Author’s Note: A video version of this post is also available here.
Nature’s Classroom is a sleepaway camp somewhere in New York State. As a fun excursion, sixth-grade students from Goff Middle School took an annual trip there to learn about conservation, wildlife, active living, and how to make convincing fart sounds while people were trying to sleep.
Nature’s Classroom was my first extended absence from home. I’d never spent an entire week without my parents, my sister, my dog Daisy, or my Game Boy Advance. It was a rough time for me. I remember being stressed and nervous and uncomfortable.
They had many rules at Nature’s Classroom. Don’t waste food, always consider your biological footprint, don’t jab each other in the stomach as a show of adolescent dominance (yes, we really did this before going to bed; we called it “Poke Wars”). Most often, we were lectured about proper nutritional habits. For example, the dangers of soda.
Now I’d be fine without soda. It’s not like I poured Fanta over my cereal or gargled with Moxie. I’m not Buddy the Elf or anything. But once in a while, soda was a special treat my parents allowed me to indulge. For instance, at a bowling alley birthday party one year, I remember informing them that my friends and I were “drunk on Sprite.” So yeah. I was a fan of soda.
That fandom didn’t go over well at Nature’s Classroom. One counselor, a dreadlocked, khaki shorts-sporting dude—we’ll call him Alfonso—preached the dangers of the beverage.
“Soda makes you fat,” he said, using the same grave tone Obi-Wan chose when describing how Anakin killed those younglings. “Soda gives you cavities. Soda hooks you with bright colors and carbonated fizz. But soda’s got zero nutritional value.”
Okay, I thought. Can I have some soda now?
The answer, tragically, was no. They did not serve soda at Nature’s Classroom, nor did they offer anything with even trace amounts of sugar in it. Our only options were water, milk, and some murky brown substance they claimed was unsweetened iced tea.
Yet on the last day of this week-long ordeal, Alfonso and his cohorts relented.
“You guys have been awesome,” he announced. “Like, a super group. So as a thank you, we wanted to give y’all something special…”
I gripped the lunch table. My eyes went wide. Soda, I thought. Say soda!
“Lemonade! We’ve got lemonade for everyone!”
Maybe not the gift I’d wished for, but I didn’t want to be rude. And as far as I was aware, the sugar content of the two beverages were pretty much the same. It would do.
“There’s a catch, though,” Alfonso added, lifting a soil-stained finger. “Your table has to finish your water pitcher before you get your lemonade, okay? Water, then lemonade.”
That was another Nature’s Classroom thing. You had to share a pitcher of water amongst the seven other poor saps at the table. I’m not sure what the lesson was there, except learning to hate the kids who poured too slowly.
Alright Alfonso, I thought as I downed my first glass. I’ll play your game, you sick bastard.
I felt a little like Gollum must’ve felt around the Ring. The only thing standing between me and my precious: This stupid pitcher of boring water.
Frustratingly, nobody at the table took more than a cup. They were busy reminiscing about all the fun times they shared the past few days, about how happy they were to see their families again.
Didn’t you people hear what Alfonso just said!? I wanted to scream at them. Lemonade! We can have lemonade! Look, I know it’s not root beer, but come on. Help me out, here!
Nobody did. So I put the team on my back. I felt like Jordan in the fourth quarter of the ‘98 Finals, Game Six. I must’ve slammed at least that many glasses of water, if not more.
Then came my reward. Alfonso nodded approvingly, then returned with a pitcher of golden lemonade. And I thought, You know what? I worked hard for this. No. I earned this. I deserve as much lemonade as I want.
I didn’t even bother sharing with my ungrateful tablemates. From that pitcher, I’d estimate I drank a good 75, 80 percent.
“Okay,” said Mr. B., my sixth grade science teacher. “Get on the bus, people. We’re going home.”
#
I think I made it 30 minutes before the pain set it.
You know that scene in Alien when the creature bursts out of John Hurt’s chest? That’s what my groin area felt like. I expressed my growing discomfort to my friends, Jimmy and Jeremy. They’re still two of my best friends to this day—though after recalling this story, I have to wonder why.
I was looking for some encouraging words from my pals, you know? Maybe a, “Hey, you’ll be alright!” or a, “Don’t worry, your bladder won’t be totally ruined.” Instead, they pointed out every rushing body of water we passed, whether real or imaginary.
“Did you see that garden hose over there?” Jimmy asked, tapping on the window. “I think it was trickling.”
“That’s not what I heard,” Jeremy countered from across the aisle. “I heard it was, like, gushing. Just spraying everywhere.”
This was not helping. With about two hours to go, I removed my seatbelt—despite what my parents would advise—to relieve the pressure on my abdomen. I also hunkered down in the seat and covered my face, and maybe cried a little.
At this point, one of the chaperones said, “You guys better lay off that kid. He looks like he’s gonna pee his pants.” An astute observation.
At about the halfway mark, I turned to Mr. B. and pleaded, “Mr. B. Can we please stop the bus? I really, really need to go to the bathroom.”
To which the merciless Mr. B. snapped, “Nope. We are not stopping.” Evidently, he hadn’t had as much fun at Nature’s Classroom as the kids.
So that left me with two options. Option A: Endure the pain and try my best to ignore Jim and Jer’s aquatic quips. Or, Option B: Release, and be forever known as that kid who peed his pants somewhere along I-90.
I wasn’t a stellar test taker, but even I knew the answer to that one. So I gritted my teeth, squeezed my crotch, and reminded myself, There’s no place like home. Or better yet, a bathroom.
Miraculously, I arrived at the Goff parking lot with mostly dry Levi’s (there might’ve been a few dribbles). There awaited everyone’s parents and siblings to greet us. They stood on the sidewalk, waving and smiling and pointing and waving some more. Finally, after so long apart, we could all go home together.
Not now, family.
Before the bus even stopped, I was ramming fellow classmates aside. I had no choice, really; I was near the back and I couldn’t afford to be polite. When I reached the front, I leapt off the steps and ran not toward, but away from my family. It hurt to do it, but it hurt more to hold in all that lemonade.
For the record, I did make it to the bathroom before the floodgates opened. I stood at the urinal for oh, 15 minutes, give or take. Still the most relieving bathroom break I’ve ever taken.
Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats. He has written two books and numerous short stories, both published and yet-to-be published. He enjoys unusual narrative structures, multiple POVs, and stories about cats.
