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

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.
    â€œI packed some extra clothes in the duffel bag for you,” she said. “You know, warm stuff, an extra toothbrush, your dinosaur underwear—”
    â€œMom. I haven’t worn those dinosaur underwear in six years!”
    â€œBut 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.
    â€œGood luck, bro. If I get to Level 15 on RavenCave, I’ll give you a call,” he said.
    â€œNo phones,” my dad chimed in.
    â€œI’ll e-mail.”
    â€œNot allowed,” my dad said with a smile.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œSeven 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.
    â€œAhhh,” I said out loud.
    â€œEnjoy 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.
    â€œIt’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.”
    â€œHal Rifkind.”
    â€œYou’re the one with the old-lady cart? What’s up with that?”
    â€œIt’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.”
    â€œYou’re saying you willingly go to this place every summer?”
    â€œI like history. I’m guessing you do too. Since you’re here.”
    â€œActually, 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.
    â€œWhat’s that?” I asked.
    Vinny looked around the bus, then whispered into my ear. “I’ll tell you. But you have to promise not