Noah Green Saves the World

by Laura Toffler-Corrie

  “Simon?” I say. “You believe it, don’t you?”

  “Um, not really,” he says over Lily’s head.

  “What?!” I blurt out. “What about everything we just saw and heard? What about the video and”—I lean in—“the Rottweilers?”

  “Well, yeah, they’re jerks and thieves, but that’s life.” Josh downs the rest of his juice, crumbles his napkins, and chucks them onto his tray.

  “So that’s it?” I ask in disbelief. “You’re not gonna do anything about it?”

  “Sorry, dude,” Josh says as he and Tyler get up to leave. “Not that civic-minded. Besides, it’s time for canoeing.”

  “I’ve got archery,” Tyler says.

  “I’ve got Advanced Anatomy for Future Surgeons.” Simon lifts his tray as Lily and her friends also stand to go.

  “But, but—” I stammer as they move around me.

  “See you later, mate.” Simon pats my back.

  I can’t believe my ears. Doesn’t anyone care about saving the world?

  As if on cue, Mia slides through the door. Aha! Now, talk about someone who’s civic-minded! Talk about someone who cares about the world!

  Mia smiles at Trina, Marisa, and Jyll and heads their way. Jyll’s eyes slide up at her, but she doesn’t smile or wave. She just scowls before leaning back toward her friends.

  Looking like she’s been slapped, Mia stops dead, then veers away to sit at a corner table by herself. She stirs her oatmeal but doesn’t even eat it, glancing up every few seconds to steal a glance at the girls. Finally, Mia’s face crumbles, and she rushes from the mess hall. I rush out after her.

  Adjusting my eyes to the bright morning sun, I catch flashes of her black boots weaving through the brush, cutting across the camp grounds toward the trail leading to the homestead site.

  “Mia!” I call out and take off after her—across the lawn, past the volleyball court, and onto the dirt trail. “Mia!”

  Suddenly, a meaty hand grips my arm hard and jerks me back.

  “You!” Jake Rottweiler snarls into my face. “You’re just the guy I was looking for.”

  “Me?” I squeak.

  “I wanna talk to you,” he says.

  “Oh, well, great! I’d love that,” I blather. “But, oh, look at the time.”

  I glance at my watchless wrist. “I’m late for Mosaic Art for Budding Chagalls. Then I gotta sprint down to the boathouse for Midmorning Tai Chi and—Help!” I blurt at some kids rushing toward the lake.

  “Shut up,” Jake growls, dragging me farther down the wooded path.

  Scraggly branches scratch my arms and legs, and my frightened breath is quick and shallow. My life flashes before my eyes: the porpoise aquarium with Bailey and Rex, Pops’s paranoid ramblings at his birthday party, Mom, Dad, Lily, camp, mates . . . Next, my mind wanders to the life I may never have: a date with Mia at a karaoke club, getting a standing ovation for my short opus at the DLFC, schmoozing with Hollywood players, winning an Oscar. Lily, in the audience, clapping proudly, saying, “That’s my brother.” Dad saying that if he could have chosen any son in the world, it would have been me! Images of me somehow saving the world. Doing lots and lots of tikkun olam. Being a Jewish hero like Moses.

  No, no, I think wildly. Life can’t end like this!

  “Where are we going?” I sputter. “Can’t we talk about this? If you let me live, I won’t tell anyone about your stealing and potentially interfering with saving humanity as we know it.”

  “WHAT?” Jake snaps.

  “I’m sorry, I meant to say—I won’t rat you out about your business endeavor, even though it’s kind of illegal. Please don’t kill me. Or hurt me a lot.”

  “Shuddup!” he barks.

  We reach a small clearing near a burnt-out campfire. Mike Rottweiler is there, leaning against a tree, chewing on a long stalk of grass.

  Jake throws me down. The grainy dirt scrapes my knees and the palms of my hands.

  “Get up,” Mike commands.

  Slowly, I pull myself to my feet. Trying to be inconspicuous, I reach into my backpack. If only I could turn on my camera or phone.

  Mike smacks my arm. “No camera, geek.”

  “Yeah, don’t even think about it,” Jake chimes in.

  “People will be looking for me,” I croak.

  “Who?” Mike taunts.

  “My mates,” I say.

  “Pffft!” Jake snorts a laugh. “Yeah, right.”

  “And, um, my pops. And my sister, Lily . . . well, maybe not Lily. But Rabbi Blum and Nathan and Yipsy, once they notice I’m gone. Eventually my parents, my teachers, the police—who’ll probably put out an Amber Alert—and Channel 12 news and maybe the mayor. He’s good friends with my uncle Larry. George, the old folks at Shady Pines . . . although they don’t really go outside much, but they have cell phones and can make plenty of calls. My—”

  “Will you SHUT UP!” Jake shouts, up in my face.

  We stare at each other for what seems like forever. I wish I knew what they were thinking! Please, God, if I ever I needed help reading a room, it’s now.

  “So . . .” I try, “how do you like camp?”

  “Stop talking!” Mike groans.

  “Whadda we do with him?” Jake says.

  “Is that rhetorical?” I ask. “Because, if not, you could just let me go so—”

  “Shuddup,” Mike barks yet again. “What did you bring him here for?”

  “You told me to!” says Jake.

  While they bicker, I inch away toward the trees. If I could just get to that grouping of pines, I could sprint my way back to the lake and civilization.

  Jake grabs my arm. “You’re not going anywhere,” he growls.

  “Let’s just tell ’im,” Mike squints his eyes menacingly at me. “And then I’ll punch him or something so he knows we’re serious.”

  “You can just tell me,” I say. “No punching is necessary.”

  Jake pins my arms while Mike moves so close to my face that I can count the pimples on his forehead. There are twelve. Plus two whiteheads and a pockmark scar where he must have scratched a pimple too hard.

  “Listen,” Mike says. “What you saw and heard the other night. You didn’t see or hear it. Got it?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  He steps back.

  “Is that it?”

  “You want more?” Mike growls, pushing in even closer so that now I can count the underdeveloped hair bristles on his upper lip. There are seven.

  “No, no,” I say. “I’m good.”

  “Great.” Jake nods to Mike. “Now punch him out. Make it bloody.”

  Mike pulls his fist back.

  “Wait, wait!” I cower. “I just wanna know, before I’m supposed to forget, the valuable thing you were looking for. What is it?”

  “None of your beeswax!” Jake yells.

  “You don’t know, do you?”

  “Duh, of course we know,” Mike snaps.

  “Because it’s pretty special,” I say.

  “Whaddaya mean?” Mike squints quizzically.

  “Will you punch this guy already?” Jake huffs.

  “Wait! Wait,” I beg. “It’s just that I bet you’re not getting enough money for it. I bet your boss is ripping you off.”

  “Pffftt,” Mike snorts. “Well, I been sayin’ that since fourth grade.”

  Fourth grade?

  “I could give you lots more money for it,” I say. “Lots.”

  “Yeah?” Mike narrows his eyes. “Where would you get lots of money?”

  “I have a very rich contact,” I answer. “Just let me go, and I’ll contact my contact, and my contact can be your contact, and you’ll make a contact that will be worth your while. Who is your contact, by the way?”

  “Huh?” Mike says.

  “He’s lying,” Jake says. “Just beat him up so he knows not to mess with us anymore. So he knows he’ll get it worse if he squeals.”

  “I’m not lying,” I say. “I swear. What you’
re looking for could save your life and the lives of everyone you know, including all your friends—if you have any, which I doubt. But you could be on the news.”

  “Which channel?” Mike asks.

  “All. All of the channels,” I say. “And cable and Netflix and Hulu and Amazon Prime.”

  “Okay, Turtle,” Mike says skeptically. “What is this thing that’s gonna make me a hero and get me on the news?”

  “It’s . . . it’s a secret code,” I say slowly. “About Agatha the asteroid.”

  “Oh for . . .” Jake says. “Mike, just beat him up already. I got Virtual Reality Space Travel to Israel in five minutes.”

  “It’s true, I swear!” I insist. “I could explain it better if you weren’t squeezing my forearm and cutting off the blood supply to my brain.”

  Jake loosens his grip, and I break for the woods. But Mike jumps into my path. He grabs me and yanks me hard by my shirt collar.

  “OW, OW, OW!” I yell.

  “I haven’t even hit you yet,” Mike says, pulling back his fist. “You ready?” He grins sadistically, aiming right for my eye.

  “Not the face!” I yell. “A filmmaker’s eyes are his windows to the world!”

  He moves his fist to the right.

  “Not the shoulder! That’s where I balance my camera!”

  He aims lower.

  “Not the stomach! I’m lactose intolerant!”

  He smirks and aims way down.

  “Oh, no! Definitely no! No, not there!” I plead.

  Mike rolls his eyes, pulls his fist back, and aims straight for my nose.

  “OWWWWWW!” I scream and twist my head before he even makes contact.

  “Help me hold him, Jake,” Mike commands.

  I wonder what could make someone enjoy this so much.

  “You must be very unhappy to enjoy hurting me,” I say. “But you know, the sign in Rabbi Blum’s office says, Only Hashem Can Heal All Wounds!”

  “Do it!” Jake grunts, struggling against my struggling.

  “Okay, do it!” I yell. “But you won’t stop me from saving the world!”

  Mike screws up his face and tightens his fist, pulling it way, way back. I brace for contact.

  “OWWWWW!!!!” I howl again, preemptively.

  “Leave him alone!” a voice booms from behind the trees.

  We all turn to see Mia, standing by the edge of the trail, holding a large forked branch in her hands.

  Chapter 22

  “Ha! Whaddaya gonna do?” Mike says.

  “Yeah, you gonna sing us some dumb song about peeeace and looove?” Jake draws out the words, following them up with loud kissing sounds.

  On cue, Mia does indeed break into song in her low, warbly style. It’s something about peace, love, toxic car emissions, and slingshots.

  And while Mike and Jake stare, like, totally perplexed and confused, Mia lifts the forked branch, fits a small rock against the thick rubber band stretched across it, takes aim, and shoots. A rock whizzes past Jake’s ear at lightning speed.

  “Hey!” Jake winces, cupping his head. He releases his grip on me, and I bound over to Mia, who reloads with another rock.

  “Next time,” she announces, “I won’t miss.”

  Stunned and wide-eyed, Mike and Jake bolt.

  “Come on!” I grab Mia’s arm, and we run the other way, panting and stumbling as we go, not looking back to see if the Rottweilers following us until we’re all the way at the far side of the lake.

  In the distance, dozens of kids and counselors are gathered, happily swimming and paddling canoes. I spot Josh, Tyler, and Simon goofing around, playing Star Wars lightsabers with some oars until Yipsy steps in, directing them to a group doing the slow dance of Tai Chi.

  “Hey!” I wave, trying to catch Simon’s eye.

  “Wait!” Mia pulls me back behind the trees. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “Oh. Um. I guess I forgot to say thanks,” I say awkwardly. I reach for her hand and give it a few hearty shakes. “You saved the day back there.”

  “Um, yeah.” She jerks her hand back, wiping it on her shorts. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Um . . . I liked your song?” I try.

  “And?” she prompts.

  “And your really superior slingshot work.”

  “And?” she repeats and waits.

  Suddenly, I’m embarrassed to talk to her—to tell her about Pops, Agatha, saving the world, and how she and Moses are my role models for doing tikkun olam.

  It was so way easier when I talked to Mia in my daydreams. I was suave and not awkward. The words flowed, and sometimes I even had a British accent like Simon. I made clever jokes and she laughed. And I was wearing cool boots—okay, so that part was weird, but it made me feel confident.

  “Noah!” Mia snaps her fingers in front of my face. “You there?”

  “Oh, sorry,” I say. “I was just . . . thinking.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe you could do that later. I’m kind of late for Glass Blowin’ in the Wind. What was that all about anyway? How did you end up alone in the woods with those bullies?”

  But before I can even answer, her face darkens, and she looks away. “Forget it. I really shouldn’t even be talking to you.”

  And all of a sudden, her room is really confusing, and I don’t even know where to begin. Is she still mad at me from the other day when she saw herself singing on the big screen during Show Your Stuff? I think she is. I’m sure it just didn’t match up with the daydream she has of herself.

  “Sometimes,” I say, “we don’t see ourselves like the camera sees us.”

  “Huh?”

  “The camera,” I repeat. “It’s the way the world see us. ’Cause the way we are in our heads kind of distorts how we are. Sometimes in good ways, sometimes in bad.”

  Mia chews the inside of her cheek, and her eyes swing over and settle squarely onto mine.

  “So I’m sorry if I distorted your head image,” I continue, “but I think you looked awesome on the screen during Show Your Stuff. And, like, that’s how I see you. Different.”

  “Yeah, right,” she says bitterly, picking up a dead leaf and shredding it. “Different. That’s code for weird.”

  “No way,” I say. “You’re different in a good way. You don’t need to change the letters of your name to seem special. You are special.”

  She tilts her face to mine. “Yeah?” A tiny smile tugs at her lips.

  “Like, people don’t get me sometimes,” I add, “but I’m kind of learning that the people who do get me are my real mates.”

  How have I not noticed the green and amber flecks in her brown eyes until now?

  “And you really care about things.” I’m on a roll. “Important things like toxic car emissions and plastic burp-y containers and the spiritual importance of the moon in connection with lady parts.”

  We’re leaning in close now, and it feels like I’m really reading her room and we’re connecting and I wish I was filming this for my opus, ’cause it’s even better than my daydream.

  “I do care about those things.” She nods. “I really do.”

  “And that’s, like, awesome,” I say.

  “Want to know something?” she asks quietly.

  I don’t answer. So far I’ve counted five green flecks around her irises.

  “Well, do you?” she persists.

  “Sorry, I thought you were being rhetorical.”

  “I don’t even like Trina or Marisa or Jyll,” she confides.

  “Then why do you try to so hard to get them to like you?”

  “You noticed that?” she says, her eyes widening in surprise. “You’re, like, perceptive.”

  Someone thinks I’m perceptive? That’s a first!

  “It’s just like . . .” She shrugs, twisting one of her earrings and looking far away. “At home, I’m the school weirdo and I’m okay with that. It sort of gives me, like, an identity. But sometimes I think about what it would be like to be coo
l, go to parties, have friends to text, have a boyfriend . . .” A slight pink blush crawls up her cheeks, and she slides her eyes to mine. “But the more I pretend to be like my bunkmates, the less they like me. That makes me feel all off balance and hurt, and I was starting to forget who I really am. Is that dumb?”

  I’m not sure because I’m distracted by how cute she looks and how her fingers wave around while she talks and how the dappled sun glints off her hair. Also, I’m super hungry, and I’m not really following what she’s saying.

  “Yes?” I try, hoping that’s the right answer.

  “Hey, ya know, I should turn all my feelings into a song,” she says, brightening. “It could be about social conscience vis-à-vis identity. Whaddaya think?”

  “It also has great cinematic potential,” I say. “Like a memoir opus with music.”

  As if on cue, my stomach makes a low, growly musical noise.

  “Yeah, me too.” She gestures to my stomach. “Let’s get lunch. We’ll see what’s organic.”

  I’m more in the mood for a hamburger than a plate of kale and carrot frizzies, but I’m feeling super excited because . . . is this a date?!

  We start back up the path—until she stops and grabs my arm.

  “But,” she says seriously, “I still wanna know what was going on back there. With Jake and Mike.”

  So now I’m stuck because I know that she’s not being rhetorical. Am I ready to tell her?

  At that moment, a pigeon swoops low on a branch, glares at me, and coos.

  “Later, Sal,” I call and wave him away.

  Mia shoots me a curious look as we climb out of the woods toward the mess hall.

  Chapter 23

  “Wow!” Mia exclaims, wiping the salad dressing dribbling down her chin.

  “So you believe me?” I ask.

  I’ve told her everything.

  “Well, sure!” she blurts enthusiastically. “I mean, life is full of unbelievable stuff. Funny, though—I’ve spent the last few years spreading the word about saving the planet from selfish consumerism and waste. But the real killer might just be some random asteroid from space named Agatha. That’s heady!”

  “Mmmm.” I nod.

  “But, like, it’s also kind of spiritual,” she says earnestly. “Like the universe is fed up with us or something. Like we’re being punished for being bad guardians of Mother Earth.”