far as Malcolm's original motives, but that still hadn't explained the younger boy's eagerness for punishment detail. Did he feel some sort of hero worship towards Tucker? Did Tucker represent some exotic ideal that Malcolm aspired to imitate? It wouldn't be the first time a good kid wanted to be like a bad one.
There were other problems too. He sensed a power war brewing in the cabin, with Dutretre and the others on one side, and Tucker (and possibly now Malcolm?) on the other.
At least the face the hotshot keeps secret is the nice one. He hadn't been fooled by the Dutch boy's sweetness and light act. What? You guys think these walls are soundproof? He knew that Dutretre had tried to bait Tucker and hadn't really succeeded. Guys like him don't take losing well. Unlike Tucker who seemed to take it as just part of the game. He remembered the way hotshot had handed over the cigarette pack: Jonathan didn't even have to push. Other kids would've denied it, or tried to talk their way out of it, but not Tucker.
It is a game to you, isn't it, kid? You win, or you lose and get on with the next play. Not your standard twelve-year-old style of thinking. The kid thought like a colleague of his dad's: wisdom (or was that cynicism?) beyond his years; a pint sized PhD.
What am I going to do with you? He knew what he should do: report the whole damn incident to the camp director -- up to and including the suspected break in. But that would get Dino in trouble too, and he was basically a good guy and a friend of Jonathan's. Besides, he didn't want to rat out the kid -- didn't want to lose him this early.
"Oh, well. You're already on work detail. We'll have to take it from there." He had a sneaking hunch that Tucker wasn't going to hassle him on that. Hell, the kid would probably enjoy doing work detail, just because it was supposed to be a punishment. Perverse little bastard.
Wait until the meeting tomorrow night. Then Jonathan would find out how far the monster had gone. And whether or not it was far enough to get Jonathan fired.
# # # #
"Morning. Rise and shine, everyone."
Malcolm groaned and opened his eyes, remembering what had happened the night before. It seemed like such a bad dream, but a look at his feet and the dirt on them confirmed otherwise. Then he remembered the other stupid thing. "Sir? When does…" He climbed out of his bed and began finding his clothes for the day.
"After breakfast Malcolm. During free time." Jonathan walked over and prodded at the upper bunk, which prodded back. "Hey. Up. Breakfast."
"I don't do breakfast." A tousled head protruded briefly from the sleeping bag then disappeared again.
"You also didn't do dinner last night, and we don't allow hunger strikes here. Now, up and at 'em. Let's go. We've got five minutes to get to the showers." Jonathan shook the bag this time. Hard.
"Do that. Have a nice time. Don't slip on the soap." The bag wriggled closer to the wall, and Malcolm couldn't help feeling a little awed at Trip's stubbornness. Didn't Trip realise that they'd been let off easy last night; didn't he realise that Jonathan was being nice?
Or maybe that's the problem. Malcolm knew what it felt like not to be taken seriously. Maybe all Trip wanted was for someone to stop treating him like a kid. It would help if he stopped acting like one, of course, but Malcolm wasn't sure that logic was Trip Tucker's strong suit.
Reaching over, Jonathan picked up the entire sleeping bag, one end in each fist. He lowered it closer to the floor and released the top end.
Trip slid out of the bag and landed on the floor with a thump. He remained where he fell, until Jonathan picked him up.
"I'd kind of hoped we wouldn't have to do things this way again, hotshot. Unfortunately your cabinmates do have to live with you, so showering is compulsory."
Trip was already dressed – he still hadn't changed -- so it was just a matter of waiting for the others to gather their things and go.
At the showers, Trip refused to go in. Malcolm stood aside nervously as Jonathan marched Trip up to the edge of the showers then met resistance as Trip's feet firmly planted themselves against the ledge. "Shower, hotshot." The others gathered around; all of them eager for the free entertainment.
Suddenly Malcolm found himself reminded of a movie he'd seen recently. The Dirty Dozen. So which one was Trip? Surely not Franko, all bluff and bluster and a coward inside. That part seemed more suited for Dutretre, or maybe his growing best friend, Hong. No, Trip was from another movie entirely. One completely his own.
Finally Jonathan picked Trip straight up and plunked him – fully dressed – down into the shower stall and turned on the water. Trip's face never changed expression. It was almost as if he had expected this to happen. Maybe he had.
After a couple of minutes, Jonathan reached in and turned the water off, then lifted the now dripping boy out again. "Now do you want to get changed, or do you want to spend the day in wet clothes?"
No answer from Trip.
"Okay. Wet it is. Hurry up, guys. Shower and get dressed, and then breakfast." Jonathan leaned in and said something quietly to Trip whose face just got stonier.
Cabin 3 garnered a lot of stares at breakfast and most of them were directed at Trip. There were plenty of still wet heads in the camp, but no one else had a pool collecting under their feet. And despite his lack of dinner, the blond boy merely toyed with his breakfast, pushing his cereal around in his bowl with the tip of his spoon. He held a fork in his other hand but did nothing with it as his eggs and sausage congealed.
How long can a person go without food? Malcolm watched, fascinated. He'd never seen anyone work at being miserable before. It seemed to take a lot of concentration.
"Hey, kid." One large hand smacked Trip's shoulder, another hit the table in front of him. "I don't think I caught your name. What did it sound like? Dickhead?"
Oh no. While he supposed he should be thankful that Jonesy had someone else to pick on, why did it have to be Trip? This could not be good.
The fork stabbed down into the table scant millimetres away from Jonsey's hand. Reflexively, Jonesy pulled his hand away; Trip still hadn't taken his eyes off his cereal.
"Boys." Jonesy's counsellor came up behind Jonesy and herded him onward. "Let's not have any of that." The look the counsellor shot Jonathan clearly said more: And you think my kid is dangerous?
Well, he is. Malcolm guessed that that made twice Trip had beaten Jonesy, or at the very least hadn't lost.
"Hotshot. Eat your breakfast." Jonathan spoke up, apparently in an effort to distract everyone's attention from the fork still vibrating in the table.
Trip said nothing, did nothing.
"Come on. You're going to need your strength. Eat up." Jonathan reached across the table with one long arm and prodded Trip's plate.
Something flickered in Trip's eyes for less than a second. Malcolm tensed, waiting for a dish to go flying, or Trip to launch himself across the table at Jonathan, but nothing happened. He'd seen it though, a flash – not just of anger – but of temper. Rage.
"Maybe he can't eat it." Malcolm offered. "Maybe he's allergic."
Jonathan raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "Is that it, hotshot? Are you allergic to breakfast?"
Trip said nothing, did nothing.
"Humans can only go about three weeks without food, you know. This camp lasts for two months. We don't want to send your parents a bunch of bones back."
"Hah." Dutretre nudged Hong. "His parents probably don't want him back at all."
Again that flash and nothing more.
"Boys. Be nice." Jonathan spread his hands out on the table. "I can't force you. But we don't eat again until lunch and that's not very heavy. And you have got work detail today, along with everything else. And you will be taking part in everything else."
Malcolm watched as Jonathan sighed and gave up, walking away from the entire table. He saw the counsellor's hand clench into a fist, and knew that Trip had won. He wondered if the older boy took any satisfaction in the victory at all. And just what it was he thought he was winning.
# # # #
One more, kid, and you'll be eating your own teeth. Dutretre thought he was so hot with his smartassed comments and it took every ounce of Trip's will not to break, not to spoil the main contest. The only thing that kept him from doing it was – strangely – Malcolm sitting across the way and watching him. There was something odd about that kid, like he had no personality of his own whatsoever, and he just borrowed what he needed from other people. That outburst last night was more his normal style than the British kid's -- he was sure of that.
Why should I care? Because he liked puzzles, that's why. And Malcolm was as big a puzzle as Trip was likely to find in this stupid place.
Jonathan got up and stormed away. Found another one of the buttons. Good. The truth was, he wasn't all that hungry. The food he'd scored last night would tide him over until he could scavenge the next meal… wasn't that supposed to be how you survived out in the woods? Admittedly the people who said that didn't mean pre-packaged snacks out of refrigerators, but to each his own, right? He couldn't say anything though. That would spoil the rest of the surprise.
Anticipation. Anticipa-ation. It's making me crazy…He wished he could be there when they found out, but only an idiot returned to the scene for something like that. That's how they catch arsonists. Arsonists loved to watch; he'd learned that while looking for some information on fire in relation to fluid dynamics.
You'd make a good arsonist, Malcolm. Kid was always watching. Watching and thinking, though too much of that could kill ya too. Gotta learn to act, kid. Quick shots, make 'em regret it.
Luke. Come join me on the Dark Side. He could tell the kid was waffling, feeling sorry for Jonathan. Get a grip. He's big, he can take it. What business did Jonathan have being a camp counsellor if he didn't know how to deal with kids? Hell, he'd once sat in front of breakfast all day without eating. Admittedly that had resulted in Go To Your Room and Don't Come Out Until You Can Be Civil, but Mom hadn't given up the way Jonathan just did. Nowadays they just took his plate away and fed it to the dog.
Or in this case, Dutretre. Kid looked like a dog too -- one of those big square ones with the pushed in face and stupid expression.
Finally feeding time ended, leaving only Trip, Malcolm and Jonathan.
"Okay, guys." Jonathan stayed by the door, away from Trip. "Clear up the tables, then start washing them down. Brooms, mops and buckets are in the storage closet over there. Same with the cloths. This place has got to be spotless, and you've got one hour.
"I thought…" Malcolm's voice trailed off miserably.
You thought he meant clean up the cabin, didn't you? Welcome to Reality, kid. Trip stood up wordlessly and gathered together the dishes from Cabin 3's table, scraping the leftovers onto one plate and stacking them neatly with the cutlery on top. When he'd finished on each of the tables, he headed for the kitchen.
"Hey." He heard Malcolm calling after him and ignored it. I knew they'd have one. He also ignored the startled comments of the kitchen staff when he grabbed the large dish cart and wheeled it out to the floor. What? Other morons bring them in one load at a time? Why was it people always thought he was stupid?
He whistled, loading up the cart and ferrying the dishes back to the ginormous dishwasher the camp used. He scraped everything clean into the garbage disposal and loaded the dishes, only to return to the mess hall to find Malcolm trying to decide between brooms.
"Hey." Trip spoke softly, not wanting Jonathan to hear him sounding nice. "Wait'll we've wiped the tables first, then sweep. Saves doing it twice." He picked up one of the bottles in the closet and read the label. "Sanitizing Cleanser. Hm. Level 0 health risk, should be okay." He grabbed a set of testing strips from the next shelf and mixed a solution. He split it into two buckets and handed Malcolm one.
"Here. I'll take the far side, you take the near side, and we'll meet in the middle. Don't spend too much time on any one spot: if you can't pry it up with your fingers, don't bother. After that's done we'll do the floor. Sweep with that…" He pointed to the wide dry-mop, "…just straight runs up and down the floor, then get rid of the piles with a brush and dustpan." His eyes lit on something in the corner. "I'll take care of the rest." Now this was fun.
# # # #
Perverse little bastard. Jonathan listened for a moment to the soft gentle snores and breathing of his charges. Even the hotshot was asleep, or at least doing a good imitation. Thick sandy eyelashes rested against sun-reddened cheeks, giving him the appearance of complete and utter innocence. You're going to be fighting the girls off soon enough kid. He looked so harmless like this; appearance so deceiving.
The kid shifted and sighed, and Jonathan decided it was safe, or at least as safe as it was going to get. "Night, kids." He stepped out the door and closed it softly behind him.
He didn't hurry his way up to the main hall. He had an idea what was waiting for him: the others would already be talking about him and his luck in drawing the 'problem case of the year'. Hell, with Tucker, they'd probably have to expand that to decade, especially when they got the details.
Sure enough, the discussion was in full swing. "Hey, John. We just finished voting you winner of this year's lottery. Congratulations." Kendricks slapped him on the shoulder as he walked in. "Looks like the past two years of grace have caught up with you."
"Lucky three." Jonathan agreed. "Where's Dino?"
"Had to make an emergency run." A deep voice boomed behind Jonathan's shoulder. "You wouldn't believe what happened." Dino waved a paper bag as he pushed his way past, heading towards the coffee table in the middle of the room.
Try me. He was willing to believe anything at this point.
"Some asshole broke into the fridge, and poured out all the beer. Then he stacked the empties back inside. All neatly lined up, like they'd never been touched. Stole my smokes, too."
It was all Jonathan could do not to burst out laughing. God, kid, you do have a sense of humour. Wordlessly he handed the cigarette pack over to Dino who looked at him in disgust.
"You?"
Jonathan shook his head. Realisation dawned for the others.
"Shit." Dino glanced towards the padlock fitted refrigerator and back at Jonathan. "Perverse little bastard, isn't he?"
"Now, you guys don't know it was him." He did start laughing now. This wasn't quite what he'd been expecting. With the hotshot it could've been anything.
"We heard he's already on work detail." Niemanen, in charge of Cabin 22, piped up from the back of the room. "It's what? Day two?"
"Yeah, and you had him cleaning the mess hall? Isn't it usually the cabin on the first offence?"
Jonathan perched on the windowsill, one of the few places left. "I figured he could use the challenge. Besides, he had help." He told them about Malcolm's begging to be assigned alongside Tucker. The other counsellors shook their heads, disbelieving.
"What's worse, is he seemed to enjoy it. Only problem came when I had to physically stop him from using the power floor cleaner. If looks could kill…" Hotshot had actually sworn at him. It was the most words he'd heard from the kid yet.
"Perverse little bastard," Dino repeated. He grinned. He'd had the trouble kid last year, though nothing like Tucker.
"Yeah, but in an hour, John?"
"He did it." Jonathan still had no idea how. The regular cleaning crew took longer than an hour to clean the place up. Yet, according to his watch, it had taken less than forty-five minutes for the kid to go from immobile to Jonathan's prying him off the heavy equipment. He hadn't just moved, he'd been damn efficient. And whistled. He'd actually been enjoying himself.
# # # #
I oughta get an Oscar. Trip shifted and sighed, just like he was asleep. Sure enough, Jonathan bought the act and left the cabin, trying not to wake him. He waited, counting off another twenty minutes before getting up. He stepped lightly down to the floor and gave Malcolm a light shake.
"Go time. Let's roll." He grabbed both of their bags, waited for Malcolm to take his.
"Are you sure this is going to work?" Malcolm's whisper was soft, but Trip could still hear the worry in it. "They lock the gates at night, you know."
"Some locks." Trip scoffed, "I can be through them like nothing. Now let's go before one of these jokers decides he needs to go pee."
Malcolm followed him out, taking care to close the door as softly as Jonathan had. "Are you sure nobody's going to be out…"
Trip rolled his eyes. "Please. They're all tucked away in their secret hideaway talking about what a bad boy I am. Probably trying to decide whether or not to send me home or call in the shrinks. Trust me, no one is going to catch us."
"Oh." Malcolm still didn't sound sure, but he didn't push the matter, either. Truth was, Trip wasn't so certain himself. He had a feeling this Jonathan guy could be pretty tricky, if it ever actually occurred to him.
"So what did Jonathan say to you this morning, in the showers?"
Trip snickered. "That the others wouldn't pick on me so much if I loosened up a little. Like, no shit Sherlock. Truth is, I don't care what they think. They're all morons anyway."
A flicker of worry crossed Malcolm's face, visible in the moonlight.
"Not you. You've got guts, kid. You gotta learn to use 'em a little better, but you've got potential." Poor kid was scared of his own shadow. No wonder that Jones kid had picked Malcolm out as his toy.
They slipped into the woods, staying off the main paths at Malcolm's suggestion. Sure it was longer, but it was also a good idea. Trip told him so.
"Thank you." Malcolm seemed shocked to be receiving a compliment.
Probably doesn't get many. Poor kid. No wonder he was so messed up.
Trip glanced over as they passed the main hall and caught sight of a figure silhouetted in the window. Long and lean, and nicely out of the way. Bye-bye, smart guy. Poor bastard hadn't stood a chance.
# # # #
Jonathan leaned his head against the cool glass, and let its soothe him. He was close enough and blocking enough of the light to be able to see through the window, rather than deal with the mirror effect. Two figures picked their way through the woods, heading towards the main gate. One bigger, with a smaller one following right in his footsteps. Both of them carried bags -- the taller one had his slung easily over his shoulder while the shorter struggled with his. Oh, shit.
He jumped to his feet, attracting more than a few startled stares from his fellow counsellors. "I gotta go guys. I'll be right back." He grabbed a flashlight on his way out, even though the moon was full enough to get away without it. He ran down the path, wanting to catch them before they actually reached the gate.
"Freeze, hotshot." The two figures in front of him stopped and turned around to be identified by flashlight. Just like he'd thought.
"Let me guess. You're going on an unscheduled hiking trip to oh… say… Florida and he came out to make sure you weren't eaten by a bear."
"Actually," Tucker dropped his bag at his feet, "he volunteered, this time."
"Oh, but I think I can guess whose idea it was, hotshot." Jonathan stepped closer. He could see Malcolm shaking his head, but to what he had no idea.
Tucker shrugged. "First two don't count. Cabin?"
"Now."
"Work detail?"
"Double."
"Him too?"
"Him too."
Tucker picked up his bag with the air of someone who'd just struck the better deal. He headed off to the cabin, in no great hurry, but in no apparent worry, either.
"You might want to find someone else to hang out with, Malcolm." Jonathan watched the smaller boy haul his own bag up off the ground and head after the rebel.
Malcolm stopped, and turned around, looking Jonathan straight in the face. "Yes, sir. But then who's going to be friends with him?" He started out again, this time not looking back.
Jonathan stared after. Speechless.