A/N: 1. Just to be clear, Lizzie, Gordo and Miranda are now sixteen and Matt, Lanny and Melina are 13. 2. Please review! I'm begging you! Please, please,please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, pllll... Okay, I'll stop now. 3. Well, I don't actually have 3, but once you have 1 and 2 it just seems wrong to stop, no?
Lizzie chewed thoughtfully on her nails. Well, specifically it was her pinky nail, but since 4:00 AM that morning she'd worked through the pinky, index, thumb and whatever the other one was called.
The car door beside her swung open.
"Lizzie, hurry up! You and Miranda brought about ten million suitcases full of clothes and there's no one here to help us!"
Lizzie turned as the sudden insult brought her back to reality. "I only brought 3. And one's for my makeup!" she snapped at the brown-eyed boy.
"Exactly." Gordo groaned moving over to the trunk so Lizzie could get out.
"You know it does seem a little weird that no one came to greet us," Miranda said and looked around, frowning. "Aren't there supposed to be like councilors or something?"
Gordo shrugged, pulling a fuzzy red carrying case out of the pile. "They're probably just busy helping other campers."
Lizzie looked around the parking lot uneasily. "But don't you think there'd be at least a few other cars? I mean, there's no one else here." It was true. No other cars accompanied Miranda's cherry red convertible. (That's right, a red convertible. Just like the guys have in those sappy old movies Miranda and Lizzie watch on weekends, Gordo had observed when he'd first seen it. Miranda hadn't taken it well – and he had the bruise to prove it.) The parking lot was completely empty, giving it that weird, unnerving, quiet feeling. In fact none of the usual camp sounds, like laughing, splashing, the unzipping of suitcases or that weird screeching sound Matt made every time Lizzie gave him a wedgie, were there.
"Well, we are late. You two had to keep stopping to check your makeup." Lizzie and Miranda were about to protest but Gordo held up a hand. "I know, 'you never know when Ethan Craft might drive by.' Honestly though, what are the chances Ethan might be going to the same camp as we are?"
"I still can't believe we have to go to camp! Ever since our dads joined that band they've been acting like we got younger since they're trying to be younger."
That year, Mr. Gordon had joined a community band in hopes of 'getting in touch with his inner adolescent'. He'd taken some bass lessons in high school, but unfortunately the notes seemed to be hitting him instead of vice versa. In May Mr. McGuire had decided to join too and had become the Murky Oil's (yes, that was their name, and no, they were not on anything when they made it up) guitarist and self-appointed lead singer. After a while of unofficial helping out, Mr. Sanchez had become the rodie and tech guy. Though the band couldn't play a note, all the adults swooned over them and the mothers had even made groupie costumes.
To the kids' surprise though, Murky Oil had been booked. It was another McGuire wedding summer – about every five years another one of Sam's extended families would have a few of their children married off and they usually had the weddings all at once – this time it was cousin Ri-Ri's turn. Ri-Ri had heard about Murky Oil and the family wanted them to play at all the weddings through out the summer. Taking the kids had been considered, but the parents decided not to – saying something about not having enough time as adult friends. Thus, Camp Bloombell was found.
"Let's check the main building." Miranda suggested.
They made their way up a hill to a large triangular building. It looked fairly new and modern, but a part stuck out onto the large wooden porch. It looked old and rickety. With holes in its mesh screen windows, cramped appearance, ancient computers and several broken floor boards, all three were reluctant to go in and were surprised by the crooked sign reading: "STAFF OFFICE".
After a few minutes of looking around, Gordo came across something and called to his friends. It was a short letter. It read almost impishly:
Dear Parent/Guardian,
Unfortunately, due to reasons beyond our control, Camp Bloombell is being shut down. We are sorry for any inconveniences this may cause you. A check for your payment is enclosed.
Sincerely,
Sherrie Cohan
Camp Bloombell Head Councilor
"The camp's empty?"