Code Name Cassandra by Meg Cabot Read Free Book Online Page B

“He does seem to get worse every year.”
    I shook my head. “Tell me about it.” I was beginning to wonder if Andrew, whose cabin I’d inherited, had heard through the grapevine that Shane had been assigned to it, and then lied about having mono to get out of having to spend his summer dealing with that particular “challenge.” Andrew was a “returner.” He’d worked at the camp the summer before as well.
    “Why do you let him come back?” I asked.
    Pamela sighed. “I realize you wouldn’t know it to look at him, but Shane’s actually extremely gifted.”
    ”
Shane
is?”
    My astonishment must have shown in my voice, since Pamela nodded vigorously as she said, “Oh, yes, it’s true. The boy is a musical genius. Perfect pitch, you know.”
    I just shook my head. “Get out of town.”
    “I’m serious. Not to mention the fact that … well, his parents are very … generous with their support.”
    Well. That pretty much said it all, didn’t it?
    I joined my fellow Birch Trees—and the rest of the camp—around the fire. The first night’s campfire was devoted almost entirely to staff introductions and acquainting the campers with Camp Wawasee’s many rules. All of the musical instructors were paraded out, along with the rest of the camp staff—the counselors, the administrators, the lifeguards, the handymen, the nurse, the cafeteria workers, and so on.
    Then we went over the list of rules and regulations: no running; no littering; no one allowed out of the cottages after 10:00 P.M. ; no cabin raids; no diving into the lake; no playing of musical instruments outside of the practice rooms (this was a crucial rule, because if everyone tried to practice outside of the soundproof rooms provided for that purpose, the camp would soon sound worse than a traffic jam at rush hour). We learned about how Camp Wawasee was smack in the middle of five hundred acres of federally protected forest, and how, if any one of us went wandering off into this forest, we should pretty much expect never to be heard from again.
    On this encouraging note, we were reminded that the mandatory Polar Bear swim commenced at seven in the morning. Then, after a few rounds of
Dona Nobis Pacem
(hey, it was orchestra camp, after all), we were dismissed for the night.
    Shane was at my side the minute I stood up.
    “Hey,” he said, rugging on my shirt. “What happens if I get three strikes?”
    “You’re out,” I informed him.
    “But you can’t throw me out of the camp.” Shane’s freckles—he had quite a lot of them—stood out in the firelight. “You try to do that, my dad’ll sue you.”
    See what I meant, about gifted kids’ parents being litigious?
    “I’m not going to throw you out of camp,” I said. “But I might throw you out of the cabin.”
    Shane glared at me. “Whadduya mean?”
    “Make you sleep on the porch,” I said. “Without benefit of air-conditioning.”
    Shane laughed. He actually laughed and went, “That’s my punishment? Sleep without air-conditioning?”
    He cackled all the way back to the cottage, and accrued another strike when, along the way, he threw a rock—supposedly at a firefly, or so he claimed—which just happened to miss Lionel by only about an inch and ended up hitting Arthur—who took out his feelings on the matter with prompt assertiveness. I, relieved to see that at least one member of Birch Tree Cottage could defend himself against Shane, did nothing to stop the fight.
    “Jeez,” Scott said. He and Dave, their own campers having obediently gone on ahead to their cabins—and probably brushed their teeth and tucked themselves in already—paused beside me to observe Shane and Arthur’s wrestling match, which was happening off the lighted path, and in what appeared to be a dense patch of poison ivy. “What’d you ever do to deserve
that
kid?”
    Watching the fight, I shrugged. “Born under an unlucky star, I guess.”
    “That kid,” Dave said, watching as Shane tried,