The Jake Show by Joshua S. Levy

Author:Joshua S. Levy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2023-03-03T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

The first two weeks of camp passed like a training montage in a sports movie: too quick, mostly highlights, and often set to music my grandparents would have exercised to in 1985. (They blared it from the speakers to wake us up, whenever they managed to keep Gilad Popper away from the morning announcements.)

One scene in the montage: Me, Caleb, and Tehilla—taking a kayak out to the middle of the lake. Shaking the boat too hard. Flipping it over.

Another scene: Me, Caleb, and Tehilla—swaying together around the campfire. Charred marshmallows pierced on branches picked from the dirt. Rabbi Allenby strumming a guitar.

And another: Me, Caleb, and Tehilla—an outdoor art session devolving into a four-bunk paint fight. Grass splashed with blue and red and purple.

Me, Caleb, and Tehilla—and everyone else too—running and laughing and playing. This place really was magical, and nothing more so than:

“Ga.”

The ball bounced.

“Ga.”

Again.

“Ga.”

One more time—before Avi Sackler smacked it so hard that division head Toby Blockmun had to call a time-out like three seconds after the game began to make sure Aaron Mamoun hadn’t broken his shin. But it was smooth sailing after that. Or whatever passed for “smooth sailing” in a game that everyone treated like a battle to the death, even though it was basically just dodgeball for your feet.

“Aw!” Shira P. teased, thwacking the ball against the wall to keep it in play. “Doesn’t anyone want to come closer? You afraid or something?”

“They should be!” Shira S. called from the other end of the gym.

“You know it!” Shira P. agreed, smacking the ball with her fist. It careened into a corner, bouncing against one wall, then another, like a perfectly aligned pool shot. It was a pass to Shira R., who was halfway across the court. (The Shiras were working together, even though there weren’t any teams.) Shira R. hit the ball from there. Wally Cooper toppled like a bowling pin.

“Come on!” Wally yelled in frustration, joining Caleb on the sidelines.

“You’ll get ’em next time, Wally!” Tehilla shouted.

“Sorry—” I started in Caleb’s direction.

The ball bolted toward me and I ran to avoid it.

“—that you—”

Someone smacked the ball back toward me, but it took flight a foot or two off the ground. I tried to catch it (which gets the smacker out—one of the rules) but failed. Unable to touch it twice in a row (another rule), I hopped away.

“—got out so early!”

“It’s as fun to watch as it is to play!” Caleb said, which was genuinely what every camper at Gershoni believed, one hundred percent.

“If I think I’m gonna get out,” I shouted at him, avoiding another hit, “I’ll try to take a Shira with me! At least—”

“Jacob Lightman,” Mrs. Schneider’s voice called over the camp-wide loudspeakers. “Please come to the front office. Jacob Lightman. Please come to the front office.”

A chill ran down my spine. I let the ball roll softly onto the bridge of my foot, getting me out.

“You were saying something about taking a Shira with you?” Shira P. said, triggering the third “Shira Club!” chant of the game.

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