Cartboy Goes to Camp (4 page)

“I'd like to begin your Jamestown experience,” he said, “by asking ye a simple question: What is the best way to learn history?”

For reasons I can't begin to understand, he pointed right at me.

“You. Young man. What do you think is the best way to learn history?”

I racked my brain to think of what I learned in Mr. Tupkin's class last year. But when it comes to history stuff, my mind pretty much goes blank.

“Um, flashcards?” I said.

“Try again.”

“The Discovery Channel?”

“No.”

“YouTube?”

“Christopher Lord of Columbus! What is your name?”

“Hal Rifkind, sir.”

“Mr. Rifkind. The best way to learn history is to live it! Every day. And that's exactly what ye shall do here.”

Mr. Prentice pulled a small scroll out of his coat and unrolled it. “Now, I'm not going to sugarcoat it. Life at Jamestown in the year 1607 wasn't easy. The settlers suffered hard weather. Severe food shortages. And battles with the Powhatan Indians.”

He took a few steps toward us, but his foot got caught on a rock. “
Ow.
And these shoes weren't doing them any favors. But just because this is a history camp doesn't mean we can't do lots of fun and kid-friendly activities!”

“And the best part,” said Mr. Prentice, “is these daily activities will prepare ye for Pioneer Day. A competition on the second-to-last day of camp that includes all the main aspects of pioneer survival. Food, clothing, shelter—”

A girl's hand shot up. “Mr. Prentice,” she said. “Will the bow-and-arrow portion of the competition be worth six points again this year?”

“Yes, Cora, it will.”

The girl was about my age, and she had a dark ponytail that went all the way down her back. She was holding a shiny bow and arrow, and the way she handled the thing, it looked like she could take out a sparrow from about thirty yards away.

She caught me looking at her and she
smiled
right at me.

I did what anyone would do when someone holding a bow and arrow smiles at them.

I smiled back.

“Finally, campers,” said Mr. Prentice, “as part of Pioneer Day, the whole camp will compete in a favorite game of my ancestors. Tug-of-war!”

Mr. Prentice told us we'd be learning more about the tug-of-war later. And we'd also hear all about his ancestors, starting with his great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, “the original Sam Prentice,” who came to Jamestown from England.

“Now, quickly,” said Mr. Prentice, “before it gets dark. Let's divide ye into groups by last names, and meet thy counselors.”

Vinny and I spotted a picnic table for kids whose last names began with
R
through
Z.
By the time we reached it, one boy was already there.

“Scot Taylor,” said the kid.

I reached out my hand.

“Wait. Hold on. Sorry.” The kid pulled a bottle of Purell out of his pocket and smothered his hands with it.

“I'm pretty sure they didn't have that in the 1600s,” I said.

“And it's half the reason they died. Disease.” Scot aimed the bottle at me. “Want some?”

“Uh, sure,” I said, taking the bottle. I didn't want to hurt the kid's feelings. Or get scurvy. Or the plague.

While Vinny, Scot, and I were standing there, a little kid walked up to the picnic table. He couldn't have been more than eight or nine. “Hi, guys,” he said in a voice that sounded like a duck on a cartoon. “I'm Perth Wallace. If it's okay with you, I call the bottom bunk.”

We all nodded yes.

“Thanks,” said Perth. “It's just that the bottom bunk is a little closer to the outhouses. And I'm still working on some, uh, issues.”

I couldn't help but wonder why Perth's parents would send him to sleepaway camp, let alone one with outhouses and no electricity.

A tall skinny guy with long hair walked up to our table. He was about seventeen and was wearing the same T-shirt as all the other counselors.

“Hello, men. I'm Theo. We'll be in Cabin Two. Down by the pond. Why don't you guys eat the rest of the meals you brought from home. Then head over to the cabin to unpack. I'm going to grab some supplies, and I'll see you there in a minute.”

As soon as we finished eating, everyone raced off to Cabin 2. I tried to keep up with them. But the wheels of my cart got
stuck
in the dirt.

“Uhhh, uhhh.” I grunted and groaned, trying to get the wheels unstuck.

“Need some help there,
Cartboy
?”

The hair on the back of my neck stood up as I turned to face the person who was talking.

Six feet tall, 180 pounds, most of it muscle.

As Ryan Horner's squinty eyes bore a hole right through me, three other words about Camp Jamestown came to mind.

Must.   Escape.   Now.

 

Cabin 2

Dear Alien Who I'm Praying Can Get Me Out of Here:

I tried to back up. To take tiny steps away from Ryan Horner. But I didn't get far. My back bumped into a knotty pine tree right behind me.

“Where do you think you're going, Cartboy?”

“T-t-to the uh…”

“I'll tell you where you're going. You're going to listen to me. And you're going to listen good.”

I turned my ears toward Ryan and squinted my eyes half-closed. As if somehow that would help.

“The only reason I'm at this dump is because of you. Because
you
were the one who told on me for cheating on the history test.”

I thought about telling Ryan how it wasn't me who told on him. How the only reason I was talking with Mr. Tupkin at the end of the year was to find out my history grade.

But then I remembered the Sweatpants Wedgie.

My mouth stayed shut.

Ryan leaned in so close to me, I could feel his breath on my face. “My parents sent me to this camp as punishment. So what I'm going to do is punish you. You will be my personal slave. You will do whatever I tell you to do. The whole time we're here.”

“W-won't p-people think it's weird that I'm your slave?”

“As far as you're concerned, Cartboy, I have a twisted ankle. I'll need to rest the whole time. In that hammock by my cabin.”