“Sure. That’s the idea.”

“Then I just believe I can.”

“Yvonne, what’s the news?”

“We’re definitely going last. Plan A.”

“Great! I knew you’d pull it off; they’d never suspect you as a conspirator!”

I shoot off a questioning eyebrow, and Yvonne fills me in. “I convinced Sue that our skit was so good that we just had to go last. Sue convinced Mr. Bob!”

“What was Plan B?” Peggy Jo asks.

“To have someone hide in the bathroom, so whenever they call us, we wouldn’t be ready to go on.”

“Man, I’m glad we didn’t have to do that,” Denise says.

“Really,” Sara says. “There was a risk of exposing the gap in surveillance.” I look puzzled. “They think they’re watching the bathroom, because they come in and out, but they don’t pay attention to how long you’re in there. Or even if you’re in there.” She looks pointedly at Yvonne.

Yvonne giggles. Maybe that’s how she used to sneak off with her CP boyfriend. “Plan B might’ve made them notice how we hide out. We couldn’t have that!”

When Carole returns from the bathroom, we’re back into “Morning at Camp Courage.” It’s going without a hitch. On the floor there is an impressive pile of toilet paper squares.

*   *   *

As soon as I roll into the lodge for the evening program, I feel it. They’re here. Outsiders. Visitors from the normal world, the world I came from, the world where Crips get gawked at. The Jaycees and their families have arrived.

A little girl points at me. “What’s wrong with her?” A mom with a Laura Petrie hairdo and pea-green shirt pulls down the child’s hand and whispers something in her ear. The girl gawks more discreetly, out of the corners of her eyes, and I know I’ve just witnessed a child learning to gawk like a grown-up.

Mr. Bob is buzzing around a big barrel-chested man in golf clothes. Without a doubt, it’s the Honorable State Senator B. J. McNeill. Introductions are made, backs slapped. Gruff male laughter breaks through the pleasantries.

But in another instant it’s like some vital element has been sucked from the air. The state senator’s smile has gone glassy, his glad hand gone brittle in midshake. It has to be Willie. Only Willie does that to people! Reactions roll over the crowd; the visitors’ faces reflect Willie’s movements as clearly as any mirror could. Shock. Horror. Withdrawal. Above the happy Banlon shirts, faces go chalky. I turn my head and find Willie, just where those faces tell me he’d be.