Summer on the Short Bus by Bethany Crandell

was the same T-shirt Quinn wore when we went out last night. Swapping out my puked-on top for his clean one wasn’t exactly how I envisioned our first clothes-free activity to go down, but at least chivalry isn’t completely dead.
    As I make my way through the camp grounds and toward the mess hall, my Cavalli lenses are about as effective as a piece of Saran wrap against the midday sun. How on earth am I going to get through an entire lunch without heaving? I pause at the bottom of the steps to catch my breath, when from the top of the stairs I hear, “How are you feeling today, Cricket?”
    Squinting against the blinding sun, I look up to find Rainbow looking down at me. “Uh, okay I guess.”
    â€œOh, thank goodness. I was worried. I had no idea you were allergic to shellfish.”
    I have an overwhelming urge to scream, I’m not allergic to shellfish and why the hell would you know if I was? —but I resist. Screaming feels like a whole lot of work right now.
    â€œI guess we’ll ask Sam to skip the lobster bisque he had planned for next week, huh? I don’t want to run the risk of you and Robyn getting sick again.” She laughs like she thinks she is funny, but I fail to see the humor. “We’re having bean and cheese burritos today,”she adds, her smile showing a hint of concern. “But I can ask Sam to make you something a little lighter. Maybe some toast or soup?”
    â€œNo,” I say quickly. “A burrito actually sounds good.” Like freaking good. “I’m sure that will be fine.”
    â€œWell, great. I think Claire saved you a seat—go help yourself.”
    I hobble my way up the remaining stairs, blowing by Rainbow with the most convincing smile I can muster, and stumble into the mess hall. My sudden need for grease overrides my irritation with life. I hardly flinch when I see Claire waving me down like an airliner.
    â€œChirp! Chirp!” she says. I take the empty seat between her and a boy who is wearing a duck-shaped oven mitt on his hand. “Do you like Mexican food? I love Mexican food!”
    â€œI do today.” Wasting no time digging into the basket of tortilla chips and bowl of salsa sitting in the center of the table.
    â€œYou smell like candy,” says Oven Mitt.
    â€œGood to know,” I say, stuffing another salsa-drenched chip into my mouth.
    I quickly polish off the entire basket of chips before I notice Quinn looking at me from the next table over.
    â€œHungry?” he says.
    My initial instinct is to flee, but as my headache eases with each gram of sodium that enters my blood stream, I realize there’s no point in being embarrassed. If puking on myself didn’t turn him off, going Miss Piggy probably won’t, either.
    â€œYou have no idea,” I answer back.
    The rest of lunch carries on in about the same fashion as it has every day since I’ve been here. Claire rambles on to no one in particular about the American Idol concert she’s going to next month, and Meredith is using her fork as a microphone to perform Pink songs while Oven Mitt plays the drums with his spoon. I continue to stuff my face with more food than that Kardashian chick did during her pregnancy. All in all, I’m doing pretty well considering how my day started.
    â€œRemind me what’s on the agenda today,” I say to Fantine as we escort our small herd from the mess hall back to the bunkhouses.
    â€œWe’re hitting the pool for a few hours, then it’s free time till dinner,” she says.
    â€œReally, the pool?” I’m feeling better with nine pounds of lard and a handful of Motrin in my gut, but baking under the sun doesn’t sound particularly appealing. “Um . . . I think I might have just developed an allergy to Mexican food.”
    She laughs before flicking my arm with her finger. “Nice try, Miss Pukes-A-Lot, but your ass is officially healthy now and you