The Hurt Patrol (7 page)

It was baffling; there was no reason to hate on him. He had never crossed any of these guys. When he spoke neutrally to them at the start of the year, they were unreceptive and informed him he was a fag . . . surprise, surprise. It was so predictable and tribalistic that Beau felt like he probably should have brought them some beads and a wild boar, or something, like in
Lord of the Flies
.

But other things had evolved. Because of Beau's newfound enthusiasm for traditional family values, he also developed a brand-new enthusiasm for Scouts. Whether his passion was actually for Scouting or just for showing his dad that they were a team was uncertain, but all Beau knew was that he was ready to give the BSA another try. For real.

Thus they had come to the time of year for all good Scouts to go snow camping.

“
Snow
camping?!” I whisper in horror, as Leo stirs in her sleep. “Omg!”

I look over at Beau with a judgmental face. He nods.

“Yep. And it is exactly as fun as you'd think it is.... But that's when I first got to know the Hurt Patrol.”

Like Jason, Pete's dad, David, was the Scouting enthusiast of their family, though also remarkably absent for anything too daunting, like being one of the scoutmasters for this whole snow camping deal. Once again, Pete had been chosen to express his dad's great love for Nature.

But Pete was not perturbed. There are many ways to thrive in extreme conditions. Pete had discovered that there is also more than one way to skin a scoutmaster because he invented a bunch of them, mostly while getting his character built. The Hurt Patrol grew strong because of his personality. The hurt, the outcast, and the weary, the huddled lame-o's seeking to breathe free, all dragged their sorry asses together and somehow their little group worked. It became a refuge. When Beau joined, the Hurt Patrol had three other guys besides Pete. They were scruffy and ill-favored and fit together because they didn't fit anywhere else. Their skill sets were not admired. Beau didn't know any of this yet, but he would.

Oldest next to Pete was Kyle. He was fifteen, an intellectual, as well as being skinny and pale. He was also a ginger, so he was a hella huge target. It was like a bull's-eye tattooed on his freckled forehead. He was the most intelligent of the patrol. Like
extremely
. It didn't help his social standing.

His brother Rob was almost fifteen too—they were actually the same age for three weeks out of the year. Rob was a dark ginger, a day-walker, and a total comedian who didn't think the Boy Scouts had a lot to offer anyone who planned to live in a city. He said the best thing about moving out of his parents' house someday would be to take all this Scout crap to a huge field and blow it up. Or maybe he'd have a Viking funeral, setting it aflame on a lake and reducing everything to ash, like their dad's idiotic dreams of them being Eagle Scouts. Beau liked Rob a lot. Rob cracked them up, though he was very pissed off all the time.

The other guy in the Hurt Patrol, also the smallest, was a kid named Hunter. He was thirteen. He was like the patron saint of victims; there were
so
many things to bust on him for. He was short and spindly, he needed glasses, he was lily white, and he'd been hospitalized for a long time when he was born because he had been born really premature. You could still see a short white scar where he had an IV tube in his head as a baby. And he bit his fingernails till they were bloody.

Hunter had dreams that freaked him out. He was the one who'd wake up screaming and then throw stuff around when he realized he'd wet the bed—or the sleeping bag. That's how he came to be in the Hurt Patrol; he'd been thrown out of two other patrols, both because of his nocturnal uproars. He was also maybe the scariest because he would talk about all the bad things that he could do at the meetings but hadn't. Like bombs and flying body parts. Then he'd snicker under his breath. He kind of creeped Beau out.

This was the Hurt Patrol. Beau was the newest member.

The snow campers and their rides all met at the church parking lot to put the camp stuff in the old Blue Bird school bus waiting there with chained tires. Jason, as the Scouting cheerleader, was the one who always dropped Beau off on his camping trips. Then he'd usually wait till the bus pulled away, waving to Beau tenaciously.

The troops were sorting themselves out when Beau and his dad pulled up. Backpacks abounded. Parents were saying “be good” and “stay warm” to their kids.

“Here we are.” Beau's dad liked to state the obvious.

“Yep.” Beau was trying to be neutral about snow camp. He didn't like his face to be cold. He hated when his red nose ran and his skin got chapped. But he was trying to put a good face on it. Or at least a not-pissed-off cold face. He'd just be resigned . . . it hadn't ever done any good to resist, anyway.

“Remember, if anybody gives you any guff—”

“Yeah, Dad, I got it, chin down, knuckles flat like a brick.” Beau sighed. His dad, always so ready for him to bring it.

Beau climbed down out of the truck and went around to get his gear. As he pulled out his sleeping bag, he saw the back of a familiar figure stuffing a backpack from the side of a familiar minivan. Pete was still hurriedly packing.

Beau and Jason got out of the truck and grabbed Beau's stuff. He had a camp roll and a gigantic knapsack with wooden scaffolding that required a Cirque du Soleil–type balancing act to put on. Beau stowed it over by the other stuff waiting to be loaded in. When he turned back, he saw his dad standing with the other bag over his shoulder, just as Jewels appeared out of the side door to the kitchen of the church. She was in Jason's direct field of view. At first she glanced at Beau and didn't change her expression.

Beau waved at her, noncommittally. Then she smiled, and it was like a flashbulb went off, or something—white and astonishing. She waved back. Beau looked at the toe caps of his boots in sudden bewilderment. When he looked up, she had disappeared. He could feel his stupid ears turning red. He knew his dad had noticed and was just smirking away, about to bust on him, calling him names, saying, “Player” and “L. L. Beau” (Ladies Love Beau) with just a touch of stink, as well as all his jacked-up comments—like he was
so
funny.

Beau chucked his rucksack and his canteen in the pile as his dad moseyed over and stood eyeballing him, archly. Beau pretended he didn't notice, till Jason dug his elbow in Beau's side. Then, as if that wasn't bad enough, he smacked him not at all subtly on the ass, and gestured with his head toward where Jewels had been, nodding, like, “Nice!” Of course this beyond mortified Beau, and he made for the basement. A tall Scout leader met him. He was older, very tall, and thin—kind of stooped over.

“Hi, Beau,” he said. “Welcome to your first Snowstrava-ganza!” He shook Beau's hand and then his dad's hand, too, when he came downstairs.

Beau's misgivings shifted slightly. So far, so good. He smiled at the tall guy, Mr. McLenz, whom they called Scoutmaster Tim. He was a social studies teacher at the middle school, quiet and kind. Then another scoutmaster came over. He was shorter and stouter. His face was redder.

“Well, Mr. and Master Gales, welcome to Troop 23, aerie to eleven Eagle Scouts! With any luck, you'll be our twelfth!” he laughed.

Beau had come to find out this was the line Scoutmaster Jeff, aka “Scoutin' Jay Rockins,” aka “Scoutie Jeff” or “Scoutie-J,” as he was interchangeably known, used every time he was at an event; it was his special joke, and he
never
got tired of it. Beau had been staring up at the snowbound windows, but he looked over to smile warmly at Scoutie-J.

Scoutie-J was a total nutter, but very kind.

“Great!” Scoutie-J gave him a pat on the shoulder. “
There's
that great Scouting Attitude! Remember, this experience is what you make it! Okay, let's get our stuff loaded!” And off he went, blowing his gym whistle, reminding Beau very much of a teapot.

Beau and his dad exchanged a look. His dad rolled his eyes. Beau smiled and shrugged. The poor man couldn't help if he was a loony. He was harmless, if a tad over enthused. Beau had heard he didn't have much going on in his life besides Scouting. He heard a lot of stuff about folks, it being such a small town.

His description of Scoutie-Jeff was funny. Beau looks over and sees me smiling at his story.

“Get to the snow camping. It sounds grisly!” I like to incorporate new words into my vocab. I have Scottish friends on Facebook, one of whom used the word
grisly
a few days ago, and I been a-itchin' to use it, since. Also
muckle
and
chuffed
. And
snog
.

Beau grins at the word. “It was. It was grisly.” But he keeps smiling.

“What?” I ask. There's something he's remembering that wasn't so grisly.

He looks over at me, kind of like to see if I can handle it. I'm not sure what face to make that would convince him I'm trustworthy, so I nod with my eyes wide, like I'm open-minded. It works because Beau continues.

“It was the first time I recognized who I am. . . .”