Whatever the reason, before Jamie could finish her R-rated monologue, an uncharacteristically impetuous Grey lurched forward and took a swipe at the hand that held her punch, rocketing the glass and the melon-yellow liquid up into her face. In the fixed gaze of howling counselors she stood speechless now, drenched in a sticky sweet substance that ran in rivulets from the sopping ends of her crimson hair down her arms to her dangling fingertips.
"Next act, please," he said, not batting an eyelash.
It didn't take long for the waterfront counselor to rouse from her stunned torpor and declare vengeance.
"Why, you dish-washing little weasel, you! Wait 'til I get my hands on you!"
"Get him," someone shouted, and in an instant, cackling counselors from every corner of the room began to rush toward the spot where Grey stood.
"Uh oh," DeFweep muttered, sidestepping the female phalanx and reconvening at a point of safety. To Grey, it seemed like his tent partner suddenly had evaporated and then condensed halfway across the room.
Thelma stood near the comestibles, ostensibly unaware of the row, sampling first this little morsel, then that. "Thrash him, girls," she called, not even bothering to look up. "Thrash him."
It took impending engulfment by a massive protoplasm of Girl Scout green and white to bring him to his senses. "Oh my shit," he mumbled, vaulting over the counter that Jamie had made her stage, escaping the first onslaught by a fingerprint.
"He's quick," Mary Bea laughed, directing her remark at Nils, who stood now at her side, sipping punch and providing wry commentary.
"Don't write him off," he noted casually, lifting a paper cup to his lips. "In gym class they call him the Cat." Someone later reported seeing money change hands.