The Jake Show: Chapters 17–26

Most of the banner was fine, but Noa was right—her corner needed replacing. Problem was, we were all out of our allotted spool of white paper.

I was still mulling the question when we reached the canteen: a rectangular trailer identical to the Art House, except stocked with Bissli, sour sticks, and brownie bars.

Now they were in the process of painting “CAMP GERSHONI” in lighter shades of green, mixing in browns and grays and blues. It gave the whole thing the feel of a distorted map of the area. I recognized the winding road to camp inside the “G.”

“You defecting to the superior team?”

The spool of white paper was as tall as Caleb, and nearly as wide. He picked it up from the center, lumbering forward like a tightrope walker balancing a too-heavy bar.

“That’s the solution,” I explained. “You said it yourself, back on the first day of camp. It’s super religious. Like Camp Yiddishkeit, only real. And closing ceremonies are the perfect diversion.”

The rest of the camp had dispersed. And now the Shiras had the fire all to themselves.

“She’s my dad’s podiatrist,” Shira W. explained.

When the Sternberg sisters needed to get a secret letter to some kid at Camp Gershoni West, they traded us thirty dollars in canteen money. Do you know how many frozen circle knishes you can buy with thirty dollars?!

And when Jonah Schwartzman asked for a weird plastic terrarium lid for some reason, he gave us the exact set of oil pastels that Shira R.’s been looking for forever.

The water swayed the boat back and forth. Brambles and branches scratched against the hull.

The water swayed the boat back and forth. Brambles and branches scratched against the hull.

“You didn’t have to.”
“I did,” Caleb answered. No hesitation, like it was an objective fact. Planet Earth spins around the sun. Two plus two equals four. Caleb helps his friends.

Caleb grimaced, then laughed.

Two parallel rows of wooden bunks—some big, some small—flanked a single gravel road leading away from the lake.

Koby walked away, leaving us standing there, listening to the water lapping at the shore, the dwindling songs being sung in our honor.

Tehilla was by herself on her cabin stoop.

A couple eighth graders cornered him. One pushed him down. Rabbi Allenby broke it up in seconds and the kids who did it were suspended for the rest of the year.

There was a single spotlight trained on the stage. It followed Director Seidenfeld as he paced back and forth.
In my mind—thunk—the spotlight split in two and panned over the crowd.

“Without further ado,” Director Seidenfeld announced, “the Camp Gershoni band!”

The curtain rose and my mom and dad began lumbering downhill from their opposite corners, stepping over the crowd as though it wasn’t there. The lawyers marched behind them. Shmuel and Kayla after that. Zev did clack his drumsticks—but by then, it was too late. My parents had started a commotion.

And the judge himself? They’d never let this guy star in his own show. Long black robe, sure. But it was frayed at the cuffs of both sleeves and tattered at the neck.

He sported a wispy-white comb-over, hound-dog jowls, and thick glasses that hung lopsided at his chest.

A joint motion for modification of the consent order.

“You don’t have to trek all the way up,” the judge explained warmly. “No need for formalities here. You’re welcome to tell me what’s on your mind right from your seat.”

“The original consent order—the agreement your parents came to with the court’s approval—was supposed to be in your best interests. Keep you rooted in familiar environments. That sort of thing. Ironically, it was supposed to protect you from disruption. It was supposed to keep you away from, well, the sense of being unmoored that you rightfully feel.”

Your parents have now asked that I endorse an amendment to the consent order.

“That’s quite the plan, counselors. A bit unorthodox.”

The judge nodded and extended a hand toward the clerk, who passed him a hard copy of the document he was reading from the screen. “Very well, then, counselors. Thank you.”

“Given the circumstances, I think this new arrangement at least goes a bit of the way toward rectifying past mistakes.”

To emphasize the point, my mom beeped out a handful of friendly honks.

She seems like a nice girl. Good head on her shoulders. Sensible.

I grunted, fake- exasperated, as Tehilla and Caleb grinned at me from the curb. I was pretty sure they could hear the whole conversation.

“Are you crying, Imma?”
“No, no,” she said, composing herself.

You were here on Thursday for Model UN orientation, right? Was everyone cool?