Camp Cannibal Read online

  Text copyright © 2014 by Clay McLeod Chapman

  Swim trunk photo © 2014 by Sammy Yuen

  Tree bark, leaves, and rope photo © 2014 by Thinkstock

  Cover design by Sammy Yuen

  All rights reserved. Published by Disney • Hyperion Books, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney • Hyperion Books, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023-6387.

  ISBN 978-1-4231-5484-6

  Visit www.DisneyBooks.com

  for Jasper

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part I: Fight the Fog

  Imaginary Friends

  The Mailboxes Are Whispering Again

  The Great Escapes

  Part II: Turning Over a New Leaf

  Turning Over a New Leaf

  Bunkmates in Bedlam

  The Sacrificial Altar

  Poop Therapy

  One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Mess

  Cannibals Around the Campfire

  Your Regularly Scheduled Deprogramming

  Part III: Fart of Darkness

  Under New Management

  Burn, Boyhood, Burn

  Asthma Hack

  Catching Up With Old Pals

  Postcards From the Edge

  Always Nap With One Eye Open

  Ashes to Ashes

  Our Books Have Become Battlefields

  William Show-and-Tell

  Class Is in Session

  Pendleton Vs. the Tribe

  Fahrenheit 451

  Tribal Triathlon

  Cave Spray-Paintings

  Part IV: Taking Back the Camp

  This Means War

  The Parental Processional of Lemmings

  The Battle of Camp Cannibal

  Family Reunion

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Dear Dad…

  If you’re reading this, that can only mean one thing:

  A. I’m dead and buried somewhere in the woods surrounding Camp New Leaf, my body now a buffet for maggots.

  B. I’ve been arrested and am serving a life sentence for crimes I didn’t commit.

  C. Me (and my lungs) are on the run.

  You sold me out. If you’d been paying attention, you would’ve realized I’m as good as ghosted by now. How could you do this to me? Your own son? You might as well have hand-delivered me to the Tribe wrapped up in a bow….

  I wish I could tell you face-to-face the things that you’re about to read. Man to man. Isn’t that what this summer was supposed to be about in the first place? “Manning” up? Those were the last words you said before forcing me to board the bus that brought me to this maximum-security teen penal colony.

  Man.

  Up.

  If I make it out alive, I’ll have a lot of explaining to do. If I don’t, hopefully someone will find this notebook, see your name and address, and deliver it to you. Then maybe one day you’ll understand why I did what I had to do. Maybe.

  But let’s get this out of the way up front:

  I did not overthrow my summer camp.

  Honest.

  Here. I’ll prove it to you….

  Your son,

  Spencer

  One has a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws. I would agree with St. Augustine that “an unjust law is no law at all.”

  —Martin Luther King Jr.

  here never was any Tribe.

  No Peashooter. No Sporkboy. No Compass. No Yardstick.

  No Sully.

  Turns out that taking the fall for a cult of “teenage headhunters” allegedly living within the walls of my middle school had some very real, very severe legal ramifications for me. After the whole cafeteria contamination episode, not only was I expelled from Greenfield Middle, but I had to stand in front of a judge and swear I would never lace another lunchroom’s cranberry sauce with a highly psychoactive basidiomycete ­fungus ever again.

  Fair enough.

  Because I threw myself on the mercy of the court, the dishonorable judge sentenced me to…

  House arrest.

  Mom had already condemned me to live with my father. Not that I blamed her. After the earthquake I’d put her through, she couldn’t deal anymore.

  Lights dim. Spotlight on Dad’s grand entrance back into my life.

  “What did I miss?” he asked like this was all some kind of sitcom. Cue canned laugh track, followed by uproarious applause from audience.

  Dad to the rescue.

  Must’ve fit me into his hectic work schedule. Whenever his presence is required for some impromptu parenting, he’s always a no-show, thanks to some last-minute business-related thingy popping up.

  Or was he on vacation with his new girlfiend?

  The excuses blur together after a while.

  My dad usually times his appearances to whenever a principal or a judge is around to notice. Then he’s the hero swooping in to save the day—while mom is left looking like The Bad Mother, The Unfit Parent, The Careless Custodian.

  Not anymore. Not as of December.

  Now it was Dad’s turn to look after me.

  Heaven help us all.

  All I ever get is the parental shell. Mannequin dad. I could create a line of My Very Own Dad dolls, complete with three prerecorded automated responses:

  “Sure thing!”

  “What’s that?”

  “Okeydoke!”

  As in—“Dad, do you mind if I bust out of the house for a bit? Cabin fever’s kicking in big-time and I need a break.”

  “Sure thing!”

  “Did you hear what I just said, Dad?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Okeydoke!”

  Additional responses sold separately.

  But house arrest has a few perks. Like the lovely little fashion accessory shackled to my ankle for the last six months—a box bejeweled with a flashing red light and a hundred feet of freedom.

  Not an inch more.

  If I were to step off of Dad’s property, even for a second, the proximity sensor latched to my ankle would rat me out.

  I had a total of thirty seconds to return to the cozy confines of my hundred feet of freedom—or else, at exactly thirty-one seconds, it would send a distress signal to mission control and a patrol car would be dispatched to hunt me down.

  I was a jailbird sentenced to six months of homeschooled purgatory.

  No television.

  No Internet.

  No cell.

  Nothing but time to, as the judge put it, “reflect” on all of my “appalling transgressions” and learn how to be “a more upstanding citizen.”

  I used those empty hours to bone up on the Tribal Required Reading List:

  Lord of the Flies, by William Golding.

  White Fang, by Jack London.

  The Call of the Wild, by London, too.

  The Outsiders, by S. E. Hinton.

/>   Watership Down, by Richard Adams.

  The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, by Mark Twain.

  The Art of War, by Sun Tzu.

  Johnny Tremain, by Esther Forbes.

  The Red Badge of Courage, by Stephen Crane.

  Every book that my ol’ pal Peashooter had cribbed from over the years.

  Why read them now?

  If I read in between the lines, read deeper, I hoped that I’d come upon some clue as to where the Tribe ran off to.

  So far, nothing.

  •••

  One hour out of every week, I was granted access to the world beyond my ankle bracelet for a visit with Dr. Vladimir Lobotov.

  During our first session, my fuzzy-eyebrowed psychiatrist pulled out a stack of note cards. Splattered across each was a different inkblot, like a fountain pen had blown its nose—if, you know, fountain pens had noses.

  “What do you see here?” Dr. Lobotomy asked as he held up a card.

  It looked like a butterfly.

  “Let’s see,” I started. “I do believe I’m looking at a boy, somewhere around the age of fifteen to seventeen, who seems to be gripping a pair of plastic protractors from geometry class in each of his fists. It would appear that the protractors have been lined with…Are those X-ACTO blades? I do believe so.”

  Dr. Lobotomy flipped the card over to study it himself. His left caterpillar arched on his forehead. “You see all of that…?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Why? What do you see, Doc?”

  When it comes to messing with authority figures, I really can’t help myself.

  It’s a problem I have.

  Lobotomy flashed another card at me. “What about this one?”

  I saw a rabbit with long ears.

  “This one’s a cinch,” I said. “I see a girl. Pretty cute, but don’t tell her I told you that. Her freckled face is half-hidden behind her endless auburn hair. She’s wearing a gym uniform lined with an exoskeleton of—wait, let me see—yes, yes, I do believe those are safety pins. She seems to be gripping a slingshot, aimed right at me. I wouldn’t mess with her, if I were you. She’s quite the sharpshooter. Just out of curiosity, Doc—have you seen anyone fitting that description around here lately?”

  That performance quickly earned me a prescription for Chlorofornil.

  I can hear the commercial jingle ringing through my skull now…

  When you’re about to cross the border

  Into that rocky mood disorder

  Just pop this lovely lil’ pill

  We like to call Chlorofornil!

  Yes—Chlorofornil! The cure-all for freedom of the mind! Just pop a lovely little tablet before every meal and say bon voyage to independent thought forever! Your neurotransmitters will be restored to their docile levels once again, as good as cattle!

  Say good-bye to depression

  Or any emotional regression

  All it takes is one lil’ pill

  So swallow some Chlorofornil!*

  This antidepressant was supposed to treat my newly diagnosed mood disorder—but for every symptom your meds fix, you suddenly have ten additional side effects to wrestle with. My personal favorite:

  Halluuuuuucinations.

  There are times when I’ll be reading a book and the letters will start wriggling away across the page without me, like a swarm of ants.

  How’s that for better living through chemistry?

  My mind really isn’t what it used to be.

  Sometimes the phone will ring and I’ll pick it up, only to be greeted by dead air. Sounds like there’s a ghost on the other end of the line.

  “Hello…?”

  Silence. I swear I can hear somebody breathing into the receiver—but whoever that phantasmal prank caller is, they won’t say a word to me.

  “Sully…? That you?”

  Click. Dial tone.

  But just as long as I’m not make-believing my imaginary friends are trying to kill me, everything is peachy keen as far as my headshrinker is concerned.

  Dr. Lobotomy pontificated that I had conjured up this “band of runaway kids” as “a coping mechanism” for my own “aberrant behavior.”

  Whatever that means.

  “They are figments of a rather highly active imagination,” he told my dad. “Nothing but the product of your son’s excitable mind.”

  But you want to know the craziest part?

  I was beginning to forget their faces.

  Except for Sully.

  I still had her missing flyer. It felt like cheating, but I had to peek at it to remind myself what she looked like.

  At night, I’d close my eyes and try focusing all my thoughts on her features, as if I was cramming for some exam.

  I’d try remembering the color of her eyes.

  The slope of her nose.

  The curve of her lips when she smiled.

  Whatever you do, Spencer, I’d say to myself, you can’t forget her.

  Just hold on to her.

  Hold on.

  Hold…

  The chemical fog of Chlorofornil would roll over my cerebrum, thick as Peashooter soup. Sully’s features became faint, and before long I couldn’t see her at all through the murky miasma clouding my memory.

  Fight the fog, Spencer. Fight it.

  Too late. She was gone again.

  I’d open my eyes and find her staring back at me from her flyer. She almost looked disappointed.

  “I’m sorry, Sully….”

  As a part of Dr. Lobotomy’s therapeutic plan for me, I keep a daily diary. I now have to take this journal with me wherever I go and scribble down my feelings. If I don’t feel like talking to my dad or if I don’t think anybody would believe me—I write about it here.

  A journal doesn’t judge. A journal doesn’t care if I’m crazy or not.

  So I’ve decided to use these pages to help me remember.

  I can jot down whatever recollections of the Tribe I have left before the fog sweeps in and tries to take them away.

  Maybe I’ll try sketching a portrait of Peashooter….

  Maybe I’ll write a historical account of the Tribe’s exploits at Greenfield….

  Maybe I’ll tell Sully all the things I wish I could have said to her in person when I had the chance, but never did….

  Maybe…

  Maybe I am crazy.

  *Use only as directed. Possible side effects may include confusion, blurry vision, dry mouth, nausea, constipation, headaches, muscle aches, anxiety, insomnia, restlessness. Even nightmares. Lots and lots of nightmares. Tell your doctor if you have any pre-existing medical conditions before taking Chlorofornil. Contact your physician if you experience any of the following: A strong sense of eyes always on you, an overwhelming feeling of constant surveillance from an invisible but palpable presence, an impending sense of doom, that trouble is on the horizon, that your imaginary friends want to kill you, that you are not alone even when you are alone, that there is a tribe of runaway teenagers somewhere out there in this world who probably want to string you up by your feet and play piñata with your body right about now. Talk to your health-care professional to see if Chlorofornil is right for you!

  pril thirteenth.

  Happy birthday, Spence…You survived another year.

  Barely.

  Fourteen whopping years old.

  Sure doesn’t seem like Dad remembered. The day is still young, but I’m not holding my breath on any surprise parties popping up.

  Some emergency business thingy has had him on the phone all afternoon. Or was it his girlfiend again? He swore up and down that it’d only be a few minutes.

  That was an hour ago.

  I was just about to knock on his office door, but my knuckles halted when I heard his voice. Pressing my
ear against the paneling, I listened to his half of the conversation—“You think he’d be happy there? I need all the help I can get. Send me a pamphlet.”

  I walked in. Dad looked at me and held up a finger, as if to say—Just one more minute. I suddenly felt the compulsion to chomp his pointer off. Whoever was on the other line was still talking, forcing Dad to choose which of us to listen to.

  Guess who won that battle?

  “Dad,” I said. “I was thinking about taking the car out for a little spin.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Where did you leave the keys?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll find them….”

  “Okeydoke!”

  •••

  Wandering about the perimeters of our property line, I decided to test my ankle monitor. Make sure it was still up to snuff.

  Just dip a toe into the great wild beyond our grass and see if…

  The second I planted my foot into the street, the red light on my ankle bracelet started to flicker. The countdown to Big Brother barging in began:

  Thirty…

  Twenty-nine…

  Twenty-eight…

  Twenty-seven…

  Twenty-six…

  I dragged my foot back onto the lawn. The bloody pulse steadied itself again.

  Seems to be working just fine, I thought.

  Psst, kid, somebody whispered behind my back. Over here.

  I turned to find our mailbox staring at me from its post. Its aluminum lid curled back like a silver lip and smiled.

  Happy birthday, it said.

  I took a step back.

  I really needed to talk to Lobotomy about adjusting my prescription.

  I got something for you, birthday boy….

  I was not about to have a conversation with my mailbox.

  Come on, it said. Just reach in, kid. I’m not gonna bite….

  I’d never stuffed my hand down the gullet of a talking mailbox before. Just as I was about to reach in, the lid snapped at my fingers.

  Sorry about that. The mailbox chortled. Couldn’t help myself.

  “It’s okay,” I said, reaching in. “I’d probably do the same thing.”

  There was a package waiting for me inside.

  Nobody ever sends me mail.