Imagining the two of us mooing from up in a tree made me giggle.
“What?” Connor said.
“Nothing,” I said. “But I do have a joke for you. Wanna hear it?”
“Okay.”
“Knock, knock,” I said.
“Who’s there?”
“Interrupting cow.”
“Interrupting cow—”
I interrupted him, of course. “MOOOOO!”
On Thursday, we went canoeing in the Chattahoochee River, and Connor and I shared a canoe. He kept splashing me, so I splashed him back, and we both ended up drenched.
On Friday, we did a community service project, which was to clean up trash from a nearby public park.
The Polka Dots didn’t like this, and they turned into Grumpy Dots.
“We shouldn’t have to pay to do chores,” complained the girl I might or might not have seen at Garden Hills Pool. “Especially on our last day of camp.”
“Yeah,” the others chorused.
I felt sad for a second, thinking about how it really was the last day. Once camp was over, I’d never see Connor again—not unless we ended up going to the same college, or if we randomly ran into each other at Baskin-Robbins, say.
Then I shook that gloomy thought away. The fact that it was our last day meant we should enjoy it, not be gloomy or grumpy about it.
“Come on, you guys,” I said to the Polka Dots. “It won’t be that bad. Plus, we’ll be doing something good for the earth.”
“Wh-hoo,” the shortest Polka Dot said sourly.
“Well, I think it’ll be fun,” I said, and I wasn’t just saying it. I was excited because we’d been given special tools to use called Trash Gators. They were long poles with a handle at one end and a snapping mouth at the other end. If you squeezed the handle, the mouth would clamp down on whatever you wanted to pick up: beer cans, potato-chip bags, anything!
I headed off toward Connor, squeezing the handle of my Trash Gator experimentally.
The Garden Hills Polka Dot grabbed my arm and said, “Wait a sec. We have a question for you.”
I turned back. All four Polka Dots gathered close.
“Do you like that boy?” one of them asked.
I furrowed my brow. “Who? Connor?”
“Yeah,” the Polka Dot from my fire-making group said. “Do you think he’s cute?”
Well, huh. I guess I did, but I saw no reason to share this with the Dots. “He’s okay.”
“But do you like him?” the Garden Hills Dot pressed. “Like, like him like him?”
“We’re just friends,” I said, because I hadn’t reached the boy-crazy stage yet. I knew girls who had—for example, the Polka Dots with their Starbucks crush—but not me.
The Dots looked disappointed.
The shortest Dot stepped closer and said, “Well, we think his friend is totally crush-worthy.” She used her chin to indicate a boy wearing a Braves ball cap. “Don’t you?”
I glanced at the boy she meant. I hadn’t said a word to him the whole week—well, other than thanks when he handed me a crayon I needed. We’d been doing leaf rubbings. He had the burnt sienna, which had always been one of my favorite crayons.
“Isn’t he adorable?” Short Dot said.
“So adorable,” Fire-Making Dot said.
“We call him Mars Bar,” the roundest of the Dots said, making all the Dots giggle.
“Mars Bar?” I said. “Why?”
“Because we aren’t sure what his real name is,” Short Dot explained.
“Ahhh,” I said. “But why Mars Bar?”
“Because Mars Bars are yummy,” Garden Hills Dot said, which led to more giggling. “And because his name is something like that.”
“Something like Mars Bar?” What name sounded something like Mars Bar?!
“Not the whole Mars Bar,” Short Dot said. “Just the Mars part.”
Round Dot nodded. “Yeah. It’s like Nars, or Sarge, or something.”
“Maybe it’s Plars,” Fire-Making Dot said.
Plars, I thought, my lips twitching. Maybe the Dots weren’t as bad as I’d thought.
“Or Jarz,” I suggested. “With a z.”
“Well, of course with a z,” Fire-Making Dot said. “What other way is there?”
“Girls!” Lily called. “More trash collecting, less gabbing!”
“Coming!” I called back. Again I started off, and again Garden Hills Dot stopped me.
“If you find out his name, will you tell us?” she asked.
I grinned at them. “Sure.”
Connor and I had a blast picking up litter. We made up a game we called Gator Grab, which involved grabbing aluminum cans and using our Trash Gators to try and toss them into the park’s recycling bins. It would have been easier to walk over and drop the cans into the bins, but it was more fun to try to lob them in from several yards away.
It took finesse, it took precision, and it took excellent timing, skills that neither Connor nor I possessed. One of Connor’s cans flew so high that I cried out, “Aaah! You’re going to hit a little birdie! Fly, little birdie! Fly for your life!” Another time, I released the handle grip too late, and the Coke can went sailing behind me and clonked our counselor Jake on the head.
I cringed. “Sorry!”
Jake rubbed his head. Connor cracked up. I did, too, once Jake wasn’t looking.
As for Mars Bar, I did make a stab at finding out his name. I didn’t want to ask Connor, because that would have been weird, and what if Connor thought I had a crush on him? Which I didn’t, of course, but the thing about crushes was that once somebody—anybody—mentioned them, the whole subject became . . . like . . . explosive.
I didn’t want Mars Bar or Connor exploding on me, so I played it cool. I strolled toward Mars Bar with the thought of saying, “Hey, I’m Winnie. It’s the last day of camp, and I still don’t know what your name is. Isn’t that weird?”
But I totally blew it. I said, “Hey, I’m—” And then I froze! I totally froze!
I froze because the Dots were right. Whatever his name was, he was adorable. His brown hair curled up from beneath his Braves hat, and his hazel eyes glinted in the sun.
But he was more than just adorable. He was . . .
Well, I guess one way to describe him was . . .
Ag. I had never had this happen to me, and certainly not with a boy. But there I stood like a frozen corn dog until he broke the silence, saying, “Hey back. And you’re what?”
I wiggled my jaw and got it to work. “Huh?”
“You said, ‘Hey, I’m . . .’ ” He circled his hand. “But you didn’t finish. So, what are you?”
I stared at him. I didn’t know what I was. It was the strangest thing.
Mars Bar smiled, but he was clearly perplexed. He tugged at his ear.
“I’m . . . um . . . picking up trash!” I said. “Yes! Yay, trash!” At Mars Bars’ feet lay a piece of crumpled newspaper, and I aimed my Trash Gator at it. I came away with a chunk of the lawn. Clumps of dirt fell on my boot.
“Okay!” I chirped. “Bye now!” I spun on my heel and took my hunk of grass to the Dumpster, where I rose onto my tiptoes and dropped it in. Only I missed, and dirt and grass rained down all over me. Oh my goodness gravy!
The Dots, who’d witnessed the entire scene, giggled.
I could feel how bright red I was, but I giggled, too. What else could I do? I just hoped to the heavens above that if I ever had a MOMENT WITH A BOY like that again, it wouldn’t be until I was ready for it. Like, when I was sixtyeight or even eight-six. Because it was freaky being slackjawed and marshmallow-brained like that! I had no desire to experience that sort of freakiness ever again.
Fortunately, Connor was just a normal boy, so I rejoined him and put Mars Bar out of my head. I Gator-grabbed the bottom of Connor’s T-shirt and shook him like a dog would shake a dog toy.
“Hey!” Connor cried. He tried to Gator-grab my shirt, and on his third attempt, he succeeded. Now we bot
h had each other in a pincer grip. We circled each other, laughing.
Lily came up behind us and exclaimed, “Winnie! Connor! What in the world are you guys doing?”
“I’m not doing anything,” I told Lily. I shuffled to the right and didn’t let Connor go. “But as you see, there is a wild thing latched onto me.”
“Hey!” Connor protested.
“But this is Wilderness Survival Camp, right?” I said, directing my words to Lily while keeping my eyes on Connor. “So you should be proud, because I’m doing exactly what you and Jake taught me to do !”
“And what would that be . . . ?” Lily said drily.
Did I really have to explain it to her? Apparently, I did.
“Well, as I said, there is wildness going on right here in front of me.” I lunged forward. Connor tried to force me back, but he was so weak from laughing that I easily overpowered him.
“But you don’t even have to worry,” I huffed, “because look! I am fully and completely surviving!”
August
August was Ty’s birthday month, which was exciting, because birthdays were always exciting, as were the birthday parties that went with them. But Ty’s parties were also exhausting, because of the littleness of everyone involved.
Ty’s party this year was especially exhausting because of one mother who did something sneaky. The sneaky mother accidentally-on-purpose dropped off not just her four-year-old, Dylan, but also Dylan’s seven-year-old brother, Chad.
“Is that all right?” the sneaky mom asked, wide-eyed. “So many parties allow siblings these days, so I just assumed . . .”
“Of course,” Mom said, because of her good manners. “He’s totally welcome to stay.”
“Oh, thank God,” the other mother said, her words pouring out in a relieved rush. She caught herself and pasted on a smile. “I mean—terrific!” She hastily exited the house. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Bye, boys!”
Dylan was fine, but Chad, the seven-year-old, was a bad egg. He jumped on the furniture and bounced off the walls and was so loud and hyper that he made my ears hurt.
When present-opening time came around, Chad grew even more annoying. Every time Ty unwrapped a new gift—every single time—Chad said, “I hope it’s a dirty diaper. Hahahaha. I hope it’s a dirty diaper.”
I wanted to put a dirty diaper on Chad’s head. I might have, if I wasn’t ten and above such things.
When twelve o’clock rolled around and parents started showing up for their kids, Sandra tromped through the scraps of wrapping paper and plastic packaging and took my hand.
“Come on,” she said. “We’re going to the park, just the two of us. We deserve a sanity break.”
“Yes, we do,” I said, standing taller and feeling more in control than I had just two minutes earlier, when that Chad boy peered inside his goody bag and said, “SweeTARTS! I hate SweeTARTS!”
“Then don’t eat them,” I said, snatching the goody bag out of his hands. He wasn’t even supposed to get a goody bag. He wasn’t even one of the party guests!
He made an ugly face and tried to grab it back. I held it high above my head. Just then his mother arrived, and when she saw Chad jumping for his goody bag, she said, “Is there a problem?”
“Winnie,” Mom said wearily.
So I scowled and gave Chad his goody bag, saying, “Here you go, little boy. I just thought maybe you didn’t need any more sugar, since you’re already so much taller than the other four-year-olds.”
“Winnie,” Mom said even more wearily. She shot an apologetic look at Chad’s mother, which made me feel awful. Chad was seven, but I was ten. I was supposed to act mature regardless of how immature other kids acted.
But at Memorial Park with Sandra, I was able to put my humiliation behind me. The day was lovely, there were no longer any little kids yelling and screaming and being sticky, and Sandra was treating me like someone she enjoyed spending time with.
Everything was perfect . . . except for one dang wasp that refused to leave us alone. First it dove for Sandra’s Coke, making Sandra jerk her Coke away and cry, “Go away, wasp! Go find your own Coke!”
The wasp barreled over to see if I had a Coke. I didn’t, but it darted around my face and my hair anyway. Normally, I wasn’t freaked out by bees or wasps or yellow jackets, and I thought it was silly when kids—and sometimes even grownups—screamed and started hyperventilating if a bee even looked at them from a thousand feet away.
This wasp, however, was a crazy lunatic wasp. It was the “Chad” of the wasp world, and after five or six minutes of its furious buzzing, Sandra groaned and said we might as well leave.
“What? No!” I protested. I wanted to keep having Sandra-time.
Sandra got to her feet. “Listen, that wasp isn’t going to quit bugging us. August is when wasps get the crankiest, you know.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re in their final days. Because they know they’re going to die as soon as fall comes.”
“Well, that’s silly. If I knew I was going to die, I would be nicer to everyone, not meaner.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
I grabbed her leg. “Let’s not—please? I don’t want to go home.”
“Who said anything about going home?” Sandra said. “Let’s walk to Baskin-Robbins. We can get ice cream and eat it inside, away from these stupid wasps.”
Oh, I thought, because that changed everything. Ice cream was delicious. Ice cream was the opposite of returning home and no longer having Sandra-time.
“Do the wasps really know they’re in their final days?” I asked as I got to my feet. The Chad-wasp was still divebombing my head, and I felt the teeniest bit sorry for it.
“Yup, so do yourself a favor. For the next couple of weeks, stay out of their way.”
A few days later, I passed Sandra’s good advice along to Amanda, who nodded and said she already knew. In fact, the Wilsons had such a big wasp problem that Amanda’s dad hung up a wasp catcher in their backyard. I’d never seen a wasp catcher before. It was a clear plastic tube the size of a cardboard toilet paper roll, but unlike a toilet paper roll, the wasp catcher had a bottom and a top. The top was yellow and triangular, like a roof, which was kind of cute—or so I thought at first.
Up close, however, I saw that the cute little wasp “house” was a HOUSE OF DEATH, because the tube was full to the brim with dead and dying wasps.
“Ew,” I said. “Why do they go in there? Can’t they see that it’s a bad idea?”
Amanda shrugged. “Something inside smells yummy to them,” she explained. “They push their way in, and then they can’t get back out.”
We studied the heap of wasp bodies. Fluff and dryness and broken wings. Tiny black leg-things. At the top of the tube, a still-alive wasp rammed repeatedly against the clear plastic.
“Okay, I’m officially grossed out,” I announced, heading for the play structure her dad had built. It was awesome, with two swings, a climby rope, a slide, and a fort at the top with a rainbow awning. Sometimes we had tea parties on the flat wooden floor of the fort, and I loved the feeling of being alone with my best friend, tucked away from the rest of the world.
But today I wanted to fly. I got on one swing, and Amanda got on the other.
“Are you excited for school to start?” she asked. Her tan legs straightened and bent as she got herself going. She was wearing a lime green shirt with slices of watermelon all over it, and her shorts were the exact red of the watermelon slices. So was her hair bow. Amanda was very good at matching.
“Yup,” I said. “I mean, I’ll miss summer . . . but totally! You?”
“I’ve already picked out my first-day outfit,” she said seriously. She pulled against the chains as she moved forward through the air. She slackened her grip and swung back. “Let me guess—you haven’t.”
“You got that right, sister,” I said. First-day outfits didn’t require planning. You just . . . put on som
e clothes, and ta-da! Instant outfit!
“But even with my outfit all picked out . . .” She sighed. “Oh, I don’t know.”
I felt a stab of shock. “Omigosh, Amanda. Are you not excited?”
“No, I am. I am. It’s just . . .”
It’s just what? I wanted to say. But I held back, because Mom said I needed to give people time to say things. She said sometimes the best thing a friend could do was listen.
Amanda sideways-looked at me. “If I tell you, will you swear not to laugh?”
“Of course. Spill.”
“Well, it’s just . . . it’s just . . .”
I kept waiting. It was getting harder and harder, as it totally went against my natural instincts.
“Never mind. It’s nothing.” She made her lips form a smile shape, which anyone other than me might have fallen for. But her forehead was way scrunchier than usual, and plus, I was her BFF.
“Baloney,” I said. “Stop scrunch-smiling and tell me what’s bothering you, you silly custard!”
Her scrunch-smile turned into a sheepish oops, ya-got-me smile. But even though it was sheeplike, at least it was real.
“Oh, all right. I am excited for school to start. But . . . I’m scared, too.” She lifted her eyebrows, Amanda language for, Do you still like me?
Of course I still like you! my stern downward-pointing eyebrows told her. I was baffled, however.
“Scared?” I said. “Of what?”
She made puppy-dog eyes and shrugged.
“Amanda, we’re talking about school here. Trinity! Friends! The joyful laughter of happy, innocent children!”
“I know,” she said meekly.
I frowned, because I could tell I hadn’t eased her fears. How could I when I didn’t know what they were? I racked my brain for things she was scared of just in general.
“There are no sharks at Trinity,” I said, ticking sharks off with one finger. “There might be spiders, but if you see one, just tell me and I’ll take care of it.”
Ten Page 7