“You have four other grandsons by Uncle Larry.”
“Up to you to save the world!”
Simon examines the map. “It looks like . . . space?” he says.
“Of course it’s space! What am I talking about?!”
“We don’t really kn—” I start.
“Ach!” Pops exclaims in disgust, folds up the map, puts it back in the envelope, and shoves it deep into the front chest pocket of his baggy button-down shirt. He shuffles past us and heads toward the garage door.
At that moment, a long black car pulls into the driveway and idles there.
“There’s my Uber,” Pops announces and grabs a suitcase sitting in the corner.
“Wait,” I yell after him. “That’s it? You haven’t explained anything. Where are you going?”
“Fort Lauderdale,” he answers.
“Now?”
“Your Aunt Phyllis is waiting for me to open the condo,” he says.
“But what about saving the world?” I ask, because now I’m really curious.
“I’ll get back to you,” he says. “Soon.”
And with that he pulls a pair of black sunglasses from his baggy brown pants pocket, puts them on, and climbs into the car. Before it roars off, he leans out the window.
“Don’t go anywhere!” he says.
“But,” I call out after him, “I’m going to the David Lynch Film Camp!”
Chapter 3
“I’m not going to David Lynch Film Camp?!”
Dad takes my arm and ushers me into the kitchen.
“Sit down, Noah,” Mom says, sitting down next to me, her expression serious. A bad sign. Dad plants himself way over by the sink. Also bad.
“There’s been a change of plans.” Mom places a shiny accordion brochure on the table. “We know you had your heart set on that film camp, but Dad and I agree that this is the right camp for you.”
I pick up the brochure. “Camp Challah?” I ask. “But why Camp Challah?”
Mom points to the caption under a cartoon of a crusty round challah with stick figures dancing around it. “Because, see how the strands of the challah bread look like arms? They symbolize brotherhood, truth, peace, and justice. Isn’t that nice?”
Now I’m getting a Hebrew school lesson? “I don’t mean why is it called Camp Challah,” I say, exasperated. “I mean I don’t want to go to Camp Challah. I want to go to the David Lynch Film Camp.”
“But Camp Challah will be fun,” Mom says, with a look that’s half-forced excitement and half pleading.
“I don’t think so.” I frown.
“But there are so many activities,” Mom gushes. “There’s volleyball and canoeing and crafts and campfires with Shabbat sing-alongs . . .”
“Sing-alongs?” I shake my head. “That doesn’t sound like me. That sounds—”
Lily swings into the room. “Like preschool? Uh, yeah.”
“Maybe camp is the wrong word,” Mom says, straining. “It’s more like, um, a pre-college program.”
“But I’m only in middle school,” I say.
“They also offer science, English, current events . . . Oh and here’s a course in Israeli dancing. That looks fun,” Mom continues, spreading the accordion brochure out wide, pointing to different pictures and captions. “And right across the lake is a historic site where kids can participate in archaeological digs. That sounds fascinating, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, sounds like your jam, Noah,” Lily snorts. She fishes an apple from the fridge, takes a crunchy bite and wipes the juice from her chin with the back of her hand. “Just like sixth grade social studies.”
“You’re going, too,” Dad says, swiping her apple and biting into it.
“What?!” Lily spins around. “Excuse me, but no way.”
“Yeah, way.” Dad chews noisily.
“But what about my friends?” she pleads. “My plans. Going to the beach. And what about the end of summer concert in Jersey? Jules and I have been planning that, like, all year.”
“First of all,” Dad says, “getting a tan is not a plan and second of all, that overnight thing to Jersey with Jules and Co. was never gonna happen.”
“Look, here’s something pretty cool.” Mom points to another tiny picture in the brochure. “They even have a filmmaking class. Just like filmmaking camp.”
“That says camera club, and it’s a kid taking a selfie.” I grimace, yanking my DLFC brochure from my pocket and unfolding it. “You think this is the same thing as David Lynch Film Camp? See?” I tap aggressively with my pointer finger.
It’s plastered with pictures of famous filmmakers and kids holding camera equipment with testimonials. “This says: ‘Best summer ever!’ And ‘The coolest thing in my life!’ And ‘My screenplay won me an agent!’ ”
Mom looks to dad for backup.
“Noah,” Dad says. “Filmmaking camp is just not realistic for you at this point.”
“Why not?”
“It’s all the way in Los Angeles for one thing,” Mom sighs. “LA is a big city. And there’s not much supervision. You’d be on your own a lot. And it’s very expensive.”
“But it’s worth it,” I try.
“Besides,” Mom continues, like she didn’t even hear me, “Rabbi Blum runs Camp Challah and he says it will be a fabulous, fun summer experience.”
“Ooh, the rabbi says his camp will be fabulous,” says Lily sarcastically, rolling her eyes. “Hold me back!”
“Lily.” Dad shuts her down.
“Plus,” says Mom, “you just turned twelve, Noah, and it won’t be long before your Bar Mitzvah.”
“So?” I say.
“Well, it might be a good opportunity to start thinking about a Bar Mitzvah project. There’s plenty to choose from at Camp Challah. And Rabbi Blum can help you. You could find something creative.”
“How about being a filmmaker?” I offer. “That’s creative. At the David Lynch Film Camp, I can make a film about something Jewish or about being Jewish or about Jewish people doing something Jewish or about Jewish studies or about . . .”
“We get it,” Dad interrupts, throwing his hands up.
“You do?” I brighten.
“Not really,” he says, biting down hard into what’s left of his apple.
Mom softens. “What Dad means is that we think Camp Challah is the place for you this summer. Maybe you can go to film camp next summer. You can save up, and you’ll be more mature. More . . . aware . . .”
“We hope,” Dad mutters.
This is terrible! Beyond terrible. Now I know why they waited so long to tell me. But then it hits me—they just left me an opening. When parents promise something in the future, they’re hoping you’ll change your mind or forget.
“Really?” I narrow my eyes at Mom. “Next summer? Is that a promise?”
“Um . . . sure.” Mom flits her eyes up to dad.
“Can you enunciate that promise clearly into my viewfinder so I can record it?” I ask, tilting my head toward her.
“See, now, this is the problem, Debbie.” Dad strides over and tries to yank the headpiece off my head. “Take this camera off!”
“Um—ouch—my hair is caught—”
“Why do you encourage this?” he asks Mom.
“I said ouch,” I croak, struggling to keep my ears attached.
“Stop! You’ll hurt him!” Mom jumps up and jams the camera back on so that now it’s down around my mouth.
“Argh!” I say all muffled.
“Hurt him?” Dad tugs at the bands again. “Don’t you think this filmmaking fantasy is hurting him?”
“Around my neck—choking!” I whisper hoarsely.
“He’s expressing himself. He’s an artist,” Mom says, yanking the band back over my ears. “And if you don’t like that, why don’t you play baseball with him or something?”
“Baseball?” Dad booms. “Are we talking about the same kid? The problem is he doesn’t have any friends.”
“I heard that
,” I say, finally jerking away.
“There’s that new boy, Simon,” Mom says. “I was just talking to his mother about . . . you know . . .”
“I don’t think I want to go to Camp Challah,” I interrupt. “Besides, Pops told me not to go anywhere. He says I’m gonna—”
“What?” Mom snaps, her mom-dar on high alert. “What did Pops say exactly?”
“Nothing,” I lie, realizing it’s probably better not to mention Pops’s wacky stories now.
Mom crosses her arms and arches an eyebrow, with that I’m waiting for an answer look, until, suddenly, we hear:
Thump, thump, thump, followed by a sharp yell, coming from outside.
We rush out.
Uncle Larry is sitting at the bottom of the front steps in a heap of wet leaves. Rabbi Blum is crouched beside him, speaking in a comforting tone and holding on to his elbow.
The loud wail of an ambulance siren careens up the block toward us.
“Noah!” Dad yells. “You didn’t rake those leaves like I asked you to, and Uncle Larry just fell down the steps. And who the heck called an ambulance?!”
“Um yeah. Sorry. That’s a thing,” Dr. Marchant says, gesturing toward Pops’s friends from Shady Pines. “They all have smartphones now. And they take videos for Instagram.”
“You are so busted!” Lily smirks at me.
While Dr. Marchant helps Uncle Larry into the ambulance, Dad gets up in my face.
“Noah,” he says, like he’s trying hard to hold his temper, “you need to learn to interact better with people.”
“I have fifteen Facebook friends!” I say.
“I said people. Not virtual reality entities floating in space. This is what I’m talking about.” His tone turns kind of sad, and he stares into my eyes in a searching way. “You’re missing the point of what I’m saying.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, although I don’t think I am. Fifteen Facebook friends is just the beginning of my networking as a filmmaker.
Dad sighs and gives my shoulder a limp pat. “Maybe at camp, away from home, you’ll learn to connect better . . .”
“NOAH!”
At that moment, Simon races toward me, hopping over flower beds, swerving around Mom’s deer fencing, breathing hard, and looking really mad about something.
Chapter 4
“I am going to kill you!” Simon shouts.
“Huh?”
He waves a brochure in my face so hard it makes a slapping sound. “Your mum talked my mum into sending me to Camp Challah?! What’s a challah?!”
“It’s a braided bread that symbolizes unity and spirituality.”
“I don’t care!”
“Well, you asked.”
“I was being rhetorical!” Simon snaps. “I wasn’t looking for a response. I don’t want to go to braided bread camp or any camp.”
“I’m sure it’s inclusive. For everyone,” I say. “You don’t need to eat challah to go to camp.”
“That’s not the point!” Simon throws his hands up in the air.
“But maybe it will be fun and help you fit in,” I say. “Since you’re, like, the new kid and everything and have an accent and that makes you kind of different. And it’s hard to fit in, even if you’ve been living in the same town your whole life. I know about these things.”
“Fitting in is not an issue for me.” Simon stares at me hard, then sighs loudly and drops his head down to his chest.
“There are activities at Camp Challah,” I say, “and some of them look okay in the brochure . . .”
For some reason, I’m now talking Simon into a camp I don’t want to go to. Go figure.
“This isn’t about your camp,” Simon sighs. “Really. It’s just that I’m trying to talk my mum and dad into letting me go back to London for the summer. I want to see my mates.”
At that moment, a pigeon circles around our heads, cawing loudly.
“They won’t let you?” I ask.
“No,” Simon says. “They want me to make new mates here.”
“That makes sense.” I nod.
“Eek, eek, eek!” the pigeon screams as it weaves through the low branches of the trees.
“Makes sense to them.” Simon shrugs. “They have friends here, so what do they care? They just . . . care about themselves sometimes. Know what I mean?”
I wonder if he’s being rhetorical again. “Parents are weird,” I finally say.
He snorts a laugh, so I’m guessing it was the right thing to say.
“Here.” I hand him the Camp Challah brochure. “They have pre-college stuff.”
“Do you want to go?” He eyes me skeptically.
“No, I want to go to the David Lynch Film Camp in Los Angeles.”
Simon opens the accordion pamphlet. “This looks dumb.”
“Yeah,” I agree.
In the distance, the sky is turning a blue-pink-gray, and the sun is setting behind our neighbors’ shingled roofs. The pigeon keeps circling the house until, without warning, it lands right on the camera on my head.
“Coo!” he murmurs, spreading his wings.
“What the . . .” Simon jumps back.
“Shoo, shoo.” I shake my head in the hopes of dislodging him from his perch.
“Coo, coo!” the pigeon responds, except he doesn’t fly off. I feel him hopping and dancing around through my hair.
“Get lost!” Simon swipes at him.
The pigeon hops down onto my shoulder.
“What’s it doing?” I ask.
“Wait, don’t move,” says Simon. “There’s something tied around his foot. It looks like . . . a little piece of paper.”
Carefully I reach up and lift the pigeon off my shoulder. He coos and vibrates in the cup of my hands.
“Shh, shh,” I murmur.
“Where did he come from?” Simon asks.
I’m pretty sure I have an idea. I untie the small paper from his leg. He hops back onto my shoulder and poops white and green knotty strands all over my sleeve.
“Gross.” Simon scrunches up his face.
“Coo!” the pigeon shouts, then flies away into the watercolor sky.
I unfold the little note. It’s covered in shaky, tiny writing in smudged blue ink.
“It’s a message from Pops!” I exclaim.
“For real?” Simon looks astonished. “That’s mad. That’s . . .”
“Pops,” I finish his sentence.
The note says: Get ready to save the world.
Chapter 5
The camp bus screeches to the corner sounding like a giant pterodactyl, its doors yawning open like jaws ready to swallow us up.
The bad news is that I’m saying goodbye to David Lynch Film Camp for now. But the good news is that their website mentions a special end-of-summer two-week session. This is an advanced, invitation-only seminar based on a short film submission. Plus they offer financial aid.
So I figure if I if I do a good job participating at Camp Challah, make some friends, and make a great, short opus, I can score an invitation and convince mom and dad to let me go.
While other kids say quick goodbyes to their parents and start filing onto the bus, Mom gives Lily and me happy bon voyage hugs. I overhear Dad giving Lily the talk about having a good attitude.
“. . . Keep an eye on . . . Noah . . . blah, blah, blah . . . Noah . . .” he says, speaking really low.
Lily makes a gaggy sound at the back of her throat and rolls her eyes.
“Have fun!” Mom sings, looking all nervous like she’s afraid I might not.
Dad pats me on the back. “Yeah, have fun and . . . Noah, for God’s sake, try to read the room.”
Simon is standing nearby with his parents. They’re what my mom would call a handsome couple, and they have super good posture. Plus their clothes seem pretty fancy for saying goodbye at the bus stop.
Simon’s dad calls him “son” a lot, and they’re saying something about rallying, giving it his all, and making American friends.
The minute they’re back in their car, Simon goes back to brooding and sweeping through his phone, probably looking at pictures of his mates. As for me, I’ve rolled up the brochure to the DLFC and shoved it into one of my socks.
“Gettin’ in?” grunts the bus driver in a way that seems more like telling than asking.
I grab my camera headpiece from my backpack, secure it around my head, and step up into the bus.
“Hey,” Lily whispers sharply from behind. “Take that thing off. Now.”
“But I’m filming my short opus for the DLFC extended summer program,” I whisper back.
“Well, you look freaky,” she answers.
“Actually, he looks like a guy who does construction on the highway at night,” Simon remarks, climbing up the steps behind us.
“And that’s better?” she says.
“Well, maybe not,” he says, flashing a toothy white smile. “Don’t think we’ve formally met. I’m Simon. From London.” He says that last part like it’s super important.
“Uh huh.” Lily looks down at her phone and slides past me down the aisle.
“Well, that went well,” Simon mumbles.
“Don’t take it personally,” I say. “She’s not friendly—unless you’re popular.”
“Maybe I should be popular,” Simon says softly, his eyes sliding toward her.
“She’s also mad because she doesn’t want to go to camp either,” I say.
As I make my way down the aisle, kids glance up, then look down. I get that a lot. It’s like, “Oh, it’s just you. Not interested.”
My stomach wobbles, and I wipe my clammy hands down the front of my T-shirt.
“Sit down, Noah.” Simon nudges me gently from behind.
“Sit down!” echoes the bus driver, lifting one sharply outlined orange eyebrow.
The doors shut, and the bus jerks forward.
“Grab a seat,” Simon urges me again.
Right away, Lily’s cool-dar connects with some cute girls sitting toward the back. She catches their eyes. They smile and slide over. And, bam, she’s in.
How does she do that?
Moving forward, I nervously scan for a place, but every kid with a window seat throws a backpack on the open seat in rhythm. Slam, Slam, Slam.
Noah Green Saves the World Page 2