“I dunno . . .” I hesitate.
“OW!” I bark as he yanks it off.
“Sorry, not sorry,” he says dryly, clamping on to my arm. “Now let’s go.”
Chapter 7
We toss the ball around for a while (I’m mostly chasing it) until it’s time for dinner. The mess hall is a crowded, noisy, cavernous place that has what my chorus teacher, Mr. Glutz, calls “good acoustics.” Voices swirl up into the air and reverberate, sounding like one dull thumping noise. The pigeons nesting in the rafters make vibrating cooing sounds. I wonder if any of them knows Pops.
Simon, Josh, Tyler, and I line up for food, which is hamburgers, fries, and carrot sticks. I scan the long tables and benches for the Rottweilers and spot them by the window, eating with a bunch of guys who also drool while they eat and have dopey laughs.
Not far from them, the counselors look like they’re splitting up into cool and not-so-cool cliques. Janine leads the happily chatting main clique, while a few hangers-on sit nearby, lean in, and nod. Nathan sits a few seats away and doesn’t seem that interested in whether he’s included or not. He munches on fries, his head down in his book.
We amble to the other side of the room.
“Why do they have to ruin a perfectly good meal with stuff that’s good for you?” Josh remarks. “I hate freakin’ carrot sticks.”
“And if you move them around the plate like this in a little frizzy pile, they look like your hair, Josh,” I say.
“Say that again”—Josh picks up a carrot stick and waves it at me—“and I’ll have to kill you.”
“What?!”
“He’s kidding, Noah,” Simon says. “Lighten up. Don’t be so literal.”
“Hey,” says a familiar voice from behind.
It’s Lily and her friends.
Simon brightens. “Oh hi, Lily.”
Josh and Tyler catch eyes and snicker. Tyler makes a quiet kissing noise, and Simon gives Tyler a kick.
“Care to join us?” Simon asks her, gesturing to a nearby spot on the bench.
“Oh, yes, please do join us,” Tyler imitates Simon’s fancy accent.
“And bring the Queen,” Josh adds.
They guffaw and shove fries into their mouths. Simon kicks Tyler again.
“Cut it out!” Tyler says, spraying everyone with bits of fries.
“You cut it out!” Simon throws a carrot stick at him, but it lands on Josh’s head and looks totally like his natural hair, proving my point.
Lily’s friends make clucking noises with their tongues and roll their eyes.
“Well, as fun as this seems,” Lily says sarcastically, “we’ll sit at this end of the table. I just came by to check on Noah.”
“Really?” I say, because this surprises me a lot. “But you never check on me. I think you came over to see Simon.”
“Whooaa!” Tyler and Josh explode, then double over laughing.
“NO-AH,” Lily says in a clipped, annoyed way, bugging her eyes out at me. “You’re so . . . disconnected.” She makes a disgusted noise, but I can see she’s blushing.
“Actually, I’m not disconnected,” I say. “I said that on purpose to embarrass you.”
This makes Tyler and Josh really crack up.
“You’re okay, Noah,” Tyler says and Josh nods.
Suddenly there’s the loud clinking sound of a fork against an aluminum travel coffee mug.
“Hello! Hello! Can I have your attention?” Rabbi Blum shouts. “I want you all to meet your head counselor and camp leader, Yipsy Greenbaum. I think you’ll also find him to be a good friend.”
“Hey everyone!” Yipsy exclaims.
“What kind of a name is Yipsy?” Simon whispers.
“And this is my old friend Mick Jagger,” Yipsy says, referring to a small, wiry hairball of a dog. “Say, hey, Mick,” Yipsy instructs him.
Mick Jagger yaps a few times and lies down at Yipsy’s feet.
Rabbi Blum’s phone rings loudly, filling the room with a full chorus of “Tradition” from Fiddler on the Roof. “What do you mean the synagogue’s air conditioning system shut down?” he blurts.
Moving briskly toward the door, he waves his cup at Yipsy, like he wants him to take over. “Call my wife . . . She’s where?”
“So,” Yipsy continues. “Like Rabbi Blum just explained, I’m pretty much the guy in charge.”
Yipsy’s in charge? He’s pretty young, maybe in college. I know this because my cousin’s in college, although Yipsy is way hairier than he is, with his dark beard and lots of dark curls. And he’s dressed in an old-school tie-dyed shirt and cargo shorts. He’s also got super fuzzy legs and wears sandals, like the hiker kind with bands all over them.
“I’ll make sure you have fun while your parents are home enjoying the quiet or are out boogieing,” he says enthusiastically.
“What’s boogieing?” Tyler whispers to us.
“He means dancing,” Simon says.
Josh pretends to check his phone. “Oh look, the 1980s called. They want Yipsy back.”
Someone makes a loud farting noise.
“Now settle down.” Yipsy makes a calming motion, flattening his palms against the air. “Not long ago, I was a camper like you, making the same obnoxious noises, but listen up. We’re gonna have a great time this summer.”
At this point, a scowling stocky lady strides in, a laptop under her beefy arm and her hair pulled back in a tight bun. She wears purple leggings and a purple velour hoodie with a black bag strapped across her body.
Yipsy gestures to her. “But first, let me introduce this lovely lady here, your mom away from home, Nurse Leibowitz.”
“Hello,” she says in a baritone voice, narrowing her eyes at us.
Mick Jagger whines and belly-crawls under a nearby table.
“She’s nothing like my mom.” Josh makes a face.
“Nurse Leibowitz is new to Camp Challah,” Yipsy continues, “and I bet she’s feeling a little uncertain, maybe a little nervous . . .”
Nurse Leibowitz glares at him sternly.
“Or not,” Yipsy mutters. Then to us: “How about we give her a big Camp C hey!”
“Hey,” comes the halfhearted response.
Nurse Leibowitz whispers something in Yipsy’s ear.
“Seems that Nurse Leibowitz has prepared a short safety video for you.”
She pushes a large-screen TV into the middle of the room and connects her computer.
“Great.” Tyler rolls his eyes.
We’re subjected to five minutes of a really gory self-made YouTube video, with pictures of all the bloody, awful things that can happen at camp if you’re not careful, like:
deadly snake bites
dismemberment from boating accidents caused by fooling around
getting lost in the woods and dehydrating to death
swimming with no lifeguards and drowning
And so on, until we’re all super nervous and a few of the younger kids in the back are crying.
“So, you see, children,” Nurse Leibowitz says, switching off her computer, “safety before fun.”
“Er, thank you,” Yipsy says uncomfortably. “That was very informative.”
“I could be at the football club right now hanging out with my mates,” Simon laments, sadly swiping through his phone.
“Now,” says Yipsy with a smile, “here’s something really fun . . .”
Nurse Leibowitz scowls at him.
“Um . . . safe and fun. We have lots of traditions at Camp C. We have our awesome Friday night Shabbat services, accompanied by marshmallow roasts and sing-alongs by the campfire, weather permitting, as well as a whole host of courses and activities, many of which incorporate a Jewish perspective. Now this summer, we’re offering three new rockin’ courses. First, Israeli folk dancing with Ari, who’s visiting from Israel. Let’s make him feel at home.”
“Hey,” “Hi,” “Whaz up,” “How you doin’,” “Charmed I’m sure,” we all mumble—that last remark
coming from Simon, who responds to our eye rolls with a smirky “What?”
“Second,” Yipsy continues, “for you eleven-and-ups, we now have pre-Bar and Bat Mitzvah Project preparation, discussion and idea sharing with Nathan Blum, who’s very excited about helping you discover your mitzvah.”
I glance at Nathan, slouched over his book, his mouth slightly open, concentrating like nothing else in the world exists. Ari elbows Nathan. His head shoots up, his eyes looking like they’re refocusing on reality. He mumbles an anemic “Hey.”
“And finally,” Yipsy continues, “this is really special. We’re starting a new Camp C tradition. Every other night, we’re gonna have something called Show Your Stuff.”
A loud wolf whistle slides from the direction of the Rottweilers.
“Don’t get frisky now,” Yipsy chuckles, his shoulders bobbing up and down. “It’s an opportunity to display your talent. Like painting or dancing, sharing something you like to do or something you learned here at camp. So if anyone wants to . . .” he cups his hand around his ear.
Silence.
“If you want to . . .” he cups around his ear again.
Nothing.
“What’s he doing?” I ask.
“I think he’s cueing us,” Simon says.
“Show. Your. Stuff!” Yipsy shouts. “Let me hear you.”
“Show your stuff,” a few kids mumble.
“I can’t hear you,” Yipsy sings.
Simon shakes his head. “He’s mental.”
“Show your stuff,” a few more kids mumble.
“What?!” Yipsy squints. “Come on, I know you can do better than that.”
“Ugh, someone put him out of his misery already,” Josh says, flopping his head down on the table.
Nurse Leibowitz whispers in his ear.
“Nurse Leibowitz says if someone doesn’t volunteer, she’s gonna give you all early flu shots.” Yipsy forces a laugh. “But she’s just kidding, right, Nurse Leibowitz? What a kidder.”
Nurse Leibowitz doesn’t crack a smile.
“Me,” a voice finally rings out.
Yipsy beams. We all shift and pivot to see where the voice is coming from. And from out of a lone seat in the shadows in the corner, Mia stands up.
“I want to sing,” she says.
Chapter 8
“Who’s that?” Lily asks, scrunching up her nose like she’s just smelled something bad.
Mia clomps up to the front of the room, the tongues of her boots flapping as she goes. She noisily drags a stool across the floor, climbs onto it, places her guitar across her knees, and stares solemnly out into the faces of the curious, whispering campers.
Excitedly, I fumble for my phone and push record.
“What’s your name?” Yipsy asks.
“Mia,” she responds coolly.
“So, Mia, what are you gonna rock us out to?”
“It’s an original song,” she announces.
She strums her guitar with one hand, adjusting the knobs of the neck with the other, which makes the chords go all wonky. A few minutes pass, and kids start fidgeting.
“What’s she waiting for?” Simon says.
“Isn’t she awesome?” I say.
“She’s . . . something.” Simon frowns.
“Sing, sing, sing!” some kids begin to chant.
Finally, Mia begins, her warbly voice lifting into the eaves.
Out the window behind her, the early evening sky is turning another shade of gray, and the moon is low and full. Its crevices and shadows give the impression of a lopsided, smiling face on a flat white head. It makes a cool background shot for my short opus.
This time, Mia’s song is about the trees and rivers turning from green to mucky brown, about animals covered in sludge and dying with glassy eyes, and about the air becoming a wall of thick gray smoke. The last verse is about remembering to recycle, leading to a high note about nuclear waste. She strums another loud chord for emphasis, stops abruptly, and stares deadpan into the crowd.
“Yikes!” Tyler’s eyebrows arch into his forehead.
“Well, that was cheery,” Josh remarks.
Yipsy smiles, bobs his head up and down, and leads a few scattered claps as Mick Jagger barks and wags his tail.
Looking satisfied—oblivious to the farting noises, snorts, and sneezes of the word “loser”—Mia hops off the stool and returns to her seat, where her bunkmates have their faces buried in their phones.
Chairs scrape as everyone starts for the door.
My friends might think she’s strange, but Mia’s singing makes me feel tingly and new. Like when you accidentally pick up a dog’s shock collar by the electric fence. Or like when waves crash up on the beach and spray cold spikes of water, burning your sunburned skin like fiery pricks. Or like when you stand outside right before a storm and a tree branch whips into your face. Or like when unexpected thunder cracks so hard, you feel your bladder squeeze a little . . .
“Noah? Noah, are you in there?” Simon snaps his fingers in front of my face.
“Huh?”
“Time to go,” Josh says.
As my new friends and I file out of the mess hall, I shoot Mia a thumbs up. The corners of her mouth twitch into a smile before she turns away and bumps her chair closer to her bunkmates, who are huddled together, laughing about something.
As we amble across the clearing, Josh finds a glow Frisbee on the ground, and he and Tyler start whizzing it back and forth.
“I thought she was cool,” I say to Simon, who’s swiping his phone.
He doesn’t answer and he looks kind of somber and I can’t tell if he’s sad or just concentrating. I want to ask him more questions, like what his friends’ names are, what he likes about them, what kinds of things they do together, and if he thinks that we can ever be good friends.
But the only thing I can figure is that he looks like he doesn’t want to talk.
Now the sky is inky dark blue. Stars are popping like white pricks through a black cloth, and only the tiki lights along the path and the bright moon light the way. That space between night and day feels like something between different times and worlds. It’s like anything magical can happen, and Mia’s song loops over and over in my head.
Suddenly, I’m inspired!
“Hey, I have an idea!” I say to Simon. “I’m gonna put the footage of Mia singing into my short audition film for the DLFC extended summer program.”
Simon glances up as if he suddenly remembers I’m here. “Is that a good idea?”
“Sure,” I answer. “It’s perfect. And I can even, like, preview my film—at ‘Show Your Stuff!’”
“Noah . . .” he starts, but at that moment, a pigeon swoops down from the trees, circles around over my head, and lands squarely on my shoulder.
“Could that be the same pigeon from before?” Simon asks.
“Must be,” I say, blinking back from his flapping wings.
“Hold still,” Simon commands. “I’ve got to get a picture of this for my mates. Smile!”
He shoots and sends it. Within seconds, his phone pings back.
“My mates think your bird friend is brilliant,” he laughs. “They say we should give him a name.”
“Hmm. A name . . . that’s a good idea. How about Sal?” I offer, thinking of Pops’s singing buddy from the army.
“Sal.” Simon ponders for a moment. “I like it. Hold on now, Sal.” Simon gently reaches for the little ragged paper attached to his leg. But Sal keeps hopping out of his reach, turning, dancing down my arm and back again.
“I’ll hold him,” I say. I reach up, and he hops into my hand, cooing and vibrating as I stroke his chest.
Simon unties the note. We hold our breath in anticipation as I unfold it. “What’s it say?” Simon asks.
“It says, The clock is ticking! and Saving the world takes gumption!”
“What’s gumption?”
“It’s an old-fashioned word for courage.”
“Wait.�
�� Simon moves toward Sal, who is still hopping around on my shoulder. “Looks like there’s a note on his other leg.”
Gently, he reaches in and unties that one. It reads, Got gumption?
“What in the ruddy world is he talking about now?” Simon mutters in way that sounds rhetorical.
Do I have gumption? Generally, I think I do. I mean, no one likes to think of themselves as cowardly. But if I were in a dangerous situation, what would I do? Run? Defend myself? Would I have enough gumption to save someone else? Or, in this case, would I have the courage to save the world, which is basically inhabited by a bunch of strangers?
I find the stub of a pencil in my pocket.
I scribble my answer on one of the tiny slips of paper, attach it back to Sal’s foot, and shoo him off into the night sky. I feel all tingly with excitement.
The note says, YES.
Chapter 9
Now we have three notes from Pops. And all this intrigue is making my stomach feel kind of jumpy—but in a good way. We head toward the bunk, and Simon and I are really psyched about sharing the story with Josh and Tyler.
“But first, we’ve got to get rid of Nathan,” Simon announces.
“Why?”
“He’s a counselor,” Simon says, wrinkling his nose.
“Don’t you like him?” I ask.
“That’s not the point,” Simon replies curtly.
I feel like he thinks I should just know what the point is. I don’t.
“I mean, it’s not that I don’t like him,” Simon adds. “He just—well, he doesn’t have to hang out with us, now does he?”
He explains that he’s that heard the counselors don’t usually hang out with the campers after dark. Mostly, they just check to see you’re okay and then meet up with their friends at the canteen on the other side of the clearing. But Simon’s nervous that Nathan doesn’t really have any friends. And Simon thinks the only upside of going to sleepaway camp is the chance to be kind of independent and not have someone older breathing down your neck.
Josh and Tyler are already in the cabin, playing games on Josh’s computer. Simon puts his finger to his lips, signaling for them to be quiet, and points to the slightly open door between our bunk and Nathan’s.
Noah Green Saves the World Page 4
