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Summer camp would never be the same again.

Alvin the Terrible

by Gary B. Swanson

Day 1: My first day as a counselor at Pine Springs Ranch is over, and I'm so tired my hair aches. It took until fireside time tonight to get all the kids happily situated in their cabins. All afternoon they shouted and pushed one another around and cried because they wanted the top bunk or they were homesick or they didn't get in the same cabin as their friends.

Now, however, it looks as though everybody's finally satisfied. The five boys in my cabin have fallen asleep. Their faces look almost angelic. It's hard to believe they were bouncing like ping-pong balls all over the cabin an hour ago. I thought they'd never go to sleep.

So here I am, jotting down these few thoughts by flashlight. Lights-out was more than an hour ago. If it weren't so cold at night, the kids would probably have never crawled into their sleeping bags. I should be more thankful for small favors!

Day 2: I came up here this summer because I want to be a teacher or youth counselor. At least I think I do. Mrs. Sanders, our school counselor, suggested that summer camp would be a good experience and would give me an idea of whether I really want to go into this kind of work. Well, more than once today I've regretted turning down that nice, quiet summer job Mr. Estevez offered me at the library!

Now I know why people send their children to camp: it's a matter of self-preservation. Alvin is a perfect example. He's like an accident looking for a place to happen, and he never sits still for more than 15 seconds. When the rest of us are making up our bunks, he's running to the lodge for breakfast. When the other kids are finishing their French toast, he's off to the animal cages. I can't get him to stop. Most frequently asked question in Cabin C-5: "Has anyone seen Alvin?"

Day 3: I woke up this morning in the dark with Alvin standing next to my bed fiddling with my flashlight. He was fully clothed and apparently ready for the day.

"What do you want, Alvin?"

"I'm going out to the campfire place to start a fire."

"No way!"

"I'm cold," he said, with an exaggerated shiver.

"Well, what are you doing out of bed?"

"It's getting light. I thought we were supposed to get up early, like buffalo hunters."

"Not until 6:00," I said. "I think buffalo are still in bed too."

"Well, can I get in with you?"

"Are you kidding? There isn't room for both of us in my sleeping bag."

By then I was completely awake, so I suggested we take a walk until the others got up in a half hour. Alvin flew out the door with my flashlight before I could pull my pants on.

I caught up with him on the pathway to the cafeteria. He was trying to turn on a faucet that had had its handle removed.

"How come this faucet doesn't have a handle?" he asked.

"I guess it's used only at certain times, and someone might come along and leave it running."

"Why would anyone do that?"

"Well, why are you trying to turn it on now?"

"Just wanted to fill my canteen. I'm thirsty."

"We'll fill your canteen up at the cafeteria," I said, reaching for my flashlight.

Suddenly Alvin threw his arms up in front of his face, dropping the flashlight and the canteen.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"I thought you were going to hit me!"

"What for?"

He shrugged matter-of-factly. "I don't know."

Day 4: I had hoped this journal would be a place I could record my serene musings about the beautiful natural surroundings here, the scream of a far-off eagle, the feel of wet grass on my boots in the early morning, the wind sighing in the pines--sort of a Walden of my very own. But it looks, instead, as though my every musing is to be centered on Alvin the Terrible--that's what the rest of the counselors have begun to call him, and not entirely without reason.

This morning he dropped a whole basin of forks all over the cafeteria floor, soapsuds, hot water, and all. A kid from Cabin A-14 slipped in the soapy water and cut his lip.

"Can't you keep an eye on that kid?" yelled the cook.

"He was only trying to help, Mr. Curry."

"Well, let him help somebody else; I've got enough to do around here without cleaning up that kind of mess!"

"We'll clean it up, Mr. Curry, and I'll see to it that Alvin is no trouble anymore."

It was a promise I don't know how in the world I'll keep, but Mr. Curry seemed appeased. He is really a nice guy, but the pressure of preparing food for 200 kids gets to him at times.

Day 5: We're halfway through this camp session, and I wonder sometimes if I'll last. Actually today wasn't as bad as the rest, because I had the whole afternoon to myself while the kids went canoeing. And when they got back, they were so tired they fell asleep right after fireside time--even Alvin.

He's a really cute little guy, in a ragged sort of way. I can't get him to comb his hair; it sticks out like straw where he has slept on it wrong. And he pays almost as little attention to his clothes. This morning I caught him on his way to breakfast wearing a holey pair of jeans and a wrinkled pajama top.

"Where's your shirt, Alvin?"

"This is it."

"Come on, Alvin, that's the top to your pajamas."

"Well, it looks like a shirt, doesn't it? Nobody'll ever notice."

"I noticed! Now get back to the cabin and find a shirt to wear."

When he got to breakfast, he was wearing a sweatshirt inside out and so wrinkled and dirty that I wondered if I should have let him wear the pajama top after all. "He's just a kid," I kept muttering to myself. "I can't let him get to me."

Day 6: It scares me a little to consider it, but I'm beginning to think I like Alvin. Three times today I anticipated what he was going to do and headed him off.

When he was going out the door for breakfast this morning, I flagged him down and made him go wash his face--probably for the first time this week, maybe in his entire life.

I know he did it this morning, though, because he came back to the cabin with water dripping from his chin. He'd forgotten his face towel. I don't think I was cut out to be a camp counselor.

Day 7: I have to admit that I had a bad feeling since early this morning that today was going to be rough. The plan was to take the kids on a four-mile hike to Cedar Lake, let them swim for an hour, cook lunch on an open fire, and then hike the four miles back to the ranch. Piece of cake, right?

Everything went as scheduled until we started lunch. I had just finished showing my cabin how to build a fire, using pine needles to get it started, and I really should have noticed Alvin's unusually rapt attention to what I was saying.

Sometime later, while I was busy cleaning up, Alvin returned from a nearby grove of pines with a huge armload of needles. He dropped them on the fire, turning it instantly into an inferno, popping and sailing sparks in all directions. Two or three pine trees stood nearby, and it's a miracle none of them caught on fire.

While I stood there, two quick-thinking counselors hastily shoveled dirt onto the fire, smothering it enough to keep it out of the trees.

I looked for Alvin when the excitement died down and found him almost in a trance. His eyes were wide and his lips trembling, and for the first time this week I felt sorry for him. I was really going to chew him out, but couldn't bring myself to do it when I saw how frightened he was.

I reached out to give him a hug. He ducked as if I were going to hit him, and I realized that here was a kid who was a little too used to being slapped around. Maybe, I thought, this kid lives at home with an adult who is more terrible than he is!

"I'm not going to hit you, Alvin," I said.

He looked at me curiously, but wouldn't allow himself within reach.

Day 8: I thought after yesterday's fire episode at Cedar Lake that Alvin would be a new person this morning, but that wasn't to be, at least outwardly. It takes a little more than a near forest fire, I guess, to convince a 9-year-old that he should comb his hair in the morning. He acts as though he's forgotten that only yesterday he nearly burned the entire San Bernardino National Forest to the ground.

Well, tomorrow Alvin goes home, and I won't have to worry about him anymore. I sure hope the batch of kids that come next week are less exuberant.

Day 9: This day didn't end exactly the way I expected it to. Just before getting on the bus, Alvin ran up to me. "Are you going to be here again next summer?" he asked.

"I don't know," I said. "That's a long way off."

"Well, I hope you are. You're OK. You understand."

He ran off to the bus before I had a chance to respond. Actually, now that I think about it, that's what Alvin's been doing to me for a week--running before I can respond.

I wrote in yesterday's entry that when Alvin leaves I won't have to worry about him anymore. Not true. I will be worrying about him--about why a 9-year-old-kid would involuntarily duck his head anytime an adult reaches out to him. And for the first time since I met Alvin the Terrible, I think I could face him again next summer.

This story by Gary Swanson won first prize in the general short story category of our 1994 writing contest.