The Order of the Poison Oak Read Online Free PDF Page A

and jerked down my shorts, exposing my white briefs for the whole world to see—including Web, who was still looking right at me.
    * * * * *
    I somehow managed to get my kids through dinner (which was slightly less insane, if only because adults were around), and then through lights-out (don’t get me started). Once I was sure all the kids were asleep, I left to meet Min and Gunnar. We’d agreed to rendezvous that night at this sheltered little cove a few minutes’ walk north of camp. We’d accidentally discovered it when we were out exploring the week before. Eventually, the other counselors would probably discover it too, but for the time being it was our own secret hideaway.
    “Oh. My. God.” This was me. It was the first thing I said to my two friends. They were lounging on this big granite boulder that extended from the beach out into the water. I have no idea what the Rock of Gibraltar looks like, but let’s say it looked like that.
    “What?” Gunnar said to me.
    “Are you kidding?” I said, climbing up onto the rock to join them. “They’re a bunch of brats! And when they’re not running around shrieking, they’re puking!” I wasn’t exaggerating. Immediately after arriving back at the cabin after dinner, Willy had thrown up, probably as a result of all the excitement of the day. The smell had resulted in a vomit chain reaction in which Julian and Kwame had proceeded to throw up too. No one—I repeat, no one!—had managed to make it ten feet to the outside of the cabin.
    “Your kids?” Gunnar asked.
    “Yes, my kids! They are out of control! Aren’t yours?”
    “Not really. I guess I got lucky. I think I got the nerds.”
    “And mine are nine-year-old girls,” Min said. “In two years, they’ll be all snooty and premenstrual, but for the time being, they’re just sparkle nail polish and Bratz Slumber Party.”
    All my life, I’d thought that when a class was out of control, it was all the teacher’s fault. I remembered so many teachers snidely saving how this class or that one was just so “difficult,” and I’d always chalked it up to their making excuses for their own pathetic teaching. But now I saw that they weren’t just making excuses, that there really was something to the idea that not every group of kids is the same.
    “So,” Gunnar said to me, “you probably regret coming here, huh? You wanna go home?”
    Now I’d done it. I’d made Gunnar feel bad. After all, this whole camp thing had been his idea. One more reason I couldn’t just vacate in disgust.
    “Oh, it’s not that bad,” I said, backpedaling. “I just need to get a grip.” I was still trying to find a place to sit on the rock. The top was uneven, and Min and Gunnar had taken the only two flat spots.
    “What about the other counselors?” Min said, sipping on a Diet Coke. “What do we think about them by now?”
    “I like Em,” I said. “I think she’s great.”
    “Oh, yeah,” Min said. “Em’s great.”
    “And Otto,” I said. “He seems nice.
    “I like Otto too,” Min said. “Anyone else?”
    “Well,” I said, finally finding a decent place to sit, “there’s always Web.”
    “What about him?” Gunnar asked. My straight best friend—clueless to the end.
    I decided to spell it all out for Gunnar. “I like him,” I said.
    “Web?” Min said dubiously. “Really?”
    “Are you kidding?” I said. “Have you seen him?”
    “Huh,” Gunnar said. “I wouldn’t figure you’d go for the ‘bad boy’ type”
    “‘Bad boy’!” I said. “Web’s not a ‘bad boy’!” Gunnar rolled his eves. “Are you kidding? He definitely is.”
    As much as I hated to admit it, my straight best friend wasn’t quite as clueless as I’d thought. Did I go for the “bad boy” type? The only other guy I’d ever been hot for was this baseball player from our school, and he’d been dark and butch and kind of cocky. In short, a “bad boy” (but a nice “bad boy”!).
    I looked over at Mm.