“Because it’s implied in the name?” Jams asked.
“Technically, it’s not ‘genius camp,’” Kate said, wiggling a dozen air quotes next to her long face. “It’s a camp for the gifted.”
Galen laughed. “Tell that to your IQ test.”
“I get what you mean, Hunter,” I said. “Back home, my friends would have just called Perla a downer and moved on.”
Jams snorted. “‘Downer’ would be a decent start.”
Kate rolled her eyes. “Borderline personality might get us closer to the heart of the problem.”
“But that’s what’s great about being here,” Leigh said. “There’s no dumbing anything down. Everyone can keep up. Can you imagine what life would be like if you always got to hang out with people as smart as you?”
“More problematic than you’d imagine,” Brandon said to his cereal. He caught my eye and added, “Probably.”
I felt like I’d eaten a crate of kiwis and had surrendered myself to anaphylactic shock.
Not that it mattered. Boys were the gateway to full-on Importance of Being Earnest-y farce. First it was one cute boy making eyes at you over breakfast, and then it was all Wildean misunderstandings and double entendres.
No, thank you.
“At least we get to see the library today,” Kate said.
My thoughts evaporated into a record scratch as I whipped to look at her. “Wait, what?”
“The library,” she repeated. Slower this time and with more tongue flapping. “Where else would we study literature?”
“Ever, seriously,” Leigh scoffed. “Open your binder.”
10
The Maurice T. Lauritz Memorial Library was cold and quiet inside. Brass placards gleamed on the edge of each bookcase. The floors were covered in deep crimson carpet that muffled even Leigh’s skipping steps. Every study table had a small lamp with a pleated yellow lampshade.
No matter how much Hari insisted that every self-respecting Mudder called it “the Mo-Lo,” I refused to besmirch the Lauritz’s majesty with skanky abbreviations.
This building, this palace of literature, was the entire reason I’d run away from home. Somewhere below me, past the spiral staircase, deep in the jungle of polished redwood bookcases, was The Science Fiction Section. All capital letters.
Rayevich didn’t have the standard Asimov to Zahn catalog that you could browse at the county library. There were no gaps in the Rayevich collection. If there was an English translation, it was here. If it’d been out of print for fifty years, Rayevich had found a copy and bound it in plastic to keep the dust off. And they kept the fantasy books elsewhere. No cross-pollination to distract.
I had read an article about the collection on a blog my freshman year. I’d ordered my first Rayevich admissions packet the next day.
And now I was here. I was so close. I could almost taste the hundreds of books that—if I won the Melee—I would spend four years consuming. And by the time I got here, the collection would be even bigger.
Hari burst my bubble with the slam of a yellow binder. It rattled the mason jar full of pencils and highlighters on the coffee table in front of him. “For the literature portion of the Melee, each of you will be required to analyze the short stories in your study materials. There are five stories, covering multiple categories of English literature. Wilde, Hammett, Jackson, Lahiri, and Murakami.”
The air-conditioning sank deep into my skin and froze my bones. I hugged my binder closer to my chest. “Oscar Wilde?”
“Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde,” Jams said, eagerly squishing himself deeper into the armchair he’d claimed. “Born in 1854 to—”
“There will be no questions on the author,” Hari interrupted sharply. He took a deep pull from the Starbucks cup in his hand. Leigh’s gamble had paid off, although it didn’t seem to be enough to erase the purple bags magnified under Hari’s glasses.
I flipped past the pages describing proper literary analysis techniques and found the list of our short stories. There it was, the very first title, printed in bold: “The Nightingale and the Rose” by Oscar Wilde.
More Wilde quotes to clutter my brain. Balls.
“The library will be at your disposal for the hour you’re with me and during your study periods,” Hari said, smothering a yawn that twisted his lips into a Picasso slant. “But because you are guests here, none of the books can leave the Mo-Lo. The book sensors at the front door are armed. Once you finish with a book, place it on the return cart and a counselor will come through to reshelve at the end of the day.” He gestured to the mason jar on the table. “Help yourselves to a pencil and a highlighter. Both will need to be returned at the end of the hour.”
Galen wet his lips and shot a look around at the rest of us. “That’s it?”
Hari took another long drink. “Have any of you read all five of the stories and made notes on the authorial intention and literary allusions contained within?”
I felt Leigh’s hand start to raise. I kicked her foot and she stilled.
“Off you go,” Hari said, losing the fight against his yawn. It muddied his words, but his hand waved us away. Apparently, we’d worn out our welcome in the lounge.
I stood up, tucking my binder under my arm as I grabbed a pencil and a highlighter. The rest of the team followed me down the stairs.
“Ten bucks says he’s going to nap up there,” Hunter muttered.
“He’s drinking green tea,” Perla said, her voice weighted with disgust. “With soy milk.”
“That’s just wrong,” Leigh shuddered.
“Green tea only has a third of the caffeine that coffee does,” Kate said, pulling up the rear. “So, no, Hunter, I don’t think anyone will be taking your bet.”
We all gathered at the base of the stairs, eight yellow binders displaying the camp logo held close.
“I guess we’ll split up?” I said, jerking my head toward the tables laid out between aisles.
“What else would we do?” Perla asked. “Do it elementary style and play popcorn?”
“I was always more of a Heads Up, Seven Up kind of guy,” Brandon said.
“Oh, man,” Hunter laughed. “I ruled at Heads Up, Seven Up.”
“You peeked, didn’t you?” I asked.
His lips lifted into that practiced smile. “Of course. How else do you win?”
“Sensing the auras of your classmates,” Kate sniffed.
“Not cheating,” Brandon said.
“Elementary school was the tits,” Jams said. “When was the last time you got to have a Capri-Sun?”
“Everyone track down a dictionary and look up facetious,” Perla said, swishing toward the nearest table.
“Tomorrow,” Leigh said, “I will not help her get coffee.”
“Tomorrow,” Galen said, his eyes disappearing under the apples of his cheeks, “we should totally play Heads Up, Seven Up.”
*