My Mountain

By John Leatherman

“For first place in the Camp Conniption Popsicle stick sculpture competition, we have two winners!” Camp Director Naomi Addison addressed the auditorium of middle school girls. “Our judges gave both Melissa Logan and Zinnia Zunk a perfect ten.”

The girls clapped as Zinnia and I came up on stage to accept our ribbons. Excited to finally tie with her, I grinned and offered my hand, but she turned away with a harrumph.

Zinnia shouted down the applause. “Hold it! I don’t share first place with anyone. I demand an audience vote.” Tossing her blond ringlets and batting her blue eyes, she picked up her Pegasus-Centaur. “Who’s for mine?”

Boisterous cheers and applause.

Cringing, she gestured toward my T-Rex-octopus. “And who likes this hunk of garbage?”

A smattering of claps and “Go-’lissas.” Thanks, cabin mates.

Zinnia smirked at Ms. Naomi. “I think the results speak for themselves.”

Ms. Naomi winced. “I guess we’ll award a point for audience participation. Zinnia wins.”

She strutted for the crowd. “Last in the roster, first in everything else!”

I seethed. Zinnia was already ahead in the overall score. Why did she need that point?

Up to then, I’d seen the Connympics as a mere friendly competition to highlight my June at summer camp. I didn’t care who won, even though I loomed close behind Zinnia. After all, the only prize was a photo on the Wall of Fame outside the administration building. But now, extorted out of a first-place ribbon, I resolved to crush Zinnia in the final event—the Conniption Climb.

It would be a simple timed race up and down Mount Conniption. If I could beat Zinnia by at least five minutes, the Wall of Fame would immortalize me and my kinky brown curls for future generations of Conniption campers!

At the starting line the next morning, Ms. Naomi explained the rules. “The only requirement is to plant your flag at the summit and return to camp. But don’t waste all your energy on the climb! The air is noticeably thinner up there. Let’s not have anyone finding out how the mountain got its name.”

Yeah, whatever. With the bang of the starter pistol, I charged ahead of everyone—including Zinnia.

Alone in the lead, I ascended a path lined by jagged chunks of rock. As the path spiraled gradually upward, I abandoned it, gaining altitude faster by scaling the steep crags. I mentally replayed taunts of first-in-everything-else to prod me up the giant geological staircase.

I reached the summit at fifty-seven minutes, never once feeling weak. Grown-ups will say anything to scare us. I inhaled deeply.

Smells like sweet justice.

I planted my flag, took a selfie, and headed back, barreling down the path. Despite gravity’s assistance, I still faced a challenge, hampered by spiderwebs and underbrush. Must not get much use outside the Connympics.

I finished first with a time of 1:55. When Zinnia loped across at 2:03, I greeted her with a smirk. “Where ya been, Zinn? Last in the roster, second in this!” Okay, I only had eight minutes to workshop it.

Zinnia ran to Ms. Naomi. “Cheater! She couldn’t have made it to the top. I planted the first flag!”

I countered with my selfie, but Zinnia had one of her own. Ms. Naomi studied both, brow furrowed.

Hope buoyed within me. Zinnia’s pic didn’t show my flag, but her timestamp was after mine. Wouldn’t that mean she cheated by hiding my flag?

As other girls finished, though, I started to wonder—on my way down, shouldn’t I have passed some of them going up the path?

***

Ms. Naomi and a few other adults had a conference in her cabin to discuss “the Melissa matter.” A barricade of high-school-age counselors kept me out of earshot, but the gist was clear from the Connympics leader board. As times from the last event came in, everyone’s scores increased—except mine. I wanted to blame Zinnia, but she watched alongside me, stifling giggle after giggle. By the final tally, I’d dropped to eleventh place.

At the next day’s outdoor closing ceremonies, Zinnia proudly posed for her Wall of Fame photo. After the camera’s flash, she shouted, “Last in the roster, first in everything else!”

All the campers cheered. I grudgingly joined in. Wasn’t it worth celebrating the last time I’d ever have to hear that excruciating quip?

Ms. Naomi quieted the applause. “And now, a special presentation.” She gestured to a man in a business suit in the front row. “Please welcome Eugene Calumet from the State Geographical Survey in Central City.”

He took the podium. “Is Melissa Logan here?”

Wide-eyed, I approached. “What’s this about?”

“Yesterday, Ms. Naomi contacted our office with your photo, asking if it proved you had climbed Mount Conniption. Per the embedded GPS data, we can confirm you did not.” He pointed west, to a peak barely half as tall as Mount Conniption. “You climbed that mountain.”

All the girls laughed. Zinnia teased, “Last in this, eleventh in everything else!”

I buried my face in my palms. Great, Ms. Naomi went all the way to the capitol. I’ll bet even the governor knows I’m a loser.

When the girls quieted, Ms. Naomi put her hand on my shoulder and sighed. “So, unfortunately, we couldn’t award you any points. See, we’d always called that peak the west summit of Mount Conniption.” She winked at Mr. Calumet. “But it turns out we were wrong.”

He explained. “Because of recent soil erosion, the valley between the peaks is deep enough that—as of yesterday—the state recognizes your mountain as a separate geographical feature.”

I looked up. “What do you mean, my mountain?”

He chuckled. “You may be eleventh in the Connympics, Melissa, but you’re first in climbing a new mountain. And that gives you naming rights!”

***

So when you visit Camp Conniption today, I’m sorry to report you’ll see Zinnia’s picture on the Wall of Fame. But you’ll be standing in the shadow of Melissa’s Mountain.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

John Leatherman writes fiction, humor, and the monthly “Word Weasel” grammar column for Word Weavers International. He has won or placed in numerous writing contests. He has written book reviews for Christian Retailing, scripts for Shoestring Radio Theatre, and word games for International Puzzle Syndicate. A freelance writer, editor, cartoonist, and puzzle designer, Mr. Leatherman maintains a secret identity as a Central Florida software consultant with two kids.

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