Chapter 32 Camp Balls #2
Mandy leans back and exhales, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know... I thought I was gonna hate this.”
“You did hate it,” Nash points out.
“I still kind of do,” Mandy replies. “But like... less.”
West raises his Capri Sun in a weary toast. “To Camp BALLS. May it be slightly less explosive tomorrow.”
“Unlikely,” says Jax.
McCormick stands and bellows: “Campers! Who’s ready for mandatory bonding time and friendship skits?”
A chorus of shrieks echoes across the campgrounds.
Nash groans. “I’d rather take enemy fire.”
Brandt raises his eyebrows. “Again?”
They all groan. And laugh. And keep eating the mac and cheese like it’s the last good thing in the world. And outside the mess hall window, the sign sways gently in the summer breeze:
CAMP BALLS
Beyond the Army: Legion of Love Soldiers
The ketchup blob that smeared down the sign looks a lot like blood, fittingly.
Paper stars hang from the ceiling of the cafeteria. There’s a banner made of construction paper that says “Camp BALLS Has Talent!” with glitter still shedding off the word BALLS. A flashlight duct-taped to a broomstick serves as a spotlight.
The counselors stand side by side like they’re facing a firing squad. Because they are. A firing squad of pre-pubescent teens and ten-year-olds with ukuleles and interpretive dance numbers.
Mandy’s sitting behind a table labeled JUDGES in glitter glue. He looks like he’d rather be audited.
Brandt squints at the handmade sign. “Why is ‘Talent’ in quotation marks?”
Jax mutters, “Because what we’re about to see is a loose interpretation.”
West, clipboard in hand, blows the whistle like a man with authority he no longer believes in. “Alright, campers. You’ve got three minutes each. Keep it family-friendly, fire-free, and if anyone brings out another snake, I will walk.”
The first act begins. It’s a six-year-old girl doing aggressive ballet to a slowed-down remix of Metallica. Everyone claps. Mandy looks vaguely haunted by the song choice.
Next up, the Weenie Blaster 9000 crew performs a dramatic reenactment of the fire pit explosion using puppets made from hotdog buns and googly eyes.
Brandt wipes away a tear. “They grow up so fast.”
Then comes the nightmare.
“Next act,” McCormick booms, reading from an index card, “is Nash and the Terrifying Twins, performing a magic show!”
Nash’s head snaps around. “I didn’t sign up for this.”
“You sure did,” Jax says smugly, holding up a paper with Nash’s forged signature. The twins bounce excitedly beside him, each holding an oversized magician’s hat.
Nash walks onto the stage like he’s approaching enemy lines. He opens the first hat. It’s empty. The second hat? Glitter bomb. It detonates in his face like a Lisa Frank IED. The kids cheer like he won a Tony Award.
Covered in sparkles, Nash deadpans to the audience, “Ta-da. I hate all of you.”
Mandy smirks from the judges’ table. “Ten points for flair.”
Jax is next, roped into beatboxing while a group of first graders freestyle about juice boxes, fart noises, and friendship. It’s objectively terrible, but everyone loves it.
“Yo, yo, yo, my socks are damp!
I pooped my pants at Camp!
B-A-L-L-S!
We’re doin’ our best!”
West rubs his temples. “I’ve seen combat. This is worse.”
Then a soft voice calls out from side stage.
“Mr. Mandy? Will you do the reading with me?”
Mandy freezes. A tiny kid walks on stage, holding a dog-eared copy of Deadpool: The Official Movie Novelization.
The entire room goes silent.
“I... I don’t—” Mandy begins.
“She’s nervous,” an older girl whispers. “But she said if you do it, she will too.”
Riggs, watching from the back, gives Mandy a thumbs-up. “You got this, man.”
Mandy sighs, stands up, and walks to the stage like it might swallow him whole. The little girl hands him the book.
They perform the scene like it’s Shakespeare. Mandy gets way too into the gravelly Ryan Reynolds voice. The kid nails the emotional arc of Dopinder. The room is dead silent.
When they finish, everyone claps. Mandy turns to her and murmurs, “You were amazing.”
The girl grins and, without hesitation, hugs him around the waist, not showing any fear or revulsion about his scars. Mandy stands frozen for a second, then crouches and hugs her back.
She hands him a glittery certificate she made herself. It says:
“Best Superhero Counselor (Hotter than Deadpool)”
Mandy walks off stage red in the face, but smiling.
Jax whispers to West, “I give him five minutes before he pretends he’s not crying.”
“He’s already crying,” West whispers back. “Look at the ears.”
Brandt walks on stage to close the show, holding a microphone shaped like a spoon.
“Thanks, campers! You've been... loud. And sticky. And weirdly talented. Remember, Camp BALLS loves you!”
One kid screams from the back: “Camp BALLS changed my life!”
The counselors exchange glances.
McCormick laughs. “Okay. Who let them write that on the T-shirts?”
“Not it,” Nash groans.
Fade to black as the stage lights dim and Mandy tucks the glittery certificate into his pocket like it’s priceless.
The room is dim. The blinds are drawn. A fake campfire sits in the center of the circle—red and orange construction paper “flames” arranged around a pile of toilet paper tubes and battery-powered candles. It flickers like the world’s saddest fire hazard.
The kids are quiet for once, sitting cross-legged and curious.
The guys sit with them in a circle—West, Jax, Nash, Brandt, McCormick, and Mandy. Each one holds a paper plate with their name drawn on it in crayon, because name tags are mandatory at Camp BALLS and Riggs has rules.
West clears his throat. “Alright, campers. This is our trauma talk circle. Here we share stories, feelings, fears—anything you’re carrying. Nobody laughs, nobody judges, and whatever you say here… stays here.”
He passes a plastic flashlight. “When you’re holding the light, it’s your turn to speak.”
The flashlight is immediately dropped. Twice. Then accidentally turned to strobe mode. Once Jax fixes it—muttering Why is this thing set to nightclub panic?---the circle settles.
Brandt goes first. He clicks on the light and points it at his own face. “Hi. I’m Brandt. I once peed my pants during a surprise fireworks test. I was thirty.”
The kids snort.
“I remember that day,” West laughs. “You said your hydration pack leaked.”
“I lied. But I learned something that day,” he adds. “Being scared doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human. And peeing your pants makes you wet. But still human.”
Giggles ripple through the circle.
The flashlight passes to McCormick. He holds it under his chin.
“I once cried because I thought my dog died. Turns out he just ran off with a raccoon. They came back two days later. As friends.I kept them both.” He pauses.
“But that kind of grief? Even if it’s temporary?
That ache in your chest? It’s real. You don’t have to wait until it’s official to feel sad. Your feelings matter now.”
Jax takes the light. He glances right, then left, as if considering if sharing is worth the ridicule later on.
“Hi. I’m Jax. One time I got so anxious at a middle school dance, I hid under the bleachers and stress-ate half a box of Thin Mints.
To this day, I can’t smell peppermint without wanting to run. ”
A small kid nods solemnly. “Same.”
Then it’s Nash’s turn. He stares at the light like it might detonate.
Silence.
“You don’t have to,” West says gently.
But Nash clicks it on and keeps it aimed low.
“I get jumpy,” he says. “Loud noises, sudden movements, too many questions. My brain starts looking for exits. Even if nothing’s wrong.” He pauses a beat. “I used to think that made me dangerous. Now I know it just makes me alert. And tired. Very tired.”
The kids are quiet. One of the twins scoots closer to him and leans her head on his knee like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.
Next is Mandy. He hesitates. Long enough that Jax reaches for the light, but Mandy grips it tighter, raises it, and shines it right at his own face.
“My name’s Mandy,” he says, voice steady. “I got hurt in the Army. A lot of surgeries. A lot of time alone. Sometimes I still feel like people are staring. Like they’ll laugh.”
The kids are dead still.
“I almost didn’t come to this camp,” he says. “I didn’t want to scare anyone.”
He glances down at his hands. “But this kid—” He gestures vaguely across the circle. “He gave me a Starburst and said I looked like Wolverine.”
The kid gasps. “That was me!”
Mandy smiles. “Yeah, it was.”
The flashlight clicks off. Someone sniffles. It’s Nash.
“Shut up,” he says preemptively. “Allergies.”
West takes the light but doesn’t turn it on. Just cradles it in his lap like he’s holding something fragile.
“You guys did good,” he says. “Better than most adults I know.”
Then a small, sticky hand shoots up.
“I wanna share,” the kid says. “Sometimes I get scared when my mom works late ‘cause she’s a nurse and the house creaks and I think maybe the ghost of the raccoon dog is back.”
The room collectively nods like this is deeply valid.
More hands go up. One by one, the kids pass the flashlight and share:
“My dad yells when he’s mad but I know he loves me.”
“I’m scared of sleep ‘cause I have dreams where everything’s loud.”
“I don’t remember my mom’s laugh anymore.”
A silence settles over the circle—not heavy, just full. Like a space finally made big enough to hold everything.
Then one kid says, “I like this. We should do flashlight circle every day.”
Brandt nods. “Same time tomorrow.”
“Can we have snacks next time?” another asks.
“You’re holding a granola bar right now,” West says.
“I meant bonus snacks.”
Everyone laughs. And in the center of it all, the little fake fire flickers on, construction paper flames dancing gently as the circle starts talking again, no flashlight needed now, just voices and soft truths and the safest place they’ve had in a long time.