“Really?”
“Sure,” he said. “My old baseball glove is somewhere at Poppy’s.”
“I think I saw it last summer when I was staying with Poppy,” I said. “It looks ancient, like an antique.”
“It is ancient,” he said. “We can get you a new glove if you want. Something a little more up-to-date.”
“As long as we don’t get it at the Dollar Shack,” I said.
“I promise,” he promised.
We hung around the park for a while longer. We weren’t really doing anything, but because we were out of the apartment, it seemed like we were doing something. Something was better than nothing.
We walked down to Park Street.
“I have an idea, boys,” said Dad. “Do you remember how I was talking about Elvis Presley? He used to eat a particular type of sandwich after his concerts. It’s called the Elvis. It’s basically a grilled peanut butter and banana sandwich. Anyone interested?”
“Elbith!” said Sam. “Elbith!”
“I’ll try one,” I said. It sounded weird, but it was something new. I thought it would be good practice for our staycation. According to Dad we’d be trying lots of new things during our staycation.
We picked up a loaf of bread from the store. Dad made the sandwiches for dinner. He made them so they were golden brown. They were sweet and crispy and crunchy and gooey. I’d never tasted anything like them. Sam had peanut butter and banana all over his face.
“Elbith!” he shouted. “Elbith!”
After dinner we all sat together and watched an episode of The Antique Hunter. Randolph Perry, the host of the show, found some old baseball cards. One of them was an old Babe Ruth card worth $65 000. Randolph found them in a shoebox in someone’s basement.
“Hey, Dad,” I asked. “Did you ever collect baseball cards?”
“I did,” he said. “I had quite a few, but I don’t know what happened to them.”
“Do you think they might still be at Poppy’s?” I asked.
“Maybe,” he said.
That gave me an idea. Maybe I could be like Randolph Perry and hunt for Dad’s old baseball cards. I was going to check Poppy’s basement. They might be worth a fortune!
19
The Elvis
Ingredients
2 slices of bread
1/2 banana, mashed
A generous smear of butter
A generous smear of smooth peanut butter
Directions
• Spread peanut butter on one piece of bread.
• Spread mashed banana on the other piece of bread.
• Gently press the slices together.
• Spread butter evenly on the outside of both pieces of bread.
• Place the sandwich in the frying pan and fry over low to medium heat for about 2 minutes.
• Flip the sandwich to fry the other side.
• Take out of the frying pan and let cool for 2 minutes.
• Slice diagonally.
• Enjoy the Elvis with a big glass of cold milk!
20
from: Rose
to: Henry <[email protected]>
subject: Viva Las Vegas
Darling Henry,
What a lovely surprise to receive your emails. You are such a good writer. I’m a lucky mom.
I’m glad Dad is taking good care of you. You can tell him I haven’t seen Elvis yet.
I’m sorry I haven’t written sooner. I’ve been so very busy since arriving here. I haven’t even left the hotel, if you can believe it. My time has been full of presentations and seminars. Last night there was a fancy dinner in one of the ballrooms. A hypnotist performed. He was wonderful. He made a whole table of people meow like cats. Every time they heard the word “Herbit” they meowed. It was very silly.
The people-watching here is fantastic! You’d love it! There are characters from all over the world.
When I get back I promise I will sign you up for something.
And yes, I knew about the shoes. I’m sorry Max made fun of them.
Big hugs to you and Sam and Dad.
Love,
Mom
21
We didn’t do much of anything on Sunday. It was cloudy, and all day it looked like it was going to rain. It never did. We went to the park, but it wasn’t as much fun as it was on Saturday. Sam didn’t want to go on the swings for some reason. There was no one playing catch.
Back at home I went through my closet, looking for something to do. I found the Rubik’s Cube I got for my eighth birthday. It was still in its package. I took it out of the package and put it on display on my bookcase. What was the point of messing it up when it was already solved?
Mom called after dinner. Dad talked to her for a while. Then Sam talked to her for a bit.
Finally, it was my turn.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, darling. How are you?”
“Fine.”
“I miss you.”
“Me, too!”
“I love your emails.”
“Me, too!”
“I’ll see you soon.”
“Okay.”
“Love you.”
“Love you.”
That was it. It was weird. I hadn’t been missing her before she called, but I really missed her after we hung up. She sounded like she was right there but she wasn’t. Home didn’t feel like home without her. It’s hard to explain.
“Do you miss Mom?” I asked Dad, sitting down next to him and Sam on the couch.
“Mama!” said Sam. He looked sad, like he might cry.
“It’s okay, Sam,” Dad said, snuggling him a little closer.
“Mama,” he said.
“So? Dad? Do you miss her?”
“I do,” he said. “But I have you guys to keep me busy, and that keeps me from missing Mom too much.”
“Mama,” Sam said again.
I figured I’d better stop talking about her or Sam would cry.
Our staycation was supposed to start the next morning. I still wasn’t sure what we’d be doing. Dad said when you’re on staycation you’re supposed to do the kinds of things you’d ordinarily do on vacation. We never go on vacation. Did that mean we’d be doing nothing?
I went and got the big dictionary from my bookcase. It used to be Poppy’s. He collects dictionaries. It’s old and heavy and the pages are crispy. The writing is tiny. There are drawings to explain the meanings of some of the words. I think it might be an antique. I looked for staycation but I couldn’t find it. I found staybolt and stayer but no staycation.
“Maybe there’s no such thing as a staycation,” I said to Sam, who was following me around like a puppy. “Maybe Dad made the whole thing up. Let’s look on the computer.”
“Up!” said Sam. “Up! Up!”
I lifted Sam up onto my lap so he could see the screen and I keyed in the letters.
I found it:
Staycation
stay·ca·tion
'stā-'kā-shǝn
1. A holiday that you spend at home and during which you pursue exciting activities.
2. A staycation is a period in which an individual or family stays home and does things that are within driving distance, often sleeping in their own beds at night. They might make day trips to local tourist sites, or engage in fun activities such as swimming, paintball, hiking or visiting museums. Staycations cost less than real vacations.
The final sentence seemed to say it all. The kind of vacation Dad was suggesting was one that was cheaper than a real vacation. So, it was more like a fake vacation.
I didn’t want a fake vacation.
I wanted something real.
22
When I woke up Monday morning Sam was sitting in
front of my bookcase. He already knows how to climb out of his crib in my parents’ room. Most mornings he climbs out and comes into my room before my parents are even awake. He likes to hang out and look at my stuff.
Sam was looking at my atlas. He looked at each page and then carefully turned to the next. Sometimes I think he understands everything. Sometimes I’m not sure if he understands anything at all.
“Hey, Sam,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Book!” he said.
“It’s a big book,” I said. “It’s almost bigger than you.”
I watched Sam for a bit and remembered that this was the official first day of my summer vacation. According to Dad, the past two days had been a normal weekend. Normal, that is, except my mom was in Las Vegas and Max was at camp. But this was a Monday, and on Mondays I was usually at school. So my summer vacation was officially starting. This was the day I was supposed to discover the true meaning of a staycation.
“So, it’s the first day of our staycation,” I said to Dad at breakfast. “What are we doing? What are the plans?”
“We’ll see,” he replied. “It’s still early.”
“Are you serious?” I said, slurping my cereal. “You haven’t thought of anything yet? This whole thing was your idea. I thought you’d have a whole schedule worked out by now.”
“I’ve been busy,” he said. “There seems to be so much more to do when Mom is away. I haven’t had a chance to think of anything. You must have some idea of what you’d like to do, Henry?”
I thought of Mr. Buntrock. On the last day of school he had made us promise we’d shoot for the moon. He’d told us we could do anything we want to do.
So I went for it.
“Remember when I told you about the bottle rockets at school?” I asked.
“What about them?”
“I think we should make our own bottle rockets right here at home,” I said. “That would be wicked.”
“Wicked?”
“Awesome,” I explained. “Wicked means it would be really awesome.”
Dad looked at me. Then he looked at Sam, who was eating his Oat-ee-os one at a time. Then he looked at me again.
“All right,” he said, finally. “Let’s do it! Let’s make bottle rockets!”
“Really?” I exclaimed, shocked that my dad was actually saying YES to something.
“Do you remember how to make them?” he asked.
“All you need is mints and diet cola,” I said. “You mix them and then … POW!”
“POW!” said Sam. “POW! POW! BOW WOW!”
“All-righty,” said Dad. “We’ll add mints and diet cola to today’s shopping list.”
We went to the store after lunch.
“This is going to be amazing,” I said as we were setting things up on the grass behind our apartment building. “When I drop the mints into the diet cola, the reaction is going to cause an explosion. You guys should stand back.”
“Back! Back!” said Sam, as my dad led him away so they were standing at the edge of the grass.
I opened one of the bottles and poured out some of the soda, just like we’d done at school. I stood the bottle carefully on the grass, making sure it wouldn’t tip over. Then I unwrapped the mints and dropped three of them into the bottle one at a time. I took a couple of quick steps back.
BOOM!
“Cool!” said Dad as the soda shot into the air.
“Woohoo!” I exclaimed, jumping up and down.
PPPPPFFFFFFFFFFFSSsssssssst!
“WHOA!” said Dad, obviously impressed.
Pppppppppfffffffffssssssssssssssssst …
“Isn’t this wicked?” I said, as the foam kept shooting out of the bottle. It went all over me. It went all over Sam. It went all over everywhere.
I looked over at Sam. He was a little too quiet. Sam is never that quiet unless he’s sleeping, pooping or getting ready to scream. He took a deep breath. Then he let loose with something that sounded almost exactly like the sound of the rocket.
“PPPPPFFFFFFFFththththththwaaaaahhhhh,” he cried, drops of soda dripping from his cheeks. I couldn’t tell if he was imitating the sound of the bottle rocket or if he was actually crying.
“Did that scare you?” asked Dad, picking Sam up and holding him in his arms.
“Boom,” said Sam, looking dazed and amused.
“Daddy doesn’t want Sam to be scared,” said Dad. “No more boom?”
“No boom,” said Sam. “No boom boom!”
“Okay, no more boom boom, Sam,” said Dad. “No more rockets. I promise.”
“But you promised me,” I protested. “When we were at the store you promised we could do two rockets.”
“I didn’t know it would scare your brother,” said Dad. “I think it’s too much for him. We’ll find something else to do with the other bottle of soda. Don’t worry.”
“Like what? Drink it?” I said.
When we went back upstairs, Dad made ice-cream floats. I’d heard of them, but I’d never had one. The ice cream floated like an iceberg on a dark and bubbly sea of diet cola.
“Boom boom go pow!” said Sam, smiling and slurping his float.
I think he liked eating the rocket fuel more than he liked the actual rocket. Sometimes Sam is smarter than he seems.
It would have been nice to do both rockets, but the float was really good. It actually wasn’t such a bad start to our staycation.
23
from: Henry <[email protected]>
to: Mom
subject: POW!
Hi Mom,
This whole staycation thing is pretty good so far. We shot off a bottle rocket outside on the grass. Even Dad thought it was cool. How is Las Vegas? Do you like ice-cream floats? We had some after the bottle rocket. I don’t know what we’re doing tomorrow, but I hope we come up with another good idea.
Please send me another email.
Henry
24
First thing Tuesday morning I checked my email. There was something from Max.
from: Max
to: Henry <[email protected]>
subject: Co-ed stinks
Hey Henry,
Guess what? Camp Kanakwa has gone co-ed. Do you know what that means? It means there are girls at camp this year. It’s horrible.
My parents never told me there’d be girls here. I wonder if my parents even know.
Co-ed stinks.
This is a disaster.
Write to me.
Your friend,
Max
I didn’t write back to Max. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to tell him about the Elvis, or the bottle rocket, or the ice-cream float, or anything. Part of me was happy that his camp was co-ed. Part of me was happy it was a disaster. It served him right for being a jerk and going away to camp and leaving me here all alone. I wondered if he sent the same email to his chess club friends. I wondered if he emailed Gretchen Thorn.
Instead of writing to Max, I wrote another email to my mom.
from: Henry <[email protected]>
to: Mom
subject: me again
Hi Mom,
I just got an email from Max. Guess what? His camp is co-ed now. That means there are girls at his camp this year. He says it’s horrible. I think it’s funny.
Write to me again soon.
Henry
25
We didn’t do anything on Tuesday. No rockets. No ice-cream floats. Nothing. I couldn’t think of any good ideas. So much for our epic staycation. It was turning into a dud. Sam was having his afternoon nap. Dad was having a bowl of cereal and talking on the phone. I think cereal makes up an entire food group for him. He eats it all the time, not just for breakfast.
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“Do you want to go camping?” he asked me as he hung up the phone.
It was a totally random thing to ask. We never go camping.
“Do you mean hanging a blanket over a chair and pretending it’s a tent?” I asked. “You’re not talking about fake camping with a fake tent, are you?”
“I’m talking about real camping, Henry,” he said. “Real camping with a real tent.”
“Where?” I said.
“Poppy’s backyard,” he said, smiling. “That was Poppy on the phone. He invited us all to camp out.”
“Is this part of our staycation?” I asked.
“You bet it is!” he said. “The fun never stops! First it’s bottle rockets. Then it’s camping. Who knows what’s next?”
Dad explained that Poppy was going camping with some of his buddies but he wanted to air out his tent in the backyard before his trip. He invited us to sleep in it while it was airing out. Then, best of all, Rupert was going to come back with us and stay at our place for a few days while Poppy was away on his camping trip.
“When are we going?” I asked.
“Now,” said Dad. “Get your things ready.”
“What things?” I asked.
“Pack what you’ll need,” said Dad. “I’ll get blankets, pillows and all that stuff.”
I made a list of the things I thought I might need:
Pajamas
Flashlight
Marshmallows
Comics
26
We left the apartment, hiked up the hallway and rode the elevator down to the lobby. We ventured outside and trekked through the park. Sam sat in his stroller holding Mondo. The stroller was stuffed with blankets, pillows and supplies for our campout.
“Mondo!” said Sam, waving him around in the air.
We passed Max’s house. We continued along until we reached Poppy’s. His garden is full of old trees and lots of flowers. He knows the name of every flower and every tree. He’s tried to teach me, but I can never remember them. All I know is that he has a chestnut tree, some oak trees and a bunch of crab-apple trees. Poppy has lived in the same house since my dad was a kid. That’s a long time.
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