Cartboy Goes to Camp

 

 

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To Beau and Charlie

 

Contents

Title Page

Copyright Notice

Dedication

Dear Person/Alien

The Bus

Camp Jamestown

Cabin 2

The Pioneer Life

Hunting, Digging, and Cake

A CLUE

Night Hunting

Pie

The Best Pioneer

Tug-of-War

Field Trip

The Grand Prize

Pearls

The Dance

Acknowledgments

Also by L. A. Campbell

About the Author

Copyright

 

Dear Person/Alien Who Lives Way in the Future:

Hello. Greetings. Zimnet Snerg.

It's me, Hal.

The first thing I want to say is: sorry to bug you again. I'm sure you have better things to do. Like play soccer on Jupiter. Or visit your robot cousins on Mars.

But based on what happened today, I had to talk to
someone.
And I figured the best someone was you. Especially since I wrote to you all last year in my time capsule journal for Mr. Tupkin's history class. (Yes, I am still recovering.)

I'm also hoping you have the means (a real working time machine) and the power (alien awesomeness) to beam me out of here.

Based on what happened today with my dad, I'm more desperate now than
ever.

It all started when my best friend, Arnie Giannelli, came over to my house. It was the first day of summer, and we had big plans to get to Level 15 of
RavenCave.
We didn't want to waste a minute. So we sat down in the room I share with my twin sisters, Bea and Perrie, and turned on the computer.

We had just started playing, when my dad's voice came from the living room. “Hal, I need to speak with you,” he said.

As soon as I heard him, I did what any sensible kid would do. Covered my ears with a stuffed animal. This time I used Flatso the Hippo, who I found in Bea's crib.

I wrapped Flatso over my head and pressed down hard. Whatever my dad had to say, I was pretty sure I didn't want to hear it. Partly because of the suspicious-looking piece of paper I saw in his pocket right before Arnie came over.

And partly because summer was finally here. And, like I mentioned before, Arnie and I had important goals to achieve:

As it turns out, holding a stuffed animal over my ears was about as useful as holding a handful of air.

“Hal. Get in here now.”

I put Flatso back in the crib and dragged myself into the living room. My dad was sitting on our worn-out couch wearing one of his Revolutionary War uniforms. He had just come from reenacting a battle down by the town tennis courts, so he had a rip in his jacket. And about five missing buttons.

“Rough skirmish today, Dad?”

“We were badly outnumbered by the British. I took a bayonet to the ribs.”

“Sorry to hear you lost the fight, Dad. Better luck next time!” I started to make a beeline back to
RavenCave,
but I didn't get far.

“Sit,” said my dad.

I sat. I've learned that when my dad says to sit, you should probably do it. Unless you want to end up raking leaves for five hours on a Saturday.

I could tell he was going to get down to the real reason he wanted to talk to me. And that it was much bigger than telling me about a battle he just lost.

My dad shifted around for what felt like nine hours—then finally his lips started to move. “Hal, now that you're twelve, I think it's time for you to look at summer differently. To expand your horizons. It's time for you to get out of Stowfield, Pennsylvania.”

“You mean, like, go to Grampa Janson's for a couple of days?”

That I could handle. Grampa Janson has a giant gumball machine in his basement, and you don't even have to use a quarter to get one out.

“No, not Grampa Janson's,” said my dad. “I'm talking about
really
getting away from Stowfield. Having an … experience. Your mom and I have decided to send you to sleepaway camp. For two weeks.”

Sleepaway camp?

The only summer camp I'd ever been to was the Tiny Wishes Day Camp near the bowling alley downtown. Tiny Wishes was made up of a diverse mix of children: 99 percent little kids, and me. I'm pretty sure I was the only person in the pool who didn't wear swim diapers.

I looked my dad in the eyes. “You mean you and Mom are sending me to a real summer camp? One that has cabins and sports?”

“Exactly.”

“Nature?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Kids over the age of four?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds like I'll be needing a skateboard and a tennis racket and some new basketball sneakers! I think they're having a sale over at Denby's. I'll meet you in the car—”

“Hold on.”

“Okay, maybe just the skateboard. And the sneakers—”

“Hal. You won't be needing any of that fancy new stuff. This is a special camp. A different kind of place.”

Okay, I thought, that could still mean it wasn't bad. There would probably still be lots of s'mores.

Just as I was picturing the marshmallow goo melting all over my tongue, my dad slid a piece of paper toward me. I picked it up and saw it was a brochure for a place called Camp Jamestown. Judging by the trees and the pond on the cover, it didn't seem so bad.