How to (Almost) Ruin Your Summer

BOOK: How to (Almost) Ruin Your Summer

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Copyright © 2016 by Taryn Souders

Cover and internal design © 2016 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

Cover design and illustrations by Jeanine Henderson Murch

Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Sourcebooks Jabberwocky, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

(630) 961-3900

Fax: (630) 961-2168

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.


Front Cover

Title Page


Friday, June 11: Start Off with a Plan

Saturday, June 12: Leave Mr. Snuffles at Home

Sunday, June 13: Watch Your Parents Drive Away

Sunday, June 13: Get Run over by a Goat

Sunday, June 13: Leave Pine Needles in Your Hair

Sunday, June 13: Visit the Funny Farm

Monday, June 14: Startle His Royal Highness

Monday, June 14: Put Victoria in Charge

Monday, June 14: Delight in Flushing Toilets

Monday, June 14: Open Personal Mail in a Public Area

Wednesday, June 16: Throw a Chicken

Friday, June 18: Assume Sign-Ups Will Be a Piece of Cake

Saturday, June 19: Make a Mess in the Mess Hall

Saturday, June 19: Throw a Pity Party

Saturday, June 19: Chuck It and Hope for the Best

Saturday, June 19: Entertain a Trade

Saturday, June 19: Steal a Pair of Underwear

Sunday, June 20: Forget to Lock the Gate

Sunday, June 20: Row, Row, Row Your Goat

Sunday, June 20: Put a Plan into Action

Monday, June 21: Let Victoria Take a Walk in the Woods

Monday, June 21: Start a Food Fight

Thursday, June 24: Pour Yourself a Glass of Sea Monkeys

Thursday, June 24: Roll, Roll, Roll Your Goat

Friday, June 25: Swallow Some Shower Gel

Friday, June 25: Presume Everything Will Be Fine

Friday, June 25: Sacrifice a Dream

Friday, June 25: Get Stuck between a Rock and a Hard Place

Friday, June 25: Make a Truce

Saturday, June 26: Try Not to Be a Dork


About the Author

Back Cover

To my husband, David, and Charlie the Bear

Friday, June 11

Start Off with a Plan

Someone once told me that money can't buy happiness. They obviously never had to ride a baby bike to the first day of middle school.

My parents didn't think there was anything
with my existing bike, so they weren't going to shell out money for a new one before school started in the fall. Apparently they didn't realize that in middle school, once you've been labeled a “dork,” you're stuck with that label.
dorkiness would come in the form of a hot-pink bicycle plastered with Dora the Explorer stickers. Definitely not a stellar way to debut my sixth-grade year. But the parents said if I wanted a new bike, I'd have to pay for it myself. And of course, the bike I had my heart set on, an Alpine Traverse, cost $385.00.

My best friends, Elenna and Jireh, didn't need new bikes, but they were obsessed with the idea of getting Zoo 'n' Yous. I couldn't turn on the TV without seeing a commercial of giggling girls at a slumber party wrapped up in oversized blanket-pillow combinations that looked like animals. The pillow part of a Zoo 'n' You was shaped like an animal's head, and the attached blanket looked like fur. It even had sleeves to slip your arms into, so you could wear it like a robe—if you wanted the pillow hanging down your back. Personally, I found the whole concept bizarre and could think of a million other ways to spend $49.99 plus shipping and handling.

Either way, Elenna, Jireh, and I all needed money. The only way we could think to earn it was babysitting. The library offered a free babysitting class at the beginning of each summer. They taught CPR and everything, and the three of us had signed up right away.

My plan for summer was simple: make lots of money to buy a new bike.

That was it.

Nothing else.

No summer school. No road trips. No awkward family reunions.

And definitely no camps on account of I'd heard they have tons of spiders. (I'm absolutely terrified of anything with eight legs. Actually, anything with more than two and you're asking for trouble. Animals are irritating, destructive, and smelly. And the problems snowball the more legs they have. By the time you get to eight, watch out world!)

My parent's plan, on the other hand, was to celebrate their fifteenth wedding anniversary by taking a two-week-long Alaskan cruise…alone.

They came into my bedroom one night while I was reading and handed me a letter.

Dear Chloe McCorkle,

Let me be the first to say we are looking forward to having you at Camp Minnehaha. Enclosed you will find a packing guide and other helpful information. Please take the time to read through the electives we offer and get ready for two weeks filled with fun and excitement!


Linda Mudwimple

Camp Director

My jaw dropped as my eyes darted back and forth between my parents and the letter.

“Umm…I have other plans.” I folded the letter and held it out to my mom.

Mom smiled.

Dad barked a laugh so loud I dropped the letter. Based on their responses, strategic negotiating was needed if I wanted to get my way. I could handle this like an adult—after all, I
going into middle school. I decided to use last year's lessons in Peer Mediation about handling conflict. I needed to A.C.T.

Acknowledge the other person's feelings.

Compliment them.

Thank them.

I cleared my throat. “I get that you're going on a cruise, and I need to be somewhere while you enjoy Arctic blasts of air and whale watching. This Camp Minnehaha, while I'm sure it's fascinating, doesn't really fit into my summer plans. Thanks for thinking of me though.”

Nailed it.

Mom raised one eyebrow and smiled with one side of her mouth—a look that directly translated to
Think again.

Maybe reasoning would work.

“But now I'll never be able to get a new bike!”

“The bike you have is perfectly fine,” Dad said.

“It's adorable!” Mom added.

Yeah—adorable if you're a DORK.

I tried reasoning again. “I would really like to take the babysitting class at the library with Elenna and Jireh. I can't do that if I'm not here.”

“The library offers the class more than once, Chloe,” Dad said. “You can take the babysitting class when you return.”

It was time to resort to begging—it wasn't very adultlike, but it sometimes worked. I clasped my hands together in desperation. “But Elenna and Jireh are taking the
class,” I whined. “Those two will get all the babysitting jobs for the summer.”

Dad pulled a brochure from his shirt pocket and handed it to me.

I slowly took it from him and then read aloud, “Camp Minnehaha is a fun, educational, kid-approved career camp, surrounded by gently rolling hills and clear streams.” I narrowed my eyes and cocked a brow. “What's a career camp?”

Dad tapped the brochure. “It's where you'll see what it's like to be a cake decorator, athlete, scientist, and veterinarian,” he said. “You try them all out the first week, and the second week, you pick your favorite and spend the rest of the time exploring that career in depth.”

“Sounds thrilling,” I said. “You know animals and I don't get along and you want me to spend time pretending to be a veterinarian?”

When I was nine, my parents got me a hamster that I named What (because he always had an expression on his face like he was asking a question). Every time I picked him up, he'd pee on me and then bite my finger. After six months, he escaped from his cage and was never seen again. I couldn't even keep a hamster safe and healthy. I didn't need to go to some career camp to know I'd never be a vet.

This was horrible! It wasn't just the fact that going off to camp meant I couldn't hang with Elenna or Jireh. It also meant that when middle school started in the fall, I was going to be riding my baby bike. Put that together with my terrible hair problem, and I was going to be looking like the World's Biggest Dork.

My hair? Totally out of control. On a good day, I looked like an electrocuted lion. And if the humidity was extra high, I could be mistaken for Medusa. Mom always said I was beautiful, but moms are supposed to say nice things.

My hair I couldn't change, but my bike situation I could…or at least I had hoped.

Dad looked at me sadly and moved toward my door. A dagger of guilt poked my conscience. I knew they signed me up for camp thinking I'd enjoy it. I hated disappointing them.

I glanced at the brochure. “Cake decorating, huh?” Ever since the show
The Baker's Dozen
aired on TV, I'd obsessed over every episode. Thirteen people would compete in decorating cupcakes for $5,000.

Mom joined Dad near my bedroom door, signaling the end of the family meeting. “Get some sleep, sweetie. In the morning, we'll go shopping for the things you'll need. You leave the day after tomorrow.” She winked. “I'm so excited for you!”

I flipped through the camp brochure and paused at the “Cake Decorating” page.

A few weeks ago my friend Mrs. Peghiny, the owner of Peghiny's Ice Cream Parlor, had introduced her new ice cream flavor, Cupcake Confetti. She told me she also wanted to sell cupcakes at the parlor since the ice cream was sooooo popular. The only thing stopping her was she didn't have time.

A brilliant idea popped into my head. My forced exile to Camp Minnehaha just might work in my favor—as long as Mrs. Peghiny agreed to my plan.

Saturday, June 12

Leave Mr. Snuffles at Home

Saturday afternoon, Mom and I returned home with bags loaded with sunscreen, Bug-Me-Not, a flashlight, a ton of batteries, and every hair product that came in travel size.

As I laid my camp things on my bed to label them, Mom came in holding a turquoise leather-bound journal with silver-sequined dragonflies. She grinned and handed it to me. “I noticed you kept picking this up when we were at Murphy's Attic, so I bought it when you weren't looking.”

I took it from her. “Cool. Thanks.”

“You can use it to express your feelings. It will help you process things about separation anxiety or worries about middle school.”

Oh brother.

Processing emotions was a mega-big deal to Mom. Last week, she sat Jireh, Elenna, and me down for what she called a “here and now” to tell us it was healthy and normal to openly express our emotions. She'd overheard a small part of a conversation we'd had in the backyard. I'd said that “bottled” was the way to go, and they had both agreed. After the therapy session she put us through about how we shouldn't keep our feelings bottled up, she concluded with her usual lecture on hormones. I explained we were simply talking about canned sodas versus bottled sodas and which tasted better.

How awkward was that?

I touched one of the dragonflies on the cover of the journal, wondering how it would hold up shoved into my suitcase. “Do you think I should I take it to camp?”


We were about to start packing when Dad hollered something from the kitchen about the dishwasher spewing soap.

Mom rushed out the door.

As I plopped my suitcase on the bed and flipped it open, I glanced at the clock on my desk. If I hurried, I'd have plenty of time before dinner and after packing to make it down to Peghiny's Ice Cream Parlor.

I'd never packed for camp before, and the more items I placed into my suitcase, the faster my heart pounded. I'd been to sleepovers millions of times, but this was completely different.

I glanced at Mr. Snuffles, who was on my bed. I named him Mr. Snuffles after my favorite
Sesame Street
character, Mr. Snuffleupagus. He was a small, gray elephant who wore a T-shirt that said
Someone in Colorado Loves Me
. In his trunk, he held a red rose. My grandpa had given him to me for my third birthday, and he'd quickly become a favorite. After Grandpa died two years ago, I had treasured Mr. Snuffles even more.

Unfortunately, he no longer
like a treasure.

He was dingy—even for a gray elephant. His head flopped to one side because no stuffing was left in his neck. Several places on his body were so worn that wisps of stuffing poked out. His T-shirt was ragged and sported spaghetti sauce stains from when I used to set him next to me at the dinner table. His eyes didn't even match. One of them had fallen off a long time ago, and Mom had sewed on a button to replace it—only it didn't look like the other eye at all.

Even though I loved him, he wasn't getting into my suitcase. I'd rather eat a full pan of Mom's meatloaf (which was gross) than be caught with Mr. Snuffles at camp.

He sat there, looking at me. His mismatched eyes seemed to be pleading, begging to come with me.

“I am not bringing you,” I told him. “Everyone will think I'm a baby.”

I tossed him onto my beanbag chair and threw a pillow over him. I didn't need a guilt trip from Mr. Snuffles.

Ten minutes later, I set my packed suitcase and sleeping bag next to my dresser.


Shower junk and hair-taming goops and gels—check.

No babyish stuffed animals—check.

Mom poked her head into my room. A blob of suds rested on the top of her head like a small tiara. “Dishwasher's on the fritz. The kitchen floor is covered in soap! Gonna grab more towels but wanted to check—” She stopped and raised an eyebrow at the sight of the packed suitcase.

“You seemed pretty busy, what with the dishwasher spewing bubbles, so I figured I'd go ahead and pack.” I plopped into my beanbag chair (sitting on Mr. Snuffles), clasped my hands behind my head, and crossed my ankles. “It's all good. I used the list—and if I forgot anything, y'all can just turn the cruise ship around and bring it to me.”

She smirked. “Ha-ha.”

“Can I bike down to the ice cream parlor real quick? I want to say good-bye to Mrs. Peghiny.”

Dad hollered again, and Mom glanced down the hall. “Be back in time for dinner—and don't fill up on a lot of ice cream.”

• • •

After dinner that night, I pulled the new journal from my suitcase. I'd never had one before and I wasn't sure how to start “expressing myself.”

Dear Diary,

Dear Journal,

Dear Paper Shrink,

In the end, I decided to just stick with the date and time.

Saturday, June 12

8:56 p.m.

Mom got me this journal to “process feelings.” I think she feels guilty for sending me off to camp.

Mom and Dad are making me go to Camp Minnehaha for two weeks while they go on a cruise. I am not about to let their Arctic adventure ruin my summer though.

I came up with a NEW plan!


This afternoon, I told Mrs. Peghiny about the cake decorating class at Camp Minnehaha. I suggested she could pay me to decorate her cupcakes—'cause I would be like a REAL cake decorator after camp. It took a little bit of convincing, but in the end, she said that if I took the class and did well, she'd try me out as her cupcake decorator! I bet I could even compete on
Baker's Dozen
after going to camp!

Plus, it will be way better than babysitting, duh!

Speaking of fun, Mom and Dad think the camp will be fun…which is what adults always say when they actually have no idea what's going to happen.

I've hidden Mr. Snuffles—I'll really miss him, but I can't bring him. Because the only thing worse than MISSING Mr. Snuffles would be the way all the kids would laugh at me if they saw him!

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