Nerdplay

Chapter 1

Chapter One

T o the uninitiated, my office looks like it’s been ransacked by a classroom of unruly kindergartners stuck indoors on a rainy day. Anyone who’s been around me long enough, however, knows this is all part of my organizational process.

Spread papers around floor.

Group them by categories only I would understand.

Find a place to store them until the papers turn yellow with age.

I’m terrified of throwing anything away in case some governmental entity or business decides to harass me for proof of something or other and I can’t provide it.

Some people have nightmares about monsters or a violent death.

The majority of my nightmares involve bureaucracy.

Another one involves a talking Elmo doll and a blowtorch, but I keep that one close to the vest.

A voice interrupts my thoughts. “Funny. This is exactly how I left you last year.”

I spin around on my backside to greet my visitor. “You made it.”

Gloria Landry is the tallest short person I’ve ever met. If police were taking witness statements about her, people would describe the stout five-foot-two woman as an Amazon on cocaine.

“Sorry I’m late. My mother?—”

I wave her off. “You don’t need to explain. You’re here now.” I hop to my feet and give her a warm hug. “I’ve missed you.”

“Missed you too, Cricket.”

Gloria is fifty-two, single, and always arrives at camp a couple days before I open for the season.

She cleans in exchange for free room and board; otherwise, she couldn’t afford to come.

The rest of the year, Gloria cares for her elderly mother, a task that is physically, emotionally, and financially draining for her.

She lives for these two weeks at camp, a fact that makes me simultaneously happy and sad.

“Seriously, though. Still with the papers?” Gloria shakes her head in dismay. “You know you can scan them into your computer and toss the copies, right?”

“Where’s the fun in that? Then I can’t play The Floor Is Lava with all my essential paperwork.”

“I wouldn’t call any of that essential.”

I swipe a sheet of paper off the floor. “Are you telling me that the property tax bill in my grandfather’s name from 1988 isn’t a critical document? Sheesh. And you call yourself a friend.”

“When you hold on to things that aren’t important, it becomes harder to identify the things that are.”

I suck in a breath. “Why, Gloria Landry. You’ve missed your true calling as a fortune cookie writer.”

“I’ve missed all my callings.” She shrugs. “But at least I get to be here for the next two weeks and forget my real life.”

I hug her again. “This is your real life, too. Where’s Buffy?”

“Hold me a little tighter and you’ll figure it out.”

I let go and look down at her front pocket. “Snoozing away?”

“The car ride knocked her out. She travels like an infant.”

Buffy is Gloria’s 70-gram emotional support sugar glider.

The animal is her constant companion, except when said companion panics, flies away, and needs to be tracked down by yours truly.

It happens at least once every summer. Sometimes twice.

It seems Buffy could do with her own emotional support animal.

“Are the cabins unlocked? I can get started.” Gloria is a whirling dervish with a mop.

The cabins are spotless in the same amount of time it would take me to fill a bucket with water.

I’m not exactly a sloth, but Gloria treats each cleaning opportunity as an outlet for the feelings she represses fifty weeks of the year.

“I haven’t had lunch yet. Are you hungry? We can eat together first.” I know Gloria, and there’s no way she stopped to eat on the drive here from Harrisburg. Anything that would delay her arrival is a hard pass.

“Is the kitchen stocked?”

I crack a smile. “Delivery came this morning.” I loop my arm through hers. “Chocolate chip brownie from Sweetie’s?”

“Not this year. My doctor suggested I cut back on saturated fats. Gotta get the bad cholesterol under control.” She pats her soft middle.

“This is what happens when you pass fifty. You’ll see.

” She looks me up and down. “What am I saying? Even in the glory days of my youth, I wasn’t built like you. ”

Gloria and I scrounge around the compact cafeteria kitchen and take our findings to a picnic table by the lake, where we catch up with our mouths full and marvel at our pristine surroundings.

Lake Willa is the centerpiece of the property.

Pops named it after his devoted wife, my sweet grandmother.

Theirs was the kind of marriage that people don’t write stories about because there’s no conflict—loving, long, and lasting.

The odds of getting as lucky as them... Well, if I had those kinds of odds, I’d drive straight to Atlantic City.

“How many campers this year?” Gloria asks.

“Similar to last year. Thirty.”

I glimpse my house through the trees. It’s log-cabin style, built by my grandparents during the first year of their marriage and where they lived until their respective deaths. Every moment of happiness I experienced in my childhood happened either in that house or right here at camp.

Gloria cuts through the calm with a question that causes nausea to ripple through me. “I hate to ask, but inquiring minds need to know. Is the Prick coming this year?”

There’s only one name we skirt in favor of pronouns or disparaging nicknames. “Oddly enough, he registered again, but I highly doubt we’ll see him.”

“Two years in a row. So strange. Why spend the money to register if you have no intention of showing up?”

“No clue.” I have zero interest in talking about him, not now and not ever. I want to enjoy camp like I used to before that lying, cowardly troglodyte tarnished my favorite place on Earth.

Gloria pokes around her salad bowl like she’s hunting and gathering the actual food. “Maybe his girlfriend kicked him to the curb.”

“Even if she did, it wouldn’t matter. Can we please change the subject?” I hope I don’t sound too snippy. Gloria was my rock during that awful experience; she doesn’t deserve to draw my ire. That honor belongs to one person only.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought him up.”

I turn my face toward the sun and close my eyes. “It’ll be so great to see everyone again.”

“I know. This place feels more like home than my actual home.” There’s a brief pause and then, “How are finances?”

Once again, her question drags me back to reality, kicking and screaming. “The camp will survive the year.” Barely.

“Any ideas on how to turn that around?”

“Not yet. Word seems to have gotten out because I’ve been beating back a property developer with a stick. He’s like a shark that smells blood in the water.”

Camp Abernathy has been on this land since my grandfather first acquired it in 1967.

The property then passed to my father, whose early demise meant it passed to me sooner than expected.

I’ve been the sole owner and operator for the past five years, as well as the creator of Comic-Camp, the two-week adults-only camp that begins in T-minus two days.

You’d think I’d be ready to welcome the campers, but I’m not that organized.

Every year I’m reminded how much work is involved for very little financial reward.

If only I could survive on good vibes, I’d be set for life.

Gloria reaches across the table to grip my arm. “You wouldn’t actually sell, would you?”

“You know me better than that.” I wrench myself free and polish off my last sandwich square, washing it down with a refillable bottle of water. “This camp is about building community, not my bank account.”

“And that’s why we love you, but you need to stay afloat. I’m sure you have bills to pay.”

She has no idea. Every year the bills get higher and my bank balance gets lower. Very soon my inheritance will be gone. I’ll cross the bridge over those troubled waters when I get to it.

Gloria rises to her feet. “I’ll get started on the cleaning now.”

“I can help you after I tidy up the paperwork.”

Gloria snorts. “In other words, I’m on my own.”

“If I could afford to hire someone, I would.”

“And if I could afford to pay you for my spot, I would. We both do what we can. I wish you’d ask some of the other regulars for help. They’d do it in a heartbeat.”

“Adam already works as a counselor for the kids’ camp. I can’t ask for more favors.”

“It isn’t a favor when he gets his registration covered in return. Besides, they love this place as much as you. We all do. If they thought for one second that the camp was in jeopardy, they’d volunteer as tributes.”

I squirm uncomfortably on the bench. “I can manage on my own.”

“Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.” She pats my shoulder as she passes by. “I’ll handle the cleaning. You handle the rest, as usual, Boss Lady.”

“Thanks, Gloria. You’re the best.”

I remain seated at the picnic table for a few more minutes, soaking up the midday sun.

The lake glistens like starlight and a comfortable shudder ripples through my body.

This camp is my happy place, the physical manifestation of my soul, and there’s nothing on earth a property developer could do to convince me to sell.

I watch as Matt Lyman shoots the foam ball from behind his desk. The ball swishes through the basket attached to the back of his office door. He slides open the desk drawer and produces another ball.

“Your turn,” he says.

“No thanks.”

His grin is designed to taunt. “Afraid of a little competition?”

“More afraid of Joel opening the door and me hitting him smack in the face.”

“Dude, you need to lighten up.” He squeezes the green ball. “It’s foam.” He shoots again and scores.

I toss a file on his desk. “I didn’t come to play. Joel asked me to bring you this.”

“Is that the Dungiven file? Sweet.” He flips open the file. “You don’t mind, do you, buddy? You’ve got LandStar. Now I’ve got Dungiven. Seems fair.”

“I don’t mind.”