Wilf.
chapter two
The stupid bus ride was three hours long. And that was just the
first
bus ride. I was never so bored in my life. I had nothing to stare at but my new compass, because books and me and moving vehicles donât exactly go together. And Camp Wild, being a Nazi type of establishment, bans CD players, handheld video games and anything else that wouldâve made the busride tolerable. I have to admit that the new compass is cool, though. A present from Mom and Dad just before my bus pulled up. They were obviously feeling guilty about forcing me to go to camp, but they couldnât exactly admit that at such a late stage, could they? So they gave me a compass. Yeah, guilt is good. Very good if it gets you something slick. I said all the right thank-yous and Iâll-miss-you stuff, of course. Played the obedient, appreciative son to the hilt; I ought to be in the movies, in fact. Wouldnât they like to know what Iâm really going to use this compass for? Wonât they think twice about dumping me off next summer after they get a phone call from Camp Wild next week?
Anyway, here I am, standing where I was dropped off, thinking, after three hours on a bus, who needs a second bus ride? Okay, so itâs a 4x4, not a bus, and it has âCamp Wildâ marked on the side,and itâs coming toward me across the parking lot this very minute. But in the end, itâs another boring ride to take me to a boring camp.
âHi! Itâs Wilf, right?â The muscle-bound guy driving puts the truck in neutral and jumps out to shake my hand. âIâm Patrick. Remember me?â
Yeah, I remember him from last year, sort of. Even though he mostly looked after the little kids.
âYup,â I say aloud, but Iâm busy sneaking a peek at the girl getting out of the front passenger seat. Okay, so âpeekâ isnât the right word. I kind of have to force my eyes to the ground so as not to burn holes in her pretty body. I feel like a stick of butter melting in the sunshine.
âHi, Wilf. Iâm Claire,â she says, walking toward us. She is smiling and holding out her hand. Like an idiot, I hand her my bag instead of squeezing that delicate palm and meeting her hazel eyes.
She giggles and tosses the bag into the truck as if its sixty pounds is no more than ten.
I cough. âSorry, I couldâve... Um, are you a camper?â
Itâs not what I meant to say, but she does a tinkling laugh and moves away from Patrick, whose eyes are roaming the parking lot in search of more Camp Wild victims.
âI was last year but not during the same part of the summer as you, I guess. This year Iâm a junior counselor. You can make that switch next year if you want. This is your last year as a camper, right?â
âUh huh.â Suddenly I feel like a little kid.
âThat has to be Herb,â Patrick shouts as he gallops over to a couple hugging a boy goodbye.
âHerb Green,â Claire says, nodding toward the trio. âA first-timer at Camp Wild and a senior camper like you. Infact, the two of you are the only seniors this year. You are also cabin mates, so weâd better go meet him.â
I pull my eyes off Claire long enough to survey a totally geeky boy wriggling away from his parentsâ smothering hugs. Poor kid. His parents are sniffling and making a scene. Youâd think they were sending him off to the army during wartime. But he manages to escape them and walk hesitantly toward Claire and me as Patrick steps in to do the parental-reassurance thing.
âHi, Iâm Herb. A pleasure to meet you,â Herb addresses us, blinking stupidly and shuffling his brand-new white tennis shoes, complete with Velcro tabs. His round face and innocent expression make him a candidate for a Boy Scouts poster. He holds his slightly lumpy body as awkwardly as a heron emerging from an oil slick. Adventurous this guy is definitely not, I decide.
âHey,
chapter two
The stupid bus ride was three hours long. And that was just the
first
bus ride. I was never so bored in my life. I had nothing to stare at but my new compass, because books and me and moving vehicles donât exactly go together. And Camp Wild, being a Nazi type of establishment, bans CD players, handheld video games and anything else that wouldâve made the busride tolerable. I have to admit that the new compass is cool, though. A present from Mom and Dad just before my bus pulled up. They were obviously feeling guilty about forcing me to go to camp, but they couldnât exactly admit that at such a late stage, could they? So they gave me a compass. Yeah, guilt is good. Very good if it gets you something slick. I said all the right thank-yous and Iâll-miss-you stuff, of course. Played the obedient, appreciative son to the hilt; I ought to be in the movies, in fact. Wouldnât they like to know what Iâm really going to use this compass for? Wonât they think twice about dumping me off next summer after they get a phone call from Camp Wild next week?
Anyway, here I am, standing where I was dropped off, thinking, after three hours on a bus, who needs a second bus ride? Okay, so itâs a 4x4, not a bus, and it has âCamp Wildâ marked on the side,and itâs coming toward me across the parking lot this very minute. But in the end, itâs another boring ride to take me to a boring camp.
âHi! Itâs Wilf, right?â The muscle-bound guy driving puts the truck in neutral and jumps out to shake my hand. âIâm Patrick. Remember me?â
Yeah, I remember him from last year, sort of. Even though he mostly looked after the little kids.
âYup,â I say aloud, but Iâm busy sneaking a peek at the girl getting out of the front passenger seat. Okay, so âpeekâ isnât the right word. I kind of have to force my eyes to the ground so as not to burn holes in her pretty body. I feel like a stick of butter melting in the sunshine.
âHi, Wilf. Iâm Claire,â she says, walking toward us. She is smiling and holding out her hand. Like an idiot, I hand her my bag instead of squeezing that delicate palm and meeting her hazel eyes.
She giggles and tosses the bag into the truck as if its sixty pounds is no more than ten.
I cough. âSorry, I couldâve... Um, are you a camper?â
Itâs not what I meant to say, but she does a tinkling laugh and moves away from Patrick, whose eyes are roaming the parking lot in search of more Camp Wild victims.
âI was last year but not during the same part of the summer as you, I guess. This year Iâm a junior counselor. You can make that switch next year if you want. This is your last year as a camper, right?â
âUh huh.â Suddenly I feel like a little kid.
âThat has to be Herb,â Patrick shouts as he gallops over to a couple hugging a boy goodbye.
âHerb Green,â Claire says, nodding toward the trio. âA first-timer at Camp Wild and a senior camper like you. Infact, the two of you are the only seniors this year. You are also cabin mates, so weâd better go meet him.â
I pull my eyes off Claire long enough to survey a totally geeky boy wriggling away from his parentsâ smothering hugs. Poor kid. His parents are sniffling and making a scene. Youâd think they were sending him off to the army during wartime. But he manages to escape them and walk hesitantly toward Claire and me as Patrick steps in to do the parental-reassurance thing.
âHi, Iâm Herb. A pleasure to meet you,â Herb addresses us, blinking stupidly and shuffling his brand-new white tennis shoes, complete with Velcro tabs. His round face and innocent expression make him a candidate for a Boy Scouts poster. He holds his slightly lumpy body as awkwardly as a heron emerging from an oil slick. Adventurous this guy is definitely not, I decide.
âHey,
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