Escape from Castaway Island

by Constance Lombardo

  No matter what, one of us was going to win two million dollars (probably me) and that was enough money to share! (Half for me, half for everybody else.)

  What’s more important than money?

  Before El Gato and I made it to the front door of the old MGM Studios, I was met with an unpleasant surprise.

  As I lay on the ground with Pickles on my chest, Bruiser towered over me.

  “Puffyball,” he said, wagging one giant finger back and forth, “you get riches on ninja show. Why never give me money or say who train you: me, Bruiser!”

  “Or at least donate something to our tough cat training shop!” added Pickles.

  “But I did donate something. Something very beautiful.”

  “Give me something I can use,” said Pickles.

  “Follow me,” I said, “and you’ll get all the tough-guy equipment money can buy.”

  Inside, we gathered everybody together. Fortunately, Rosie was visiting Chet for their weekly How to be a Great Director workshop, so she was there too.

  Time for our big announcement:

  All that bad cat-titude made me fall off my stool!

  “As the biggest celebrity here,” said El Gato, “I have some great news: we’re all going on Celebrity Castaway Island. Here’s the list of rules.”

  He quickly flashed the list at them.

  I stood and dusted myself off. “The important thing is, no bathing suits, compete in some easy-peasy contests, eat lots of coconuts, soak up the sun, avoid the resident monkeys, and we get two million dollars.”

  Rosie crossed her paws over her chest. “WE get two million dollars EACH?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “More like, one of us gets two million dollars, and I promise I’ll share it with the rest of you.”

  Everybody started talking at once. Their first reactions were kind of negative.

  But then Rosie said:

  And El Gato said:

  And then everybody was on board!

  “By the way, Mr. Puffball,” asked Rosie, “have you ever seen Celebrity Castaway Island?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “But I will watch it very soon.”

  Rosie smiled the kind of smile that meant she had a plan. I just hoped it wasn’t a plan for revenge.

  8

  Bon Voyage

  Imagine the luxury cruise liner that would transport such a spectacular group of celebrities to our tropical island destination. Picture an ocean voyage complete with round-the-clock entertainment, live music, loads of comfy deck chairs, and enough shrimp to choke a horse.

  And now take a gander at the old sea bucket that carried us to the island.

  Fortunately, El Gato had stashed a jumbo bag of yogurt-covered mouse tails in his cape, which escaped the notice of Celebrity Castaway Island producer Brock Showman and his crew.

  Unfortunately, El Gato is not good at sharing.

  The worst part of our ocean voyage was not having any milk on board. Brock said chubby cats are not winners. So he only gave us fat-free protein bars and water. I don’t like water. It tastes like nothing. Or like whatever the inside of my mouth tastes like, which is sometimes not very pleasant.

  Also I learned that seasickness involves a lot of throwing up. Sometimes the sound of everybody puking over the side of the ship was louder than the roar of the engine. Plus I got a splinter. Twice.

  And then there was Pickles.

  At odd times, Brock gathered us on deck for strange announcements.

  Fortunately, Bruiser secretly dove off the deck twice a day to get us all the seafood we could eat. I appreciated it a lot.

  And yet his extreme strength had me worried. How could I compete with that level of dude?

  I needed an ally.

  I realized then that my best allies would be the ones who had helped me when I first arrived in Hollywood. But when I found them:

  I realized I needed a new strategy. Four days into our trip, while we were enjoying the day’s Bruiser catch, I said, “It’s wonderful to be here with all my friends, on our way to an exciting island adventure. Only one of us can win, yet all will benefit. Because, unlike some of us, I’m good at sharing.”

  Rosie glared at me with an arched eyebrow. “Says the guy who doesn’t listen to his friends.”

  “And who buys a solid-gold limo when what we really need is a new vacuum cleaner,” said Chet.

  “And who forgot my birthday,” added Pickles.

  “When was your birthday?” I asked.

  “In two months,” said Pickles. “Does that jog your memory?”

  “C’mon, cats,” I said, desperate to win back everybody’s affections before we landed on our reality TV show. “Remember in Titanicat, when the handsome cat is the star?”

  BOOM! The ship jerked to a stop.

  I went skidding into the railing and was nearly thrown overboard. I clung on, peered down to the sea, and saw some friendly faces.

  “Okay, celebrities,” said Brock Showman, emerging from the captain’s quarters. “Remember when I said challenges can happen at any time?”

  “Nope,” said Rosie.

  “Well, I said it. And now is one of those times. It’s your first Feat of Strength! Each of you must grab a rope, tie it to the railing, shimmy down, and swing into one of the waiting lifeboats. Extra points if you knock one of your friends into the water.”

  I wondered who I should knock into the water first. Then I remembered the true meaning of friendship and how I needed everybody not to hate me. I raised one fist. “We are not those kinds of cats! If anything, we will each lend a paw and help. . . .”

  I heard movement behind me and turned to see everybody scrambling like mad toward the railing. Looked like they’d forgotten all about Team Bruiser and Team Old.

  I rushed for one of the ropes and quickly tied it using a nautical knot I’d read about in the pamphlet “Nautical Knots and You.” Then I slid down, only to see there was but one lifeboat left, and it was heavily patched.

  I kicked off from the ship, swung hard, and leapt into the sad little lifeboat. I located the small plastic oars and tossed my gaze across the waves to our destination—Castaway Island, many leagues away (if I understand how long a league is).

  Have you ever heard the phrase tropical paradise?

  Well, with the wide expanse of sand, dense palm-tree jungle, and distant mountains, the island certainly looked tropical. The monkey chatter and bird calls made it sound tropical. But would it be paradise?

  My recent training had paid off; my biceps rippled impressively and rowed me quickly along. Still, as the last one to disembark the ship, I was way behind my so-called friends, who were eagerly rowing toward the island we’d inhabit for the next few weeks.

  Of course, Bruiser was in the lead, followed by Rosie, Pickles, El Gato, and Kitty. Then I saw Chet and Whiskers:

  Yes, I could row past them, pretend I hadn’t noticed their elderly struggles, and land on the beach with my bicep sweat gleaming in the sun.

  Or I could do a heroic deed that would make everybody like me again.

  I grabbed some rope, tied it to their boats, and rowed as hard as I could. The aromatic breeze, infused with the scent of exotic flowers and overripe bananas, blew my fur askew as I powered through the waves.

  All my friends were standing on the beach, watching as I gave it a final heave-ho and pulled us all in. Now they’d see what a good guy I was.

  Brock Showman was there too, lit up by the late-afternoon sun, eyes narrowed. He looked less than impressed by my helpful attitude.

  And so began my triumphant return to reality TV.

  9

  Welcome to Castaway Island

  If you’re like me, and I’m guessing you are, you enjoy a good map.

  This was the first thing Brock Showman handed each of us once we’d settled onto logs in the Welcome Clearing. It smelled like rotting fruit and was encircled by towering torches that cast long, scary shadows, and the logs were splintery. All in all, it was not very welco
ming.

  Camera cats surrounded us, filming our every ear twitch, whisker flick, and tail tremor. I determined then and there to keep my game face on at all times. No matter the grueling ordeal, extreme weather conditions, or disappointing meal, I’d look tough.

  “Castaways,” said Brock Showman, “I will now explain the rules of the island.”

  I raised my hand like a good castaway.

  “If you have a question, just yell it out,” said Brock. “This is not school, even if some of us are wearing schoolboy bow ties.”

  Game face. I was not about to let that television type get to me, even if he was disparaging my wardrobe.

  “We already read the rules,” I said.

  “I followed the rules and forsook my bathing costume,” said Chet.

  “We will keep our distance from the wild monkeys,” said Kitty.

  “And we will not pee in the reservoir,” said Pickles.

  “I’m hungry!” said El Gato, even though he was obviously chewing something.

  Brock picked up a megaphone. “Quiet, castaways! The most important rules were not on that list. You’ll hear them now, from the most handsome rule maker on the island. Moi.”

  I rolled my eyes. This guy really thought he was something.

  “Rule number one,” said Brock. “Sometimes you’ll work in teams. Sometimes in pairs. Sometimes solo. Either way, your end goal is to win for yourself. Helping others will earn you a night in the Solitary Hut of Shame.”

  “That’s where Mr. Puffball is going tonight!” said Pickles.

  Double eye roll.

  “I like your cat-titude, kitten,” said Brock. “Rule number two: the camera cats can film you wherever and whenever they want. We don’t care if you’re crying, sleeping, or in an all-claws-bared fight with your former best friend. We will film you. Got it?”

  “What if we’re in the middle of a big, wet sneeze that goes everywhere and we don’t have a tissue?” piped up Pickles.

  Brock laughed another maniacal laugh. “Three: somewhere in the jungle is a hidden relic to be found each day, and then concealed again on the next day. It’s a kind of feline totem: a wooden, cat-shaped doll with seaweed fur. The relic grants something you want, and desperately need, depending on the day it’s discovered. It could be your ticket to a delicious feast, SPF 50 sunscreen, or, most important, immunity from being voted off the island.”

  I knew what I wanted: immunity from being voted off the island. I would find that relic, especially on Tribal Council days. Because I had to win. After Feline Ninja Warrior, I’d been universally adored and able to buy any ridiculous thing I wanted.

  Which was exactly what I wanted.

  “Rule number four,” said Brock. “During Tribal Councils, one or two cats get voted off the island by your fellow castaways and sent back to the ship in the Barrel of Failure.”

  “That’s not nice!” said Whiskers.

  “I vote for Barrel of Fun instead,” said Bruiser.

  “Does the barrel smell weird?” said Pickles.

  “Silence!” yelled Brock. “Rule number five: stay away from Mount Brock, an active and dangerous volcano. Castaways, follow my rules, or no one gets the two million dollars.”

  “I thought this was going to be like a vacation,” said Kitty.

  “With lots of hammock time,” said Chet.

  “And shrimp cocktail,” said El Gato.

  “Did somebody say vacation?” said Brock. He snapped his fingers, and a large table was carried into the Welcome Clearing, covered with platters overflowing with every kind of seafood imaginable. Even some I’d never seen before.

  What a feast! This was exactly like a vacation. Now all I had to do was compete in some easy challenges and outdo my friends, and soon I’d be the new Celebrity Castaway Island champion.

  Then I’d fill my gold limo with all the gasoline in the world and then some.

  “Time for bed!” said Brock into the megaphone, even though my mouth wanted more shrimp.

  He led us to our huts, which were nicer than I’d expected. Cozy, with cots, blankets, and enough thatching to keep out the elements. There was even mosquito netting and a table with a mirror and fur combs. I was to share a hut with El Gato. Looked like Brock had forgotten all about the Solitary Hut of Shame.

  “Mr. Puffball!” yelled a voice. I peeked outside.

  There was Brock Showman with two camera cats. “I’m here to escort you to the Solitary Hut of Shame. Follow me.”

  I was instructed to leave my single bag of personal items (mostly bow ties) in my hut. And off we went, past where all my “friends” would be enjoying sleep, until we reached our terrible destination:

  Brock signaled to a cat who set up a camera to film my misery. “As an added bonus, the camera makes a loud clicking noise. And I’ll be taking this torch with me. I hope you’re not afraid of the dark, Feline Ninja Warrior.” Brock and the other cat laughed, then left me alone with my sad, sad thoughts.

  Chet and Whiskers were probably settling into their comfy cots right at that moment.

  But could they sleep knowing I was being punished for helping them?

  I plopped onto my thin mat (Ouch! Rocks!), waved away the buzzing mosquitoes, pulled the palm leaves over myself, and began drifting off despite the hardness, coldness, and loud clicking sound.

  10

  Shelter

  I have a confession to make: I never watched Castaway Island. I’d been too busy binge watching my Feline Ninja Warrior episode.

  If I had, I would have known that the comfy huts my friends enjoyed were for the first night only. The rest of our time on Castaway Island we’d be housed in the worst kind of house imaginable.

  The kind you have to make yourself.

  This terrible truth was revealed early the next morning, after a rude awakening.

  After rubbing sand and dead mosquitoes from my eyes, I found the gang. We were marched out to the Picnic Tables of Much Wood Rot. There, Brock raised his megaphone. “Good morning, castaways!” He snapped his fingers, and cups of milk were set before us. Then he said, “Who wants shrimp?”

  Everybody wanted shrimp, of course. But what we got was less than satisfying.

  “Four shrimps on my plate, too!” said Bruiser. Everybody else nodded.

  “You all only have four shrimp,” said Brock. “Whoever can tell me how many shrimp that makes altogether gets more.”

  Morning math! Very cruel indeed.

  “Thirty-two!” yelled Pickles, who was promptly given a heap of shrimp.

  Grrrr.

  Brock laughed. It was a mean laugh. “Good job, Pickles. Remember, castaways, these mini-challenges can happen at any time.”

  “Thirty-two,” said El Gato, in a desperate plea for more shrimp.

  “I don’t understand this new math,” said Chet.

  “Silence!” said Brock, unrolling a large scroll. And then he announced the first big challenge.

  “Pssst.”

  It was El Gato. He pointed to me and then back to himself, with questioning eyebrows.

  I nodded. Sure, I’d be his partner. For now.

  “Using whatever materials you can find,” Brock said, “build a shelter. It could be a tree house. A duplex. A comfy hole in the ground. Whatever. Now, choose your partner!”

  We all paired up. Me and El Gato. Chet and Whiskers. Kitty and Rosie. Bruiser and Pickles (poor Bruiser!).

  Chet and Whiskers were so old, they’d probably nap the day away. Kitty and Rosie were both she-cats, and everybody knows she-cats are not good architects. Bruiser could build something amazing by himself, but with Pickles’s endless chatter filling his brain, Bruiser was doomed.

  It was clear who would rule this challenge. My muscles and brains combined with El Gato’s need for comfort equals a sweet island home.

  AH-OOOH-AHHHH!

  It was the call of the conch shell. The Shelter Challenge had begun. Fortunately, I’d once read a pamphlet on how to make a basic shelter and had committed
the diagram to memory:

  First El Gato and I made a list of all the materials we’d need to build our dream home. And we called it:

  LIST OF ALL THE MATERIALS WE NEED TO BUILD OUR DREAM HOME

  Sturdy sticks to form the skeleton

  Vines to weave together for walls

  Palm leaves for the roof

  Decorative seashells to spell out “Welcome” in front of the entrance

  The diagram was for something basic, but with a little ingenuity, we would build something amazing.

  Then came time for the Parade of Castaway Island Shelters.

  “The ones with the shoddiest shelter have to share one plate of food for dinner,” said Brock, pointing at me and El Gato.

  The cameras all turned toward us. Game face. Never let them see you cry. But it was tough with El Gato next to me, acting like a kitten who had just lost his favorite ball of yarn.

  “It’ll be okay,” I said, patting his shoulder. “Sharing isn’t so bad.” I forced a smile. But when it was time for dinner and we had one plate of food between us, sharing was bad.

  You don’t want to know.

  After dinner, we were marched into the jungle to find the relic.

  “What does it look like again?” asked Whiskers.

  “Find it, and you’ll see,” said Brock.

  Searching with no idea what we were searching for, in a jungle filled with densely packed trees, bugs, and pointy rocks was an impossible task. After about an hour, El Gato and I gave up and headed to our shoddy home, with our stomachs growling loudly.