Noah Green Saves the World

by Laura Toffler-Corrie

  I’m closing in on the back. Not good. That’s usually where the mean kids sit.

  Two big guys with short necks, looking like they already shave, sneer at me. They’re like a pair of unfriendly Rottweilers behind a chain-link fence, tethered together at the neck, watching their next meal approach.

  “Do you have guys like that in London?” I whisper over my shoulder to Simon.

  “Yeah. Best to sit anywhere soon,” he warns, and with that, someone makes room for him, and he slides into a now-empty seat.

  “Sit down now!” the bus driver barks, not even glancing in her rearview mirror. I wonder if she has some kind of bionic sensors under her beehive hair.

  “Hey, you! What’s that on your head?” one of the big Rottweilers says. “Are you a roach exterminator or something?”

  Kids laugh. Lily glares at me.

  “Yeah, sit down, roach guy,” the other one says, making them both guffaw.

  Suddenly, the bus jolts to a stop, and I fall forward. I try to grab one of the seat handles, but my already sweaty hands—now super sweaty—slide off the metal bar, and I stumble right into the bigger Rottweiler’s lap.

  The bus explodes in laughter.

  I squirm to right myself, but between the narrow seat and the weight of my backpack, I’m wedged in tight.

  “Get off!” he yells, pushing me hard.

  But I can only roll and squirm, roll and squirm.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I mumble, my face squashed against his chest. The other Rottweiler is giggling hysterically at a surprisingly high pitch.

  Finally, between his shoving and my squirming, I’m on my feet.

  “Sorry. My backpack got me stuck. It’s like being a turtle.”

  Somewhere I think I hear Simon groan. Maybe that wasn’t the right thing to say.

  “Hey Mike, you got a turtle friend,” the other Rottweiler giggles. “A little turtle friend sitting in your lap.”

  “Shut up, Jake!” he snaps.

  A white-hot burn crawls up my cheeks, and the loud muffled roar of kids sounds like a beach seashell at my ear.

  But they’re not just laughing at me. Rottweiler Mike’s face flushes bright red too. He grabs a handful of my shirt, bumping my headpiece askew, and glares into my eyes.

  “Listen, Turtle,” he says, and his breath smells like he just ate a whole pizza with extra garlic. “We’ve been coming to this camp for four years. Now, I don’t wanna be mean or anything . . .”

  He doesn’t want to be mean?!

  “’Cause I’m not a bad guy,” Mike declares. “But I can tell already that you’re the kind of kid who messes stuff up. Maybe not even on purpose. Maybe you don’t even know you’re, like, in the way or causin’ problems or anything.”

  This conversation is turning into one of those talks I have with the school counselor.

  “But I got stuff to do this summer,” he says. “Business to attend to. And I need to do it right. To concentrate.”

  He needs to concentrate on business? At camp?

  “So you stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours,” he says. “But mess me up, and I’m gonna mess you up.”

  “ ’Kay,” I squeak, feeling like I’m gonna pass out from the fumes of his breath.

  I have no idea what he’s talking about but, fortunately, the bus grinds to a stop, and more kids get on, breaking the tension. Mike releases me with a shove.

  I’m feeling kind of weird, like totally lost, and my stomach is starting to hurt. These camp kids are tough, and I haven’t even gotten to camp yet.

  Suddenly, a gray backpack decorated with about a million pins creeps over an empty seat. Then, bam, it’s on the floor. Someone is making room for me!

  I throw myself into the vacated seat.

  “Thanks!” I beam at the girl sitting by the window.

  She stares at me over the top of her book then brushes away a frizzy tendril of brown hair that’s escaped from one of her two long braids. She seems like someone who likes nature, in her green-beige T-shirt that looks like it’s been washed too many times, tan cargo shorts, and scuffed-up brown hiking boots.

  And there’s a row of small earrings crawling up around the side of each ear. They’re cartilage piercings, and I know this because a few months ago, Lily wanted cartilage piercings but Dad was like, “That’s not happening.”

  “For making room, I mean,” I add.

  She lifts her book up higher.

  “Because there was nowhere to sit and you made room.”

  “Yeah.” She shifts her body toward the window.

  “’Cause I was standing and had nowhere to sit. And I think that guy in the back is super mad at me. Doesn’t he look like a Rottweiler?”

  She makes a very loud sighing noise, shifts her whole body toward the window, and lifts the book up so that it covers her whole face.

  “Hi,” I say, leaning toward her. “Watcha reading?”

  She holds the book up for me to see.

  “Plastics: The Silent Killer,” I read aloud. “Is that science fiction? My sister Lily used to love to read about hot supernatural guys. Now she likes to read about time travel.”

  “It’s about the environment,” she says flatly. “How people are destroying the planet with plastic so they can keep their veggies in containers that burp.”

  “Containers that burp?”

  “Like when you close them and make them airtight?” she says, like it’s a question. Then she raises an eyebrow like she’s pretty sure I don’t get it, which I don’t.

  Sighing and looking exasperated, she turns toward me and points to her oversized T-shirt.

  “Um . . . nice shirt,” I say uncertainly.

  “No, this,” she emphatically jabs her chest with her finger.

  I lean in and read the faded words: Earth is Dying.

  “Ah. Gotcha.” I nod like I understand, but I have so many questions I want to ask her.

  I want to know why Earth is dying. Is it only because of plastic burping containers or other things? And how long does it have to live? Does she know for a fact that it’s dying, or does she just think so? Will we have any warning? Or will it just be dead one morning? And how will we know?

  I’m just about to launch into a bunch of questions when I remember what Dad said about reading people’s faces. Her face looks like it wants to bite me.

  “I’m Noah,” I finally say.

  “Hey,” she grumbles, then places two earbuds in her ears. She turns and gazes out the window, balancing her scruffy work boots up on a black guitar case at her feet. The name Mia is written across it in squiggly gold paint. I guess that’s her.

  We cruise onto the highway. After a while, everyone sways into the ride, listens to music, or plays on their phones. It seems pretty clear that Mia is engrossed in her dead Earth book, so I pull out my phone to upload my latest film footage, when I hear a voice mumbling low.

  “Huh? Are you talking to me, Mia?” I turn to her. “I hope you’re not mad, Mia, that I guessed your name’s Mia, but it’s on your guitar case, unless it’s someone else’s guitar case, but why would a girl who’s not Mia have a case with the name Mia on it and . . .”

  From the bottom of her throat comes this weird growly vibrating sound, and it grows stronger until it’s just the right volume.

  And I realize she’s not talking to me at all.

  She’s singing softly, a tuneless kind of song that starts out with mumbles and grows into formed words. Some of the verses are awkward rhymes, and the chorus is something about recycling, the crying earth, mangled plastics, lady times of the month and lunar cycles, her Bat Mitzvah, and starting a new chapter in her life.

  And she does this all the way to Camp Challah.

  Chapter 6

  Finally, we arrive!

  The bus squeals to a halt. Mia grabs her backpack and stands. “S’cuse me,” she says tightly.

  I try and twist my feet out of the way, but she steps all over them anyway.

  “By
e!” I wave. “See you at camp!”

  “Yeah . . . probably not,” she says, without looking back, and shuffles up the aisle.

  “Watch yer step!” the bus driver barks, in a way that sounds like she wants us to hurry up and doesn’t care if we watch our steps or not.

  The Rottweilers push their way off, while the rest of us collect our stuff and head for the door, onto the grass and into a bright, warm day.

  “Long ride, eh?” Simon moans and stretches.

  There’s so much to see!

  The first thing I notice is the tall signpost with skinny arrows indicating where things are, like the mess hall, the baseball field, the lake, the outhouses, the girls’ bunks, and the boys’ bunks. And there’s a long arrow-shaped sign, pointing to a path that looks like it winds beyond the lake. It reads, Levy Homestead Historic Site.

  “Shalom!” Rabbi Blum exclaims.

  He and Mrs. Blum are standing by the flagpole, greeting all the campers they can grab. Mrs. Blum is sharing happy shoulder squeezes. Rabbi Blum is heartily giving everyone high-fives with one hand while sipping from a huge metallic coffee mug with the other.

  He usually dresses like other middle-aged guys like my dad and Principal Lefrak, but for camp he’s gone all hipster in his denim yarmulke, mustard cargo pants, and graphic T-shirt imprinted with the challah and dancing figures from the brochure.

  “Whaz up?! Whaz up?!” he shouts exuberantly, his grin showing through his stubbly beard.

  “Shalom,” “Yeah, hi,” “What’s up?” the kids mumble as they pass down the greeting line.

  “Noah!” He takes my arm and pulls me into his face. “Now, I want you to have a good summer.”

  “Um, okay,” I mutter uncertainly.

  “And don’t worry so much about things,” he says, all serious.

  “Er, okay,” I say, trying to gently pull away.

  “Your dad tells me you’re worried about making friends,” he speaks low and confidentially.

  “Well, not rea—” I start.

  “And your mom says,” he interrupts, “you’re worried about your Bar Mitzvah project.”

  “Well, no, I don’t really care righ—”

  “Mom also says you like to make movies. And I just want you to know that that’s not weird. You’re not weird.”

  “I’m not?”

  “Not at all. Everyone loves watching movies. Mrs. Blum and I love watching movies.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now, you know my son, Nathan, yes?” He brightens, gesturing to Nathan, milling awkwardly in a group of happy, chatting counselors.

  “Sure.” I nod.

  Nathan looks like a skinnier, less peppy version of the rabbi. He nods in a shy, aimless way at people, then pulls a paperback book from the pocket of his brown cargo pants and starts reading.

  “Nathan!” the Rabbi calls over to him disapprovingly. “Put the book down,” he mouths, motioning with his mug.

  Nathan startles and shoves the paperback into one of his over-crammed pockets.

  “He’s in high school now, so he’s a counselor this summer,” the Rabbi continues. “He’s gonna help you eleven-and-ups with your Bar and Bat Mitzvah projects. That’ll be fun, right?!”

  Not really. “Sure,” I mumble, as he finally releases me in order to latch on to the next kid.

  Groan. There’s got to be some good hiding places here in the woods.

  After the greeting line, we’re bounced over to the counselors to get our introductory packets and color-coded bunk tags. I’m happy to see that Simon and I are in the red bunk.

  “Hey.” Nathan extends a limp, clammy hand to me and then to Simon. “So I’m your counselor,” he says, his eyes darting to our faces then traveling over our heads.

  “Looks like it,” Simon agrees affably.

  “Soooo . . . yeah.” Nathan looks like he might have cramps. He glances at the pocket where his book peeks out the top, like he can’t wait to get back to it.

  All around us, kids are connecting with their bunkmates and their counselors, who mostly look pretty cool and welcoming. Lily’s counselor’s name tag reads “Janine.” She’s smiley and has pretty teeth and looks like an older version of Lily. Lily and her new friends from the bus shriek when they realize they’re all in the same bunk. Janine points them toward the girls’ cabins, and they chat excitedly on their way there.

  “Um, should we . . . go somewhere?” I ask Nathan.

  “Oh right, right,” he replies, digging into one of his empty pockets. “We’re Bunk 4, but first let me give you your badges—wait, they’re here somewhere . . . was looking for that pen,” he mumbles. “These tissues are gross . . . ticket stub from Shavuot . . . hang on . . .”

  Finally, he extracts a pack of crumpled, torn, colored badges. It’s kind of like a magician pulling a long string of colorful handkerchiefs from up his sleeve. “Here you go! They have stick backs, so you can wear them if you want.”

  “I’m good,” Simon says, shoving his into his pocket.

  Nathan presses one to his shirt, and it quickly slides off. He fumbles, trying to stick it on again, and it slides again. And it seems like this might go on for a while.

  “So, we’ll see you later, then, Nathan,” Simon says.

  “Bunk 4!” Nathan waves to us as we weave into the traveling clusters of kids.

  “Whew, that was painful,” Simon remarks, then tilts his head back into his phone. “Yes! Wi-Fi! At least we’re still in civilization.”

  Passing the Rottweilers, I hear Mike say, “Another summer, more to find.” He fist bumps Jake. I’m wondering what that means when one of them shoves me, knocking me off balance.

  “Watch it, Turtle,” Mike grunts.

  “Just ignore them,” Simon says.

  Lily brushes past me, laughing with her pack of girls, barely glancing my way. I’m guessing she’ll spend the whole summer pretending we’re not related.

  “Thank God we don’t look alike,” she said to me once. That kind of hurt my feelings, but Mom says some siblings don’t get along their whole lives until their parents die.

  That made me feel even worse—and also kind of nervous. I hope that one day Lily and I can be friends before someone I love drops dead.

  Simon glances up and stares as she scuttles off with her new besties, his face all slack and dreamy. She must feel his eyes on her because she glances his way and tosses him a smile. Even I can tell he’s got a big crush. Oh well. When she rejects him, he can’t say I didn’t try to warn him.

  In the distance, a blue lake shimmers under a colorful, wispy, pink-and-gray sky, and beyond that is a stretch of woods. The air smells sweet and pine-scented.

  I spot Mia, walking with some girls who are probably her bunkmates. They’re talking excitedly. Mia leans in, nods, and trots to keep up.

  Simon and I reach the grassy clearing where Bunk 4 awaits.

  Inside the cabin is rustic, like a class trip to a pioneer village. There are a few bureaus, two sets of bunkbeds, and two nice-size windows—one offering a view of the signpost path and, beyond that, the lake.

  “It’ll have to do, eh?” Simon says and throws his stuff onto a bed to claim it.

  Within minutes, our bunkmates arrive, and we all exchange “heys” and introduce ourselves.

  “Nathan sent us here,” says the one named Tyler. He’s skinny with brown hair and glasses.

  “He’s kinda weird,” the other one, named Josh, adds with a grin. He’s dark and sporty-looking with reddish brown hair.

  We quickly learn that they’re friends. They like Simon’s accent and both have even been to London. Simon’s excited to show them his phone pics of his mates playing soccer, which he says is called football in London.

  They want to know about the camera on my head, so I tell them about my opus and the DLFC extended summer program. They take turns making faces into my viewfinder and want to know if they’re going to be famous on YouTube. I tell them you never know.

  “What’s an o
pus?” Tyler asks.

  “It’s the story of my life so far,” I say. “So I call it A Life So Far. I’m interested in cinéma vérité. That’s a French term which means—”

  “That’s cool, Nick,” Josh interrupts, his eyes sliding away from me.

  “Noah,” I correct him, adjusting my camera headpiece.

  “There are some hot girls here,” Josh says, grabbing a ball from his duffel and tossing it up and down. “Whaddaya think?”

  “I talked to a girl on the bus,” I say. “She was cool and sang in a growly way in the back of her throat.”

  Josh stops tossing and everyone turns to stare at me.

  “Did you guys see her?” I ask.

  “Um . . . sure,” Tyler says, but he doesn’t look sure. “Hey, Simon, want to throw a ball around before dinner?”

  “Yeah,” Simon replies, as Josh tosses the ball to Tyler, and they laugh and shove each other out of the bunk.

  He starts after them, but I’m not sure what to do. They didn’t ask me. My stomach drops a little.

  “Come on,” says Simon.

  “Um . . . I’m okay,” I say.

  “Right then.” Simon heads toward the door but stops in his tracks. He pulls his fingers through his hair, hesitates, then turns back.

  “Come on, Noah,” he coaxes.

  “S’all right,” I say, turning toward my duffel. I should unpack. Because, like Mom says, my stuff won’t unpack itself.

  “Should I put my shirts in with my shorts, or should I have a drawer for each? It looks like there are only five drawers, so that means one drawer each. And what about my underwear? Should the socks be somewhere else? And what about the dirty stuff? Where’s the blue laundry bag Mom packed? And where can I put my computer so it won’t be exposed to moisture?”

  “Come on, Noah,” Simon repeats, taking the shirt I’m holding and tossing it onto the bed.

  “But . . . what if they play with the Rottweilers?”

  “Who?”

  “Mike and Jake,” I say quietly, even though there’s no one around.

  “Don’t fret about it.” Simon grabs my arm. “But, um, how about you take the camera off your head first?”