Cartboy Goes to Camp Read online

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  To Beau and Charlie

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Dear Person/Alien

  The Bus

  Camp Jamestown

  Cabin 2

  The Pioneer Life

  Hunting, Digging, and Cake

  A CLUE

  Night Hunting

  Pie

  The Best Pioneer

  Tug-of-War

  Field Trip

  The Grand Prize

  Pearls

  The Dance

  Acknowledgments

  Also by L. A. Campbell

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Dear Person/Alien Who Lives Way in the Future:

  Hello. Greetings. Zimnet Snerg.

  It’s me, Hal.

  The first thing I want to say is: sorry to bug you again. I’m sure you have better things to do. Like play soccer on Jupiter. Or visit your robot cousins on Mars.

  But based on what happened today, I had to talk to someone. And I figured the best someone was you. Especially since I wrote to you all last year in my time capsule journal for Mr. Tupkin’s history class. (Yes, I am still recovering.)

  I’m also hoping you have the means (a real working time machine) and the power (alien awesomeness) to beam me out of here.

  Based on what happened today with my dad, I’m more desperate now than ever.

  It all started when my best friend, Arnie Giannelli, came over to my house. It was the first day of summer, and we had big plans to get to Level 15 of RavenCave. We didn’t want to waste a minute. So we sat down in the room I share with my twin sisters, Bea and Perrie, and turned on the computer.

  We had just started playing, when my dad’s voice came from the living room. “Hal, I need to speak with you,” he said.

  As soon as I heard him, I did what any sensible kid would do. Covered my ears with a stuffed animal. This time I used Flatso the Hippo, who I found in Bea’s crib.

  I wrapped Flatso over my head and pressed down hard. Whatever my dad had to say, I was pretty sure I didn’t want to hear it. Partly because of the suspicious-looking piece of paper I saw in his pocket right before Arnie came over.

  And partly because summer was finally here. And, like I mentioned before, Arnie and I had important goals to achieve:

  Noon:

  Wake up

  12:30:

  Eat doughnuts

  12:40–3:00:

  Get to Level 15

  As it turns out, holding a stuffed animal over my ears was about as useful as holding a handful of air.

  “Hal. Get in here now.”

  I put Flatso back in the crib and dragged myself into the living room. My dad was sitting on our worn-out couch wearing one of his Revolutionary War uniforms. He had just come from reenacting a battle down by the town tennis courts, so he had a rip in his jacket. And about five missing buttons.

  “Rough skirmish today, Dad?”

  “We were badly outnumbered by the British. I took a bayonet to the ribs.”

  “Sorry to hear you lost the fight, Dad. Better luck next time!” I started to make a beeline back to RavenCave, but I didn’t get far.

  “Sit,” said my dad.

  I sat. I’ve learned that when my dad says to sit, you should probably do it. Unless you want to end up raking leaves for five hours on a Saturday.

  I could tell he was going to get down to the real reason he wanted to talk to me. And that it was much bigger than telling me about a battle he just lost.

  My dad shifted around for what felt like nine hours—then finally his lips started to move. “Hal, now that you’re twelve, I think it’s time for you to look at summer differently. To expand your horizons. It’s time for you to get out of Stowfield, Pennsylvania.”

  “You mean, like, go to Grampa Janson’s for a couple of days?”

  That I could handle. Grampa Janson has a giant gumball machine in his basement, and you don’t even have to use a quarter to get one out.

  “No, not Grampa Janson’s,” said my dad. “I’m talking about really getting away from Stowfield. Having an … experience. Your mom and I have decided to send you to sleepaway camp. For two weeks.”

  Sleepaway camp?

  The only summer camp I’d ever been to was the Tiny Wishes Day Camp near the bowling alley downtown. Tiny Wishes was made up of a diverse mix of children: 99 percent little kids, and me. I’m pretty sure I was the only person in the pool who didn’t wear swim diapers.

  I looked my dad in the eyes. “You mean you and Mom are sending me to a real summer camp? One that has cabins and sports?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Nature?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Kids over the age of four?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sounds like I’ll be needing a skateboard and a tennis racket and some new basketball sneakers! I think they’re having a sale over at Denby’s. I’ll meet you in the car—”

  “Hold on.”

  “Okay, maybe just the skateboard. And the sneakers—”

  “Hal. You won’t be needing any of that fancy new stuff. This is a special camp. A different kind of place.”

  Okay, I thought, that could still mean it wasn’t bad. There would probably still be lots of s’mores.

  Just as I was picturing the marshmallow goo melting all over my tongue, my dad slid a piece of paper toward me. I picked it up and saw it was a brochure for a place called Camp Jamestown. Judging by the trees and the pond on the cover, it didn’t seem so bad.

  Then I took a closer look.

  Standing by a log cabin was an old guy with a beard that came to a sharp point at the end.

  “Um. Exactly what kind of camp is this, Dad?”

  “The best camp in the world, that’s what kind. You get to live like a real pioneer!” My dad started flipping through the brochure, pointing to pictures of pine trees and cabins and outhouses. “Hardly anything has changed at Camp Jamestown since the 1600s! It’s woodsy and rustic and there’s wildlife everywhere. One time, I even saw a bear!”

  “Dad,” I said, wiping a gob of sweat off my forehead. “I so appreciate your kind offer. But, um, for the sake of our family and the meager-to-nonexistent funds you earn from fixing appliances for a living, I will generously decline. For you and Mom and the twins, I’ll stay home.”

  With that, I attempted to walk away.

  “Nice try, mister. Get back here.”

  I turned back, and that’s when I noticed the humongous bag on the floor. It was open on one end, and a spider the size of a hockey puck crawled out.

  “Shoo,” said my dad, waving away the spider. “Guess he couldn’t resist making a home out of this beauty.”

  The “beauty” was a mold-covered, army-green duffel bag my dad had somehow dragged up from the basement.

  “This was my pack when I went to Camp Jamestown. And before that, it was Grampa Janson’s army bag. Check it out. It’s filled with supplies!”

  My dad reached inside the bag and started pulling stuff out. “Ah yes, the old canteen. My trusty shovel. Bow and arrow. Ax. Sewing kit. Oooh! My yarn s
pindle!”

  Sewing kit? Yarn spindle?

  “These precious heirlooms helped me win Pioneer Day. Look at the beadwork on this fabric. I made a bald eagle. Very sacred to the Powhatan Indians. But you’ll learn all about that. Starting tomorrow.”

  “T-tomorrow?”

  “The bus leaves first thing in the morning.”

  My dad went over the checklist of stuff every camper was supposed to bring. “Good thing I saved almost everything on the list,” he said. “No frivolous shopping for us!”

  I stared at all the “precious heirlooms” and couldn’t help but think, Here we go again.

  It wasn’t enough that my dad made me carry my books to school in an old-lady cart for most of sixth grade. Now he was going to make me be the weird kid at camp too. The kid with the stuff his dad thinks is “priceless.” But everyone else knows is junk. Even the sleeping bag was full of holes.

  “Dad,” I said as a last-ditch effort. “This duffel bag is way too heavy for me. Remember what you said about bad backs running in the family…”

  “I’ve already thought of that. You can carry the bag in your cart!”

  I looked down at the duffel bag by my feet and couldn’t help but wish there were something else inside it.

  Not a shovel. Or a bow and arrow. Or a yarn spindle.

  But a molecular modifier. Like the kind I saw on the TV show Gadgets of the Future. It transports you anywhere in time you want to go.

  They said everyone in the distant future will have one. Which brings me to the question I always seem to be asking you.

  You don’t have one handy, do you?

  The Bus

  Dear Future Being Who I’m Praying Is Still Reading This:

  The bus to camp left at eight in the morning. It was parked outside the Stowfield Historical Society, about a two-minute drive from our house. I guess they figured the Historical Society was a good meeting place. Seeing as how we were all headed on a “journey to the colonial past.”

  My whole family drove me to the bus, and when we got there, I thought I better say “so long” right away. Probably best to get it over with, since I’m not a big one for good-byes. That, and I felt like if I waited too long, I’d start blubbering like an idiot.

  I turned to give my mom a hug good-bye.

  “I packed some extra clothes in the duffel bag for you,” she said. “You know, warm stuff, an extra toothbrush, your dinosaur underwear—”

  “Mom. I haven’t worn those dinosaur underwear in six years!”

  “But they’re so cute…”

  I turned to get on the bus, and who was standing right in front of me?

  Yep. Arnie. He had come to see me off.

  “Good luck, bro. If I get to Level 15 on RavenCave, I’ll give you a call,” he said.

  “No phones,” my dad chimed in.

  “I’ll e-mail.”

  “Not allowed,” my dad said with a smile.

  “I’ll write?”

  My dad looked at Arnie and nodded yes. “But try to use a quill pen.”

  Arnie whispered into my ear. “Look on the bright side, Hal. You won’t be anywhere near Ryan Horner.”

  I had to admit Arnie had a point. Ryan Horner was convinced I told Mr. Tupkin he cheated on the history final. Which I didn’t. But that didn’t stop Ryan from giving me his famous Sweatpants Wedgie in the locker room on the last day of school.

  Suddenly the bus to camp didn’t seem so terrible.

  “Seven hours to Jamestown, Virginia,” said the driver over the loudspeaker. “All aboard.”

  I waved good-bye to my family, walked on the bus, and grabbed a seat. I was pretty surprised to see the seats were soft and velvety. And there was another bonus—something I don’t experience often: real air-conditioning.

  The bus pulled away, so I sat back and let the cool air blow on my face.

  “Ahhh,” I said out loud.

  “Enjoy it.”

  I looked up to see a kid standing in the aisle. He was small like me, but his hair stuck straight up. Like he had used a whole bucket of gel on it.

  “It’s the last blast of cold air you’re gonna feel for two weeks.” The kid put out his hand. “Vinny Ramirez. Westwood, New Jersey.”

  “Hal Rifkind.”

  “You’re the one with the old-lady cart? What’s up with that?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Unfortunately, Vinny took that as invitation to sit next to me. “I love stories. Especially history stories. This will be my fourth year at Camp Jamestown.”

  “You’re saying you willingly go to this place every summer?”

  “I like history. I’m guessing you do too. Since you’re here.”

  “Actually, I was hoping for more of a sporty camp…”

  I was about to tell Vinny all about this place I heard about called Camp Woodward. It’s in Pennsylvania. They have a skateboard park. And a waterslide. You can eat a hamburger every night if you want, and you don’t even have to take showers.

  But I could tell Vinny wasn’t listening. He had pulled a huge map out of his backpack and was studying it with an intense look on his face.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  Vinny looked around the bus, then whispered into my ear. “I’ll tell you. But you have to promise not to tell anyone.”

  He glanced around one more time to make sure no one was listening. “It’s a map of Camp Jamestown,” he said. “I drew it myself. To help me find the buried treasure.”

  I let out a little chuckle. But then I saw that Vinny wasn’t kidding.

  “I have good reason to believe the treasure was buried a long time ago. Right on camp grounds,” he said.

  “What is the treasure?” I asked.

  “Pearls.”

  Vinny put down the map and looked me in the eyes. “I heard your friend say you almost made it to Level 15 of RavenCave. You must be pretty good at hunting for stuff. Do you want to help me find the treasure?”

  “Um, RavenCave is a video game, Vinny. That’s different—”

  “Plus we’ll both be in the same cabin. Since our last names begin with R. That’ll make it easier to hunt together.”

  “I’m not too good at math, Vinny, but even I know that if we share the profits, it’ll only be about two dollars each.”

  “These are real pearls. Pearls the Powhatan Indians traded for food and tools. They could be worth a lot. The antiques dealer back home already told me he’d buy them if we found them.”

  “Thanks, Vinny, but I think I’ll pass.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  With that, Vinny leaned back and studied his map again. While he sat there reading, I couldn’t help but look over his shoulder.

  The more I looked at Vinny’s map, the more I couldn’t help but think the treasure might be real. That helping Vinny hunt for it might be a good thing.

  Maybe the treasure would be the solution to all my problems.

  I could use the money to buy a motorized scooter to help me carry my books to school. I could finally get rid of my cart. Finally, everyone would stop calling me Cartboy.

  I leaned into Vinny’s ear. “Okay. I’m in. If we find the treasure, we split it fifty–fifty?”

  “Sixty–forty. I did all the research.”

  “Deal.”

  I sat there for the rest of the bus ride, thinking about the Ziptuk E300S motorized scooter I was going to get.

  I must have been thinking about that scooter a lot, because before I knew it, we were there.

  Camp Jamestown. Deep in the woods. Right in the middle of nowhere.

  Camp Jamestown

  Dear Future Rescuer (I Hope):

  We pulled into a clearing in the woods, and about fifty campers and counselors got off the bus. The group was about half girls and half boys, each of us lugging a bag full of gear.

  I stood in the clearing with my cart and took a good look around. Right away, three words came to mind.

  Not too bad.

 
Yes, there were crooked old cabins. Outhouses. And a Museum of Colonial Artifacts. And yes, the main cabin near the middle of camp had a butter churner on the front porch.

  But there were pine trees everywhere. The air smelled fresh and clean. And just past the clearing was a pond lined with lily pads.

  Besides, I figured, there had to be something modern here. I mean, even though this was a history camp, it was still a camp for kids.

  Surely there was a kite board or a water trampoline down by the pond. Surely something here had been manufactured in the last twenty years.

  I looked near the tops of the pine trees for a power line, and across the clearing for flushing toilets. I took a few steps toward the main cabin, where I thought I saw a cell phone through a tiny glass window.

  And that’s when I heard the sound.

  DOO DO DO LOOO!

  A man holding a dried-out orange gourd walked out of the cabin. I could tell it was the guy from the brochure because of the long pointy beard.

  “Welcome, boys, girls, counselors, and history lovers of all kinds!” he said. “I am Mr. Prentice. Thy camp director. And musical gourd player.”

  One look at Mr. Prentice, and any hopes I had for something modern disappeared like a balloon in the wind.

  Not only was he playing a gourd, but he was also wearing tights and a wool coat that went down to his knees. Underneath the coat was a lacy shirt, like the kind Gramma Janson wears to the opera. He was even wearing those black Pilgrim shoes with the buckles on the sides.

  Mr. Prentice put the gourd to his lips and blew hard.

  “Gather round, my good people. There’s no time liketh the present to discover the past.”

  Everyone shuffled toward Mr. Prentice, but I, for one, stayed back. That is, until Vinny tugged my arm.