“Mom’s really grinding for this med school test,” I say. “I can’t believe she’ll finally be a doctor.”
“Well, she’s just getting started,” says Luke, putting down the DuBois brochure and taking out his Rowell School packet. “It’s a long road ahead and a lot of work.”
“She just seems so … happy we’re leaving, once she stopped being mad,” I grumble. “She skipped over sad! I’m almost offended. It’s not like we’re babies she had to take care of every second. She can study with us around.”
“You know how it is,” says Luke. “Now she gets the whole summer to focus. Camp DuBois really hooked her up.”
“I guess,” I say. I’m still a little salty.
“Ha,” he says. “They’ve been showing this same kid on every other page. Didn’t even bother to let him change out of that corny striped shirt!”
“And those khakis, tho,” I say, shaking my head. “Is that Maine fashion?”
“He’s either a real superstar or he’s all they got to be the Black friend in the group shots.” He shows me, and we both laugh, but then he gets quiet and puts the packet away. After a minute, I take out the little notebook where I’ve been writing down all my get-ready-for-camp ideas. It’s not easy to keep track of things without the Notes app on my phone, but Mom hasn’t budged on consequences. I look at the list I’ve started of all the things I plan to do.
• DJ workshop
• Basketball
• All-you-can-eat sundae bar
• Rock climbing
• Graphic novel
• Film screening
• Fencing! (Say “en garde!” at least once, no matter what.)
• Street style dance
This really could be very, very cool.
Chapter Ten
By the time we pull into the station, my stomach hurts (turns out there was a deal on the hot dogs, I went a little overboard even though Luke warned me that there was probably a bad reason for the deal), and I’m back to making lists.
Things That Could Destroy Me at Camp
• Bears
• Axe murderers
• Bears that know how to use axes
• Axes left around to give axe murderers of many species ideas
• Raccoons (I saw a documentary—those things are vicious!)
“What are you doing?” asks Luke. “We’re here!”
The first thing I notice is all the green. So many trees. So much grass. Roberts, New York, looks like one big botanical garden.
“Yo, you feel that? That’s … air,” says Luke, breathing in big gulps as we walk down the steps of the train platform. Taxis are lined up, and an old white guy leans out of one saying, “Heading to Camp DuBois? Hop in.”
“Is camp the only thing in town?” I ask as we pile into the back seat, but the driver doesn’t seem to hear.
This town is definitely deeply green—and also blue. As we drive, I see signs for Gigli Beach State Park, Old Apple Beach, Slide It! Water Park, and Splash City, USA. I open the window on my side and breathe deeply.
We move off the highway onto smaller roads. There are cute houses with two cars in the driveways and more trees. A few people are out taking care of their yards; all the yards are full of flowers, and all the people are white.
The driver’s name is Traxler Wexler, according to the hanging laminated badge. Kind of a tongue twister. I practice saying it under my breath, “TraxlerWexlerTraxlerWexler.”
“There’s a lot of apple picking here in the fall,” says Luke. “Apparently people come from all over. Those must be some good apples.”
“Mmm-hmmm,” said TraxlerWexler. “Yep, summers here are popular too. Go a little south of here, toward Betway, you’ll find a festival next month. Right around Visiting Day.”
“How’d you know we were here for Camp DuBois?” I ask. We pass through what must be the main part of town—lots of people, walking, hanging around outside the cute houses and little shops that look kind of fake in that ye olde way. I still don’t see too many people who look like me.
TraxlerWexler shrugs. “Most of you guys are.”
Luke’s head whips around.
TraxlerWexler must feel his side eye, because he stutters a little. “I … uh, I mean, most young African American kids coming here … around this time … I mean, usually it’s for DuBois … I just, you know, figured.” He trails off.
I try to catch Luke’s eye, but he’s stone-faced and staring straight ahead.
We ride on in silence. I look out of the window; the streets get smaller again, and the fresh air smell gets stronger.
“We’re here!” Luke says suddenly. I hadn’t realized that I’d dozed off. We are pulling into a driveway that’s as wide as Macaulay Boulevard back home.
“Whoa!” I say as we drive up to an imposing building that looks like a mini version of the White House. It’s even better than the pictures. There’s a huge fountain in front of it, and I half expect to see a butler standing around with a white cloth napkin over his arm.
“It started out as a school,” says TraxlerWexler. “Kind of a fancy one.” He shrugs. “Some people thought those kids needed all this froufrou folderol. In my day, camp was about getting some sun and exercise. Learning to swim.”
“Yep,” says Luke. “And those kids probably swam in segregated pools. How old are you, exactly?”
Oooh, Luke’s bringing a little fire. I stop trying to remember what folderol means and glance at him. He’s already … bigger somehow.
“Huh” is all TraxlerWexler says, and he keeps driving. We go in a giant U, gravel crunching discreetly under the wheels. We pass two basketball courts and some large birds, maybe geese, just chilling on the grass. I see a couple of guys who look like they’re about Luke’s age, sitting on the steps of a brick building. I’m both a little disappointed and relieved that they aren’t wearing polo shirts and ironed khakis. TraxlerWexler starts talking again, telling us about renovations, landscaping, and other boring stuff.
“He sure knows a lot about DuBois,” Luke whispers to me. “Maybe he’s just real light-skinned.”
I smother a laugh, because TraxlerWexler seems as white as can be.
Finally we’re at a big building, and he stops. We get our stuff out of the trunk, and Luke gives him a tip, which surprises me because he’s still stone-faced. He doesn’t say thank you. As TraxlerWexler drives off, Luke just sighs.
“He was kind of weird,” I start, but then the two guys on the steps wave in unison. Luke nods at them and says a casual, “Hey.” The one who’s wearing a T-shirt that says blerds united will never be defeated across the front walks over.
“New campers?” he asks.
“I’m a JC,” says Luke quickly. “I was just here for training, I had to go home to get my baby brother.” He points at me like I’m a squirrel that’s just run up on him out of nowhere. “He’s a camper. First-year. Newbie.”
Yeah, okay, Luke. You spent last year trying to grow a mustache and it still looks like you have crumbs on your upper lip.
“Oh yeah, my bad, I remember,” says the boy. “I’m Justin.” He looks at me. “I can point you in the direction of sign-in and everything.” He turns back to Luke and frowns a little. “I’m sorry … what’s your name again?”
Ha!
Luke isn’t dark-skinned enough to completely hide the blush.
“Uh, Luke Charles … I’m a junior counselor? And art assistant?” He fumbles around for his acceptance letter. Last week I’d asked him if he thought he should laminate it, and he’d looked like he was actually considering that.
“Oh, sorry, my bad,” says Justin. “I’m in the sports division, one of the soccer coaches. Haven’t met everyone yet.” He starts walking. “We’re all heading to the same building,” he says.
“I like the shirt,” says Luke as we shuffle behind Justin.
“Thanks,” says Justin. “It’s the unofficial motto here at DuBois.”
The breeze moves ge
ntly through us, and more geese stroll nearby. I see a small pond and a lake in the distance. A few of the geese honk at us, like we’re intruders. As more cars are pulling up, and the squeals and shouts of reunions surround us, I feel like the geese might be right. I think about Boo Boo and Mr. Elefancy again. Not even Luke knows that I still sleep with them under my pillow every night. I wonder if there’s a way I can play them off as ironic decorative touches on my bed here.
We walk into the biggest mansiony building. It smells old and important and rich, like damp wood. The entranceway is big, and I half expect servants to be standing around, but there are just families and cheerful staff members directing them to different areas. Most of the activity is happening in a room with a big sign hanging from the ceiling that says the lounge. When I go in and take a close look, I see that the big puffy chairs are a little worn, and there are spots on the cream-colored walls where the paint is chipping. I hug myself; the air conditioning game is strong.
“Emmett, you should head straight ahead to the registration table,” says Luke, pointing, like he’s not going with me. “They know Mom’s not here, all you gotta do is get your schedule and pick your electives. There’s not much left because most of the campers already signed up for stuff. I’ll try to catch up with you after you register, okay?”
“Oh, okay, but I—” He’s already out of earshot. I watch him copy Justin’s walk as they leave.
There are signs all over the place, so I find the registration table pretty easily. It’s in a giant, crowded room with a fireplace. I get a packet that says I’m in the “Young Lions.”
“Do we have to turn in our devices?” WeeDee had gone to Forest Camp last summer and he said they’d locked everybody’s phone in the office on the first day. I’m ready with a five-point argument against that medieval practice, just in case.
The woman at the table smiles. “Oh, no, you can keep whatever you have. And you can sign phones, tablets, and other devices out at the office.” Wow! I look over at the kid next to me, who puts his phone down on the table between us. I cover my phone with my hand; his looks like something from the future. Then I realize that it is.
“I didn’t think those were coming out until next year,” I blurt out.
He glances at me. “Yeah, they’re not. My dad is a VP there.”
My phone isn’t that old, but compared to this kid’s, it’s a vintage flip-phone. If this guy is the norm around here, then I kind of want them to confiscate my phone. For the first time, I’m a little glad that Mom’s consequences will keep it put away for the most part.
Registration is a little overwhelming, and because I registered late, a lot of electives are full. No fencing for me. Or DJ workshop. When I get to Street Style, which sounds like a blend of b-boying and krumping, it says audition waitlist on the screen.
“What does that mean?” I ask the woman at the desk.
“Oh, Micah’s not taking any more elective students, but there’s one spot left for the Street Style major. Every year at least ten extra people think they want to sign up, so he leaves a spot open, then runs auditions for it.”
“Just one spot?” I ask. “That’s cold …”
“Remember, a major means three periods a day,” says the woman. “A double period of class, then a period of independent study—in a dance class, that means rehearsing on your own, research, stuff like that. Majors are a commitment.”
I can hear Mom’s voice in my head so strong, it’s like she’s right next to me. Sign up, sweetie pie, you love to dance! I know, I know, opportunity.
Mom, please, shhhhh, I whisper back in my head. Oops. Maybe not in my head, because I notice the boy with the nice phone giving me a funny look; he’s been listening to the whole conversation. I’m not sure what makes me look more like a punk—signing up and showing how much I care, or not signing up because I’m scared of competition. The Mom-voice keeps nudging me, and people are waiting to use the screen. I start to sweat when I hear someone mutter, “Come on.” The auditions are tomorrow during the free period, so maybe I can practice a little before then. I put my name down and silently tell my stomach to settle.
I wish I could sign up for film, because I’m all about watching movies, and maybe I could get more ideas for a film fest at home, but it’s full. I add the Great DuBois Baking Show mostly because I think it will be cool if I can whip up a nice surprise for Mom when I get back. Most of the other classes I want are full, so I settle for chorus (I’ve always heard that girls love a brother who can sing), badminton, and ceramics (it’s art, so I figure I’ll get to see Luke). There are two classes that everyone has to take: Black to the Future, which sounds corny, and Superhero Secrets, which sounds really cool until I hear a boy grumbling that Superhero Secrets “is the kind of thing corny kids think is cool.”
It also says that swimming is required (yeah right), so I think about how to get out of that without Mom finding out while we wait to meet my counselor. No way am I getting in a pool in front of all these people. I grab some chips and pretzels and look around. I guess they did some Photoshopping in the catalog, because even though it’s definitely nice, once I look closer, some things are not exactly as sparkling and fancy as they looked on paper and on the website. Still a major upgrade for Luke and me, though; it’s all a little overwhelming. I get a free DuBois T-shirt too; I have a choice between three sizes too small and four sizes too big. I don’t see any other campers wearing one, so I know I can just stash it in my trunk. I go big. And I kind of want to go home.
Chapter Eleven
As I stand there taking deep breaths, trying to look bored but excited, smart and athletic, and like a genuine mack all at once, one thing stands out, big time. Black people everywhere. I have never even seen this many Black kids in a room together at school back home. And even though we’re all Black, I can see skater kids; artsy kids; straight up preps with those alligator shirts; hippie types tie-dyed out; and guys wearing red, black, and green and calling girls queens … I wonder what type they think I am. Luke told me on the train that I’d find my people here, the Blerds, but I don’t even know if I am a Blerd. As I look around at everyone, I wonder: How is a Black nerd different from a white one? Or an Asian one?
The phone boy strolls over with a man who I assume is his dad. They both look like they wear their do-rags every night.
“Are you okay?” asks the boy. “You look like your stomach hurts or something.”
“Excited-bored” clearly isn’t working. “Oh—yeah. I was just remembering that I left my newer phone at home.”
“I’m Lamar,” says the boy. “This is my dad. I told him you liked the phone.”
“Hi, I’m Emmett.”
“After Emmett Till?” Lamar’s dad asks. “Heavy name to bear.”
Sigh. “No, uh, after my mom’s uncle Emmett; he was a barber.”
“Huh,” says the dad. We stand around awkwardly. I swallow down the mix of anger and sadness I always feel in the presence of a boy and his dad.
Luke comes over. “What up, E? How’s it going? I’ve been helping out with the Bear Cubs. A lot of tears.” When I give him a blank look, he adds “They’re the youngest campers. You probably got Young Lions, right?”
Lamar looks at Luke, clearly impressed. “I’m Lamar,” he says. “Do you play ball?”
“Yep,” says Luke. “And I hear it’s junior counselors against campers every Sunday night, if you’re up for it.”
“Sure!” says Lamar. “What are you a junior counselor in?”
When he finds out that Luke is an art counselor, Lamar immediately asks his dad to sign him up for an art elective. He asks me if I want to check out his phone too. I smile. My brother’s cool lasts forever like vibranium. And his powers extend to me if I stay close enough.
Luke pats my shoulder. “Looks like you’re all set, E,” he says. “I’ll see you. I’m going to help greet new campers.”
Lamar’s face falls. “Yeah, I’m ready to bounce too.” He starts looking a
round. “I think I see my roommate from last year.”
“Don’t you want to see my dorm room?” I ask Luke.
“I’ll try to come by later,” he says. “I’ve gotta work, remember? You’ll be in good hands. All the counselors are great—they hired me, right?” He gives me a fist bump.
“Yeah,” I mutter, “I just—”
“Hi, I’m Marcus,” says a voice. “Emmett, right?” He daps up Luke and then me, smiling like he wants our vote. “You’re in my house, Emmett. Follow me.”
Luke pats my shoulder with a little push. “Have fun!” He hurries away.
Marcus walks like he never gets lost. “We’re living in those houses?” I say, pointing to a bunch of small stone houses as we cross the lawn.
He shakes his head. “No, we call each floor in the dorms a different house. I’m the head counselor in Walker.” He glances at me. “Not Madam C. J. Walker, by the way. It’s David Walker. People sometimes think the beauty empire.” I have no idea who either of those people are, so I just nod while he keeps talking. “I started as a camper here when I was around your age,” he says. “Good times.”
I have to jog a little to keep up. Now that we’re out of the main building, beads of sweat run down my back.
“I’m almost fourteen,” I say, crossing my fingers and standing up as straight as possible.
“Ah, got it. I was wondering why you were in my house. You’re just a “Little”.”
What kind of training did these counselors get? Not enough to know that some of us might be sensitive about being called a little.
I thought the Bear Cubs were the youngest group. I’m a Young Lion,” I say, but he doesn’t seem to care.
“When I started here, I’d just won the Cordex National High School Science Competition, and I thought I was all that.” He laughs. “So, Emmett, what are you into?” Marcus asked as we walked. “Astrophysics? Athlete? Animator?”
It Doesn't Take a Genius Page 6
