My Life as a Book (9 page)

After we register, the camp leaders divide us into groups. Mine is called the Mustangs. The leaders show us where to store our possessions and give us directions to the outdoor work areas. I figure things can't get any worse until I see a girl filling out her name tag at the registration table. Just as I'm about to make a run for it, she spots me.

“What are
you
doing here?” Carly asks.

“I was about to ask you the same question.”

She shrugs. “My mother works, so I go to different camps every summer.”

I know it's only a matter of time before she interrogates me, so I beat her to the punch. “Don't ask about the summer reading list because I haven't even started.”

“I wasn't going to ask you anything.” She leaves me by the table and approaches the camp leader. She's probably going to try and be that teacher's pet too.

For a brief moment on the drive in, I thought
maybe
I'll be one of the smartest kids here,
maybe
I won't be the one who needs extra help. I'm sick of feeling like an old broken-down horse on a racetrack that everybody has to encourage from the sidelines. I hoped Learning Camp could be different. Seeing Carly guarantees it won't be.

Our leader's name is Margot, and she reminds me of the actress I saw on the horror set last week. Imagining her with blood gushing from her nostrils and ears makes the first session go by much faster.

“First item on the schedule—geography!” Margot has so much enthusiasm that I wonder if she'll pop an artery for real.

She gives us maps and asks us to plan trips to various cities around the country. Here's where
I
want to travel to: ANYWHERE BUT HERE.

An hour later, Margot hands out Popsicles and tells us to take a break. I check to see if everyone got a Popsicle before I pretend I didn't and take another. I pull my markers and pad from my pack for a minute of peace.

No such luck.

“Can I see?”

I look up to find Margot eating potato chips and pointing to my sketchbook. I shrug and show her my drawings.

“That's how you do your vocabulary words? Cool.”

I get back to my illustration.

“Does your school have summer reading? God, I used to
despise
those lists.” She holds out the potato chip bag, and I take a handful.

“Imagine telling people what to read,” she continues. “It's criminal!”

“Exactly!” I agree.

“When I was your age, all I wanted to read was Garfield.”

“I love him, but for me, it's Calvin and Hobbes.”

She nods, as if remembering her own favorite comic strip. “Books aren't as fun without the pictures.”

“I know exactly what you mean.” I want Margot to move in with us and talk some sense into my parents.

Margot tosses the chips bag in the trash and wipes her hands on her denim shorts. “You want to know a secret?”

I nod furiously, like one of the bobbleheads in Matt's collection.

“You seem like you have a good imagination—you have to use it when you read. Reading became fun again when I taught myself to visualize the story like a movie. You like movies?”

“Of course I do.” I tell her my father is a storyboard artist for films.

“That's perfect. Just picture every paragraph like a scene in a movie. Close your eyes and see the character act out the story in your mind.” Margot rummages through her backpack and pulls out a novel.

“I can't read that,” I say. “It's too hard.”

“You could if you took your time. But it doesn't matter because I'm going to read it to you.”

I look up to see Carly staring at Margot and me. She grins and mouths the words
teacher's pet
.

I move away from Margot as if I'm not interested in what she's saying. But she sees Carly and waves her over. Great.

“Your friend can do this too,” Margot says.

“We're not friends!” Carly and I say in unison.

“Close your eyes, both of you.”

Carly and I follow Margot's directions, and she reads us part of her book, a scene about a family walking on the beach.

“Picture the ocean,” Margot tells us. “Feel how the waves touch your feet. The text said it was a cloudy day—can you picture the clouds?”

I take a peek to see if Carly's eyes are closed; they are. I close mine again and follow the story as Margot describes the main character throwing rocks into the water.

Part of me wonders what the other kids are doing, but most of me watches the story unfold in my mind. And at the end of the page, when Margot asks us questions about the story, Carly isn't the only one who knows all the answers.

On my way to Matt's, I run into Joe Brennan at the tennis courts. He waves me over, so I pull my bike to the curb.

“Listen to this,” he says. “A chimpanzee who's allergic to bananas—what do you think?”

I think it's the stupidest thing I've ever heard, but he's got a huge rock in his hand, so I tell him the idea is brilliant. He tosses the rock into the air with one hand and catches it with the other.

“So the chimp ends up being the best climber in his tribe because he has to get peanuts instead of bananas.”

“Peanuts don't grow on trees.” I keep my eye on the rock as I disagree with Joe. “They grow on plants, underground.”

“They do not.”

“Do, too.” What are we, five? I take a few steps away from Joe. “And groups of chimpanzees aren't called tribes. They're called cartloads.”

Joe bounces the large rock from one hand to the other even slower than before. “Cartloads of chimpanzees—that doesn't make sense. They can't drive carts.”

“Maybe in your story they should. Cartloads of chimpanzees in carts—might be funny.” Why am I wasting my time trying to collaborate with this knucklehead?

The rock suddenly stops; it appears to weigh a hundred pounds in Joe's meaty hand. “Since when did you get so smart?” he asks.

“Just 'cuz I have a hard time at school doesn't mean I'm stupid.” I skid back and forth on the sidewalk with my bike. “Besides, my mom's a veterinarian. I know a lot about animals.”

“'Cuz you
are
one.”

I nod as if Joe got the last laugh, but inside I'm thinking,
We're all animals, you moron.
I tell him I'd love to stay and chat—another lie—but I'm on my way to Matt's.

“I might use that cartload of chimps idea,” Joe shouts after me. “But I won't give you credit for it!”

As I bike past the school, I think about Pedro. A group of monkeys can also be a cartload, but they can be a barrel too. I wonder when the woman in Venice Beach will bring Pedro back for a checkup. If Pedro wants me to roll him down the street in our recycling barrel with the wheels on it, I'd be happy to oblige.

Matt's family car is loaded with luggage and boxes for their trip. He tells me they will fly from L.A. to Boston, then drive to Cape Cod and take a ferry to Martha's Vineyard. I feel sad for lots of reasons—because my best friend is deserting me, because my family's not going anywhere, and because the rest of my summer is going to be WORK, WORK, WORK.

“Learning Camp won't be so bad,” Matt says. “Jamie went there when he was our age and said it wasn't that terrible.”

“The worst summer of my life!” Jamie jams another bag into the car. “Doing math for an hour, then shooting hoops for ten minutes? That's a formula for misery.”

I figure out that Jamie is just helping them pack the car and won't be going on vacation with the rest of the family. His mother gives him instructions ten times about what to do and what not to do while they're gone. I feel bad that he's standing there taking orders from her, but I'm also glad I'm not the only one who gets treated like a kindergartner.

Matt pulls me aside. “First rainy day on the island, I'm going straight to the library.”

“You are?” I suddenly feel like I'm alone in protesting the summer reading books.

Matt can read my mind. “Not for the reading list, you goon. I'll see what I can find out about Susan James.”

Not only is my best friend leaving, but he's going to be having
my
adventure.

After they pull out of the driveway, Jamie runs into the house and blasts the stereo as loud as it can go. I stand outside for several minutes to see if he'll invite me in, but he doesn't. I ride back home and try to figure out how summer went from being the best season of the year to the absolute total worst.