Cartboy Goes to Camp (13 page)

We all headed to the butter-churning station. When we got there, it turns out Ryan Horner was just finishing up. It also turns out he left a little present for me on the butter churner handle: about a pound of
greasy
butter.

“Try this,” said my dad. “It's a churning technique I invented when I was here.”

He put both hands in front of him, and pretended they were wrapped around a butter churner handle. “You grab the handle with your thumbs ten inches apart, squeeze hard, and go up and down every three seconds. I even had a name for it: the ‘Rifkind Rip.'”

I tried the Rifkind Rip for a good ten minutes. I figured it would help me get at least a couple of hats on my score. But thanks to Ryan's little “gift,” all it did was make hands slip off the handle
twice as fast.

“Okay, shake it off,” said my dad.

He spotted the pile of wood in the clearing. “Let's see you do some wattle and daub, Hal! I bet you're great at that.”

A bunch of girls from Cora's cabin had gathered with their families at one end of the woodpile. So my family and I walked to the other end. I grabbed a log off the pile, picked up an ax, and gave it my hardest
chop.

“I've got it.” Cora came over, pulled my ax out of the log, and handed it to me.

“Thanks.” I tried to give Cora the “you can go now” look, but she wasn't paying attention. She walked straight up to my mom and dad.

“I'm Cora,” she said. “Hal and I are going to the dance together!”

“Oh! Oh my, that's wonderful. Just terrific. Stupendous.” My mom practically fell on herself trying to get the compliments out fast enough. She reached out and hugged me like I was three years old. “My big boy!”

My dad, on the other hand, was not shouting any compliments. Or hugging me at all.

He was examining the morning score sheet, which Mr. Prentice had posted on a tree near the woodpile.

“Hmph,” was all he said.

My mom and Cora said good-bye and “nice to meet you” for about a hundred years—then my family and I went to lunch.

All through the beans and corn, my dad was pretty quiet. His face looked the same as it does when I get a D on one of Mr. Tupkin's history tests.

I racked my brain to think of some way to improve the situation.

“Let's head to the museum, Dad. I'll show you my leather beading!”

The minute we got to the museum, I took my design off the shelf.

“I made the letter
P.
”

For the first time since Pioneer Day started, my dad actually smiled.

“Check it out,” I said. I unfolded the fabric to show him the rest of the design. Underneath the letter
P,
I had beaded a picture of a hot dog and some Cracker Jacks.

My dad's smile disappeared.

“Go Phillies?” I tried.

“Hal. This beadwork has nothing to do with Jamestown settlers. Or Powhatan Indians. Or colonial history of any kind.”

“I know, but … the Phillies are 15 and 4…”

“And your score on every other activity is zero.”

“Yes, well, the thing is—”

“What exactly have you been doing for the past two weeks? Have you not taken history camp seriously for a single minute?”

I could tell my dad was going to launch into one of his speeches about why history is so important. And how history explains who we are and why. Or something like that. So I put my beading on the shelf and headed toward the door.

“Sorry, Dad,” I said. “I have to get ready for the tug-of-war.”

 

Tug-of-War

Dear Commander of the Hal Rifkind Rescue Mission:

Inside Cabin 2, things were even worse than the museum.

I had never seen my bunkmates so depressed. We were in last place. And it was my fault. It was
my
score that had really brought the team down.

“Let's just get the tug-of-war over with,” I said.

“What if they put us against Ryan Horner? What if I have diarrhea? What if my gas acts up?” Perth was lying on his bed, rubbing his stomach. “I'm scared,” he said.

“Tell me about it,” said Scot. “Everyone here is going to put their grubby paws on that rope. It'll be
covered
in germs. Rotavirus. Norovirus. Influenza.
Staphylococcus aureus.
Candida.
E. coli…”

Vinny sat on the floor and started to stretch his legs. “It won't be that bad, guys.” His back made a loud
crack
and he got kind of stuck in the bending position. “Okay, it will. I agree with Hal. Let's get it over with. Let's be prepared to lose.”

I sat down and leaned against my dad's duffel bag. Something rock-hard dug into my back. “Ow,” I said. “Stupid flashlight.”

I shoved my hand inside the bag and tried to push the flashlight out of the way. While I was digging around in my camp pack, I thought about how mad my dad was about my score.

And how much madder he was going to be after I lost the tug-of-war.

And that's what gave me the idea.

“How about this, guys? How about we don't lose the tug-of-war.”

“That's pretty funny, Hal,” said Vinny.

“Hear me out. Maybe all we need to win is something … extra.”