Cartboy Goes to Camp (3 page)

The bus pulled away, so I sat back and let the cool air blow on my face.

“Ahhh,” I said out loud.

“Enjoy it.”

I looked up to see a kid standing in the aisle. He was small like me, but his hair stuck straight up. Like he had used a whole bucket of gel on it.

“It's the last blast of cold air you're gonna feel for two weeks.” The kid put out his hand. “Vinny Ramirez. Westwood, New Jersey.”

“Hal Rifkind.”

“You're the one with the old-lady cart? What's up with that?”

“It's a long story.”

Unfortunately, Vinny took that as invitation to sit next to me. “I love stories. Especially history stories. This will be my fourth year at Camp Jamestown.”

“You're saying you
willingly
go to this place every summer?”

“I like history. I'm guessing you do too. Since you're here.”

“Actually, I was hoping for more of a sporty camp…”

I was about to tell Vinny all about this place I heard about called Camp Woodward. It's in Pennsylvania. They have a skateboard park. And a waterslide. You can eat a hamburger every night if you want, and you don't even have to take showers.

But I could tell Vinny wasn't listening. He had pulled a huge
map
out of his backpack and was studying it with an intense look on his face.

“What's that?” I asked.

Vinny looked around the bus, then whispered into my ear. “I'll tell you. But you have to promise not to tell anyone.”

He glanced around one more time to make sure no one was listening. “It's a map of Camp Jamestown,” he said. “I drew it myself. To help me find the buried treasure.”

I let out a little chuckle. But then I saw that Vinny wasn't kidding.

“I have good reason to believe the treasure was buried a long time ago. Right on camp grounds,” he said.

“What is the treasure?” I asked.

“Pearls.”

Vinny put down the map and looked me in the eyes. “I heard your friend say you almost made it to Level 15 of
RavenCave.
You must be pretty good at hunting for stuff. Do you want to help me find the treasure?”

“Um,
RavenCave
is a video game, Vinny. That's different—”

“Plus we'll both be in the same cabin. Since our last names begin with
R.
That'll make it easier to hunt together.”

“I'm not too good at math, Vinny, but even I know that if we share the profits, it'll only be about two dollars each.”

“These are real pearls. Pearls the Powhatan Indians traded for food and tools. They could be worth
a lot.
The antiques dealer back home already told me he'd buy them if we found them.”

“Thanks, Vinny, but I think I'll pass.”

“Suit yourself.”

With that, Vinny leaned back and studied his map again. While he sat there reading, I couldn't help but look over his shoulder.

The more I looked at Vinny's map, the more I couldn't help but think the treasure might be real. That helping Vinny hunt for it might be a good thing.

Maybe the treasure would be the solution to all my problems.

I could use the money to buy a motorized scooter to help me carry my books to school. I could finally get rid of my cart. Finally, everyone would stop calling me Cartboy.

I leaned into Vinny's ear. “Okay. I'm in. If we find the treasure, we split it fifty–fifty?”

“Sixty–forty. I did all the research.”

“Deal.”

I sat there for the rest of the bus ride, thinking about the Ziptuk E300S motorized scooter I was going to get.

I must have been thinking about that scooter a lot, because before I knew it, we were there.

Camp Jamestown. Deep in the woods. Right in the middle of nowhere.

 

Camp Jamestown

Dear Future Rescuer (I Hope):

We pulled into a clearing in the woods, and about fifty campers and counselors got off the bus. The group was about half girls and half boys, each of us lugging a bag full of gear.

I stood in the clearing with my cart and took a good look around. Right away, three words came to mind.

Not   too   bad.

Yes, there were crooked old cabins. Outhouses. And a Museum of Colonial Artifacts. And yes, the main cabin near the middle of camp had a
butter churner
on the front porch.

But there were pine trees everywhere. The air smelled fresh and clean. And just past the clearing was a pond lined with lily pads.

Besides, I figured, there had to be
something
modern here. I mean, even though this was a history camp, it was still a camp for
kids.

Surely there was a kite board or a water trampoline down by the pond. Surely something here had been manufactured in the last twenty years.

I looked near the tops of the pine trees for a power line, and across the clearing for flushing toilets. I took a few steps toward the main cabin, where I thought I saw a cell phone through a tiny glass window.

And that's when I heard the sound.

D
OO
  D
O
  D
O  
L
OOO
!

A man holding a dried-out orange gourd walked out of the cabin. I could tell it was the guy from the brochure because of the long pointy beard.

“Welcome, boys, girls, counselors, and history lovers of all kinds!” he said. “I am Mr. Prentice. Thy camp director. And musical gourd player.”

One look at Mr. Prentice, and any hopes I had for something modern disappeared like a balloon in the wind.

Not only was he playing a
gourd,
but he was also wearing tights and a wool coat that went down to his knees. Underneath the coat was a lacy shirt, like the kind Gramma Janson wears to the opera. He was even wearing those black Pilgrim shoes with the buckles on the sides.

Mr. Prentice put the gourd to his lips and blew hard.

“Gather round, my good people. There's no time liketh the present to discover the past.”

Everyone shuffled toward Mr. Prentice, but I, for one, stayed back. That is, until Vinny tugged my arm.

“Let's get up close.”

“That's okay, Vinny,” I started to say. But Vinny and I got caught up in the crowd, and before we knew it, we were
two feet
in front of Mr. Prentice.