by Lenore Look
“Anibelly!” I screamed. “Let me out!”
Dingdong! rang the doorbell.
Anibelly stopped.
She dropped her roll of tape.
“YehYeh?” she said. “YehYeh’s here! Yippeee!”
Anibelly thumped up the stairs. “Lalalalalalalalalala,” she sang as she went.
“ANIBELLY!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “COME BAAAAACK!”
“Hi, YehYeh!” I heard Anibelly say upstairs.
“Hello, Princess!” said YehYeh.
Then I heard the sound of a hug and a kiss, and Anibelly squealing as she got tossed in the air.
“Where’s Alvin?” asked YehYeh.
“HERE!” I screamed. “LEMMMME OUT!!!”
“He’s practicing his escapes,” said Anibelly, “to surprise you.”
“Is he?” YehYeh chuckled. “I knew that sooner or later he’d want to go to karate class with Calvin. Well, good for him!
“Are you ready for our afternoon together?”
“Yup!” said Anibelly.
“I WANT TO COME TOO!” I screamed. But there was only one problem. No sound had come out of my mouth since Anibelly went up the stairs. When I am totally freaked out, my voice is all in my head, and my tongue feels like a million pieces of broken glass.
There was the rustle of Anibelly’s coat going on.
Then the clack, clack of Anibelly’s shoes.
“WAAAAAAIT!” I cried. “WAIT FOR MEEEEEE!”
“It sure is quiet without the boys around,” chuckled YehYeh.
“Sure is,” said Anibelly
Then the door slammed.
“Come BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK!” I cried.
Silence.
In fact, the silence was so enormous you’d think I was swallowed by a dishwasher box or something.
crying is really great. It makes you very tired. And when you run out of tears, you can just go to sleep.
So I did.
I went to sleep in the time machine headed for the Mesozoic Era where I was going to be scared to death, but at least I was going to see the deinonychus leap on its prey and wrap its long arms and three-fingered hands around it and kick it to death with its sickle-shaped toenails.
But when I rolled out of the time machine, there were no dinosaurs anywhere, only a boy, about Calvin’s size, looking at me, blinking. He had a backpack over his shoulder and a smooth stick in his hand.
“Are you a crazy person or a prisoner?” he asked.
I said nothing. I don’t talk to strangers.
“Well, either way, I thought you were dead,” he said. “I was hoping to collect you as a specimen.”
I wasn’t dead. But I was lying in Calvin’s straitjacket in the leaves in the woods.
“I am Inspector of Snowstorms and Rainstorms,” said the boy.
I stopped. I sat up. It sounded familiar. It was a nickname for someone I knew, but I couldn’t remember who. I looked at him sideways.
“Are you an Indian?” asked the boy.
I shook my head.
“Are you a Chinaman?”
I shook my head again.
“Can you speak?”
I nodded.
“Do you like birds?”
I nodded. “I like dinosaurs better.”
“I like dinosaurs too,” he said. “But I’m afraid I haven’t got any dinosaur eggs today.”
He rummaged in his backpack and pulled out a box made from strips of bark. Inside were little eggs.
“Let’s hatch these,” he said. “You know how to hatch eggs, don’t you?”
I shook my head no.
“You sit on them, of course,” said Inspector. He quickly collected twigs and bark and moss and made a couple of nests. Then he divided the eggs, and we sat on top of them.
“I just love it here in the woods,” he said. “My dad takes me hiking and camping all the time. Don’t you just love it too?”
I shook my head no. The woods are creepy.
Really creepy.
I looked around. There were trees everywhere.
“Time to rotate your eggs,” said Inspector. “A mother bird will rotate her eggs many times a day.”
I rotated my eggs. Then I sat back down.
“A Nashville warbler’s egg takes eleven to twelve days to hatch,” said Inspector, reading from a large book. “A short-eared owl’s, about a month.”
It was not good news.
But then I felt something. “My eggs are ready,” I blurted.
Inspector stopped. He looked up.
“They’re about to hatch!” I cried. My heart was thumping faster than a hummingbird’s.
“How do you know?”
“Because it feels different,” I said.
“Different?”
I got up. There was yolk and egg all over my butt. “C’mon,” said Inspector, “my mom will take care of you.”
We hurried out of the woods … and down the street … but it wasn’t a street exactly, it was a dirt path. There weren’t any of the usual houses along the street … it was very strange.
There were no cars.
No streets.
No noise.
Nothing.
“HEY, WAS THERE AN ALIEN ABDUCTION OR SOMETHING?” I yelled. “WHERE ARE ALL THE CARS? WHERE DID THE STREETS GO?”
Things didn’t get any better when we got to Inspector’s house.
“David Henry Thoreau!” said his mother. “Skipping school again? And getting a friend in trouble too!” She looked at me.
“You’re lucky it’s wash day,” she said to me. Then she began to tear my clothes off.
Off went Calvin’s strait-jacket.
Off went my pants.
David Henry Thoreau? She didn’t mean Henry David Thoreau, did she? I turned and looked at Inspector.
My heart stopped.
My mouth opened.
He looked just like the Henry poster on our classroom wall!
I wanted to scream, but nothing came out.
I would have liked traveling back 200 million years to see the deinonychus tearing its prey, but going back almost two hundred years to meet a dead author was enough to scare me right into my grave.
I needed to get home—fast! So I turned and shot out the door and ran as fast as I could go, up the dirt road and into the woods, my butt as naked as cake without frosting.
I jolted awake.
Someone was rattling my box. “Anibelly?”
“Noooooooooo!” I cried.
“Alvin???” came my dad’s voice through the holes. “What are you doing in Anibelly’s nap place?”
“Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” I wailed. “Waaaaaaaaaah!” Crying is great. You always feel better afterward, especially when you’ve traveled four hundred years round-trip in a small, enclosed time machine.
“What happened to you?” my dad asked, ripping open the box with his bare hands.
My dad is da dad. He’s saved my life at least seven hundred and fourteen times eight, and mostly in the nick of time, right as I come upon the pearly gates and take a number to stand in line and wait my turn.
“I … I … I …” I didn’t know where to begin. So I didn’t. Instead, I fell like candy from a wrapper into my dad’s arms and sobbed. And he hugged me back like I was the best thing he’d ever found in a box.
My dad isn’t a superhero, but he can pull me out of anything, even from long, tangled boa constrictors that were squeezing the last wheeze out of me.
“You get yourself into such binds,” he said, peeling the straitjacket off of me.
“You’re my best friend, Dad. You saved my life.”
Then I told him all about traveling in the time machine and meeting Henry David Thoreau.
“It was really creepy,” I said, sniffling. “But Henry was okay. He really loved nature, Dad.
“He collected specimens …
“He had eggs that we tried hatching …
“And a big book on birds …
“A
nd a walking stick …
“He said his dad took him camping and hiking all the time.”
Of course, I left out the part about getting egg on my butt on account of it was way too embarrassing.
My dad didn’t say anything. He just listened. My mom says she married him because he’s such a great listener. You can drop all your words into his ears for safekeeping and none of them will ever get lost. I think it has something to do with being a gentleman—my dad knows all the rules—but I’m not really sure, I don’t remember.
“Son,” my dad finally said. I love it when he calls me that. Son. I love it more than my own name.
My dad’s eyes were as shiny as pennies in vinegar. “Henry’s father gave him a wonderful gift,” he continued, “a gift every father should give his children.”
“What gift?” I asked. I like gifts.
“A love of nature,” said my dad.
“That’s a gift?”
“One of the finest,” said my dad. “To know and appreciate nature is the key to a lifetime of discovery.”
My dad looked at me.
I looked at my dad.
“I know nature,” I said. It was true. I watch it all the time on TV. There’s nothing I don’t know about nature:
Earthquakes.
Landslides.
Mudslides.
Floods.
Hurricanes.
Tsunamis.
Tornadoes.
Volcanic eruptions.
Meteorites.
When it comes to nature, I’m practically an entire Web site!
“Why don’t you and I go camping this weekend, son?”
“Camping?”
“It would be good for you to be in the great outdoors,” said my dad. “You will learn some skills. It will give you confidence. You’ll see that the woods is not such a scary place.”
Gulp.
“Fall is the best time to camp,” my dad continued. “Spring’s too wet. Summer’s too hot. Winter’s too cold. But in the fall, the leaves are showing off their colors, the days are still warm, the air is crisp. It was my favorite time to camp when I was about your age….
“They used to call me One-Match Jack,” my dad added, puffing out his chest. “Do you know why?”
I shook my head. His name wasn’t Jack.
“Because I could start a fire with one match,” he said. “One match. Imagine that.”
My dad looked at me. “You can do that too,” he said. “We’ll make our own shelter … catch our own fish … I’ll even show you how to make a pit toilet.”
“A pit what?”
“It may be the beginning of a lifelong hobby,” said my dad. “You could come back a changed man.”
“But I’m not a man,” I squeaked. “And we might not come back at all!
“We could get lost in the leaves!
“There could be a freak blizzard, and we could get lost in the snow!
“Or a flash flood, and we could be drowned!
“Or we could get struck by lightning!
“We could die by meteorite!”
Silence.
My dad looked stunned. His mouth opened. But nothing came out.
“They’re called acts of God, Dad,” I said. “And when they happen, they happen. And the next thing you know, you’re at the pearly gates with a number in your hand, waiting to get in.”
“Don’t worry—” my dad began.
“Don’t worry?” I said. “Millions die at once in an act of God! It’s the worst way to go. We could be in line forever!”
“In line?” asked my dad.
“To get into heaven!” I said.
“You’re not going to heaven,” said my dad. “You’re only going camping.”
“I’m not?” I swallowed. Not going to heaven? It was the worst news I’d ever heard.
“whatcha doin’?” asked Flea on the school bus the next day. She is my desk buddy at school, and sometimes she is also my bus buddy I think she likes sitting next to me, that is when she’s not mad at me.
“Nuttin’,” I muttered. I covered my paper with my arm.
The windows on the bus went clackity-clack.
“C’mon,” said Flea. “Lemme see.”
“No,” I said.
“C’mon,” said Flea. “I’ll give you a Haw Flake.” She had a piece of candy in the shape of a quarter between her finger and thumb.
Haw Flakes are my favorite. They grow on hawthorn trees in China. Flea had her first Haw Flake at my house, and now she has Haw Flakes all the time. Where she gets them, I have no idea.
I snatched the sweet and popped it quick into my mouth. Then I showed her my list:
“Are you going camping?” asked Flea.
“Not if I can help it,” I said. “But my dad says he’s taking me this weekend.”
“Camping’s terrific!” said Flea.
“You mean terrifying,” I said.
“You’ll have a great time,” said Flea, “if it’s anything like the camp I went to.”
“You’ve camped?” I asked.
“Sure have,” said Flea. “It was at a camp for kids like me.”
I looked at Flea sideways.
“You, know, kids with irregular arms or legs or prosthetics!” said Flea.
Flea is so lucky. She is blind in one eye, which makes her look like a pirate, and extra-long in one leg, which she drags like a genuine peg leg.
“We played games, went swimming and horseback riding, did archery and made crafts,” Flea added. “At night, when it was dark, we sang songs around the campfire and roasted marshmallows.”
“That isn’t camp,” said Eli, turning around in his seat. “That’s a country club.”
“Yeah, girls don’t know anything about camping,” said Nhia. “If Alvin’s dad is taking him, it means he’s going real camping.”
“Real camping,” said Pinky, who is the biggest boy because he started kindergarten late, and is an expert on everything, “is roughing it.”
“No electricity,” said Jules. “Just flashlights.”
“No TV, no video games, no e-mail,” said Sam.
“You grow a beard and live like an animal,” said Eli.
“You either get hit by lightning, or you don’t,” whispered Hobson.
“If you can’t start a fire, you could freeze to death,” added Scooter. “If you do start a fire, you could burn to death.”
“If you hear a rattler, it’s too late,” said Pinky. “Ssssssssssssssss.”
“And when it’s over,” added Sam, “the Angel of Death comes for you!”
The boys on the bus breathed in and out.
The driver’s eyes in the mirror looked up and down.
“Alvin can’t do that kind of camping, can you, Alvin?” Pinky sneered.
Heads turned.
All eyes were on me.
The seats on the bus went bumpity-bump.
“Stand up for yourself, Alvin,” said Flea. “He’s just jealous.”
I would have stood up for myself, but I didn’t feel so good.
I was hardly breathing.
Kindergarten and first grade flashed before my eyes.
Camping sounded worse than I had imagined.
Way worse.
the problem with having camping on your mind is that you can’t think about anything else. Everything is sort of a blur.
“Commas are very useful,” I heard Miss P say. She is our teacher. She is very smart. She knows a lot about everything.
“When writing a letter, use a comma after the person’s name in the greeting,” Miss P continued. It was writing class.
“And before you sign your name at the bottom of the letter, use a comma after the closing,” said Miss P. “Remember to say good-bye in a friendly way” She wrote examples on the board:
Your friend,
Yours truly,
Love,
See you soon,
Sincerely,
No problem. Commas are cute. They look lik
e a smile standing up. Or they could be a mustache. Or the handle on an apple. Or a fingernail clipping. Or an eyebrow. Or the side of a zipper, if you make a bunch of them together like this,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,. You can even make a rather long zipper,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
“Now we will practice writing a letter to the person next to you,” said Miss P, interrupting my concentration. “Remember to use commas.”
Flea bent over our desk so that I couldn’t see what she was writing. She wrote so furiously, she sounded like a pencil factory.
In fact, the entire class sounded like a pencil factory. I sank into my chair. I squeezed my eyes shut and wished with all my might that I was my superhero self, Firecracker Man! He would blast out of writing class in a shower of sparks and gunpowder!
But I couldn’t.
And Flea just kept on writing.
So there was nothing else for me to do but load up my commas and fire away:
“Miss Peeeeeee!” cried Flea. “Alvin’s doing it all wrong.”
Miss P came over. She stopped. She bent over my desk. “Alvin,” she said.
I really had it coming.
“Why, Alvin!” cried Miss P. “You’ve written a limerick!” She sounded very pleased.
So I sat up.
“What’s a limerick?” asked Flea.
“A limerick is a funny poem,” said Miss P. “It rhymes and tells a story.”
I swung my feet. I kept my eyes low. I kept my hands in plain sight. I thought I had written a letter. It was the kind of letter my dad would write to my mom, except without all the commas. She had a whole collection of them on the refrigerator door.
“We could have an entire lesson on limericks!” said Miss P. Her eyes were sparkling like marbles in the sun. It was not a good sign.
Fortunately, the recess bell rang and we all jumped out of our seats.
