Horse Camp (10 page)

Dear Diary,

It's a few days before the fair.

Even though the costume component is only worth ten points in the Red Rock County Fair Talent Show, Sheryl and June Bug have been staying up late night after night. They've been running the sewing machine so loud and long that none of the rest of us could get a wink of sleep, in order to put together the tackiest, trashiest country-western outfit ever! June Bug is going to wear a red satin shirt tied up in a knot to bare her midriff (of course!) and a pair of cutoff jean shorts with little balls stitched all around them that look like they were ripped right off some old grandma's lamp shade. When June Bug dances, Sheryl says, the little balls will add extra interest.

Apparently, June Bug's talent is singing. Who told her it was a talent of hers, I have
no
idea. She sounds like a braying calf with a bad case of smoker's cough. Secondhand smoke, now that I think of it, probably
is
the reason June Bug already sounds like she's been hanging out in truck stops for forty years. Anyway, she's been using anything handy as a practice microphone, singing and dancing her Shania Twain routine (welcome back to the 1990s, everyone!) until even Pauly has all the words and the steps memorized. While he was sitting on the toilet this morning, I heard him singing,
I'm gonna gitchoo while I gotchoo in sight. I'm gonna gitchoo if it takes all nigh-yight
. Not a very appropriate song for a kid to be singing, in my opinion.

Sheryl didn't even ask me if I wanted to be in the talent show. She just entered me and left the type-of-performance category blank, so now it's up to me to choose from: vocal solo, vocal duet, vocal group, instrument solo, instrument duet, instrument group, cheer routine, tap, contemporary dance, ballet, interpretive dance (what the heck's that mean?), and other.

I have many talents. I just don't think I need to go around flaunting them in front of a big crowd. But when I protested, Sheryl said sometimes it's good to try things outside our comfort zones. Stretch told me I was going to do it and to stop with the nonsense. I've been here long enough to know that if Stretch says something's going to happen, it's going to happen. In a way, his absolute inability to change his mind about any issue is sort of comforting. It's almost like he's the most reliable adult we've ever had in our lives, but I would never tell him that.

Anyway, I've pretty much resigned myself to the fact that I'm going to be in this talent show and so I'd better make the best of it. I've never danced, really, except for a few times during some of Dad's more lively sermons when the Holy Spirit came down and touched us (or at least that's what
he
said was happening). I can sing. Mostly I just like to sing hymns from church, but I don't feel too good about church or Dad lately, so hymns naturally fall into the not-an-option category. And I'm not about to prostitute myself like June Bug by singing foolish country or pop songs. No, my talents are more intellectual. I'm going to do a PowerPoint presentation on diagnosing a strange or horrible disease. Something practical. So I choose “other” from the type-of-performance list of categories and write in the blank: PowerPoint Presentation on African sleeping sickness.

Red Rock County Fair Talent Show PowerPoint Presentation

African Sleeping Sickness by Penelope Pribyl

African sleeping sickness is just one disease people should know about before traveling to Africa. A lot of people don't know anything about it until it's
too late
!

1. What is African sleeping sickness?

This deadly disease is caused by a parasite carried by the tsetse fly. Around twenty-five thousand new cases are reported to the World Health Organization each year. Since 1967, thirty-six cases of sleeping sickness have been reported within the United States, all among individuals who had traveled to Africa. They were mainly missionaries who didn't take proper precautions or who thought they are immune against diseases because God would protect them.

2. How is African sleeping sickness spread?

The tsetse fly, although small, sometimes carries around the sleeping sickness parasite, and when the fly bites you, the parasite enters your body and starts killing you.

3. What are the symptoms of African sleeping sickness?

A bite by the tsetse fly is often painful and can develop into a red sore, also called a chancre. Fever, severe headaches, irritability, extreme fatigue, swollen lymph nodes, and aching muscles and joints are common symptoms of sleeping sickness. Some people develop a skin rash. Some people start to go crazy, and sometimes villagers mistake sleeping sickness for devil possession or madness and try to chase the poor, infected soul from the village or try to drag the infected person to church so that the preacher can perform an exorcism. If the person is not treated by a real doctor, infection becomes worse and death will occur within several weeks or months.

4. What should I do if I think I may have African sleeping sickness symptoms?

First of all, if you live anywhere in the United States, you probably don't have African sleeping sickness and probably shouldn't get too excited if you have some of the symptoms I've listed above. You could possibly have Lyme disease, which has some of the same symptoms and is carried and spread by the bite of a tick. You can die from that, too, so you should go to the doctor. Not many people know this, but President George Bush was treated for Lyme disease. But if you've been to Africa lately and think you may have sleeping sickness, go to the doctor ASAP. You may have to give a blood sample, a spinal tap, and skin biopsies.

5. How can you prevent African sleeping sickness?

Red Rock County Fair
Talent Show Judging Form

Judged by Mrs. Alvin Guggisberg, lead judge

Name:
Penelope Pribyl

Category:
Other—PowerPoint Presentation on African sleeping sickness

Costume:
0/10, candidate appeared to wear her regular clothing and made no attempt to design an attractive or interesting outfit to complement her talent.

Audience Contact:
6/10, candidate did appear genuinely interested in the health of the audience members, but made no attempt to entertain the crowd or otherwise engage the crowd in a pleasing, happy manner. Candidate read directly from her screen, which the audience members were capable of reading for themselves, and made no other additional comments or suggestions or insight into African sleeping sickness.

Stage Presentation:
24/30, candidate did speak and read clearly. She included many flashy tricks in her PowerPoint presentation, including having the text fade in and out, roll off the screen like in
Star Wars
, and appear magically from either side of the screen. She also varied the font and screen color to add spice to the show! Good job!

Talent Ability:
48/50, candidate knows her stuff! Whoo-wee! I learned a lot, I have to admit. I'm just not sure this type of presentation qualifies as a talent performance (we'll probably have to go over this at the next board meeting). But since this presentation snuck in this year, I have to judge it on its merits, and Ms. Pribyl's ability to diagnose and discuss African sleeping sickness is clear.

Total:
78/100, fourth-place white ribbon and $20 prize

Dear Diary,

Today at the fair, I won fourth place in the talent show! To be honest, I really enjoyed educating all the audience members, even if a lot of them were checking their phones for text messages, and one guy even made a phone call to a woman named Tracy while I was talking. I kept going and didn't let their rude behavior interrupt my train of thought or my mission of ridding the world of this terrible disease. Fourth place is pretty good, but you'll never believe who got first place and one hundred dollars. Yep, June Bug. I think mostly because of the way she kept doing cartwheels and her outfit, which the boys and men in the audience couldn't keep their eyes off of. If she wore that to Africa, the tsetse flies would swarm her like crazy, and she'd be infected with sleeping sickness and be dead before she could even sing one note of Shania Twain. Anyway, Stretch and Sheryl were real proud of June Bug and me and took us all out for hamburgers and shakes. When Percy said that he thought June Bug's act was awesome but mine was kind of boring, Stretch smacked him in the back of the head and told him to shut it. June Bug said that she didn't think my act was boring at all and that she learned a lot. I don't understand that girl very well. She really acts very, very nice, and that confuses me. I'll have to keep my eye on her.

One of the other big events of the fair was the merciless slaying of Percy's fancy chicken by the so-called chicken expert at the Red Rock Fowl Show the day before the talent show. What a total and complete Horse Camp! That first day of the fair after the chicken judging, things were pretty tense when Stretch asked where Percy's chicken was and Percy wouldn't 'fess up. Pauly said it was dead, so that's all we knew, and Sheryl made Stretch calm down until we got home, which she said was the proper place to deal with the situation, not in public. That night before bed, Stretch made Percy spill all the particulars. June Bug and Pauly suddenly remembered vivid details and filled in bits Percy conveniently missed. When Percy told Stretch and Sheryl how the judge manhandled and killed his bird, you could tell Percy didn't even really care. He was just happy to have gotten attention and sympathy for basically bringing a wild chicken to the fair. The fact that the judges most likely made him champion out of the fear of someone suing them went right over Percy's head.

In addition, I was not impressed that Percy included June Bug and Pauly into his little lie of exclusion in not telling what happened until well after the fact. Pauly has surely been traumatized by the whole event. It's not every day that a child is forced to witness the beating to death of a live animal.

As a result of this, I started paying more attention to all the other animals. I have been sitting in the horse barn at the fair, just fellowshipping with all the horses, which are wayyyy better than Bernie and Brenda. There's this one, a black stallion named Mick, who I feel a strong connection to. Just looking at his eyeball, close up, made me wonder at God's creation. Like, how did God (or whoever it was) come up with a horse eye, this thing that's way bigger than a human eye, way smaller than a whale eye, but so beautiful and black that you can see your reflection in it? And to think that Mick can see with it, can see me, can see the world. It's so complicated, but so marvelous.

Also, I felt a strong connection to Mick's owner, Wesley, who is a year older than me and really handsome, and who called me beautiful. He looks exactly like I have imagined Eamon Cloversniffer looks, except he's not a zombie. Wesley has dark hair, brooding eyes with dark circles under them, and red lips. He tilts his head when he talks like intelligent people do, I have noticed. In chapter four of
Cowboy Zombie, Book Two
, it reads, “Eamon Cloversniffer mounted his mighty steed with grace, tipped the lid of his hat, and tilted his head as if in intelligent thought.” That's exactly what Wesley looks like when he's on his horse, Mick.

I
T'S THE LAST full day of the county fair, and I've got pretty much the whole day to kill. Sheryl is taking June Bug and Penny to the adult talent show this afternoon, since they wanted to see it after winning prizes in the kid talent show, which I probably should have entered and won. Uncle Stretch is watching the minirodeo with Pauly. Tonight, there's fireworks and a square dance that Uncle Stretch and Sheryl are all excited about. I suppose I'll see the fireworks, but I don't care about any of that other junk. I'd like to go by myself. Uncle Stretch says, “Here's ten bucks. Don't spend it all on games or rides because you gotta eat on it, too.”

“Ten bucks?” I say.

“That's all you get,” says Uncle Stretch.

Sheryl reaches into her purse and gives me another five. Uncle Stretch gives her a bad look.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Meet us by the John Deere tractors at eight o'clock,” says Uncle Stretch.

“Yep,” I say and run off.

I play a couple of games of football toss, but I can't win, because either the footballs are too big or they made the holes you were supposed to be able to throw the footballs through too small. Then I play a couple of games of ringtoss and throw-the-dart-at-the-balloon and BB-gun shoot, but I don't do that great at those, either. Maybe I'm just off today.

I'm out of money before I remember to save a little for a corn dog or some minidonuts.

There's nothing to do, so I just walk around and watch people. I walk by all the games I wasted my money on. Then I walk by the food, and the smells make me pretty hungry, so I walk back over by the games. A lot of kids are with their parents. At the knock-over-the-milk-bottles-with-a-baseball, this dad with a curly red Afro is making a fool of himself trying to impress everyone, probably his family. He throws the balls hard but is really wild. He almost hits the guy running the game, who says, “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Do I have to wear a helmet, mister?” Two young boys, who have matching red curly hair, laugh. I'm glad that guy isn't my dad. What a dork.

I briefly wonder what my dad is doing. I remember we once went to a carnival-type thing in the Philippines. It didn't have rides, but there was a fishing contest and my dad won it. It wasn't like he was the best fisherman, though. I think he just got lucky. Or maybe the village elders let him win so he'd think they liked him. My dad's likeable if you go along with him. He's probably got a new group of people liking him already. He moves on quickly. I get that from him, which is why, after Mom got into trouble, I'm handling this whole Horse Camp thing as well as I am.

I walk by the Pop-a-Shot basketball game and see this older kid wearing baggy black jeans with a silver chain dangling from his pocket and a greasy-looking white tank top. He is really awesome at it. He keeps grabbing those minibasketballs and pumping them in the hoop like he is a basketball-shooting machine. It doesn't even matter which hand—left or right—he just flips his wrist into a little gooseneck.
Swish, swish, swish.
He makes about ten in a row before missing one, then he makes about twenty straight after that.

When his game ends, the guy in charge, a short, fat man with his shirt half-unbuttoned, says, “Which one, bud?” and points to the big prizes. “Any one you want with that score.”

When the kid turns around, I see he looks about sixteen or seventeen, with bushy black eyebrows and longer black hair and some wispy black hairs on his chin. He sort of has a mustache, too. He looks pretty cool. “Don't want it,” he says. He holds out a fivedollar bill. “I want a few more rounds, though.”

“Sure, sure,” says the guy in charge, and then the kid starts another game, swishing almost every shot. Other people start to watch, too, folding their arms across their chests and smiling. This kid is
amazing
at basketball!

After he plays his last dollar, he pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pants pocket, pops one out into his hand, and lights it with a black lighter. His hands are superquick. He huffs out a huge gray cloud, and it hangs there a second before he walks away.

I don't know why, but I decide to follow the kid. He walks into a livestock barn, tossing down his cigarette and stomping it out before he goes in. I watch him stop and stare at a cow and its calf. Some young girls act like they're not looking at him, but they are. They all look back at him after they walk by. One of them covers another's mouth with her hand, and they giggle. He just looks at the animals and keeps on walking, lighting up another cigarette as he goes.

I follow him to the edge of the fair where not many people are, and he turns a corner behind a big old barn. I peek around the corner and see him toss away his cigarette and unzip his pants to pee on the side of the barn. I hide my face quick because I don't want him seeing me see that!

After a minute, I hear this thumping sound, and I peek again. The kid is bouncing this old-looking ball against the dirt and dead grass, but the ball is out of air, so it doesn't bounce very well. He shoots it, and I have to lean out farther to see where the ball goes. There's a hoop nailed to the barn wall. The ball goes straight through it—or at least it looks like it does— there's no net. The ball hits the barn wall and thuds to the ground.

“Hey,” yells the kid. “Why you been following me?”

I think of running, but I don't. “I don't know,” I say. “I was watching you play that basketball game back there. You're really good.”

The kid walks over to his flat ball and picks it up. “What do
you
know? What are you, a kindygardner?”

“I'm twelve,” I say. “Seventh grade going into eighth.”

“So frickin' what?” says the kid. He pounds his ball into the ground, snatches it up when it doesn't bounce back, and shoots again. The ball flies at the hoop, hits the barn wall, and thuds to the ground. Probably a swish. He walks over to it, his pants chain jangling a little, picks the ball up, walks farther away from the hoop than he was before, and shoots again.
Smack, thud.
Walk, walk.
Smack, thud.
Walk, walk.
Smack, thud.
Walk, walk.
Smack, thud.

I try to think of something cool to say, but I can't, so I just watch for a long time. Finally, I think of something. “Hey, I would've taken your prizes if you didn't want them,” I say.

Smack, thud.
Walk, walk. The kid looks at me and shakes his head. “You've got to win your own,” he says.

“You could've had, like, half that rack of stuffed animals over there,” I say.

“What do I want with some worthless stuffed animals?”

“No, I know,” I say, feeling stupid. “I didn't want those. I meant the cooler prizes, like those rubber basketballs.”

“Cheap,” says the kid.

“Could give 'em to a girlfriend or something, though,” I say.

“You trying to give me love advice?” says the kid.

“I don't know,” I say.

Smack, thud.
Walk, walk. “You want to make your self useful?”

“Sure,” I say, springing to my feet.

“Go get the ball and pass it to me after I make it.”

“Okay!”

He shoots it—
smack, thud
. I pick it up, and it looks like it's from about 1901. The leather is brown and all slippery and worn away except for one part where it's peeling off. “Where'd you get this thing, World War Two?” I say, laughing at my own joke.

“Be quiet and pass it,” says the kid. “I don't like to talk while I shoot.”

He shoots.
Smack, thud.
He does this forever, and we don't say anything. Only two or three times does the ball hit the rim. The rest of the time, it goes straight through.

After about a half hour, I say, “So what's your name?”

“Jimmy.”

He just keeps shooting, moving around here and there occasionally, and I keep passing until my arms hurt. I could really go for a hamburger or something, so to avoid thinking about my hunger, I pretend I'm giving Jimmy passes in real games, and he's scoring every time. The fans are cheering. The scoreboard numbers are going up, up, up. We're killing the other team. I'm the best passer there is, and Jimmy's the best shooter. Trying to fire up the crowd, I go for a behind-the-back pass. The ball flies off into the grass and Jimmy has to walk after it. When he gets to it and picks it up, he squints his eyes at me.

He swears and says, “Showboating's for girls.”

“Sorry,” I say. I fetch and pass for another long while. Jimmy misses four shots that whole time.

Finally, I say, “I'm getting kind of tired.”

“Wanna quit?” says Jimmy.

“Only if you do,” I say.

“A hundred more,” he says, and shoots a hundred more, missing only three. I count in my head, and I know he does, too, because he stops after the last one and kicks the ball out into some open grass where you can barely see it.

“I'm thirsty,” he says. “Wanna go buy me a Gatorade?”

“Sure,” I say. “What color?”

“Red,” he says. He gives me a five-dollar bill.

I run back into the main part of the fair and go up to a concession stand and order a red Gatorade. The lady gives me some change, and I run the Gatorade to Jimmy. He's sitting with his back against the barn wall.

“Where's yours?” he says, taking the drink and the change.

“I didn't have any money,” I say.

Jimmy cracks open his Gatorade and guzzles it. He's sweating a little, and he puts the bottle against his head. I watch him drink it all the way gone. He chucks the bottle out in the grass by the ball, and we just sit there, staring. The sun's starting to set, and I probably better get back. But I don't want to leave Jimmy.

“I'm hungry now,” he says. “You?”

I'm starving, but I say, “Nah. I had a big lunch.”

“Let's go get a couple corn dogs,” he says. “I'll buy you one for the rebounding.”

“All right,” I say.

Jimmy buys himself three corn dogs and me one. He buys two red Gatorades and gives me one. We sit down on a bench and chow. It tastes so good.

“I see you're eating that thing sideways,” says Jimmy. “What happened to your tooth?”

“Got in a fight,” I say.

“Must've tangled with a tiger.”

“Pretty much.”

“Where you live?”

“With my Uncle Stretch.” I take a long, delicious swig of Gatorade.

Jimmy looks up from his corn dogs for the first time. “No kidding? Your uncle is Stretch?”

“Yeah,” I say. “But I don't like him that much. He's sort of a jerk.”

“Stretch ain't a jerk,” says Jimmy. “You know he played college football at the U of M, and some people said he could've made the pros?”

“No. How do you know that?”

“Everybody knows Stretch,” says Jimmy. “My brother Jorry was good friends with Roland, Stretch's boy. They were killed in the same car crash.”

“Really?” I say. “Weird.”

Jimmy goes back to one of his corn dogs.

“Was Roland cool?”

“Yes,” says Jimmy. “He and Jorry were both studs.”

“How'd they crash their car?” I say.

“They were drinkin', probably,” says Jimmy. “Nobody found out for sure. They rolled it and went in a ditch. It had just rained and the ditch was full up with rainwater. They were trapped in the vehicle, and it had landed flip-turned upside down. They didn't die from the crash, but from drownin' in the rainwater.”

“Ew.”

“Ew? That's what you got to say to that story?”

I shrug my shoulders. I don't know what else to say.

“What's your name, kid?” asks Jimmy.

“Percy.”

“What?”

“Percy. My full name is Perseus. Named after the Greek warrior.”

“That's weird. You're an oddball, kid.”

I shrug again.

“I gotta get goin',” says Jimmy. He clears his last corn dog off its stick with a big bite, gets up, and walks away. I'd like to follow this guy around some more, but he probably wouldn't be too cool with that. I look around and wander off. I can go wherever I want.