“When was this filmed?” I ask.
“In 1946,” Pops says. “Right after the big war. And that’s me there.” Pops points to a skinny guy sitting next to George’s cousin. He looks frighteningly like me—young and earnest with a full head of short, curly hair.
“And that’s Sal over there.” Pops points to another guy on the screen.
“Hey, the pigeon’s namesake!” Josh grins.
“And that’s Sammy Swap, ’cause he loved to swap things, and that’s Jimmy the Sausage, ’cause he loved sausage. And there’s George.” Pops points to a younger version of George, still stocky with big glasses and tufts of hair teasing out from under one of those soft army hats.
“I’m the good-lookin’ one.” George chuckles.
“And that one smoking a cigarette, that was Moe, but we called him Chimney because he was always smokin’.”
“Even in his sleep.” George shakes his head. “I was always throwing water on him just to keep us from going up in a blaze. Remember that, Mel?”
Pops and George chuckle, then sigh sadly.
“Good men,” George says, removing his hat and placing it across his chest. “Good men.”
Pops sniffles and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.
I hate seeing Pops like this. Stepping over all the stuff, I sidle up next to him. “It’s all right, Pops,” I say, placing my arm around his bony shoulder. “It’s okay to be upset. After all, they were your best mates.”
“You’re a good boy, Ned.” He pats my hand and doesn’t even pull away.
“Shush now. Here it is.” George turns up the remote.
Bobby Running Feather starts talking.
“My cousin was a code talker,” George tells us.
“What’s a code talker?” Josh asks.
“I know,” Tyler says. “I read about it in history. They were Native Americans, specifically Navajos, recruited during World War II. They used the Navajo language to send secret messages that the enemy couldn’t decode.”
“That’s right!” George exclaims. “And my cousin was the best.”
“What does that have to do with asteroids?” Josh asks.
“We’re getting to that,” Pops says, stabbing a bunch of keys on the laptop keyboard. “Dagnabbit, does this get any louder?”
“But here’s something I bet you kids didn’t know,” George says. “Some of these men were working with scientists on a new thing called the space program.”
“But the space program didn’t start until 1961,” Tyler says, and we all turn to him. Is there any obscure fact this kid doesn’t know?
“What?” Tyler shrugs a little defensively. “I’m a space nerd.”
“Many Native American cultures knew about what we now call astronomy long before white people figured out the world was round,” George says.
“Okay, everyone, stop yapping. Here it comes,” Pops says, pointing to the screen.
Bobby Running Feather pulls out a map—the same one we’re looking at now!
There’s also a close shot of a clay tablet covered with some kind of writing. The men are very serious, nodding and saying things that sound like, “Coordinates . . . slam into earth . . . on this tablet . . . hide it . . Levy Homestead . . . this film, for my descendants . . . their responsibility . . . to find . . . to save the world.”
The men exchange looks of solemn solidarity. Right afterward, the video goes fuzzy and buzzes out. George carefully removes the DVD and gently places it back in his satchel.
“So . . . what exactly does all of this mean?” I ask.
“The tablet is written in code,” Pops shrugs. “That’s the point.”
“Excuse me,” Simon says. “But what’s the point?”
Pops exhales such a loud huff of exasperation that his whole body goes concave. “That tablet contains a formula to pinpoint the coordinates of the asteroid. Bobby hid the tablet somewhere near the Levy Homestead, and we need to find it to decode the changing coordinates!” He throws his arms up in the air.
“But what about the government?” Tyler asks. “Those guys must already know about this. About the asteroid.”
“No, no, no.” George pulls his hat back on and shakes his head so hard that it slides over his ear. “No!”
“So . . . that’s a no?” Josh quips.
George shoots him a dark look. “Don’t be a smart aleck!”
“The government won’t listen to us,” Pops explains. “For years after the war, we tried to tell those hippie scientists. Just last March, George and I took the Greyhound to Washington . . .”
“That was the bus to Atlantic City,” George corrects. “In January, we took the train to Washington.”
“Anyways,” Pops says. “We tried to tell them. We even showed them the footage.”
“And?” Simon asks.
“And nothin’,” George says. “They wanted to see the tablet. When we said we don’t have it, they treated us like fools. They said there’s no Agatha, gave us souvenir mugs, and sent us home.”
“That’s why we need to find the tablet—to prove it,” Pop adds. “Once they see it, they got all kinds of archeology techniques to test it. Authenticate it.”
“But Mr. Pops,” Simon says gently, “it seems a bit unlikely that NASA and all the other space programs wouldn’t know there was a big asteroid hurtling toward Earth.”
“I didn’t say they didn’t know,” Pops says, narrowing his eyes slyly. “I said they said they didn’t know. They don’t want us to know they know. Because then we”—Pops makes a huge circle with his arms—“and everyone else will know. Without the tablet, they can dismiss us like we’re old kooks.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Josh says softly.
“Think about it, son,” George adds. “What do you think would happen if those government people admitted to knowing this? If it got out to the general population?”
“Mass hysteria?” Tyler says.
“Yahtzee,” George says, nodding.
“Or maybe,” Pops says conspiratorially, “they want that asteroid to hit us. Then all the important people can escape in a spaceship, and it won’t matter to them if the planet is blown to bits. That’s why we need to prove it! Bring it to the people. Force those scientist hippies to destroy Agatha.”
“How?” Josh asks.
“They can do it,” Pops insists.
“Your pops is right,” Tyler says. “I just read something about new technology scientists are using to circumvent and destroy asteroids.”
“So is that what the Rottweilers were looking for?” I ask. “The tablet with the secret code?”
“Who? Rottweilers?” Pops says. “You got dogs now?”
“He means those bullies he mentioned before, don’t ya?” George asks. “Nah, they’re probably just lookin’ for antiques to sell to souvenir shops. Happens every year. Some kids figure out they can dig up some wooden spoons and make some change. Nobody can keep ’em off the site.”
Outside, the morning is glowing up the place, and crystals of light are dancing off the pool. A car pulls up to the door and idles in the parking spot. Simon’s phone pings. We catch eyes. Must be the taxi.
Wow, talk about a confusing room! I want to believe Pops and George and the video. And if the fate of the world is hanging in the balance, then I need to help. This is a serious do-the-right-thing mitzvah moment, after all. But could it really be true?
Outside, a horn blares in short spurts.
“We gotta go,” I say as we all start inching toward the door. “It’s almost dawn.”
“You boys need a lift?” George offers.
“NO!” we shout in unison—a little too enthusiastically.
George’s face falls, so I try to soften the blow. “I mean, thanks, but we’re good.”
We bolt out of the motel door and dive into the taxi. Back to camp and real life. Within seconds, we’re swerving onto the main road. Josh and Tyler stare out the windows, looking like they’re deep in thought.
Simon swipes at what looks like a million texts. Once again, I can’t read his room at all.
My thoughts wander to Mia and her song. She’s so worried about burping containers destroying humanity, but Earth’s destruction might have nothing to do with any of that at all. I’d like to tell her about Ari the Lion and about doing my part to repair the world by trying to stop disaster from striking. I want to show her how I’ve been capturing it all on film for generations to come. We can talk about how film is a powerful medium after all. I mean, just look how the World War II footage of Pops, George, and Bobby Running Feather reached all the way through time to help us. And wouldn’t Nathan be super interested in all this too? Talk about Kabbalah! This here is some serious Jewish mysticism mojo!
I miss Mia and wish I’d asked for her permission before I showed my footage of her. I can only hope she wants to talk to me again.
In the distance, some birds circle the lake, like they’ve probably been doing since forever. What if we can’t save the world? What if we’ll really all be gone soon? All that wasted time! All that algebra homework that never mattered after all, all those chores, all that time I worried about not fitting in. And maybe now there’ll be no chance to grow up or ever get to DLFC.
I remove my camera and play back all the footage I’ve taken since heading off to camp. Family. Adventure. Mia. New mates. And now this.
The twisted wire that’s sculpted to look like interlocking bread strands—the gate of Camp Challah—comes into view.
Maybe we can prevent the world from being destroyed by Agatha. Maybe this is my chance to really make a difference.
Chapter 21
We creep back onto the camp grounds, and it’s like we’ve never been gone. All around us, the daily noises and sights of morning are beginning. Kids are congregating in clumps across the lawns or strolling toward their classes or heading down the embankment to the lake.
Rabbi Blum is giving his morning talk by the flagpole, so we quietly slip into a row by the back. This morning, it’s something about a wise rabbi from the Middle Ages and a parable about villages, faith, and livestock. Without Simon interacting and being super interested, the rabbi has been working hard to get a stimulating discussion going.
Fortunately, Simon, now present, asks lots of questions, including why pigs aren’t kosher. This gets the rabbi super excited. He waves his travel mug around and launches into a big explanation until his phone erupts in a rousing version of the Maccabeats singing “Dynamite.”
Everyone bolts in a dozen different directions.
“Hey, Noah,” a voice rings out behind me.
It’s Nathan.
Simon, Tyler, Josh, and I exchange guilty and “oh-so-busted” looks.
“Handle it,” Simon whispers in my ear before he and my other mates head off toward the mess hall.
“But . . .” I call after them. Too late. I brace myself and swivel around. “Hi, Nathan,” I chirp, straining to seem casual.
“So,” Nathan says, shoving his book into one of his baggy shorts pockets, “I checked in on you guys a couple of times last night, and you weren’t there.”
“Yeah, about that . . .” I start, my mouth tugging in all directions. It’s so hard to make your face look like you’re not lying when you’re just about to. Especially when you keep lying to the same guy. “Sorry. We were, um . . . Are we in trouble?”
Nathan stares at me hard for a few seconds. I cannot read his room at all.
“Nah,” he finally says. “But I would like to know what you were doing.”
Janine and Sarah slide by, both looking cheery in the tie-dyed shirts they probably made in Not Your Mother’s Tie-Dye. Janine’s long blond braids swat at her shoulders as she moves.
“Hey, Nathan,” she says, smiling. “We’ll all be at the lake after dinner if you want to join.”
A burst of bright crimson blooms at the base of his neck and creeps slowly into his face, and he works up a smile that looks more like a grimace. He sort of nods, then sort of stops until his face goes slack.
“Oookaay.” Janine draws out the word and knits her brows. “Well, we’ll be there.”
“Ahikejk,” Nathan mutters. He holds up his palm in a wave, then awkwardly slams it against his chest like he’s doing the Pledge of Allegiance.
Sarah breaks into a giggle, and she and Janine rush off, Janine’s braids flapping behind her.
“What did you just say?” I ask.
“I—I don’t know,” Nathan says, looking mortified.
“Do you want me to teach you about girls?” I say, leaning in confidentially. “I mean, I’m no expert, but I think I’ve got a handle on the basics.”
Nathan looks crestfallen.
“Well, for one,” I say, “you have to speak English. And don’t do that thing with your hand.”
“Yeah, well, back to you.” Nathan straightens and clears his throat. “Just tell me where you guys were and what you were doing, okay?”
Should I tell him? No. Probably not. Better to go with a half-truth.
“I was researching my Bar Mitzvah project about saving the world,” I say, “and my mates were helping me. Then we took a walk around camp. Then we sat down and rested. Then we talked some more. Then we dozed off over there in the pine needles. Then we hit the outhouse. Then we—”
“Got it,” Nathan interrupts, holding up his palms. “At any rate, I’m glad you were working on your project. We can talk about it later if you like. Maybe after the last activity, before dinner, or—”
“Pssst, come on!” Tyler pokes his head out of the mess hall door, saving the day.
“Um, I’ll let you know,” I say to Nathan. “Gotta go!”
“Sure,” he calls out after me. “Just no more all-nighters, ’kay?”
“No problem!” I swing through the screen doors.
Of course, I shouldn’t have made that promise. But it really won’t be a problem if Agatha the asteroid blasts the planet to bits.
“Didn’t we just eat?” I ask, jumping into the food line behind Simon.
“That was hours ago,” he responds. “Besides, that meal threw off my internal clock. Gotta reset. How’d it go with Nathan?”
“Fine. I told him I was working on my Bar Mitzvah project and you guys were helping. I was vague.”
“You mean you lied?” Josh grins.
“Well, for his own safety.” I frown. “You think that’s bad?”
“I’m just messin’ with you!” Josh punches my arm. “It’s cool. The truth would just get him upset.”
“Yeah, sometimes lying is the best option,” Tyler adds solemnly. “A famous Talmudic scholar once said you have to be cruel to be kind.”
“Really?” Simon cocks his head. “Was it Rabbi Akiva from the first century?”
“No.” Tyler rolls his eyes. “I’m kidding. It’s a song from the eighties.” He hums out the tune as we slide down the food line with our trays.
“This might sound ridiculous,” Josh remarks, “but I’m too tired to be tired.”
“I know what you mean,” Tyler agrees.
“Actually,” Simon adds, “now I’m staaaaarving.”
“Look, it’s pancake day!” Josh says brightly.
“Pancakes and maple syrup.” Simon looks dreamy. “Lovely.”
“Lovely?” Josh echoes. “Dude, you need to Americanize your vocabulary.”
Simon flips him a universal gesture. “American enough for you?” he says.
“Now you’re gettin’ it.” Josh grins.
“Hurry up before everyone scarfs up the chocolate chip ones,” Tyler says.
I stop dead in my tracks. Could they really have forgotten about saving the world?
“Come along, Noah,” Simon says crisply, as they pile up their plates.
My eyes sweep the room, but I don’t see Mia—just her friends at their usual table, laughing and yakking.
“Aren’t you guys worried about, ya know, the world?” I ask them quietly.
�
�What about it?” Josh says, popping a hash brown into his mouth.
“Are you kidding?!” I say.
“This way,” Simon says, catching Lily’s eye and gesturing for us to sit with her and her friends.
The Rottweilers enter the mess hall. I keep my head down and pick up my pace, bumping right into Tyler’s back.
“Hey, watch it, Noah,” he says.
“It’s Mike and Jake,” I whisper hoarsely into his shoulder.
“So what?” Josh throws his leg over the bench.
“Good morning, ladies,” Simon says coolly as he slides in next to Lily.
“Hey, Simon.” Lily tilts her head, tucks a stray hair behind her ear, and gives me a dark look.
“Your hair is like, everywhere, Noah. Could you at least try and look normal?” she says.
“Sorry, Lily. I was just up all night trying to save the world from a killer asteroid.”
“And, once again, I’m sorry I’m even talking to you,” she says, pivoting her body toward Simon.
“Snaps from my mates,” Simon says to Lily, showing her his phone. “Want to see?”
How can they all be acting like nothing is wrong?
“Nice action shots,” Lily notes.
“Yeah, nice,” I say, wiggling my eyebrows in Simon’s direction. “Especially since Earth and everyone on it is going to die soon.”
“He means . . . it’s a death match. Football—er, soccer death match.” Simon arches his eyebrow at me.
“Shouldn’t we be talking about the thing?” I persist.
“What thing?” Josh says, spraying me with bits of pancake.
“You don’t really believe all that stuff, do you?” Tyler asks.
“Well . . . yes,” I say. “I think I do.”
“It’s just two lonely old guys,” Josh says, taking a swig of juice, “making up stuff for attention. Happens all the time.”
“It does?”
“Sure,” Tyler says. “It’s like when an old lady calls the cops because she thinks there’s a burglar, but there isn’t one.”
“Yeah.” Josh nods. “A couple of months ago, my neighbor Mrs. Goldstein, who’s like a hundred, called the fire department because her cat, Waffles, was up a tree. Then she made those guys hang around and drink iced tea for, like, an hour.”
Noah Green Saves the World Page 10
