Summer of the Hot Lake

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Synopsis: The younger siblings and relatives of major Daria characters find themselves spending the summer at “Uncle” Timothy O’Neill’s Okay-to-Cry Corral, with none other than Wind Lane as their cabin counselor. There, the kids face the horrors of rice cakes and tofu for breakfast, therapy sessions to heal their inner selves, a legendary monster in the cooling pond of a nearby nuclear power plant, and—first love. Sam and Chris Griffin, Rachel Landon, Brian Taylor, Link (from the movie, Is It Fall Yet?), and Jane Lane’s nephew and niece, Adrian and Courtney, appear herein. The action takes place during the summer after the conclusion of the movie, Is It College Yet?

This story was originally entitled, “Daria: The Next Generation, Book I: The Summer of the Hot Lake,” but that was way too long. It was meant to be the first in a series of long Daria stories about the younger kids. It now stands alone.

Author’s Notes: The notes are at the end, so as not to spoil anything up front.

Acknowledgements: The beta-readers for this story, in random order, were: Nick Yarish, Greystar, Crusading Saint, Mistress Thea Zara, and Robert Nowall. Thank you so much! You made this story far better than it was. More acknowledgements are at the end—again, to avoid spoiling the story.

Chapters

I: The Young and the Restless

II: All My Children

III: As the World Turns

IV: The Secret Storm

V: The Days of Our Lives

VI: The Edge of Night

VII: One Life to Live

VIII: Another World

IX: The Guiding Light

X: Search for Tomorrow

XI: General Hospital

XII: The Bold and the Beautiful

Chapter I: The Young and the Restless

By nine o’clock on that July morning, it was already too hot and humid to think of going outside. The counselor for Cabin 13 had not shown up yet, and the four boys who were assigned to that cabin had no urge to attend the basket-weaving class that had just started on the other side of camp. They had no urge to do anything, in fact, except stay in the shade of their cabin, where their parents had dropped them off earlier that morning, and complain about the heat and their idiotic camp T-shirts, each of which featured a teary-eyed smiley face. It was their first day of overnight camp during their weeklong stay at the new-and-improved Okay-to-Cry Corral. They knew it was going to be hell.

Finally, the glasses-wearing kid with the black curly hair, cut-off jeans, and bad attitude brought out a pack of cards, shuffled it with indifferent skill, and looked around.

“Cards, you guys?” Link asked. “Poker, maybe?”

The tallest boy in Cabin 13 looked up from where he leaned against a wire-screened window, waiting for a breeze. He was lanky and athletic, his straight, dark-brown hair plastered to his sweaty forehead. He hadn’t yet put on his camp T-shirt, preferring his red Chicago Bulls shirt. “Sure,” he said. He put out a hand and shook with Link. “Sam,” he said. “That’s my dumb-ass little brother, Chris, over there.”

“You suck,” said Chris, lying on a lower bunk. He was Link’s height and had long, light brown hair. Chris had put on his camp T-shirt backwards, wearing it with his baggy blue swim trunks.

“No, you suck,” corrected Sam. “What kind of poker?” he asked Link.

“Draw poker okay?”

“That’s cool.”

“I like poker,” said Chris. He turned to Sam. “Hey. I’ll whip your ass like I did last time we played, in my room.”

“Nah, I let you win,” said Sam.

“Sure you did,” said Chris. “Suuure you did.”

“I’m Brian,” said the fourth kid, who had thick, pale-blond hair and a twisted, toothy grin. He wore black short pants with his smiling camp shirt. His weeping smiley face now sported a small swastika on its forehead. “Can I get in?”

“Sure,” said Link. “Four’s a good number. Too damn hot to do anything else.”

“This is our first year here,” said Chris. “I heard this camp sucks out loud.”

“You heard right,” said Link, shuffling the deck again. “It does.”

“I need something to drink,” said Sam. He felt in a pocket of his cargo pants and pulled out some bills. “Hey, squirt, go make yourself useful and get me something from the snack shack,” he said, throwing the money on Chris’s bunk. “Get me a one-liter Ultra-Cola and a big bag of Doritos, any kind. And bring back change or I’ll pound you.”

“Can you get me something, too?” Brian tossed a wadded dollar bill at Chris. “Chewing gum, cinnamon if they’ve got it, or wintergreen.”

“A one-liter Ultra-Cola and a big bag of chips, any kind,” said Link, forking over his own cash.

“I didn’t say I’d go!” said Chris, but he collected the money anyway, mentally calculating how much of the change he could keep for himself.

“If we’re gonna play poker,” said Sam, “we need chips. Everybody pitch in fifty cents for pennies. Get the pennies in rolls, if they’ve got ‘em.”

A figure appeared at the cabin doorway. The boys tensed, expecting one of the camp counselors. Instead, it was a hot, bored African-American teenage girl. Her hair was done up with cornrows and beaded braids, and she wore yellow shorts and brand new sneakers below her camp shirt.

“Hey, Rachel,” said Sam with a wave. “’Sup?”

“Nothing,” said the girl. “That basket-weaving class reeks. I was like, I have to go to the latrine, and they said okay, so I snuck out. You playing cards?”

“Yeah. C’mon in.”

Chris left with the money (including a last-second addition from Rachel, for Fritos and a large drink), and the group argued agreeably over house rules for their poker game. It also developed that Sam was fifteen, Rachel fourteen and a half, Link thirteen, and Chris and Brian twelve. When Chris returned and the drinks and snacks were distributed, the group sat on the dusty floor of the camp cabin and got down to business.

They cut the deck to see who would deal. Sam won. The cards snapped as he shuffled them twice with great precision. He let Rachel on his left cut the deck, then he reshuffled and dealt quickly. Everyone picked up a hand and examined it in detail.

“So, you guys know each other?” asked Link. He ran a hand through his curly hair and pushed his glasses up on his nose.

“We’re all from Lawndale Middle School,” said Sam. “Me and Rachel go into ninth grade this fall at Lawndale High. Those two are in seventh.”

“I’m in Cumberland Middle, eighth.” Link took a drink from his Ultra-Cola and sat it behind him. “It sucks big time, but it beats hanging with my mom and stepdad. Do you know if Uncle Timothy figured out who our cabin counselor’s gonna be?”

“Me,” said Brian, rearranging his cards and chewing gum.

“Bull,” said Chris, also arranging the cards in his hand.

“Hell, yeah!” said Brian, grinning broadly at his cards. “I’m the man! We do what I say. Strip poker!” He glanced over his cards at Rachel’s oversized T-shirt.

“Huh,” Rachel deadpanned, never looking up from her cards.

“You need to smoke less crack,” said Link. He pulled two cards from his hand. “Two,” he said, tossing the cards facedown to Sam.

“I can smoke crack if I want to! Let’s all smoke crack!” said Brian with maniacal glee. “I got some in my pocket!”

“Right.” Sam flipped two new cards to Link from the deck. “What happened to the dude they gave us first?”

“You guys still got the same counselor O’Neill put with this cabin,” said Rachel in her deep, pleasant voice. “He hasn’t gotten here yet.”

“O’Neill likes to be called Uncle Timothy at camp,” said Link. “It’s his sensitive thing. He’s such a big a-hole.”

There were sighs and remarks in general agreement on this point.

“If it’s O’Neill, that would make him an o-hole,” corrected Rachel. The boys smiled. “My sister had him for English in high school. She couldn’t stand him.”

“Four cards!” said Brian, laying them down. Sam flipped him four in return.

“So, our cabin counselor got lost?” asked Link, peering at his cards before he laid them face down on the floor to get another drink of his cola.

Rachel shook her head slowly before laying her hand facedown as well. Her beaded braids bumped her cheeks. “I was walking by the main cabin when Mr. O-Hole was talking to somebody on the phone, and I’m pretty sure it was your counselor. He was like having some major problems with his wife or girlfriend, whatever.” She reached into the large bag of Fritos and got a small handful.

“O’Neill’s having girlfriend problems?” asked Chris. “Isn’t he dating that other teacher, the old bitch that Sandi takes for science? Sam, one card.”

“No, the counselor’s the one with the girlfriend problems,” Rachel said around the Fritos in her mouth. “She dumped him or something.”

Sam flipped a card to Chris. “You gotta gimme one in return, creep,” he said.

“You suck!” said Chris, throwing a card at Sam.

“No, you suck.” Sam retrieved the card and looked at Rachel. “Any cards?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

All four boys eyed her and her facedown hand with suspicion.

“How’d he lose his girlfriend?” said Link, peeking at his cards again.

“I dunno.” Rachel leaned against a bunk bed and scratched her knees. “Didn’t wanna ask.”

“Probably a dork,” said Link. “I wish Daria was here.”

Sam gave himself two cards, then put his hand facedown by his side. “Daria? You mean Quinn Morgendorffer’s sister?”

“Yeah, that’s her. I had Daria as my counselor here last year, before—”

“You were here last year, is that how you know her?” Sam grinned. “Whoa.”

“Yeah, I was here with all the other losers.” Link began to sing in a loud, off-key voice: “‘I’m a loser, baby, so why doncha kill me!’”

“Let’s play before your singing kills us,” said Rachel flatly, picking up her cards. Everyone followed suit.

“Daria was okay,” said Link absently. “I heard her sister’s a twit, though.”

Chris looked up in surprise and shock. “What?” he shouted. “Quinn’s not a twit!”

“Damn, boy!” growled Rachel, frowning. “Keep it down!”

“Hey,” said Link, “I’m just telling ya what Daria said.”

“She’s a twit!” said Chris with vehemence. “Daria’s a twit!” He let his cards tip over into public view. Rachel and Link glanced at his cards but said nothing. Brian saw but leaned too close in too obvious a manner. Chris snatched his cards back into hiding.

“Cut it out, dope,” said Sam. He had gotten over his long infatuation for the unapproachable Quinn, who was regarded as the cutest and most popular student at Lawndale High School. She would be a senior this coming fall when school started. Sam coolly picked up two pennies and tossed them to the hardwood floor of the cabin. They clinked to a stop under the steady gaze of five pairs of eyes. “Open with two.”

“You do too like Quinn, you big double dope!” yelled Chris, his face flushed.

“Oh, get over it, wiener.”

“You suck!”

“Christ!” Link snapped at Chris. “Take your medication, okay?”

“Go marry her if you want,” said Sam, tired of hearing this. “You can have her.”

“Okay!” said Chris—then: “You mean it?”

“Yeah,” said Sam. “I don’t want her. Jeez.” What he said was true. He thought about Quinn only once in a while now. Now was not one of those times. Sam was instead thinking—and trying not to think—about Rachel’s bare brown knee, which was so close to his own. He’d watched her a lot in eighth-grade gym, on the occasions when the boys and girls classes mixed. Rachel was pleasant to watch. She had a nice body and a beautiful voice. He wished that she would smile more.

Rachel examined her hand. She was aware that grinning Brian kept staring at her breasts. He was creepy, bad creepy, and it put her off. The swastika drawn on his t-shirt didn’t help. She was glad Sam was around, though she would die before she admitted it. Without thinking, she pressed her cards to her T-shirt—making her breasts stand out a bit—and reached for the stack of pennies by her bare knee. “Two, and raise you one.”

Chris nervously glanced at everyone else, then feigned disinterest and tossed three pennies in. He couldn’t believe Sam was dissing Quinn. Was his brother completely mental, or what? Quinn was a goddess! Every guy in Lawndale wanted to marry her. It was like Sam was saying Quinn wasn’t worth it. What an idiot! Chris suspected he didn’t have a chance to ever catch Quinn’s attention, but if he did, he knew he’d be the best man he could possibly be for her. He gripped his cards and straightened them out again.

Brian grinned at his cards. He didn’t particularly care about Quinn. He had an unguarded Internet connection at home, and he could see hundreds of women with their clothes off, doing anything, anytime he liked. Rachel was vaguely interesting, but other girls here had bigger breasts and better asses. He wished he had his laptop computer at camp; he’d really show these guys something then. He tossed five coins into the middle, one at a time. “Raise you two.”

Link dropped his cards in front of him. “I’m out.” He leaned back on his arms and watched the action. None of the group here sounded like a future Einstein, but he could put up with that. Being here beat the hell out of being home listening to his mother and stepfather scream at each other. He gave the marriage only a couple months at most before his mother went trolling the sports bars for a new husband. Maybe number three would not be too bad a jerk, but he held little hope of it. If a stupid option existed anywhere, his mother would be on it with both hands.

Sam threw in three pennies, though he suspected he should have dropped out, like Link. His hand wasn’t very good, only a pair of sevens, but he’d seen Rachel’s gesture with her cards and T-shirt, and it threw him. He suddenly realized Rachel was really good looking. She was hot. How had he missed this before now? It was becoming hard to concentrate on the game. His face felt warm.

Rachel did a little math in her head, then threw in two pennies, followed by two pennies more. She did this without looking at her cards, which were still facedown on the floor again. “Raise you two.”

Chris stared at his hand, then folded with a heavy sigh. “Forget it.”

Brian threw in two pennies, then two more pennies. “Raise you two more.”

Sam glumly threw in four pennies without comment. He had no idea why he was doing this. It then came to him that he was hoping Rachel would win the pot.

“Raise you four more,” said Rachel, throwing in six pennies in quick, easy succession.

Brian’s grin faded. He looked at his cards a long time, glancing at Rachel’s facedown hand before her. Finally, he dropped his cards on the dealer’s deck and groaned. “Crap. You win.”

Rachel hesitated, surprised that she’d won, then shrugged and coolly leaned forward to rake in her winnings.

The sunlight from the cabin door suddenly dimmed. Everyone turned to look.

“Ah, getting to know each other through the pleasures of simple gaming?” said Mr. O’Neill with a broad smile. He looked as cheerful and naïve as a newborn. “That’s certainly an exciting and creative way to explore each other’s personality in a mildly competitive environment, even if I believe you are all supposed to be in the basket-weaving class right now. And girls aren’t supposed to be in the boys’ cabins. Lawsuits—but no matter. If I may interrupt a moment, I’ve got good news! Cabin thirteen, your counselor’s here!”

Everyone waited, staring at the door. Mr. O’Neill stepped aside. Behind him was a pale, thirty-something man with a nervous expression and shoulder-length flaxen hair. He wore the requisite camp T-shirt, though it was wrinkled and splattered with wet spots. The counselor’s eyes seemed unusually red.

“This is a good friend that I met at the Men With Big Hearts seminar in Leeville just this spring!” cried Mr. O’Neill. “He’ll take you to the Peace Within floating session at the lake at ten o’clock. Wind?”

The new cabin counselor stepped forward. “Hi,” he said in a high voice. “I’m Wind Lane, and I’m sorry I was late, but my wife, Katie, she—she—”

To the campers’ astonishment, Wind Lane burst into tears and hid his face. With a sad, motherly expression, Mr. O’Neill gave Wind a gentle hug. “There, there,” he murmured. “Crying is perfectly therapeutic. Just let it all out in the open like a man.”

The five kids in Cabin 13 looked at each other with amused disgust. The boys then looked at Rachel and at her facedown poker hand. Sam reached for her cards as Rachel finished scooping in her pennies. Sam studied her hand, then threw the cards down, face up.

“You bluffed us!” he said in amazement. “You didn’t have anything!” He looked at Rachel and caught her smirking at him. He grinned back. “You devil!” he said with admiration. Rachel smiled broadly and giggled.

Chris fell over backward on the floor with a groan. Brian threw down his poker hand and said a remarkably bad word. Link burst out in hysterical laughter and pounded the wooden floor. Rachel and Sam looked away from each other, embarrassed but relaxed—and strangely excited and happy.

“They’re not laughing at you,” Mr. O’Neill said, patting Wind on the back. “They’re just self-actualizing, exploring their interpersonal space.”

“This summer is going to suck!” shouted Chris, staring at the cabin ceiling.

Chapter II: All My Children

“Cabin thirteen campers! Hey, can I have your attention, please? Brian, don’t—Brian! Please! Put that turtle down! Let it go! Leave it alone, Brian! Okay, thank you, Brian. Campers, I’m Uncle Wind, and—okay, you can stop laughing, it’s really my name. Just get past it, okay? Get serious, all right? Okay?

“Hey! Listen! I’m Uncle Wind, and this is Peace Within, a new group therapy session that Uncle Timothy has added to the Okay-to-Cry Corral’s Self-Healing Togetherness Specials, or whatever he’s calling them. We—no, I’m afraid we’re not really going to swim. Yes, Rachel, I know you want to swim, but we’ll have time for that after this session. Later, later this afternoon. Rachel, are you in cabin thirteen, too? Well, you’re a girl. I thought that only—okay, okay, forget it. Sorry! Forget it, all right?

“Okay, everyone, please just listen to me before you ask anything else. What we’re going to do is learn to float and listen to the voice of our inner selves. This is a—Link, that’s not a very nice thing to say about Uncle Timothy. Let’s not use words like that, too, okay? That’s crude. Yes, Peace Within was Uncle Timothy’s idea, and I think it’s a wonderful idea. If Katie and I had only had this technique available to us, I’m sure we’d—we’d—oh, God! Why, Katie, why?

“All right, excuse me. Just a moment—okay, I’m okay now. I’m fine, really. Look, just lie on your backs in the water—no, Brian, you can’t float in the middle of the lake, damn it! Wait, okay, I’m sorry I yelled. Sorry. Kids, just float on your backs and think deeply about the person you’ve had the most trouble with in your life, either currently or in the past, and listen to your inner self interact with this person. Interact means, you know, deal with, talk to, relate to, that stuff. Just think of this person and relate to him or her. Or them. In my case, her, I guess. If only we’d—I’m sorry—wait—no, I’m fine now. I’m okay. Sorry.

“Okay, now, everyone ready? Sam, please, the sooner we do this, the sooner we can swim, okay? Okay. Yes? Ah, yeah, Brian, I’ve heard that joke about my name lots of times. Millions of times. It’s not very funny. Let’s don’t go on about ‘breaking wind,’ okay? Just stick your head in the water—sorry! My bad! Just lie back in the water and relax and deal with this person with whom you’ve had the most trouble. We’ll talk about our experiences afterward. Well, Chris, yes, if you have to go, then go. No! No, not in the lake! Get out of the water and go to the latrine! All right, the rest of you, lie back and float. Yeah, like that. Whew. God, I really need a beer.”

* * *

Wind Lane sat down on the sand by the lakeside and shook his head. Now he knew what sort of hell Tim O’Neill had to go through every day at this miserable camp. The things a guy had to do to earn a few bucks! Kids were the worst. Wind hated being around kids. He remembered being a kid once, and it was the pits. Kids were cruel and vicious and smart-mouthed and never let up when they were picking on you because your name was funny. Little bastards. Why Katie had been so insistent on having kids was beyond him. Life was hard enough just dealing with your own problems. Why make more trouble for everyone by making more rotten little kids? All he wanted was someone to care for him and love him and make his life worth living again. Oh, Katie, if only—

Wind broke off that train of thought after a few tears. He thought of an old Fleetwood Mac song that always came to him when he thought about his failures in love. He couldn’t place the title, but it was about crying and having your illusions shattered and going home alone. He wiped his eyes and watched the five kids from Cabin 13 floating on their backs in the shallow water. Well, Wind thought, Uncle Timothy can’t say I haven’t walked a mile in his shoes now! He blinked his eyes, checked his watch, blinked again, yawned, and two minutes later was sound asleep, sitting upright on the sand.

* * *

Sam Griffin closed his eyes. It was boring to float and do nothing, though he admitted that it was relaxing. Images of Rachel in her flame-bright tangerine bikini appeared in his head, and he relaxed even further, until he realized the images were powerfully turning him on. Embarrassed, he made himself stop thinking of Rachel. He cast about for a thought that was less appealing—and his sister Sandi immediately came to mind.

His older sister would be a senior with Quinn when school started that fall, and after that she’d be off to college and out of his life. He could hardly wait. It wasn’t that he hated her—no, he admitted that a lot of time, it was that he hated her. She was arrogant, power-mad, bad tempered, stuck up, and thought she owned the world. She had a master-slave relationship with everyone alive. Sam’s happiest moments were often when he’d pulled a good one over his sister, like soaking her mattress with cold water, or putting a whoopee cushion on her chair when she had a date over for dinner.

True, hitting her with the remote-controlled truck that one time hadn’t proved funny, when she tripped and fell down the stairs and broke her leg. That had been pretty bad. Locking Sandi out of the house during a snowstorm in December, when she and her friends had been outside soaking in the hot tub—now, that was a winner. Sam laughed himself silly when his pranks worked.

And he hated it.

He frowned. He hated getting revenge on his sister. Why couldn’t they have a normal relationship and just get along? What the hell was the problem with her? It pissed him off that their mother favored her so much, and that Dad was such an incredible wuss and wouldn’t stand up to Sandi’s ridiculous demands for clothing, money, a new car, everything. Anything she wanted, she got. It drove Sam insane. It had always been this way, and he hated it. It sucked.

He lay in the water and wished he could figure his sister out. It was easier, though, to just find a way to get under Sandi’s skin and drive her nuts in retaliation for her constant insults and demands and just generally being a total . . .

A total . . .

Quinn. A strange thought came to Sam. He’d never especially liked Quinn—well, maybe for a little while, at the start, but not for long. She could be nice enough at times and she was certainly pretty enough, but she just wasn’t Sam’s type. He’d been acting for years as if he’d been madly in love with Quinn because it so totally drove Sandi nuts, not because he did love Quinn. It was just a thing he did to piss Sandi off, to get her back.

But he didn’t love Quinn.

Sam opened his eyes and looked up at the top of the clear blue vault. He’d never loved Quinn at all. Weird. He felt free in an odd way when he thought that. Did Chris love Quinn? That was entirely possible. That would be his problem, then, but not Sam’s.

His thoughts turned back to Sandi. He tried to imagine what it was like for her to grow up as the favored one in the family, to have her every whim catered to, to think she was the center of the world. He tried, but it was almost impossible. It was too alien a viewpoint. In any event, it was hard to imagine any possible way for her to change and be less of an ironclad bitch. It was like she was always scared of falling off her throne, the control freak terrified of losing control at last. Maybe she should fall, he thought. It might wise her up. As things were, it might not ever be possible to have a normal relationship with her.

Sam frowned, but he could not shake this fear. He swallowed. Maybe it would be best to just wait for Sandi to go away to college. Maybe there was no hope. That would really suck.

He sighed, feeling depressed. In any event, he would stop tormenting her with a fake love for Quinn. He’d suspected for a while that chasing Quinn, or pretending to, was a waste of time. They weren’t meant for each other. He was okay with that.

Things with Sandi would have to wait for a future day to improve. Nothing could be done now. He put it aside.

And, just like that, Sam was thinking of Rachel again. When she smiled, she was beautiful. She had it all. He made up his mind to talk to her and see what happened next.

It sure beat hanging around Uncle Wind and the other dim bulbs here, not to mention the little kids and their wacky rumors about a monster prowling near the camp.

* * *

The most trouble with, thought Rachel Landon, the person I’ve had the most trouble with would be Evan. I hate babysitting him, carrying him around, looking for his toys, feeding him, anything with him. I hate having a little brother. Okay, there, I’ve thought what I needed to think, so move on to something better. Stupid camp.

Rachel stared at the zenith of the heavens, her mind blank. Shortly, she wondered if she could see a star in the middle of the day, but none appeared. She could barely see any at night, with all the lights on in Lawndale at all hours. She exhaled and tried to think of something else. Stupid camp.

She thought of her older sister, Jodie.

Rachel knew the Morgendorffer sisters fairly well. Daria was the average-looking brain, Quinn was the vapid but gorgeous red-haired model-to-be. Rachel heard a lot from Jodie about the conflicts between Daria and Quinn, how Daria couldn’t stand her cute younger sister, and Quinn couldn’t stand her brilliant sibling. Rachel had almost never spoken with either sister, but it was easy for her to imagine the conflicts that went on between them, the endless struggle for attention and affection.

How lucky the Morgendorffer sisters were, in Rachel’s mind. How very lucky they were, for either of them could have been born into the Landon household in Rachel’s place and competed instead against an older sister who had both looks and brains, everything all in one package, the belle of the ball and the class valedictorian all at once, with the school’s star athlete at her side and every chance in the world for happiness.

And Rachel had nothing.

Nothing.

Well, she did have report-card grades that averaged out to slightly over 2.0, a C average student with a C average face and a C average figure and C average talents at everything from English to sports, with variations from C+ to C- in everything else. She was okay at dancing, but Jodie was better. She played a clarinet reasonably well, but Jodie excelled at piano and flute. Rachel floated in the lake and envied Daria and Quinn, because they each had a gift. They each had a piece of the pie—not one of them ending up with the whole pie, like Jodie—leaving Rachel with nothing.

Rachel thought of her father. Andrew Landon was sweet and funny, a successful businessman and part-time inventor—the rarest occupational combination of them all. He always said he loved his children equally, even if he shouted out his praise of Jodie’s report cards and said little about Rachel’s. Or always showed up for Jodie’s school functions, but only one time in six for Rachel’s, when it didn’t interfere with any other plans. With Jodie heading for college in the fall, would her father even bother to go to Rachel’s activities any longer? Why pretend any long that he cared? He doted over little Evan, but never over his invisible middle child.

And Mom—she was forever harping on about it, driving the screws in tighter and tighter. Be more like your sister, she would snarl. Why can’t you be more like Jodie? You’re going to be a fry cook, damn it, if you don’t bring these grades up! You’re going to clean toilets or run a cash register in a supermarket if you don’t do something with your life! We’re not going to support you forever! Get off your butt and do something with your life! Right now, damn it! Now!

But what was there to do, whispered a voice in Rachel’s head, when Jodie had already done it all?

I hate my sister, Rachel thought. She closed her eyes to hide from the words, but they were still there. I hate my sister. I hate Evan, but I really hate Jodie, and she doesn’t deserve it. I’m wicked and sinful to hate her, but I do. I hate her, and I wish I were dead.

After a long moment, Rachel opened her eyes again. I don’t really wish I was dead, she amended. I just wish my life were different. I wish I had something, anything, that Jodie did not have as well. Anything.

Depression settled over her like a physical weight, almost pulling her limbs down into the water. Once, long ago, Rachel had a crush on her sister’s boyfriend, Mack. He was a terrific catch, a sweet, strong, handsome guy who put up with all of Jodie’s quirks and still brought her flowers, held doors open for her, and played the perfect gentleman. Rachel had dreamed of having Mack for herself, until the day came when he looked right through Rachel for the thousandth time, looking for Jodie, and Rachel knew she would always be invisible to him. She was nothing. Jodie was everything. The crush died then, but the dreadful knowledge lived on.

What is there I could have that Jodie does not?

Nothing. True, it had been mildly pleasant to be the baby of the family, but with Evan’s unexpected arrival even that was gone. It wasn’t his fault. It had just been the last thing Rachel had left to cling to, to be different. Now she was nothing.

After a long moment, her thoughts turned to Sam Griffin. She’d caught him looking at her a number of times earlier in the year, so she had the distinct idea he was interested in her. She could not imagine why, except that he was probably wondering what she was like, her being black while he was white, or maybe just because she was a girl and he was a regular horny guy who would follow anything with legs. Or maybe it was something else.

Not.

Sam was okay, she admitted, but better than okay in certain ways. He swam a lot, so he had good muscles. He was rather handsome. He knew some great jokes. He had a wild streak in him that was exciting to be around, and he had a cheery, confident attitude, except maybe when talking about his parents or older sister. Most importantly, he was nice to Rachel and shy around her. Why in the world would he be interested in her, after all the time he’d spent mooning over the ever-cute Quinn Morgendorffer? She wondered if he’d been serious during poker when he said he wasn’t interested in Quinn any longer.

Rachel thought about the poker game earlier that morning. She’d had nothing in her poker hand, not even a pair, but she’d bluffed her way through and won the game. That was her whole life right there—a never-ending bluff to cover the nothing she had.

Rachel closed her eyes. And, just like that, she was thinking of Sam again. He had a great smile. It made her think she had something after all.

She made up her mind to talk to him and see what happened next. It wasn’t like there was anything else to do here at Camp Cry-a-Lot. A monster was supposed to live nearby, but the noisy children had no doubt driven it away long ago. Stupid camp.

* * *

Wow, this is easy, Link Jackson thought with his eyes closed. Think of the person I have the most trouble with. I can start with the Big Three: Mom, Dad, and Stepdad Bill, a.k.a. Dingbat, Big Jerk, and Bigger Jerk. Make that the Big Five, adding in Uncle Timothy O’Neill and Uncle Wind whatever-his-last-name-was. Wait—there’s more I could add to the list, and then more, and . . .

In the end, Link stopped thinking of them all. The names of those he had trouble with were legion. It wasn’t worth the trouble to think of them.

Instead, he thought of Uncle Anthony, the only adult with whom Link had no trouble at all.

Anthony DeMartino was one of the other camp counselors, the only one for whom Link had any degree of respect. Mr. DeMartino was a man on the edge, that was for sure. He was a tall, gaunt, popeyed teacher on the teetering brink of a violent burnout, a fifty-something Vietnam vet with a rumored history of mental instability and a widely known tendency to rant and rave. Mr. DeMartino hated the Okay-to-Cry Corral, hated its New Age cuddliness and politically correct hypersensitivity, hated its attempts to bring insight at the expense of fun and activity, and probably at times hated Uncle Timothy as well, with whom DeMartino worked on the teaching staff at Lawndale High School. Yet Mr. DeMartino still came to camp as a counselor, his second summer in a row doing so.

And Link loved him for it. Uncle Anthony was all that made this hideous camp bearable. Too bad he was assigned to oversee other cabins, but at least Link would see him for the nature hikes. Maybe they’d get to explore the back end of the campgrounds, where the Hot Lake Monster lived. DeMartino would do it. He was the best.

Link’s expression grew dark. Why, when his mother was dragging herself through bars in search of a husband or boyfriend, couldn’t she find someone like Mr. DeMartino? Uncle Anthony cared about stuff, he really cared, and he wasn’t a touchy-feely airhead about it like Uncle Breakwind or Uncle Timothy or any of those other morons. Uncle Anthony was a man to be respected. He knew tons of things about history, cool stuff about secret missions and spies and commando raids and all that, but he’d actually been to Vietnam, and he carried the emotional scars to prove it. He could be weird and scary at times, but Link would follow Uncle Anthony into the jaws of Hell and never look back.

Maybe there was a way to get emancipated and have Mr. DeMartino adopt him. Anything was possible. Link made a mental note to e-mail Daria. She said she had a book about divorcing your family, and it might just work, if Mr. DeMartino was cool with that.

Link’s thoughts turned again to the Hot Lake Monster. He knew the Okay-to-Cry Corral was backed up to a private wildlife preserve surrounding the huge “cooling pond” by the Twilight’s Last Gleaming nuclear power plant. He doubted there was actual radiation in the water, which was used for coolant in the plant. Still, you could always hope. The fish mutations alone would be awesome.

Link recalled that Hot Lake never froze over because it was kept permanently warm as it was cycled through the plant’s reactors. A Sunday newspaper supplement article on the power plant noted that the lake wasn’t really hot, but it was lukewarm at worst in the dead of winter, and many birds and animals congregated around the lake all year long. The nuclear plant owned the heavily forested lake property and did not allow anyone to swim or fish there, though of course a few people tried anyway. The power plant’s security staff usually caught them, but efforts to patrol the area were half-hearted.

And then there was the monster. It was pretty well known that you could hear a roaring noise now and then, usually in early mornings or evenings, from the direction of Hot Lake. Link had heard it himself the previous year, which was all that took his mind off his deepening misery at the time. Other campers said the monster was a glowing mutant killer werewolf from another galaxy whose UFO was trapped below the waters of Hot Lake. Daria Morgendorffer had said it was just another camper acting like an idiot, or maybe a train horn. She had never heard the monster’s echoing roar. It sure didn’t sound like another camper or a train.

Would Uncle Anthony want to take a group and explore the campground’s border with Hot Lake? It would be a long hike, but it was worth putting a word in Uncle Anthony’s ear about it. Maybe a few campers could go explore the lake in person, too, though it wouldn’t be without danger. Link had read of a power-plant cooling pond in Wisconsin that turned out to have a giant freshwater piranha in it, tossed into the lake by a disgruntled pet owner or college prankster. Or maybe it had been a fish like a piranha, but not a piranha. Whatever. Maybe someone had been thoughtful enough to put piranha in Hot Lake as well. Again, you could always hope. If the Hot Lake piranha had mutated from residual radiation and now came up on land and ate everything in sight and roared challenges at night—hey, that could be really dangerous!

But, without a little danger, it wouldn’t be any fun, would it?

Link sighed. Floating wasn’t so bad. It let his mind go free, and he hadn’t thought of his mother or stepdad for almost five minutes now. He did miss seeing Daria at the camp, but they exchanged e-mails regularly, and it wasn’t like she’d disappeared. And if he was desperate for her advice, he had secretly brought along the family cell phone. His mother never used it, and Daria’s home was a local call, so it wouldn’t ruin the bill.

Uncle Anthony, though, Link had missed a lot over the last year. Maybe it would be worthwhile for Link to get his mother to move to Lawndale after her next divorce, so he could attend Lawndale High and see Mr. DeMartino on a daily basis. That would be the coolest. Maybe Daria had some ideas on how to pull this off.

A strange thought came to Link as he floated there. Had Mr. DeMartino once been a kid like Link—kinda messed up, angry at the world, fed up with the crap everyone shoveled out for him to eat? This seemed likely. A lot of things were clearly eating at Mr. DeMartino, but he was still on his feet and moving, still giving it back to the world. He took it like a man and dished it out, too.

Maybe there was hope for the future after all. Link almost smiled. That would be the greatest.

In the meantime, there were plans afoot to investigate Hot Lake and the roaring heard in the night. Link really wanted to find out what made the roaring. This lousy camp could use a little excitement.

* * *

This floating crap sucked! Chris Griffin had never been so sure of a thing in his life. That stupid butthead Wind wasn’t going to let anyone have fun at this camp. Floating was the most stupidest thing ever. What good was that? And why should they have to think about people you were mad at?

Chris wasn’t mad at a lot of people, just the usual suspects: his father, for never doing anything with him; his mother and big sister, for being such a pair of b-plus-witch-minus-the-w’s; and his brother Sam, for dissing Quinn Morgendorffer. Was he, like, gay or something? Quinn was the most beautiful woman in the entire universe. Chris had never been so sure of a thing in his life. She was older than Chris, but there had to be a way to get her attention and let her know he was a real man—more of a man than Sam, that was for sure. What a dork.

Chris knew what women really wanted in a man. He’d watched all the James Bond movies. Women wanted a guy who was cool, a guy who was always polite and kept control of himself, even when that seemed impossible. They wanted a guy who could be funny but level, too, not getting mad and blowing up about stuff. And they wanted a guy who was exciting, who did lots of cool, exciting stuff. Chris knew he could do that. He had it in him to do all of this. Quinn had to find out what Chris was really made of.

Which is where the Hot Lake Monster came in.

The Hot Lake Monster was real. Chris had never been so sure of a thing in his life. Rumor had it that the monster was a radioactive slime creature from outer space created by leaking radiation from the nuclear power plant near the Okay-to-Cry Corral campsite, and this was so obviously true that Chris could only shake his head when naïve camp counselors said it was just an urban legend. Fat lot they knew. The government was covering up the monster’s existence, of course, to prevent widespread panic. They’d never heard the monster roar. Neither had Chris, but he was sure it roared, because another camper said its roar froze your blood and made some people go insane.

But not Chris. He was going to find out the truth about the Hot Lake Monster. It would be just like on “The X-Files.” He would prove it was real, and he would be famous, and Quinn would go out with him and be his girlfriend, and Chris would own the world. Man, that would be the greatest! Chris had never been so sure of a thing in his life.

This, of course, assumed that Uncle Butt-Wind didn’t get in the way and mess up everything. Uncle Butt-Wind was getting on Chris’s nerves. He was a bigger dumb-ass loser crybaby than anyone had imagined, a bigger baby than even Uncle Timothy O-Hole, and that was saying something. No wonder Uncle Windy couldn’t stay married. No way a loser like that would ever have someone hot like Quinn.

Chris hated crybabies and losers. He hated being pushed around by his sister and his mother. He wanted more than anything to be a man on his own, big and tall, cool to the coolest degree, and have Quinn at his side. He’d be a bigger man than his father, who always looked miserable and had the most annoying whine when Chris’s mother yelled at him about something he was alleged to have done wrong. His mother and Sandi would leave Chris alone once he was big and tall, and he’d never worry about anything again.

A funny thought came to Chris a moment later. Wouldn’t it be a shriek if Wind met Sandi and they fell in love? He might be twice her age, but he’d be perfect for her. She could wipe her feet on him day and night. Of course, there was a major drawback to his plan, which was that Sandi might marry Wind, and Chris would have to put up with him. But so would Sam—and that might be fun to see. And there was the excellent chance that Sandi and Wind would move away. That would be tight.

Chris made up his mind about one thing: He was definitely going to discover the truth about the Hot Lake Monster. And he would be famous for it. And Quinn would go out with him and wouldn’t care how old he was. The idea was foolproof. Chris had never been so sure of a thing in his life.

Now, if only he could find a way to put it all into action. . . .

* * *

In the space of five minutes, Brian Taylor considered and discarded six detailed ways of getting back at Wind Lane for making him float instead of letting him swim. Wind would definitely suffer. Brian was confident of this. He’d wait and find a moment to strike, and that would show Uncle Breakwind not to mess with this particular kid.

Uncle Breakwind aside, this camp had potential. There was this stupid rumor going around camp that a mutant creature lived nearby. Brian figured it was probably just a garbage-eating black bear, which his father said might still wander the wilderness in these parts. Brian’s dad knew all kinds of stuff like that. He’d gone hunting for years and had a house full of stuffed animal heads to show for it. Brian really wanted to be like his dad. Maybe if he was like his dad enough, his dad would notice him and stop paying attention to Brian’s big sister Brittany, who was a blonde space case with a squeaky voice and huge boobs, or Brian’s stepmother, Ashley-Amber, who was an even bigger blonde space case with huge boobs. The only sure way to get his dad’s attention away from the Boobsy Twins, as Brian figured it, was to kill things.

Brian had no problem with killing things. He’d done it for years. It had started as a sort of experimenting—what would animal X do if event Y happened to it? Or event Z happened right after? He’d experimented mostly on little things like mice and hamsters and garter snakes and lizards and ants—lots of ants. He’d had a couple of cats, too, but most escaped and ran off before he could finish experimenting on them. Brittany and Ashley-Amber didn’t understand the experimenting thing at all. It freaked them out, and they told his dad about it, but he didn’t seem to mind it. Brian didn’t understand Brittany or Ashley-Amber, and he didn’t like them, either. He didn’t understand anyone, had never walked a mile in anyone’s shoes and never thought to try. Why bother? Other people weren’t worth the trouble. They got in his way, and that ticked him off like nothing else could. He always found ways of getting back at them, like breaking or stealing their treasures, spreading rumors about them, or cursing them out, but lately he’d begun to consider other ways of getting back at people he didn’t like. All of those ways involved pain. And Brian was learning a lot about pain from his experiments. It was fascinating. He liked it.

The Okay-to-Cry Corral might prove to be a great place to get his dad’s attention instead of Ashley-Amber’s, if Brian could find a bear or something else notable that he could kill and take as a trophy. He’d come to camp prepared, but no one would know that with a casual inspection of his gear. If he could bring down a big animal, then he’d be just like his dad, and his dad would notice him and stop acting like Brittany and Ashley-Amber were hot stuff instead of brainless cows.

Tired of all the floating, Brian opened an eye and turned his head toward the shore. No way! Uncle Breakwind was asleep! Perfect!

With infinite care, Brian came upright in the water. His feet touched bottom. One foot came down on a small round rock. Brian carefully picked it up with his toes and brought it to his hand. Timing was of the essence. He glanced around, saw no one looking at him, and brought his hand back. In the same moment he snapped his hand forward and released the rock, he slipped back into the water, eyes closed, limbs out and relaxed, as if nothing had happened at all.

A solid smack was heard a fraction of a second later, followed by Wind Lane’s agonized yell. Wind went over backward with a welt just over his right eye, his hands clamped to his head.

In this manner did the Peace Within Self-Healing Togetherness Special conclude. Good thing it’s okay to cry here, Brian thought as Wind’s howls filled the air.

Chapter III: As the World Turns

“Uncle Anthony, I’m still a little bit nervous about the size of that bonfire,” said Mr. O’Neill, eyeing the evening conflagration that covered less than one square foot on the beach. “We don’t want to annihilate forests and endanger the world’s struggling wildlife, do we?”

“Now, TIM—um, Uncle TIMothy, let me assure you that there is not the SLIGHTest chance this ONE-log fire with a THIRTY-foot-radius debris-free clearing around it will endanger even an ANThill. Your paranoia is SUFFICIENT to keep the planet SAFE for another thousand YEARS.”

“Oh, very well.” Mr. O’Neill turned to the forty-two whispering campers sitting in a semicircle around him in the fading light. “Now, Okay-to-Cry Corraleers, we’ve had an exciting, fun-filled day today. We’ve woven baskets to represent our ego systems, in which we carry all the trauma and pain from our past into the present, where it is healed to free us for the future, and each cabin has had its Peace Within session of introspection and private acknowledgment of dysfunction in interpersonal relationships, and we had a emergency healing session with Uncle Wind, who suffered that unusual blow to the head while meditating, and then there was the Okay-to-Cry Corral Dance of Honor and Thanks to the Vegetables Who Gave of Themselves for Our Organically Grown Dinner.”

“Tofu isn’t a vegetable!” Brian shouted.

“It is,” said Mr. O’Neill, unperturbed.

“Tofu sucks!” shouted Chris. Many other campers cheered.

“Let’s make s’mores on the campfire!” shouted Rachel.

“Yeah!” shouted dozens of other kids.

“Um,” began Wind Lane, “graham crackers are made in sweatshops, you know, and chocolate and marshmallows are really bad for your complexion. Plus, we, you know, forgot to go to the store and get the stuff, so let’s put a no-go on that, all right?”

“That sucks!” yelled Chris. Other angry voices echoed his.

Mr. O’Neill appeared to be on the verge of tears. “Now, now, it’s time for our evening story, which will be told by Uncle Anthony, and then we’re off to bed.”

“Hey, it’s only nine-thirty!” shouted Brian. “I don’t have to go to bed until midnight!”

“Campers, remember what I said this morning at the Circle of Greeting and Incipient Friendships! This is the first time the Okay-to-Cry Corral has had overnight campers, and we have to play it safe to make sure no one is overtired in the morning! Remember, if you take care of yourself, your self will . . . will what, Corraleers?”

Silence filled the twilight.

“Your self will . . . take care of you!” finished Mr. O’Neill. “Yes, exactly! Very good!”

“Story!” shouted a number of bored campers. “Tell us a story, Uncle Anthony!”

“Very WELL!” called Mr. DeMartino, taking a seat on a log by the minuscule campfire. “I just happen to recall one particular STORY that all of you future fast-food cashiers might find INTEResting! Heh heh heh! It’s called, ‘The Roller Coaster of DEATH’!”

Excited murmurs of approval arose from every throat—except two.

“Isn’t that kind of, you know, negative?” asked Wind Lane anxiously. He adjusted the huge bandage over his right eye. “Should we really be telling negative stories to little kids at night? They’ll get nightmares or wet their sleeping bags or something, won’t they? And we’ll get sued?”

“What?” screamed dozens of kids in outrage. “We’re not little!”

“Ah, Uncle Anthony,” said Mr. O’Neill, again on the verge of tears, “I think Uncle Wind is right, mostly. Let’s tell the one about the courageous bunny with the big heart instead.”

“The rabbit with the big heart-on?” shouted Link. Wild, raucous laughter broke out from every camper present. Mr. DeMartino chuckled, too, though he appeared tense as well, perhaps because he could not tell his ghost story. He got to his feet, waved goodbye to everyone, and stalked off to the main cabin for the night.

“Uncle Anthony!” screamed the horrified campers. “Come back! Tell your story! Save us!”

“Sorry! I’m ALLERGIC to RABBITS!” he shouted as he left.

Mr. O’Neill sighed, almost in control of himself now. “Uncle Wind, please tell us the story of the courageous bunny, please.”

Wind nodded and began the tale with a whining voice. Every camper present immediately lost interest and began whispering among themselves or poking at the sand. Sam turned to Rachel, who sat beside him among the other denizens of Cabin 13. “Good try for the s’mores,” he whispered.

“Yeah, well, it didn’t work,” said Rachel glumly. “Man, this place just—oh, forget it.”

“It sucks.”

“Yeah, it really does.” Rachel looked at Sam. “So, are you guys going out for a walk later, after—”

“Shh. Yeah. Wanna come with?”

Rachel’s mouth twitched, ready to curve into a smile. “Where are you going?”

“Oh, just out. Link had this idea about looking for—um, for—”

“That creature everyone’s talking about?”

“Shh. Yeah. We just want to get out. I can’t stand this nutty crying stuff. If we don’t get away from this for a while, I think we’ll go crazy, you know? It’s just—”