Charlie Joe Jackson’s Guide to Summer School
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Tommy Greenwald
Charlie Joe Jackson’s Guide to
Vacation Illustrated by J.P. Coovert
Roaring Brook Press
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New York
3/12/13 12:15 PM
To Kenny and Ellen Greenwald And to my favorite campers, Jessica and Jake
Text copyright © 2013 by Tommy Greenwald Illustrations copyright © 2013 by J. P. Coovert Published by Roaring Brook Press Roaring Brook Press is a division of Holtzbrinck Publishing Holdings Limited Partnership 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10010 mackids.com All rights reserved Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Greenwald, Tommy. Charlie Joe Jackson’s guide to summer vacation / Tommy Greenwald ; illustrated by J. P. Coovert.—1st ed. p. cm. Summary: “Charlie Joe Jackson is back and he’s at academic summer camp trying to convert all the other kids to non-academics.”—Provided by publisher. ISBN 978-1-59643-757-9 (hardcover) — ISBN 978-1-59643-880-4 (ebook) [1. Camps—Fiction. 2. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 3. Humorous stories.] I. Coovert, J. P., III II. Title. PZ7.G8523Chs 2013 [Fic]—dc23 2012034249 Roaring Brook Press books may be purchased for business or promotional use. For more information on bulk purchases please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945 x54420. First edition 2013 Book design by Andrew Arnold Printed in the United States of America RR Donnelley & Sons Company, Harrisonburg, Virginia 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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Anyone who reads too much and uses his own brain too little falls into lazy habits of thinking. —Albert Einstein
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PROLOGUE
I guess the only thing I’ll say before we get started is that I don’t want you to worry. This isn’t one of those summer vacation stories where there’s some crazy killer on the loose who’s hiding in the woods and picking off all the innocent kids one by one. It’s definitely not that bad. Not quite, anyway.
So here’s the deal: At the end of the last school year, I went temporarily crazy, decided to make my parents happy, and agreed to spend three weeks at an academic summer camp called Camp Rituhbukkee. Pronounced “Read-a-Bookie.” In other words, nerd camp. The next thing I knew, I was in the car and on my way. I can barely remember the ride up— just that it was the longest four hours of my life. Saying good-bye to my mom and dad, my sister Megan, and my dogs, Moose and Coco, was also a total blur. I think I was in shock. The first thing I really remember was looking around 1
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the camp, and immediately wanting to turn around and go home. It was like I’d crash-landed on the Planet of the Gifted Children. There were very few signs of familiar human life. My unofficial best friend from home, Katie Friedman, had decided to come to the same camp, which was pretty awesome of her. Nareem Ramdal, who was tied with Jake Katz for the nerdiest person I knew, had been going to this camp for years, so he was there, too. The rest of the population consisted of seventy-five of the smartest-looking kids I’d ever seen in my life. Plus a bunch of adults, who looked just as smart as the kids. Books were everywhere. And cell phones and video games were nowhere. (Not allowed, of course.) I looked around for the spaceship that would take me back to Planet Normal, but there wasn’t one. Then I pinched myself, trying to make myself wake up from what I hoped was a terrible dream. That didn’t work, either. Slowly I began to realize that there was no way out. Like it or not, I was going to be stuck at Camp Rituhbukkee for the next three weeks.
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DAILY CAMP SCHEDULE 7 AM
Breakfast
8 AM
First Workshop: Grammar and Style.
9 AM
Second Workshop: Reading Techniques.
10 AM
Third Workshop: The Write Stuff.
11 AM
Free Swim.
12 noon
Lunch.
1 PM
Quiet Hour 1. Reading and letter writing.
2 PM
First Rec.
3 PM
Second Rec.
4 PM
Water Sports.
5 PM
Quiet Hour 2: Reading and letter writing.
6 PM
Dinner.
7 PM
Evening activity.
9 PM
Quiet Hour 3: Reading and letter writing.
10 PM
Lights out.
10:01 PM—Wee ping into my pillow.
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Dear Mom and Dad, One of the first things they told us at camp was that we’re going to be writing a lot of letters. They say it will improve our “narrative skills,” whatever they are. Anyway, our first letter home is supposed to tell you what we hope to accomplish at camp. I hope to learn how to stop making dumb decisions just to make your parents happy. Your loving son, Even though I’m not feeling all that loving right now, Charlie Joe
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Week One
CAMP JOCKSTRAP
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1
I knew what the place was going to be like as soon as I saw the sign on the way in to camp. CAMP RITUHBUKKEE: MOLDING YOUNG MINDS SINCE 1933 I’m sorry, but I don’t want my mind to be molded. Mold is gross. It reminds me of that green stuff that grows on bread. I hate mold. I’d prefer my mind deep fried, sprinkled with powdered sugar, and then covered in chocolate sauce. On the surface, Camp Rituhbukkee looked like pretty much any other nice summer camp. It had a big lake for swimming, a basketball court, a tennis court, and baseball and soccer fields. The campers lived in cool log cabins in the woods, and the dining room was huge, with big wooden tables and chairs everywhere. There was a room for arts and crafts and stuff like that, and a theater where you put on shows. It was actually a really nice place, if you were able to forget about what you were there to do. 7
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Which was read and write. Even though Katie and Nareem were at camp with me, I couldn’t stop thinking about everybody else back home. Mostly I thought about the awesome and amazing Zoe Alvarez, my almost-girlfriend. She was the only girl who could ever compare to the awesome and amazing Hannah Spivero. I missed Zoe already, and I’d only been gone five hours. I also thought about the rest of the gang— Jake, Timmy, Pete, and yeah, Hannah. I pictured them at the beach, having a great time doing nothing; or at the movies, eating French fries and talking about what a loser I was. Which is exactly what I would have been doing if I were them. Sadly, though, I wasn’t them. I was me. And so, instead of having a great time doing nothing, I found myself standing with all the other campers, in a giant circle around a flagpole. Because it was the first day, we had to do what was called the “Welcome Ring.” Meaning, we all held hands and sang the camp song, which was called “Learning To Love, and Loving To Learn.” That’s pretty much all you need to know about that song. I stared at Katie and Nareem, who were singing at the top of their lungs. “Are you guys serious?” Katie giggled. “Charlie Joe, you’re at camp now,” she said, while somehow managing to not miss a note. “Stop being such a Negative Norman and get with the program.” 8
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“But I’m not with the program,” I explained. “I’m very much against the program.” “I still can’t believe you decided to attend the camp, Charlie Joe,” Nareem said. “You are not someone I normally associate with books and reading and learning.” “Ya think?” Katie added, which made them both giggle all over again. I rolled my eyes and pretended to sing, until finally the song ended. Then an extremely tall man with extremely short shorts stepped into the center of the circle. All the kids clapped, until he put his hand up to stop them. They stopped immediately. “Greetings, and welcome to Camp Rituhbukkee!” the tall man announced. “Welcome back, to those many familiar faces I see. And to those newcomers, please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Dr. Malcolm Malstrom, but you can call me Dr. Mal. I’m not a medical doctor, though, so if you get sick, don’t call me at all.” He paused for laughter, and it came in a huge wave. Which was strange, since what he said wasn’t actually funny. “We’re all excited for another wonderful season here at Rituhbukkee,” Dr. Mal continued. “We’ve got many new surprises in store to make this our best summer ever.” 9
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I looked at Katie as if to say, Seriously? She looked back at me as if to say, Behave. Dr. Mal glanced down at his clipboard. “Before we go to our cabins to get settled in before dinner, I wanted to mention one last thing.” He smiled like a dad who is about to give the most awesome present ever. “This year, we’ll be introducing the Rituhbukkee Reward. This extraordinary honor will go to the one camper who best displays the camp’s core values of integrity, community, and scholarship.” Everybody ooh-ed and aahh-ed. “The winner of the Rituhbukkee Reward,” Dr. Mal added, “will be awarded a full scholarship to camp next year, at absolutely no cost, and will be admitted to the counselor training program when he or she reaches the appropriate age.” The oohs and aahhs turned into excited squeals of delight. Even Katie and Nareem were nodding happily. “Sounds more like a punishment than a reward,” I whispered, a little too loudly. The girl on my left looked at me like I’d just eaten a plate of fried slugs. Katie tried to shush me, but it was too late— it turned out that Dr. Mal had really good hearing. He walked over to me. “Hello, young man.” I looked up at him. He was really tall. His face was a long ways up. “Hello, sir.” “Call me Dr. Mal,” he said, smiling. “What’s your name?” 10
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“Charlie Joe Jackson.” “Ah yes,” said Dr. Mal, nodding. “Mr. Jackson. You come to us with a bit of a reputation.” “Thanks,” I said, even though I was pretty sure it wasn’t a compliment. “I’m glad you’re here, even if you consider it a punishment,” said Dr. Mal, putting his big hand on my shoulder. “Can you tell us what it is you hope to learn here at Camp Rituhbukkee?” I said the first thing that popped into my head, which was exactly what I told Timmy and Pete, my friends back home, when they asked me the same thing. “I hope to learn how to read while napping.” Everyone gasped, then went silent. Nobody moved. I think even the birds stopped chirping. Oops. Katie gave me the classic eye-roll. But Dr. Mal never stopped smiling. “So you’re not a fan of reading.” “Nope,” I said proudly. “In fact, I’ve pretty much never read a book all the way through, except under emergency circumstances beyond my control.” I expected the kids to laugh, like they usually did when I made a joke. Instead, they all just stared at me. Some were even whispering to each other, pointing at me, like who is this guy? I did notice one kid who looked like he was about to 11
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laugh— but he was wearing a Harvard T-shirt, so I immediately ruled him out as a fellow book-hater. Dr. Mal nodded again. “In that case, do you mind if I ask you why you’ve joined us here at camp?” “Good question, Dr. Mal. I guess I did it to make my parents happy. It was a moment of weakness, to be honest with you.” That line would have gotten a laugh back home too, for sure. But not here. It was like I’d entered some kind of permanent Opposite Day, where the dorks were the cool kids, and the cool kids— or at least the funny kids—were the outsiders. Dr. Mal looked down at his clipboard again, then nodded at a big guy who was standing across the circle. “It seems you’ll be in with Dwayne, who’s one of our best counselors.” Dwayne nodded back without smiling. He was by far the least nerdy-looking guy at the whole place. He looked more like a marine than a counselor. Dr. Mal headed back to the center of the ring. “You may find, Charlie Joe, that you’re more like your fellow campers than you realize,” he said. Then he looked me right in the eyes and added, “We’ll make you one of us yet.” Make you one of us? Oh, please. I would never become one of them. But . . . I started thinking . . . maybe I could make them one of me! 12
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I realized it would at least be a way to make the next three weeks bearable. I could help these kids change their ways. I could turn them into normal, non-reading people. I would save them from a life of dorkdom.
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2
The next thing on the fun-filled agenda was to unpack. Nareem and I started walking down the path to our cabin. “I think you may have gotten off on the wrong foot with Dr. Mal,” Nareem said. “He’s actually a really good person. I think you’ll like him once you get to know him a little better.” Before I could compliment Nareem on his optimism, two kids came running up. One was the tallest kid I’ve ever seen in my life, and the other was the Harvard T-shirt kid who’d almost laughed at my joke during the Welcome Ring. Judging by the way they ran, I was pretty sure neither of them were the captains of their football teams back home, if you know what I mean. “Nareem!” they both shouted. Nareem broke into a huge grin. “Dudes!” They did that weird half-handshake-half-hug thing that friends do when they haven’t seen each other for a while. “Charlie Joe, I want you to meet George Feedleman and Jack Strong, two of my best buddies here at camp.” George was the giant one. I shook his hand first. 14
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“Hey,” I said. “Nice to meet you,” George said. “Welcome to camp, the most awesome place on earth.” I did a private eye-roll but tried to play nice. “Yeah, cool.” “George is the smartest human being on the planet,” Nareem announced. “That’s great,” I said. The Harvard T-shirt kid stuck out his hand. “Jack Strong.” I looked at his scrawny body. “Is that really your last name?” Jack blushed. “I know, it doesn’t really fit.” “I wasn’t thinking that,” I lied. Jack smiled. “You were pretty funny at the Welcome Ring.” “Thanks,” I said. “But not funny enough to make anybody actually laugh, I guess.” Jack shrugged. “And get in trouble on the first day? Are you serious?” “Not usually.” That time he actually did laugh. I pointed at his Harvard shirt. “What’s that about?” “Oh, nothing,” Jack said. “I might apply there someday. It’s super hard to get in, though.” “Isn’t it a little early to be worrying about stuff like that?” I asked. 15
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“Jack thinks about colleges a lot,” George interrupted. “Or should I say, his dad does. He’s super-intense about that kind of stuff.” Jack looked embarrassed for the second time in eight seconds, so I decided to change the subject. “Guys,” I said, “Nareem here says that Dr. Mal is a great guy. Can that actually be possible?” “It can,” said George. “It totally can,” said Jack. Okay, so that’s how it was going to be. “Dr. Mal asked a good question,” Jack added. “Why are you here? You said it was to make your parents happy, but is that really the only reason?” “I’m also hoping to meet some awesome girls,” I said. “Can you guys help with that?” Nareem, George, and Jack looked at each other. “No,” they all said, at the same exact time.
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3
Our cabin, which held eight campers, was called the Roald Dahl cabin. (All the cabins were named after famous authors, btw. I was just glad I wasn’t in the Mark Twain cabin. He and I haven’t gotten along ever since my sixth birthday was ruined, when my dad gave me the entire Mark Twain collection as my only present. I still shiver just thinking about it.)
When we walked in, the other four kids were busy unpacking. I introduced myself around. They all seemed like 17
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okay kids, but I could tell they were all a little weirded out by my argument with Dr. Mal. They definitely weren’t used to having a non-reader among them. Plus, they each had at least one really weird habit: • Eric Cunkler spoke three languages, but barely talked at all. • Jeremy Kim sneezed about twenty times a minute and kept a year’s supply of tissues under his bed. • Kenny Sarcofsky had decided he’d live foverer if he ate a lot of garlic, so he smelled a little “different.” • Sam Thurber never changed his underwear (according to Nareem) but already had a short story published in The New Yorker magazine. And then there was Nareem, George, and Jack, whom you’ve already met, and our counselor, Dwayne, who actually seemed like a pretty cool guy, in an “if you mess up I will kill you” kind of way. Anyway, that’s my cabin and the kids who were in it. Sounds like quite a gang, right? Do you want to guess who was the outsider in the bunch? That’s right. Me.
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O W O R K E T T O P C R EAT U REIEE TH E
FR O M M Y
CL S ET
OBERT SKYE Christy Ottaviano Books Henry Holt and Company
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CHAPTER 1
< PROBLEMS
My name is Robert Columbo Burnside, and I have a problem. There, I said it. Although I really should have said, “My name is Robert Columbo Burnside, and I have a lot of problems.” For starters, I’m not completely sure how to begin this book.
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My sister, Libby, is another problem. She’s constantly obnoxious and usually staring at herself in the mirror.
I’m also bothered by my younger brother, Kevin. We call him Tuffin because when I was little I couldn’t pronounce his name right, so I said Tuffin. The problem with him is that my mom insists on telling everyone the story about his name. Two days ago, when our new neighbor came over to borrow some sugar, my mom went out of her way to embarrass me.
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I think that’s why parents were created, to embarrass us. Not that I don’t like my mom and dad, but they’re still a problem. I mean my mom calls me Ribert, and if she’s not humiliating me, she’s sleeping.
And my dad’s a problem because he’s constantly happy, even when things seem bad. He sells playground
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equipment to schools and cities, and he always wears a suit and tie. He loves his job.
My pets are sort of a problem. I have a fat dog named Puck, who whines and eats a lot, and a parrot named Fred. Fred escaped from his cage years ago, and we couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t catch him. Now he just spends his days flying around the house and pooping on everything.
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My friends are definitely a problem. For example, just last week we accidentally broke the photo booth at the mall, and my dad had to pay two hundred dollars to get it fixed.
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I guess you’re not supposed to have more than three people in the booth at a time. Now my dad has me cleaning things that don’t need cleaning just to pay him back.
My neighbor Janae is a problem. Okay, she isn’t really a problem, but her not being interested in me kind of is. We’re on much better terms since the dramatic poetry contest. Still, whenever I see her, I feel like every joint in my body stops working, and I come unhinged.
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I think one of my biggest problems is that I have to keep writing stuff down. It’s not something I would normally do. I mean, to be completely honest . . .
It’s also sort of a bummer that I’m not even getting a grade for all these words. It’s like I’m
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doing an extra-credit project for no reason. Still, I know I have to document what is happening to me, because someday the world will need to know about the very biggest problem of all, MY CLOSET.
My closet used to be normal. It didn’t have a door, and I used to sit inside of it and play with my homemade science lab. Then my dad found an old door at a garage sale. I think there’s a good chance it’s the heaviest door in the world—my arms get sore just opening it. It also has a gold doorknob with a small bearded man I call Beardy engraved on it.
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I’m not sure I like Beardy; he’s always looking at me weird. Once when I was gazing out my window and accidentally staring at Janae riding her bike with her friends, Beardy gave me a really smug look.
These days, however, Beardy’s not the oddest thing about my closet. The oddest thing began a short
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while ago when my mom forced me to clean my room. To make the job easier, I just shoved everything into my closet and shut the door. The new stuff mixed with the old lab supplies and the many books my mom was always giving me to read. A short while later my closet began to make disturbing noises.
When my best friend, Trevor, and I tried to figure out what was happening, we couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get the door open. We tried to bust it down and pound off the knob, but nothing worked. Finally it popped open on its
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own, and there was Wonkenstein, a small, half Willy Wonka, half Frankenstein creature that caused me a lot of grief but also made things pretty exciting.
As soon as Wonk came out, my closet locked up. I tried everything to get it open, but Beardy kept it shut tight. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not positive what happens in there. My best guess is that all the lab supplies and all the books have begun to mingle. I think science chemicals are dripping down into the books and bringing mixed-up characters to life. I call it the Drip Theory.
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Trevor calls it . . .
As soon as Wonk helped me solve my problem, he went back into the closet and disappeared. The only thing he left behind was his small cane, which I now keep on my dresser. I thought that would be the end of the oddness, but soon after he left, my closet opened and I was visited by a new thing. Bits of him were hairy and fuzzy like Chewbacca the Wookiee from Star
Wars. Other parts of him were sort of Harry Potterish. Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a little smaller than Wonkenstein, and he smells like a wet dog. He also showed up wearing a scarf, glasses, and a robe, and he was holding a wand. He has long hair over parts of his body. If I were a scientist Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d say . . .
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Since Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not a scientist, I decided to just call him something shorterâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;Hairy. He was friendly and interesting right from the start.
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He’s also my biggest problem at the moment. And as I was riding my bike to the library to do some research on him, I had a bad feeling that things were going to get worse before they got better. Hairy wiggled in my backpack. I thought about my dad and what he always says whenever he has a problem . . .
If it’s true, I think I’m about to become one of the stickiest kids around.
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MyasLaife
t s i n o o t Car
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Super Frank!
“That’s great!” my dad says as he puts the comic strip down. “Your drawings have really improved.” I look over my father’s shoulder
improved
and examine my work. “No matter how long I work on it, my printing still looks like I’m in second grade.” “It takes a lot of practice for lettering to look professional.” As if that’s any kid’s idea of
professional
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fun—sitting around on a sunny afternoon filling notebooks with row after row of straight block letters. My father closes the cover of the pad and hands it back to me. “Too bad Frank doesn’t know he’s the star of your comic strip. He’d be flattered
flattered.” Dad doesn’t realize I’ve already shown Frank my drawings. It may be my imagination but by the way my capuchin monkey jumped up and down, I think he WAS flattered. “Mac and cheese with stewed tomatoes,” Mom calls from the kitchen. “Wash up and come to the table.” My father and I look at each other
cringe
and cringe. “Why does she take something perfect like macaroni and cheese then throw something
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terrible like stewed tomatoes in to wreck it?” I ask. “You know how Mom likes to sneak healthy food into everything,” Dad whispers back. “But I have to agree with you—it’s a crime to mess with mac and cheese.” As I put away my pad, I realize Dad’s inadvertently given me the plot of my next comic strip:
inadvertently
SUPER
FRANK VS. THE WOMAN WHO WRECKED MAC AND CHEESE.
I can’t wait until Ms. McCoddle’s class tomorrow to start working on it.
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A New Kid in Class
When I show Matt the new SUPER FRANK, he tells me it’s good but needs even more action. “How about if the evil seal takes hostages
hostages at the bank and Super Frank has to break into the building before it blows up?” If you don’t count the seal and the
monkey,
Matt’s
suggestion
sounds like the plot to a zillion
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movies we’ve watched together over the years. But because he’s my best friend, I tell him it’s a great idea. “How about if the seal wears a sombrero?” Matt continues. “And one of those long ammunition
sombrero
straps—with scuba gear.” I try to envision why a bank robber with a sombrero would need scuba equipment, then take it as a challenge to come up with a scenario where those items actually do make
envision
sense. Matt and I stop in the hall at the same time to continue the discussion. We both act as if the reason we’re stopping is because the topic is so important, but our REAL excuse for hitting the pause button is because Carly’s at her locker talking to Crash, who’s a year
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ahead of us. Crash wears his usual school uniform of flip-flops, baggy surf shorts, and a frayed T-shirt. Carly met him at surf camp in Santa Monica a month ago, and lately she’s frayed
been spending as much time with him as she does with Matt and me. She waves when she sees us, but Crash doesn’t bother to nod even though she’s introduced him to us a thousand times.
arrogant
“He’s the most arrogant kid in school,” Matt says. “I don’t know what she sees in him.” “If he doesn’t start combing his hair, he’s going to have dreadlocks soon,” I add. “Yeah, because he’s not cool enough now,” Matt says. “What’s next, a tattoo?” “He’d be the only person in middle
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school with one—if you don’t count the teachers.” For the past few years, every one of our homeroom teachers has had at least two tattoos. We immediately drop the conversation when Carly approaches. She’s her usual bubbly self, not aware that her two best friends have just been talking about her. “Have you met the new kid?” she asks. “Your boyfriend, Crash?” I say. “Crash isn’t my boyfriend!” Carly blushes, then gives me a little shove. “Don’t you listen to Ms. McCoddle? There’s a new kid in our class. He transferred in today.” Hearing this makes me wonder
transferred
how much other information I miss when I’m drawing in my notebook during Ms. McCoddle’s morning meetings.
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“His name’s Umberto,” Carly says. “I met him a few minutes ago. He’s really nice.” “You say that about everyone,” I tell her. “That’s not true. Toby is a knucklehead and I’ll tell him to his face.” Matt laughs, but I’m surprised by how much more self-assured Carly’s become in the last few weeks. Have they started putting something in the Pacific Ocean or is all that fresh air responsible for Carly’s shift? Or does Carly’s sudden confidence
confidence come from hanging around with her buddy Crash? The bell rings and we head into the classroom. Ms. McCoddle’s been on this whole “around the world” decorating theme, so this
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week every inch of the classroom is covered with photographs of Egyptian hieroglyphics as well as the pyramids and the Sphinx. Last
hieroglyphics
month’s educational destination was China—I was hoping we’d get some ginger chicken or hot and sour soup along with the photographs, but we didn’t get either. Carly holds out her arms like some woman on TV turning letters on a game show. “Derek, Matt— meet Umberto.” I’m so busy staring at the hieroglyphics
above
the
Smart
Board that I almost trip over a kid with a Lakers T-shirt and closely shaved hair. He’s parked right between my desk and me, in a wheelchair. I tell Umberto it’s nice to meet
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him, but before he can answer, Ms. McCoddle asks us to take our seats. Umberto skillfully wheels his chair to a new desk placed next to mine. I’ve seen a few of these desks in other classrooms—more like a table than a desk—designed for easy access for kids with wheelchairs. access
Matt gives me a look that says, “We have a lot to discuss at recess.” Our tightly knit class hasn’t had a transfer student yet and in all my years of elementary and middle school, I’ve never sat next to a kid in a wheelchair. As Ms. McCoddle babbles on about the Nile River, I imagine Matt and me on our skateboards, racing down the hill at UCLA alongside Umberto. He’s wheeling as fast as he can while Matt and I slalom on either side of him.
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As the three of us glide down the hill, I ask Umberto a million questions: What school did he transfer from? Has he always been in a wheelchair? Do his parents have one of those cool vans with a mini elevator? I snap out of my reverie when Ms. McCoddle pauses at my desk and shoots me the evil eye. But of all the things I want to talk to Umberto about, the one at the top of my list is this: I HAVE A CAPUCHIN MONKEY WHO’LL SOON BE TRAINED TO HELP PEOPLE IN WHEELCHAIRS!
I can barely contain myself through Ms. McCoddle’s lecture on Egyptian artifacts, counting the minutes till I can change Umberto’s
artifacts
life with my monkey.
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A Little Background on Frank
Technically, Frank isn’t MY monkey. My parents and I are the foster family he lives with to get used to being with humans. An organization in Boston trains capuchins to work with people with physical challenges and
because
my
mom’s
a
veterinarian—and because I can SOMETIMES be responsible—they entrusted
chose us as one of the families entrusted with nurturing a monkey.
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And if you guessed it’s my job to change his diapers, you’re right. My friend Michael—who’s in a wheelchair like Umberto—lives with a capuchin monkey named Pedro, who helps him with day-to-day living. Michael is seventeen and doesn’t mind sometimes hanging out with a twelve-year-old like me—even if he has to because our moms are friends. Living with Frank has been amazing—if you don’t count the time I almost killed him when he swallowed one of my action figures. My
dog
Bodi
was
surprisingly
welcoming and didn’t act jealous at all when Frank moved in. I’m so used to having Bodi’s mellow, older energy in the house that Frank’s nonstop activity is refreshing. In the six months since we’ve had
refreshing
Frank, I never thought about who 15
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might actually get to live with him after he’s been trained. Then out of the blue, the new kid in the very desk next to mine is in a wheelchair and almost crying out for monkey assistance. It’s too good to be true, so I immediately do what I ALWAYS do when I’m excited about a new idea. I rummage through my desk for my markers and my trusty pad. Umberto’s not going to believe his luck.
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June 20, Sunday Ahhhh. Summer vacation started yesterday. That means for the next 79 days, including today, I have absolutely nothing to worry about. Nothing to Worry About might be tied with gummy worms as my favorite thing ever. I gave Dad gummy worms, a full half pound minus one or possibly two worms, for Fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Day. Nothing to Worry About is not a thing you could wrap even if you had excellent wrapping skills and a lot of tape. Gummy worms were challenging enough. Also I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think Dad really worries anyway.
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He seemed to like the gummy worms and didn’t mind that they came from his own store. He probably shared just because he is nice, not to get rid of them. But I have Nothing to Worry About all for myself, so even though I am not a father, it kind of felt like today was my day, too. uuuuuuu
June 21, Monday I used to be a worried kid. Back then, going barefoot would have given me a lot of thoughts like, What if I step on a rusty nail or a sharp piece of glass or dog doo, or what if that’s not actually blades of grass under my bare feet but really hundreds of slithering snakes? Today when I was barefoot, playing tag with my little sister Elizabeth, I mostly didn’t think those kinds of thoughts very much at all. It is much more relaxing to be this way. Though dog doo would be so disgusting to step in with bare feet, I had to put my sneakers back on after a few minutes. uuuuuuu
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June 22, Tuesday We pressed SEND on the Camp GoldenBrook sign- up page after I said “Yes, I am sure” about a thousand times. I am sure. At Science Camp, where I went last year and the year before, there’s no pool and the only sport is tag. Which is optional, and also you do fun variations like Molecule Tag or Electron Tag. There is no Electron Tag at Camp GoldenBrook. There’s Baseball and Basketball and Swim a Mile. That is why Camp GoldenBrook is where all the runny-aroundy kids go. And none of the nice calm worried kids. I am not a worried kid anymore, but I am still not a runny-aroundy kid. But I’m ready for Camp GoldenBrook. I am sure. I would be more sure though if Mom and Dad would please stop saying, “Are you sure, Justin?” uuuuuuu
June 23, Wednesday My second-best friend, Noah, and his mom came with us to the town pool today. The problem with going to the town pool is that the moms want us out in the sun, but then they slather us with protection from it. 3
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“If we could just stay inside, we’d be perfectly safe,” Noah pointed out. “What are we going to do with you guys?” Noah’s mom asked us. I didn’t know the answer to that. So I just squinched up my eyes to keep the sunblock out of them and waited for Noah’s mom to move on to a different subject. “Can we go to the snack bar now?” Noah asked. He is good at changing the subject. Also at eating. “If you take Elizabeth,” Mom said, and gave me two dollars. “And put on your flip- flops.” We had to walk slowly to the snack bar because my feet are not used to flip- flops. The first time I wore them, this morning, I fell down, twice, on our deck. If I fall down at camp, it will be Very Bad. But Mom says I will get used to it. That is what she says about all the bad stuff, like cooked carrots and icy ocean water. And I never do. I am not somebody who gets used to it, which she should know by now. But she doesn’t. I have to keep these flip- flops. I like soft socks with lots of cushioning and no pinchiness or seams, and then my sneakers. My feet like to have some
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privacy. Flip- flops are barely even shoes, just bottoms and a pole to annoy the space between my big toes and the other guys. And too much air on my feet feels freaky, like I forgot to get all the way dressed. On our way to there, Elizabeth told us about her plans for when she grows up. She is going to be an artist and a toll collector and a vegetarian. “You don’t like to eat meat?” Noah asked her. “Yes, I do,” she said. “She thinks a vegetarian is an animal doctor,” I explained. “That’s a veterinarian,” Noah tried, even though I shook my head. I looked up at the whiteboard listing the snacks and wondered if anybody ever actually ordered a lime popsicle. “No,” Elizabeth said. “A veterinarian is somebody who fought in a war. That is why there’s Veterinarian’s Day.” “Don’t even try,” I warned Noah. “Trust me.” “I should know,” Elizabeth said. “I am the one who is going to be a Vegetarian, not you.” “True,” Noah said. “And a toll collector?” “You stand in the booth and people give you money for
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nothing! And then I can use all that money to buy more animals to be the doctor of! Cherry popsicle, please.” “I’ll have a rainbow popsicle, please,” I told the teenager behind the counter. “Don’t worry about Camp GoldenBrook, Justin,” Noah said to me. “You probably won’t get badly hurt or beat up.” “Thanks, Noah,” I said. “What’s that smell?” “Summer,” Elizabeth said. “And if it’s terrible, maybe you could switch back to Science Camp,” Noah told me, and then smiled up at the teenager. “May I have a lime popsicle, please?” After we finished, Mom said Noah and I should get in the pool and swim already, but we couldn’t. You have to wait half an hour after you eat something or you could drown
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because, possibly, you get too heavy or else something to do with cramps. Noah is full of facts about ways you might die. uuuuuuu
June 24, Thursday Luckily it rained today so the plan for me to go to the town pool with Xavier Schwartz and his babysitter and my horrible flip- flops got canceled. Xavier Schwartz has gone to Camp GoldenBrook since kindergarten. He is practically king of the runny-aroundy kids and probably an excellent swimmer, too. He seems like somebody who would hold somebodyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s head underwater as a joke, even though that is Not Funny. Xavier Schwartz was my enemy until third grade, and maybe he still is, or maybe heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s one of my best friends. He is the kind of friend who is a little scary and hard to decide about, like maybe that was a friendly hug he was giving me or maybe that is called beating me up. My muscles tighten whenever Xavier Schwartz comes near me. Sometimes rain is just what a day needs. uuuuuuu
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June 25, Friday It doesn’t get dark out these days until practically bedtime. That makes it really hard to wind down. I am sitting on my bottom bunk, still winded very up. I had to get a cup of water because I was desperately thirsty. Then unfortunately I had hiccups. Noah says the best way to get rid of hiccups is to swallow a teaspoon full of sugar. Apparently in our family we don’t do that. When the hiccups finally went away, I had to go to the bathroom. I could not help that. While I was there, I noticed a mosquito bite that needed some stuff sprayed on it. I’m sorry if that is inconvenient for some people like Mom, who was very busy cleaning up from our day—for goodness’ sake, Justin, enough already— but it was itching my arm off. The most recent time that Dad said, Good night, Justin, it sounded more like, Good NIGHT, Justin. So now I can’t call them again, or they will start yelling their heads off at me even though the ticking sound I keep hearing could be The Boiler downstairs in our basement, which might explode all of our pipes any second.
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If it does, I probably will not be able to go to Camp GoldenBrook due to injuries. My first summer of Camp GoldenBrook, which I am SO looking forward to. And I might miss the whole thing because of getting blown up into a thousand pieces by The Boiler, which is a very mean-looking thing that has fire in it and is very dangerous. Dad even said so when I was banging on it when I was little, and I have not forgotten. Maybe it would be best for me to suggest to them that probably a very dangerous thing should not be in our basement doing that ticking and possibly other dangerous stuff. And they could call the Boiler Removers right now or the cops. But no, I am not yelling downstairs to my parents to call 911 for this emergency. It is their own fault if we all blow up. I just hope I am making a wise decision, unlike the one I made about my new sneakers. I actually first liked the velvety- textured brown ones that looked cozy and calm. Mom said those looked nice, but on the other hand the white ones with silver looked fast and good for sports. I wanted to be good at sports and very fast, so I said okay to the white-and- silver sporty sneakers.
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The rest of today whenever I looked down, I thought some other kidâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s feet got stuck on the bottoms of my legs.
So I think maybe I made a bad choice at the shoe store today, and now maybe I am making another bad choice by not warning Mom and Dad even though I hear The Boiler ticking. If it really is The Boiler, which it probably isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t. Just in case it is The Boiler and it is about to explode because it is very dangerous (or maybe a bad guy tinkered with it because of Evilness) and we are all going to blow up, I have gathered up all my best stuffties to shield them from the explosion. We are squishing together in the far corner of my lower bunk bed where we evacuated to because you would not want to be on the top bunk in a Boiler Explosion, I think. Or maybe the top would be better. But I have no time to change that now. I am just going to stay right here on the bottom
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bunk, on top of all of these very worried and slightly smooshed stuffties. I am trying not to drip tears on anybody. I am a brave kid, now. Not a worried kid. I will protect these stuffties if it is the last thing I do. The Boiler keeps ticking.
Or it might be Dadâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s watch. He might have taken it off when he added cool water to my too- steamy bath earlier and the cold-water- turny thing was screwed on too tight for me to adjust it with my soapy hands. Maybe Dad left his watch
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in the bathroom, which is right next to my room. It could definitely be Dad’s watch that is ticking, which would be good. Except for the still having to go to Camp GoldenBrook in sneakers that don’t look like they could possibly be my sneakers if I don’t blow up problem. uuuuuuu
June 26, Saturday I guess it wasn’t a bomb because nothing seems to have blown up. Well, except for possibly Qwerty. He woke us all up by making sounds like a truck honking. Mom asked him, “What’s wrong, Qwerty? What’s wrong?” He looked up at her with his big sad dog eyes like, I have no idea, lady. Something crazy. And then, boom. He exploded. Well, kind of. It was a barf explosion. Dog puke everywhere. It looked like he puked a rainbow. “What did you eat, Qwerty, you crazy dog?” Dad asked him.
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Qwertyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s answer was just more rainbow- colored dog puke. uuuuuuu
June 27, Sunday Gummy worms. Dad apparently had a little snack Friday night after everybody else went to bed, and then left the half- full bag of gummy worms I gave him for Fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Day out on the couch. We found the last few half worms and the chewed-up paper bag under the couch this morning. The heads of both Dad and Qwerty hung down low while
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Mom had a little chat with the two of them about inappropriate snacking. uuuuuuu
June 28, Monday “Come on, Justin,” Mom said, holding up a bunch of swimsuits with tags hanging off them. “Camp GoldenBrook starts next week.” “Mmm- hmm,” I said. I was in the middle of a battle with the new knights my grandparents sent me, so I could not really pay attention right then. “Try these on, please,” Mom said. “Right now, Justin.” The Dragon Green Walker was in a battle to death against the best good guy, Achilles Heel. Also, I hate trying on clothes. She made me anyway. And then Mom did not say, I am proud of you, Justin, for trying on these scratchy swimsuits that have tags poking at your hip skin and weird netting all inside them, which is very tickly on your private parts, right in the middle of an epic battle, which the good guy lost because of the bathing-suit catastrophe, so civilization is now doomed. No. She did not say any of that. 14
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What she said was that we are going to have to get onto a good schedule because Camp GoldenBrook is the kind of camp that you have to take a yellow bus to. Every day. And it is also the kind of camp that you don’t get home from until 5 P.M. Science Camp, which I went to last year and the year before, was only until 3 P.M. And the moms bring you and pick you up. And no swimming/no swimsuits. So maybe the suits I said were good are not. I have no experience with choosing which swimsuits fit me right or are good. Mom always made those decisions independently, in the past. These might be too small, and they’ll be pinchy and embarrassing or too big and fall off in the pool. Or just be ugly. But it is too late now. The tags are off. Even the horrible mighty Dragon Green Walker looked a little serious about what a mess I have gotten myself into. uuuuuuu
June 29, Tuesday Mom was sighing as she looked at the website of Camp GoldenBrook. She asked me the question again of “Are you sure you are up to this camp, Justin?” I gave her the answer again of “Yes, I am sure.” 15
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Dad winked at me and called me Atta Boy, which is his name for me when he is proud of me. Then he asked me if I knew who Gerta was. I didn’t. Gerta is apparently a poet and a guy. He wrote the poem “Be bold, and mighty forces will come to your aid.” That is it. That’s the whole poem, and it doesn’t even rhyme. But the poor guy’s name was the girl’s name of Gerta, so maybe he was trying to reassure himself in the poem. Maybe he was hoping mighty forces would come to his aid if only he was bold enough to write one-line poems that don’t rhyme or have nature words in them, and admit he had a girl’s name. Or maybe he hoped the forces would be mighty enough to change his name to a boy name. “That’s a cool poem,” I told Dad, because he was waiting all hopeful with his eyebrows up near his hair. “I like that. ‘Be bold . . .’ ” “ ‘And mighty forces will come to your aid,’ ” Dad said again, smiling. Then he grabbed me by the neck and hummed into my hair. Sometimes Dad tells me stuff like poems that don’t rhyme and then grabs me by the neck and hums at the
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top of my hair. Maybe when I get old and have kids, I will be weird like that, too. After that I thought maybe Dad would want to play with me, the game of my choice, since he was so proud of me and I listened nicely to his poem that didn’t rhyme by a girl- man, but no. I am not sure why Dad has to sew name tags into all my stuff instead of playing Battleship with me. Nobody will be able to read my last name anyway. It is Krzeszewski. Even we can’t read it. Everybody used to call me Justin K., even after Justin R. moved away to Alaska before second grade. But then in third grade, Xavier Schwartz said that I was the most worried kid in the world because I thought we should use pencils before the markers on our map- drawing project just in case we mess up. I am not a worried kid anymore, but I still don’t think that was even a particularly worried thing, compared to most of my worried thoughts. It didn’t seem to me like pencil first was such a crazy idea. But to Xavier Schwartz it did. He said instead of Justin K., my name should be Justin Case.
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W
hen our moving van pulled up in front of Tidwell Towers my mouth popped open. The apartment building we were going to live in was thirty-five stories tall and made of shiny white blocks. It looked exactly like it had been built out of giant white Lego bricks. I said. My older brother, Gunther, sneered at me. “You think it looks like it’s built out of giant white Lego bricks, don’t you?” 3
“No.” “Admit it, Lego Nerd,” he said. He placed his foot on mine and started to press down. “You’re wrong,” I said. Gunther squashed my foot even more. he demanded.
4
“Because you remind me of a Clydesdale horse, with those big hairy feet of yours,” I said. Gunther’s foot pressed down harder and he grinned. His teeth are really tiny. It’s like his baby teeth never grew into his teenaged body. Much like his brains. “Remove your hoof,” I told him. He pressed harder until I almost started to squeal. Luckily, at that moment our dad said,
5
I grabbed my backpack, which was stuffed with Lego bricks, comics, and Pokémon cards. I carried my most valuable item in my hand: a Lego lie detector, which I had just finished building the week before. It’s made with Legos, a motor, and a wire connected to a tinfoil finger strap. It really works, too. The reason that I know this is that I tried it out on my mother. I hooked her up and asked her if she secretly thought Gunther was a giant doofus. She said, “Of course not,” but the lie detector buzzed,
which means she was lying. Then she turned all red in the face and took off the finger strap and said, “Let’s not call each other doofuses, shall we?” 6
Mom examined Gunther and me before we went into the building. She mashed down my hair and she made Gunther put a cover over the cage of his pet rat, Smoochie. She’s all excited about moving to the city, but she’s worried that people will think we’re a bunch of hillbillies. That’s because we come from a dinky little town called Hog’s Head. Plus, I think we may be hillbillies, because Gunther and I whiz off the back porch when the weather is nice.
7
The apartment building’s glass doors slid open as we walked up to them. That was kind of cool, like we were moving into a Price Chopper Supermarket. In the building’s lobby was a doorman. He was as burly as a football player. His head was totally bald and he had an earring in one ear. He looked like a nicely dressed pirate. Frankly, he was a little scary. But when my dad told him we were the Doodas he smiled. It was a wide flash of smile. I decided that I might like him. “Welcome,” he said. “My name is Julius. And these”—he held up a pair of shining keys and shook them— “are for apartment 35B.” “You mean we’re going to live on the thirty-fifth floor?” I cried.
8
“Yup,” Dad said. “We were keeping that part a surprise,” Mom said. “Sweet!” said Gunther. I think they were glad to see Gunther excited. When Dad first told us he got a new job in New York City and we were all moving, Gunther wasn’t too happy about it. He has this girlfriend back in Hog’s Head. Her name is Pandora. She picks at her scalp. Gunther picks at his pimples. They’re like Romeo and Juliet, only more disgusting. As for me, I was happy to be moving away from Hog’s Head. A few months ago something really bad happened to me there. I’m not sure if I’m going to tell you about it or not. We’ll just see how things go.
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