Noses Are Red

by Richard Scrimger

  “Why did you tell everyone that?” I point my finger at Christopher. I’ve been meaning to ask him.

  “What?”

  “That we ran away. Why did you say it, when it isn’t true? The helicopter pilot called us stupid kids. Everyone seems to think it’s all our fault we got lost. Why did you tell them that? It wasn’t our fault. It was your fault. You ran away. We saw you on the lake, paddling away from us.”

  He sighs. His eyebrows and his mustache go down. “Now, son-”

  “I’m not your son.”

  “Well, then. As a matter of fact, you’re wrong. You did run away. I was on the portage with you, and then you wandered off.”

  “And what happened to you?”

  “I looked for you.”

  “And then? What happened to you then? Why did you leave?”

  The doctor clears his throat. “Maybe you two should get some sleep. You especially, Alan. Do you want another blanket?”

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  “Fine? You’re still fine?” Dr. Callous shakes his head. “That hypothermia … dear, dear.”

  Christopher is already at the door. “I’ll look in again later,” he says. “Say, urn, did you call your mom?” He’s so casual. I nod. “Good. Good.” He looks hard at me. “Good,” he says again, and takes the nurse’s arm on his way out the door.

  Strangely enough, I don’t feel wholly angry. A large part of me feels relieved. We’re saved, Victor and me. The grown-ups have taken charge. They may not believe our story, but they’re not going to bite us or maul us, or let us starve or freeze to death. The worst is over.

  Mind you, I’m still mad. It is not our fault we got lost. Christopher left us. I wonder why? And there’s one other thing on my mind, one other tangle in the knot I’m trying to unravel.

  “Hey, Vic,” I whisper. “What do you think happened to the artist lady?”

  No sound from the other bed. The covers rise and fall regularly.

  When I wake up again, it’s much later. The setting sun throws long shadows across the floor of the infirmary. Dust specks float gently down. I lie in bed, thinking about the artist lady and her kayak. Thinking about Christopher and the nurse, and Mom. The infirmary has unpainted wooden walls and posters of needles and one of those big charts showing if you are overweight for your height. My doctor’s office has one of them too. I checked it a couple of years ago when I was bored, sitting in the small waiting room after sitting in the big waiting room. I matched my height and weight, following over and across, and concluded that the ideal height for my weight would be eight feet, three inches tall. This worried me, so I asked the doctor about it. She laughed and told me the lines were centimeters, not inches.

  The door opens and a supermodel walks in. That’s what she looks like. Taller than Dr. Callous, who’s with her. She has long flowing blonde hair, a pert little nose, wide-set eyes, healthy tan, long legs. Her clothes are … well, they’re perfect. Her camp sweater is knotted casually around her shoulders. Her shorts are just the right length. Her camp T-shirt looks as if it just came back from the dry cleaner.

  She stares at me for a long ten seconds. I feel like a painting on a wall – not a very good painting. She stares at Victor too, then turns to the doctor. “Which one is Alan?” she asks.

  I sit up, clear my throat.

  “This one,” says the doctor. He’s taking my temperature.

  “Hi,” I say.

  She doesn’t reply. “He’s the troublemaker, right?”

  “Yes,” says the doctor.

  “Hey!” I say.

  “You see?” says the doctor.

  The supermodel nods. “What’s wrong with his nose?”

  I swallow. Does she know about Norbert?

  “Sunburn,” says the doctor. “Nothing serious.”

  The supermodel comes closer to my bed. She’s so healthy. The skin on her arm and hand is smooth and warm and glowing, and totally without flaw. No moles, freckles, beauty spots. No cuts or bruises. I can’t help thinking of Zinta’s big dirty capable fingers.

  “Will they be able to compete tomorrow, doc?” she asks. “They don’t look like much.”

  “I think so, Trixie,” the doctor rasps. “They’re better than they were this morning. Alan’s temperature is normal.”

  Trixie. Where do I know that name from? She turns to me.

  “How long would it take you to split a cord of wood, Alan?”

  I clear my throat. “What’s a cord of wood?”

  “Can you start a one-match fire?”

  I shake my head. I don’t even know what she’s talking about.

  “Could you paddle across the lake, portage a canoe a hundred yards, and paddle back?”

  I shake my head.

  “What can you do?”

  – Hey! You remind me a lot of Nerissa, says Norbert.

  Why does he choose moments like this to enter the conversation? Nerissa is his girlfriend, back on Jupiter. Quite a tough cookie, apparently, but he really likes her.

  Trixie doesn’t notice because she’s frowning at the doctor, who has a cigarette in his mouth. “Do you mind?” she snaps.

  “Oh, sorry,” he says, and puts the cigarette in his pocket.

  Wow. I try to imagine my doctor hurrying to do something because I asked him to. Can’t do it. I can’t imagine any grown-up hurrying to do what I asked them to. In fact, now that I’m on the topic, I can’t imagine anyone – anyone at all, from my own doctor (“Two and a half centimeters to the inch, Alan. Oh, ho ho!”) to colorful Uncle Emil to little Mary Lee Noscowitz, who lives down the street and rides her tricycle past our house – hurrying to do my bidding. I’m just not the sort of guy people obey. Mind you, I don’t look like a supermodel.

  She frowns at me. “You’re no good at anything, are you?”

  –She says stuff like this all the time.

  “Who are you talking about?”

  – Nerissa, of course. Haven’t you been listening?

  The girl leans down. “It’s like this, Alan. I’m the captain of the Trailblazer team for games day tomorrow. One of my team sprained his ankle yesterday, and won’t be able to play, so old Boomer said we could ask you guys to take his place.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say.

  “But you’re no good to me, Alan. No good at all. Is your friend any better? He looks stronger than you. Has he ever been camping?”

  I nod. I’ve got her placed now. Trixie Mintworthy. Zinta’s archenemy. I can believe it.

  – You make me homesick. Of course Nerissa is prettier than you are. But that’s not your fault. You can’t help the way you look.

  She jerks her head up. Bit of a pout now. Still looks like a supermodel, though – they often get photographed with pouts. “What’s wrong with the way I look?” she asks.

  I open my mouth to say “nothing,” but Norbert gets in there first.

  – You have too many arms, he says.

  She stares at me. “I want Victor on my team,” she says. “This weirdo can join the Lumberjacks.” At which point, Zinta knocks and comes in.

  The girls are instantly aware of each other. Trixie stands away from me and the doctor, as if readying herself for combat. Zinta’s eyes widen. The girls circle cautiously. They’re like animals. If they had fur, it would be standing up. I can almost feel them growing physically larger, more threatening.

  The doctor’s cell phone rings. He takes it out of his pocket.

  “Well, if it isn’t the Master Tripper,” says Trixie. Her voice drips scorn. “Fresh from her night in the wilderness. Too bad you didn’t get a chance to wash your hair.” She smooths her own hair – not that it needs it.

  Zinta narrows her eyes. “You should try a night in the wilderness, Trixie. Of course, you’d have to be able to run the rapids without smashing your canoe.”

  “Very amusing, Zinta. Very droll. Yes, you certainly earned your scroll. Hope you enjoy it – while you have it.”

  Zinta’s face fills with blood.


  Trixie gives a tinkling laugh. “Yes, that scroll is going to look good on my trophy shelf. When your mom saves up enough food stamps, maybe you’ll get a shelf for your trophies too.”

  “You leave my mom out of this, or I’ll –”

  Trixie puts her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my! Must watch that temper of ours. Doctor, should Zinta be here? We wouldn’t want her losing control and hurting these two little boys.”

  The doctor is still on the phone. “I’ll be right down to the heliport,” he says. “Try the hospital in Peterborough.” He hurries out of the cabin.

  Zinta isn’t talking, but her look is so full of menace, so frightening that I want to pull the covers up over my head. And she’s not even looking at me.

  Trixie’s expression is pretty frightening too. Bully frightening. She’s a mean one. “It’s going to be a pleasure to get that scroll away from you tomorrow,” she says.

  “You think you will win?” Zinta clenches her hands into fists. Veins stand out in high relief on her bicep and tricep muscles. “We’re going to take you. I know it.”

  “You’re bluffing, Zinta. Remember last year’s game? I can always tell when you’re bluffing. Oh, and speaking of games, I get what’s-his-name tomorrow. Him.” She points.

  “Victor?”

  “Yes, Victor is a Trailblazer. He’s going to replace Billy from the Weasel cabin. If you want, you can have this weird guy here.”

  That would be me.

  Trixie stares at me. “Not enough arms,” she says, shaking her head. I don’t say anything. Trixie spins on her heel and walks out the door.

  “I hate that girl,” says Zinta.

  “It’ll be dinner soon,” says Zinta. “Boomer sent me to ask if you and Victor could eat with us in the dining hall.”

  “Sure,” I say. “Sounds good.”

  “Do you think Dr. Callous would let you? I heard something about hypothermia.”

  “I’m fine!” I say. “No one seems to believe me, but I’m fine. I can even play in these games of yours.”

  “The games. The games.” She starts to pace back and forth. “Trust Trixie to get here first,” she mutters. “At least Victor is a camper. What can you do?” She whirls around. “Sorry, Alan. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

  “That’s okay. I’ve … um … been thinking about how I can help you. And I’ve come up with a way.”

  “How?”

  A bell rings somewhere in the distance. A warning? A symbol? We’ll see. “I’ll beat Trixie at poker for you,” I say.

  She stops pacing. Her eyebrows go up. “How can you do that? I know you beat me last night, in the tent, but that was luck, right? Poker’s all luck, isn’t it?”

  “Do you know what I’m thinking?” I say.

  She shakes her head.

  “Well, a lot of poker is knowing what the other guy is thinking. And, for some reason, I seem to be good at that. I’m no good at tying knots and carrying canoes and starting fires. But I can tell what you’re thinking right now.”

  “You can?”

  I stare into her eyes and nod solemnly.

  It takes a moment for her to accept this. I don’t change my expression.

  She nods a couple of times. “Gee, Alan! That’s great!” She smiles.

  I let myself relax, return her smile.

  “Hey, you’re good,” she says. “Maybe you can help us.”

  – He’s bluffing.

  “Quiet, Norbert.”

  – He has no idea what you’re thinking.

  Now Zinta’s face clouds over. “What? What did you say, Alan?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Were you bluffing, just now? Do you know what I’m thinking?”

  The bell keeps tolling, loud and deep. Victor stirs and wakes up.

  “How’re you feeling?” I ask him.

  “Hungry.” He rubs his stomach. He’s missing a few potato chips since yesterday.

  “Good timing,” Zinta tells him. “That’s the summoning bell. Dinner is in fifteen minutes.”

  Camp Omega (OUTDOOR EXPERIENCE SINCE 1910! says the sign outside the infirmary) is laid out on rocks and under trees. Zinta takes us on a quick tour before dinner. There are paths everywhere, lined with woodchips. We pass cabins with animal names: Chipmunk, Raven, Weasel. Each one seems to have a droopy clothesline strung between trees, with soggy towels and bathing suits hanging down. The Weasel cabin is hung with a banner saying TRAILBLAZERS.

  “That’s your team, Victor,” I tell him. “You’re a Trailblazer.”

  “Huh?”

  “Camp games day is tomorrow. You’re on Trixie’s team.”

  “Who’s Trixie?”

  “You’ll find out.”

  We pass a cabin with a LUMBERJACK banner. “I’m a Lumberjack,” I say.

  “And I’m a Trailblazer? Okay, I get it. My camp had a games day too: Iroquois and Blackfoot. I was a Blackfoot. My cabin won the Red Rover competition.”

  Zinta nudges me. “How did you do in Red Rover, Alan?” she whispers.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever played Red Rover,” I say.

  Zinta looks grave.

  “Hey, Zinta!” calls a little kid with a LUMBERJACK T-shirt. “We’re going to get ’em tomorrow!”

  “You better believe it, Rocky!” she says.

  A couple of other little kids are coming down another path. “Lumberjacks – hah!” they shout. “Trailblazers! Trailblazers!”

  Zinta smiles.

  We pass the infirmary again on our way to the top of a hill, and come to a building with different animals carved in wood outside it. Kids and grown-ups are lining up to go in. “Dining hall,” says Zinta. “It’ll turn into a casino tomorrow night.”

  She gives me a meaningful glance. I give her the thumbs-up.

  It’s getting chilly, as the sun sinks towards the hills. I wish I had a change of clothes.

  “Well, hello there! Glad to see you on your feet!” It’s Boomer, jiggling like a pudding. Her CAMP DIRECTOR button flashes in the sunlight. She shakes hands with Victor and then, after a pause, with me. Zinta disappears.

  “No time to stop,” says Boomer, striding off. “Another helicopter just came in. Find yourselves places to sit in the hall,” she calls over her shoulder.

  Victor and I stare at each other. Shrug.

  “I can smell something cooking,” I say. “What is it?”

  His nose is better than mine – sorry, Norbert, I didn’t mean that. His sense of smell is better.

  “Salisbury steak,” he says. “With barbecue sauce!”

  We join the line of kids on their way to dinner.

  The dining hall is a long thin rectangle. Tables set down a long center aisle. Over each table, hanging from the ceiling, is a large and lifelike wooden sculpture of an animal. Each cabin sits at its own table.

  It’s a busy, noisy place. Benches clatter. Shouts echo off the cement floor. People move quickly to their places.

  I cannot help but notice that there is a division among the animals. Looking down the right-hand side, from where I stand, are a dove, a beaver, a chipmunk, and an owl. Wise and hardworking animals, portrayed in white or cream colored woods. Their feathers and fur are all in place, neat and groomed. They appear to be smiling. The forces of light.

  Down the left-hand side, the animals are carved out of darker wood. They’re not carved as well, either. There are scratches and cuts, and some of the animals have a decidedly scruffy appearance. And they’re different animals too: foxes, ravens, weasels, and snakes. These animals frown, glower, sneer. The wood is older, and, in the case of the snake, stained and blotched. This is the dark side.

  Victor and I stand at the front of the hall. We don’t have a place to go. Everyone stares at us. I feel their eyes. They’re checking us out, commenting. Do we pass? I’m very aware of my sunburnt nose.

  Christopher and his nurse sit at the head table, with the other grown-ups. She has her hand on his arm. He smiles past her, searching the roo
m. I look away before he gets to me.

  “Who’s that?” Victor is staring at the Snake table. “That girl with the blonde hair is staring at me.”

  “That’s Trixie,” I mutter.

  “She’s still looking. Do you think she wants me to sit with her? Me?” He points to himself. Trixie nods, and beckons.

  “Wow!” he says.

  Oh, Victor. Oh, my friend. “Be careful,” I caution, but it’s too late. He’s gone.

  The atmosphere is boisterous, but also orderly and attentive. The dining hall is obviously an important place in the life of the camp. A meeting place, a place of order, ritual, duty, veneration. In its way, a holy place. I don’t belong. I’m reminded of Dougal, who joined our grade four class in midterm. His mom was doing a teaching exchange of some kind. Dougal was our age, and size, but he wore short pants and striped socks, and spoke with a broad Scottish accent. And he couldn’t skate – something as natural as breathing to us. As far as we were concerned, he might have been a different species. He went home at the end of the year, but we still talk about him. The strange Scottish kid.

  Oh, no. I am Dougal. I wonder if they’ll talk about me in three years.

  “Over here, Alan,” calls Zinta. At last! Someone wants me. I walk over. Needless to say, Zinta’s table is on the other side of the hall from Trixie’s. The light side. She’s under the sculpture of the owl. It’s all girls at the Owl table. “Sit with the Beavers,” Zinta tells me, pointing at the table next to her.

  I find a spot on the Beaver bench. “Hi, there,” I say. No one replies. Maybe if I try an accent. “Wheesht, lads, but it’s a braw nicht the nicht!” Dougal, wherever you are, I apologize for the way I treated you in fourth grade.

  Boomer strides in at this point and squats in front of an amplifier, fiddling with a wire. From the back she looks enormous: a new continent or something. I feel like I should plant a flag in her and claim her for Canada.

  You know, that’s a pretty funny idea. I want to share it with someone. I turn to the guy beside me, but he’s looking solemn right now. So’s everyone else around the table. Come to think of it, the whole dining hall is quiet and respectful.