"Roll call!" said Josh.
"DUGOUT!"
"Sir!"
"MUDFLAP!"
"Sir!"
(Mudflap's real name was Tommy.)
This was Papa Company.
The members of Papa Company were cadets at Yawnee Valley Yelling and Push-Ups Camp, a "boot camp for troubled tweens" that operated in these same woods, just a few klicks away.
(At Yawnee Valley Yelling and Push-Ups Camp, distance was measured in klicks. One klick equals .62 miles, which equals 1,091 yards, which equals about 7,900 imperial teaspoons laid end-to-end.)
Josh had been sent to Yawnee Valley Yelling and Push-Ups Camp last year as a punishment. After four weeks at camp, most kids "reformed." They wrote letters begging to come home, promising to be good. But Josh Barkin wasn't like most kids. (He was much worse.) After four weeks, he had asked his parents if he could stay at camp for the rest of the summer. This year he was back. As the only camper in its history to willingly return, Josh was made a JUNECOW, or junior counselor, and given a special hat.
Yawnee Valley Yelling and Push-Ups Camp was an awful place, noisy and violent. But it was Josh Barkin's firmly held belief that even the most awful circumstances could be improved upon—that is, made noisier and more violent—and so he'd recruited two lackeys and given them cool military nicknames in exchange for their total and unquestioning loyalty. This is how Josh became the commander of Papa Company, a renegade cell within the camp. Papa was for the letter P—"Papa" is one of the twenty-six code words for the twenty-six letters in the International Radiotelephony Spelling Alphabet. (It starts with Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, and goes through Papa all the way to Zero.) And the P also stood for Power, which is what Papa Company was all about. "Papa Company" had a nice military ring to it, plus Power Company sounded like an electric utility.
Almost daily, Papa Company snuck off to the grove, where Josh offered the twins what he called "the real training." Today, as usual, the training topic was "advanced weaponry."
Josh spit out some gum he'd been chewing, because its flavor was all gone.
"Sir, do you want me to pick up that gum and pack it out for you, sir?" asked Mudflap.
"Naw, leave it for the bugs and raccoons to chew on," said Josh.
"Oh, OK, right, makes sense, yes, sir," said Mudflap.
Josh looked at his gum in the dirt. He imagined a beetle rolling the gum all the way back to his home, probably up a big hill, and then stuffing it down through the little hole he used as a front door. His whole beetle family would gather around the wad, so excited, and they'd each break off a little bit with their pincers and chew it. And it wouldn't have any flavor. Heh. Dumb beetles.
Josh smiled.
Then he got serious.
"TEN-HUT, NIMBUSES!"
Ten-hut means "attention." Nobody really knows what nimbus means.
The boys stood straight.
"At EASE, nimbuses."
They both relaxed a little.
"Now …" Josh rubbed his chin. "TEN-HUT AGAIN!"
The boys snapped straight.
Josh loved watching the two trembling cadets do whatever he said. When it came to shouting commands, Josh was a master. For proof, you just had to look at "The Yawnee Valley Yelling and Push-Ups Camp Counselor Training Manual," which Josh proudly called "the only book he'd ever finished," and which wasn't a book but was actually a three-ring binder. (He also hadn't finished it.) The manual had a section called "YELLING!" that identified the characteristics of good command voice: PLOP. That was the acronym. (They were big on acronyms at camp.)
The first P was for POWER (again) (of course). Josh had been born powerful. Power ran in his family: His father was a school principal, and so was his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, and his great-great-grandfather, and his great-great-great-grandfather. His great-great-great-great-grandfather had been a fur trapper, but you better believe he had been a powerful fur trapper. One day, Josh would fulfill his destiny and would himself become a school principal. Or maybe something even more powerful, like a district administrator. According to his grandfather, Josh had the hands of a superintendent. "You remind me of me," his grandfather told him. "You are strong. You have authority. You are powerful. Remarkable what skips a generation." So yeah, Josh had the first P covered.
The L was for LOUDNESS. And Josh was loud. He had "the Barkin Bark," as his mom was fond of saying. She was also fond of saying, "Please quiet down, Josh, I'm trying to watch the news."
The O was for the O in LOUDNESS, because otherwise the acronym would be PLP, and that's dumb.
And the second P? The second P was for PROJECTION. It wasn't enough to be powerful and loud. You had to be powerful and loud right into people's faces.
"ABOUT-FACE!" Josh powerfully, loudly projected.
The boys both turned their backs on their leader.
Yes, there was no doubt about it: Josh was a natural PLOPper. He imagined his father watching this drill and smiling proudly. Then he imagined his grandfather's face superimposed on his father's face, because he was mad at his father, and had been for over a year. That wasn't quite right either, so he imagined himself watching himself, and he liked that image quite a bit.
"Right FACE!"
The cadets turned right.
"Left FACE!"
They turned left.
"Right FACE right FACE right FACE left FACE ABOUT-FACE ABOUT-FACE."
The cadets spun around. "Good. That's real good," said Josh. "HAND SALUTE!"
They saluted.
"STOP saluting!"
They didn't stop saluting.
"STOP SALUTING!"
They still didn't stop.
"STOP it, YOU DUMB NIMBUSES!"
The cadets were a little nervous, but they kept their hands to their foreheads.
Josh began to turn a bit purple.
An awkward mike passed.
(At Yawnee Valley Yelling and Push-Ups Camp, time was measured in mikes. A mike is a minute.)
Finally, a cadet spoke up.
"Um? Sir?"
"What is it, Dugout?"
"Sir, that's, well, sir, that's not the command to stop saluting, sir."
"I KNOW THAT IT'S NOT, NIMBUS."
"Sir, of course, sir."
"DUGOUT, GO STAND AND FACE THAT TREE."
"Which tree, sir?"
"That one."
"Yes, sir."
"CLOSER, DUGOUT, LIKE YOU'RE GOING TO KISS THE TREE."
Dugout pressed his nose against the bark.
"HEH!" said their leader. (He actually said "HEH!") "Looks like you're in love with that tree, Dugout."
Mudflap snickered.
"He better watch out for splinters in his lips," said Mudflap.
"That's a great joke, Mudflap!" said Josh.
(It was not a great joke.)
"Hey, Dugout!" Josh said. "That's your new name! Splinters!"
"But I like Dugout," said Splinters, who was hard to understand because he said it directly into a tree.
"Sorry, Splinters."
It was important to cover up any sign of weakness, like forgetting the proper command to stop saluting, and to quash any seeds of insubordination, like some other kid remembering the proper command to stop saluting. Otherwise you could have a mutiny on your hands.
"Forget about that dumb saluting command. That's an order. At ease, nimbuses."
Mudflap stopped saluting. Splinters left his tree.
"Not you, Splinters. You stay over by that tree."
Splinters went back to his tree.
Josh picked up a twisted stick from the ground. "Today's weapon: the throwing stick."
An impressed murmur passed through Papa Company.
"You can do a lot with sticks. Sticks are great weapons. You can poke people with them. You can thump people with them. You can use one as a sword—"
Mudflap lit up at this. He liked swords.
"—but that's for dorks."
Mudflap pretended he had never lit up and didn't like swords.
"But the best thing to do with a stick is to throw it. You can disable an enemy by throwing a stick right at his head."
"Nice," said Splinters.
"Super nice," said Mudflap.
"But the most important thing when it comes to throwing sticks is accuracy. I'm a really accurate thrower. It's. All. In. The Arm."
Josh pointed to his arm. Mudflap nodded.
"Allow me to demonstrate," said Josh. "Splinters, turn around."
Splinters faced Josh.
"Sir, are you going to hit me in the head with that stick?" he asked.
"No, don't be a nimbus," said Josh. "What I'm going to do is not hit you in the head."
"Oh," said Splinters. "Phew. That's a lot better."
"Accuracy," said Josh.
Mudflap nodded some more.
"Splinters, pick up that rock and balance it on your head. I'm going to hit it off with this stick."
"Sir, why don't you just throw the stick at the rock there, on the ground, and hit it?" Splinters asked.
"Drama, Splinters. It's like that guy who shot an arrow through an apple on some nimbus's head," said Josh. "Do you think anyone would remember that guy's name if he'd just shot an apple on a table?"
"Wait, who?"
"You know who I mean," said Josh. "Now put that rock on your head."
Splinters did as he was told.
"Now hold really still." Josh aimed his stick. "Actually, come a little closer."
Splinters took two nervous steps toward Josh.
"Closer."
Splinters took two more.
"Now," said Josh, "watch my arm. Splinters, don't flinch."
"One," said Josh.
"Two," said Josh.
Then Josh threw the stick and hit Splinters in the face.
"Ow!" said Splinters. He was afraid of doing something wrong, so, despite the pain, he remained perfectly still, and the rock remained on his head.
"You missed the rock, sir," said Mudflap, then immediately regretted saying it.
"Of course I did," said Josh. "Why would I hit a dumb rock? I was demonstrating how to hit an enemy in the face."
Mudflap nodded. Splinters didn't, because he had a rock on his head.
"But you said you wouldn't hit me, " said Splinters.
"I know I did," said Josh. "I pranked you! It was a prank!"
(It was not a prank.)
Mudflap nodded. "You're a really great prankster, Major Barkin!"
Josh beamed. "Right you are, Mudflap. I'm probably the best."
Over in a field on a nearby hill, it sounded like a rock scoffed.
Josh Barkin held a finger in the air and said, "HUMMUS!" HUMMUS was a military acronym Josh had made up, which in Papa Company meant "Hush Up, My Men, Utter Silence!" and more generally refers to a delicious paste made from garbanzo beans.
"Hummus?" asked Mudflap.
"It means be quiet," said Splinters. "It's another one of those acronyms, from when you had chicken pox."
"Oh!" said Mudflap. "I was thinking of garbanzo beans."
"Yeah," said Splinters, "to be honest, I am too, and I know what HUMMUS is supposed to mean."
"Mom makes good hummus," said Mudflap, who suddenly missed home.
"SHUT UP!" said Josh.
Josh wished he was holding another stick so he could throw it at Mudflap's head.
"UTTER SILENCE. Did anybody else hear that rock scoff?"
The cadets turned and stared at the hill for five utterly silent mikes, alert to any sign of trespassers.
Nothing happened.
Josh got bored.
"Eh," said Josh, "it was probably the wind blowing through the violets, or some dumb animal coughing."
Nods all around.
"OK," said Josh, "who's hungry?"
"Me, sir!" shouted the twins, who'd been thinking of hummus for the last six and a half mikes.
"Mudflap, go get the fruit cocktail."
Mudflap crossed the grove and reached into the hollow of a tree, which is where Papa Company stored their snacks. He returned with a can of fruit cocktail so big he had to carry it with both arms. Splinters watched hungrily as Mudflap proudly produced his Swiss Army knife, which combined a number of useless tools into one: a can opener that didn't work, a toothpick that was too thick to get between your teeth and was made of gross plastic, tweezers too dull to pull out a sliver, blunt scissors, and a knife you stabbed yourself with every time you tried to fold it back up. Selecting the can opener, Mudflap began puncturing the lid of the can. Plink, plink, plink. He poked holes along its circumference, working slowly. He sweated a little. Mudflap's right arm got tired, so he switched to his left arm, which got tired even faster. Plink, plink, plink. There was a lot of grunting. His brother's eager eyes made Mudflap nervous, which made the whole thing take longer. Plink, plink.
Three mikes passed and Mudflap was barely more than a quarter of the way around the lid. Three mikes might not seem like a very long time to wait, but put this book down and go stare at a can for 180 seconds. You'll see why Splinters was getting antsy. Splinters stared, starving, marking Mudflap's slow progress with greedy anticipation. He looked lovingly at the label, its drawings of cherries, grapes, pineapples, and pears. And a peach! He read over and over the three most beautiful words in the English language: in light syrup. It was poetry, that fruit cocktail label, and Splinters imagined the syrup sticking sweetly to his tongue, his lips, his fingertips. (Splinters had a Swiss Army knife too, an identical one, with a spork that couldn't hold food. And so Papa Company ate with their hands.)
Josh, who hated when his cadets' attention was on anything besides him, began to grow jealous of the can. He needed his men's eyes, their minds, their hearts. Papa Company was made in his image, and he hated any indication that these boys were anything else but extensions of his will in the world. The fruit cocktail was a threat to his power. Josh had to do something to reestablish his primacy in the grove.
"Knock, knock," said Josh, sweetly.
Nobody asked, "Who's there?"
"Nimbus," said Josh, sweetly.
Nobody asked, "Nimbus who?"
"Aw, come on, Mudflap. How long are you gonna be with that can?"
"I'm trying," said Mudflap.
And Splinters watched him try.
"OK." Enough was enough. Josh pulled his knife from the stump. "Splinters, bring me that squirrel."
Splinters saw Josh's knife.
Josh had his attention.
"The squirrel, sir?" said Splinters.
"You heard me. The dumb squirrel! Fetch it. Now. That's an order."
Splinters, who hoped Josh did not notice that he had taken the rock off his head and set it quietly on the ground next to him, was eager to earn back his commander's favor. He took the cage down from its branch and set it before Josh's feet. The squirrel, which had been squeaking this whole time, even during the five mikes of HUMMUS, now began to screech. The sound was almost human.
Josh picked up the cage with his left hand. The knife was still in his right. He stared at the animal behind the wire and laughed.
"Dumb squirrel," said Josh.
Splinters's eyes were on Josh Barkin. Mudflap's eyes were also on Josh Barkin, but his hands were still on the can. He would not be swayed from his task. Josh watched him with contempt. He decided that Mudflap, not Splinters, was definitely his less favorite twin.
"Watch this," Josh said.
Josh raised the knife over his head. The sun shone on the blade, but it was too rusty to gleam. The squirrel was quiet. The cadets were quiet. Even the birds seemed to have stopped their song.
And then Mudflap screamed.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" screamed Mudflap.
The knife hovered in Josh's hand.
Splinters and Josh looked at Mudflap. He'd finally gotten the lid off, and now he was looking into the can and screaming.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
The can trembled in Mudflap's hands. Splinters ran over and looked inside.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
Splinters was screaming too now.
A black-and-yellow snake slithered out from the can and wound around Mudflap's hand.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" continued Mudflap. He threw down the can. Two more snakes fell out and writhed on the forest floor.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" screamed everybody.
Mudflap shook the snake off his hand. It landed on Josh's foot. He dropped his knife and the cage, and wondered what he should do.
"Stay still, sir!" cried Mudflap.
"Kick it off!" cried Splinters. "Move!"
"Nimbuses!" cried Josh.
The snake slid off Josh's foot—and onto his other foot. Then it slithered off that foot too.
Josh thought he might throw up.
Splinters was crying.
Everyone was running around.
"Are they poisonous?" asked Mudflap.
"One bit me," said Splinters, who had not been bitten.
"Smash them!" Josh ordered.
But there was no way anyone was going near those snakes.
Splinters had torn off his shirt and was sucking on his forearm to get the venom out, but there was no venom, because, again, he had not been bitten.
"They're rattlesnakes!" said Mudflap.
"But they don't have rattles!" said Splinters.
"They could be babies," said Mudflap. "Babies' venom is even more deadly than adults'! They haven't learned to control their bites! They just shoot the poison into you!"
Splinters moaned.
And then the rattling began. It was a loud and angry rattling that came from who knows where. In their panic, there was no way the boys could identify the dreaded noise's origins. The rattling seemed to echo through the trees and surround them. (Though if they'd been a little more levelheaded, they might have determined that the sound was coming from the rock in the field on the hill nearby.)
"IT'S THEIR MOM!" screamed Mudflap. "SHE'S GONNA KILL US."
"RUN!" PLOPped Josh. "THAT'S AN ORDER! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!"
And since they did not know where the rattling was coming from, the three members of Papa Company scattered in three different directions, leaving three harmless garter snakes to happily hunt beetles in the grove.
(Now that's a prank.)
