Free The Hurt Patrol by Mary McKinley Page B

ex-lax in them! That’d be hilarious!”
    â€œHunter! No! That is totally an urban legend, and for sure we’d get caught! And probably go to juvie and get sued!” Pete was exasperated.
    â€œYeah,”—Rob was regretful—“but good one! Too bad, ’cuz that would be awesome!”
    Hunter smiled proudly. They continued digging the latrine with their thinking caps on. They knew when they would strike, they just needed to dial in details. The perfect opportunity was approaching.
    Honor Awards was the huge final meeting that bestowed the badges earned at Camporee. As the Hurts rehearsed the songs they’d perform at Camporee, they reviewed their plan. They had been practicing.
    All the whole hot week the troops had been learning a song, a series of rounds, the gist of which was making different sounds the different characters made when the guy in the song met them, like the bobsledder went ‘whoosh!’ and the lion went ‘rawr!’ and the Swiss miss went ‘mwah!’ and the engine went ‘zoom!’ and it went on and on and on, totally eye-rolling and dated and dorky, an ass-aching, long song, but also a cherished institution dating from long before these scoutmasters’ dads were dinosaurs. Tradition!
    All week long the troops practiced their parts and the patrols learned their lines and the whole camp rehearsed this whole multipart song that started to become a performance that was kind of good. Weirdly fun to sing, too, in spite of the corniness. And as they got ready for the ceremony, both the simmering feud between the factions and the lake water heated up.
    The night before the ceremony, the Hurts lay in their sleeping bags, making sure the details had been worked out. They had tried to keep the plan very simple and very short. They rehearsed it over and over. All seemed smooth.
    â€œRemember, if we pull everything off smoothly, we will act as surprised as anyone. That’s what we want. We gotta be slick.” Pete was a little nervous.
    â€œDude, it’s not like we’re knocking over a bank or something.” Rob was nonchalant.
    â€œRob, we will get so hammed on if we get caught.” Pete had plenty to lose.
    â€œBut we won’t. Because if we do, the Head Lice win! And we can’t let the Head Lice win, Pete!” Beau was goofing, pretending to be serious. He was going to be taking most of the risk. So he was making up for it by messing around.
    â€œHey, you guys, just saying—thanks for doing this.” Hunter was not quite as crazy since the plan started getting hatched. “I really appreciate it.”
    â€œHunter?” Kyle spoke to him. He hardly ever did. He cleared his throat.
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œDo you have a sister named Gatherer?”
    Such a nerd dis. Laughing, Rob lobbed a pinecone over Hunter’s head.
    â€œYou’re so welcome, Hunt’s Ketchup. You’re a spud, but you’re our little spud. Nobody gonna dog on you—’cept us.”
    â€œWhy do you call everybody ‘spud,’ Rob?” Beau had always wondered.
    â€œWell, Beau, my son, I will tell you: Because we’re all just little potatoes, but I think we can do the Thing.”
    Beau shook his head. “Yeah. That’s just weird, dude.”
    â€œI saw this line-drawing once, a little potato with a cartoon bubble: ‘I’m just a little potato, but I think you can do the thing.’ And I realized it was the truest cartoon I had ever seen. Then I realized I was totally baked. But that didn’t matter; it was still the truest thing. We are just little potatoes in this big earth, spud . . . and thus I call you—and all of you, Spud. Do you see, old spud?”
    Rob was so weird. But they were used to it and hardly bothered telling him so anymore. Pete stretched, and yawned.
    â€œOkay, then. We do ‘the Thing’ tomorrow.”
    They fell asleep quickly, tired from