Cartboy Goes to Camp by L. A. Campbell Page A

sports?”
    â€œExactly.”
    â€œNature?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œKids over the age of four?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œSounds 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—”
    â€œHold on.”
    â€œOkay, maybe just the skateboard. And the sneakers—”
    â€œHal. 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.

    â€œUm. Exactly what kind of camp is this, Dad?”
    â€œThe 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!”

    â€œDad,” 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.
    â€œNice 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.

    â€œShoo,” 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.
    â€œThis 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 spindle!”
    Sewing kit? Yarn spindle?
    â€œThese 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.”
    â€œT-tomorrow?”
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œDad,” 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…”
    â€œI’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