Noah Green Saves the World

by Laura Toffler-Corrie

  Text copyright © 2020 by Laura Toffler-Corrie

  Illustrations copyright © 2020 by Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

  KAR-BEN PUBLISHING®

  An imprint of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  241 First Avenue North

  Minneapolis, MN 55401 USA

  Website address: www.karben.com

  Main body text set in Bembo Std regular.

  Typeface provided by Monotype Typography.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Toffler-Corrie, Laura, author. | Pamintuan, Macky, 1976– illustrator

  Title: Noah Green saves the world / by Laura Toffler-Corrie ; illustrated by Macky Pamintuan.

  Description: Minneapolis, MN : Kar-Ben Books, [2020] | Audience: Grades 4–6 | Summary: Twelve-year-old aspiring filmmaker Noah stumbles his way through the summer at a Jewish sleepaway camp while his elderly grandfather is sending him messages by carrier pigeon about saving the world.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019026096 | ISBN 9781541560369 (library binding) | ISBN 9781541560376 (paperback)

  Subjects: CYAC: Camps—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Grandfathers—Fiction. | Motion pictures—Production and direction—Fiction. | Jews—Fiction. | Spies—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.T57317 No 2020 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019026096

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1-46296-47171-3/12/2020

  To my parents, Hinda and Alvin.

  For seeing me.

  And, also, for camp.

  —L.T.C.

  Chapter 1

  An early summer breeze wafts through my window, and I hear the growling motor of the Shady Pines Retirement Home van crawling slowly up our tree-lined street. As it makes a careful turn into our short driveway, I happily shove as much stuff as I can into my lumpy duffel bag.

  Super exciting things are about to happen!

  For one, in just a few short hours (forty-two to be exact), I’m almost ninety-five percent sure that I’ll be going to the David Lynch Film Camp in Los Angeles.

  Even though I’m only in seventh grade, this is a big deal for me because I want to be a filmmaker. Not the kind who just tells stories. But the kind who observes stories. I want to create my life opus, a very big story, in a style called cinéma vérité, a term I learned in Mr. Burns’s after-school film club. Mr. Burns says cinéma vérité reveals not only the truth in other people, but the truth in oneself.

  This sounds like a good thing for me because people confuse me sometimes. As for revealing the truth in myself, I’m not exactly sure what that means. I’m guessing it’s that thing where you say or do something and then afterwards you’re like, “That was stupid. Why did I say that? And why are people looking at me like I smell bad or something?”

  So by observing others, maybe I can cut down on those types of experiences because, if I’m being honest, that kind of happens to me a lot.

  Plus, for Hanukkah, Aunt Bea got me this awesome headpiece camera, which is very cool because I can film people even from far away. The only problem is that I almost got punched once by a kid who thought I was spying on him, which was not my intention. But Mr. Burns says good art should be dangerous, so maybe I’m on the right track.

  As for the David Lynch Film Camp, I say I’m only ninety-five percent sure I’m going because, at first, my parents weren’t hot on the idea. They were like, “Sorry. Not happening. It’s too far away and too expensive.”

  But I can be really persistent when I want something. So I started talking it up, like, all the time, at every meal, during every car ride, during TV shows. But then I noticed Mom and Dad were kind of avoiding me, so I thought: go subtle. I started leaving brochures around the house in places I knew they’d look, like inside the refrigerator crisper bin, plastered across the car windshield, and taped to the lid of the toilet seat.

  Although that might have been a little overkill because at one point Dad was like, “Mention that camp one more time . . .” Then he didn’t finish his sentence, which meant he was really mad.

  Eventually, he said he and Mom would think it over, which gave me hope. That is until my sister, Lily, reminded me that sometimes that means they’ve already made up their minds and they’re never gonna do it.

  But last night, they told me to pack my bags. For a second, I thought they were kicking me out. Lily said I wasn’t reading the room right, which, as I said, is kind of my problem. They promised there was a good surprise coming. So now I’m really stoked. Lily’s also stoked because she thinks that means she can do what she wants to do this summer too.

  The second exciting thing that’s going to happen has to do with my Pops. Today is his birthday party. We think he’s turning ninety-something, though Pops refuses to say. Yesterday he sent me a mysterious email, saying he has a secret that will change my life forever. I can’t imagine what that is, but I bet it’s cool!

  So, right now, I’m going to find out his big secret. I’m going to make sure I get a hard “yes” from Mom and Dad about film camp. And I’m going to record everything on my camera, which I’m securing firmly around my head as I make my way down to our living room for the party Mom is throwing for Pops.

  Pops’s friends from Shady Pines are already milling around, filling their paper plates with salad and lasagna. Festive party decorations dot the room, and silver tinsel bristles hang across the fireplace mantel. Mom’s large picture board of the history of Pops’s life, family, and friends is propped up on the table. Stretched across the archway to the living room is a purple papier-mâché banner that reads: Happy Whatever Birthday, Pops!

  Lily pops in front of me, looking annoyed. “Noah! Where were you? We need more cups.” She leans in close. “Rabbi Blum’s had like twelve cups of coffee already, and he keeps leaving them everywhere.”

  She stomps away.

  I spy Rabbi and Mrs. Blum by the buffet. He’s probably the most energetic rabbi we’ve ever had at Temple Beth Israel. He’s chatting and bustling around while helping spoon food onto one of the old people’s plates.

  Lily likes to say that I’m the exact opposite of what she wanted in a brother if she could have picked. Good thing she couldn’t! But the fact is that nobody gets to pick. Sisters. Parents. Or even ourselves. Not being able to choose ourselves is probably a good thing, though, because we would most probably never pick who we are and then who would we be?

  Pops ambles by me.

  “Happy birthday, Pops,” I say. “How old are you exactly again?”

  “None of your beeswax,” he grumbles.

  “Hey,” I continue, “what’s that secret you emailed me about?”

  “Can’t tell you now, Ned,” he says, calling me the name he wanted my mother to give me, after his uncle on his father’s side, but she liked Noah better.

  “Noah,” I say, even though he’s not really paying attention and is already on to another subject.

  “That nosey dagnabbit doctor is listening to everything I say,” Pops huffs and shuffles away.

  Dr. Marchant, the resident MD at Shady Pines, snoozes loudly in a nearby chair.

  Just so I wouldn’t be totally bored, I’ve invited some of my friends from school. I don’t have a lot of friends like Lily does, but my closest friends from film club showed up: Bail
ey, who has thick glasses, straggly hair, and a T-shirt that reads, Save the Dolphins. And Rex, who’s got straggly hair and the beginnings of a very skimpy goatee. His T-shirt says: Save the Filmmakers.

  “Hey guys!” I wave.

  Bailey waves back then stares out the window, and Rex scratches down the back of his shirt with a plastic fork.

  They rock!

  And speaking of friends, there’s my new friend, Simon. I noticed him yesterday on the school bus, looking a little lost. Principal Lefrak said that he’s an exchange student from London, so I figured I should take him under my wing. He might even be a good candidate for film club. I’m sure he’s feeling very out of place away from home.

  “Hey Simon,” I wave, but he’s whispering into his phone.

  “Yes, I’d like to leave,” Simon says.

  At that moment, Mom carries out Pops’s birthday cake, which is decorated with so many candles she has to blink from the smoke and flames.

  “Happy birthday to you!” Mom breaks into song.

  All his friends join in until the song peters out from general lack of enthusiasm.

  “Pops, you want to cut the first piece?” Mom asks.

  Pops frowns and stares into the cake. “You know that butter icing gives me the bathroom hoppies. And who’s Mel?”

  Mom makes a sharp cut into the cake. “That’s you, Pops.”

  “No one ever calls me Mel,” he grumbles. “They call me by my nickname.”

  “Now, you know you don’t have a nickname.” Mom smiles tensely.

  “Yes I do! Don’t tell me I don’t have a nickname,” he insists. “It’s Liplock Field. I was a secret agent for the CIA, and I always kept my mouth closed! But now almost everyone I know is dead . . .”

  He looks over at his friends, waiting, empty plates in their hands.

  “Or will be soon.”

  “Now Pops.” Mom gently places her hand on his shoulder. “You were a lieutenant in the army, and then you worked in insurance for thirty years. You know you were never a secret agent.”

  “That’s because it was a secret!” he snaps.

  “Hey Mom,” I say. “So what’s my surprise news? Can you tell me now?” I adjust my headpiece into her face for full cinematic effect.

  “A little busy here, Noah,” Mom says with one of her tight-lipped, aggravated expressions, as she makes her way toward the kitchen.

  I follow her. “Where’s Dad? Can he tell me about—”

  “Ned! I need to talk to you.” Pops steps into my path.

  “In a little bit, Pops. I’m trying to get my big news,” I say, tapping my camera headpiece, “and I’m getting footage for my opus.”

  “You’ve got pus?!” Pops shouts, holding a fork aloft like a dagger. “Just hold still. One good poke and it’ll all come oozing out. You’ll be as good as new.”

  Lily dives in and gently extracts the fork from Pops, just as Dad appears, up in my face.

  I brighten. “Hey, Dad, are you gonna tell me my surprise now?”

  “Noah, did you rake the wet leaves off the front steps like I asked you?!” he says. “Your Uncle Larry will try and sue us if he slips again.”

  “Ned, I think I’ve got the bathroom hoppies,” Pops announces, grabbing my arm and pulling me around the corner into the laundry alcove.

  Suddenly he’s all secretive. “I need to talk to you. It’s very important.”

  “But I thought you had the bathroom hoppies.”

  “Forget about that.” He leans in and wiggles his wiry eyebrows. “The thing is that—”

  “Can it wait?” I interrupt, eyeballing the kitchen. “I’m hoping for some promising news . . .”

  “I don’t think so,” he says, leaning in closer. He’s so close now that his eyebrow hairs are tickling my forehead, and he’s like, “You have to help me save the world.”

  Chapter 2

  “Huh?” I say.

  Pops’s eyes dart around as he furtively pulls me toward the garage. “Now that you’re thirteen—”

  “Twelve.”

  He squints. “What’s that on your head?”

  “That’s my camera, remember?” I answer. “I’m a filmmaker.”

  “You’re a what?!”

  “I film everything. This ongoing piece is my opus. It’s called A Life So Far. It’s cinéma vérité. The truth of real life. It’s my signature filmmaking style.”

  “Hmm.” Pop scrunches up his face. “You’re a stylist now? You do ladies’ hair? I thought you liked to take pictures. Ech, you kids jump from one thing to another.”

  “No, Pops,” I said. “Cinéma vérité is my style.”

  “I don’t care what cinema you work at. Take that camera off your head.”

  I sigh and slide the headpiece off.

  He moves in close, his breath smelling a little like garlic-filled socks. “When I was a secret agent in the big war”—he lowers his voice—“I sent messages tied to the legs of pigeons. It’s important you know that.” He winks.

  I don’t know what he means, but Pops likes to talk about World War II—how he served in the army, rode around in a rugged jeep, surveyed the bleak countryside, and saw both terrible and sad people. And he especially likes to share stories about his favorite buddies: Joe, Singing Sal, and George. He also likes to talk about my grandma, who was a Lithuanian war bride. He said she loved him because he always told her that he was a lover, not a fighter. I never heard her say that. Mostly she muttered at him in Yiddish or just called him meshuggana.

  “Now, what I’m going to tell you might sound a little odd,” Pops says, tapping his fingers to his head. “And I know what you’re thinking. That old Liplock Field isn’t as sharp as he used to be. But Ned—”

  “Noah.”

  “Sometimes it’s like people aren’t listening,” he says, shaking his head sadly.

  “Is this about you losing your phone again?” I say.

  “Haven’t you understood a word I’ve said?” he asks, exasperated.

  “Not really.”

  “Excuse me.” Simon comes up behind us. “I have to go.”

  “You’re leaving?” I say, feeling deflated. “So soon? But me and the others were gonna watch KAC.”

  “KAC?”

  “Kids Are Cool. It’s the latest kids’ indie film festival. Awesome short films made by kids around the world. It’s a seventeen-hour marathon. We could watch half tonight and half tomorrow.”

  “Well, as exciting as that sounds,” Simon remarks flatly, “I really do have to go.”

  “Who are you?” Pops asks, narrowing his eyes at him.

  “This is Simon,” I introduce him. “Simon, this is my grandfather. We call him Pops.”

  “Nice meeting you.” Simon smiles, then turns to go.

  “This is one of your friends?” Pops asks.

  “Yes.”

  “No.” Simon and I overlap each other.

  “Are all your friends hippies?” Pops asks, scrutinizing Simon.

  “Hippies?” Simon, in his straight dark-wash jeans, fitted T-shirt and neat short hair, stares at Pops in disbelief.

  “Huh?” I say.

  Pops gestures to Simon’s chest. There’s a faded peace sign on his graphic tee.

  “That’s just a design, Pops,” I say. “It doesn’t mean—”

  “I liked the color,” Simon adds.

  “Hmph,” Pops remarks, now squinting into his face. “Matches his baby blues. A hippie if ever I’ve seen one.”

  Confused, we ponder this for a moment until Simon’s like, “Your grandfather . . . I see the similarities. Have a nice day.” He turns to go.

  “No, no, wait,” Pops insists.

  He grabs Simon with one hand and me with the other and pulls us into the garage, where he starts rummaging through all these boxes, tossing cellophane wrapping, old newspapers, and all kinds of junk every which way.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Noah’s Grandfather . . .” Simon starts.

  “Call me Pops,” Pops says, h
is head deep in a box, his voice muffled. “Dagnabbit. Just wait one minute . . .” And to himself: “We can stop it. Yes, we can do it. But we’re running out of time . . .”

  “Pops,” I say, “why don’t we go back to the party?”

  “AHA!” Pop shrieks, making us jump. “Help me out, boys.”

  We each grab one of his arms and yank. Clutching an envelope tightly in his hand, Pops excitedly waves his fist in the air. Then, much to my surprise, he gets all teary. Simon catches my eye. And I’m wondering, what can this mean?

  “You’re a good boy, Noah,” Pops sniffs, swiping roughly at his glistening eyes. “And not as weird as people think. This is the right time for you.”

  “Er . . . thanks?” I say uncertainly.

  “And you seem like a nice kid too, Saul.”

  “Simon.”

  Pops gently extracts a wrinkled yellow paper from the old envelope and unfolds it. He reads the contents, shakes his head, and looks sad. Simon and I peer in, but it’s just a page full of dots, marks, and squiggles in faded blue ink.

  “What is this?” I ask.

  “It’s a map,” Pops whispers.

  “But what does it say?”

  Pops sways in close to us and draws out his words slowly. “It says: Dot, dot, dot . . . DOT, dot, squiggle, dot DOT, slash, slash, long line, short line, dot, dot, DOT . . .”

  Simon and I wait for a better explanation.

  “And that’s all I’m sayin’!” Pops says, throwing his scrawny arms in the air.

  “Going now,” Simon remarks, pivoting on his heel.

  “Wait!” Pop shouts. “You don’t understand.”

  “That is an understatement, Mr. Pops,” Simon says.

  “Here’s the thing.” Pops grabs Simon by his shoulders and glares into his face. “It’s up to you, my grandson . . .”

  “Over here, Pops,” I say, raising my finger in the air and moving into his line of sight. “I’m your grandson.”

  “Oh. I know it’s you, dagnabbit,” Pop grumbles. “I was just trying to include the hippie.” He drops his grip on Simon and grabs my shoulders hard. “Up to you. My only grandson . . .”