Sammy Keyes and the Wild Things by Wendelin Van Draanen Page A

she saw the backpackers. She snatched my shirt off the ground and held it out to me, while a voice behind me called,
“Sammy?”
    I went from full-throttle freak-out to internal meltdown.
    I knew that voice.
    I knew it very well.
    Oh, why hadn’t I let the scorpion kill me?
    Why hadn’t I let the ticks suck me dry?
    Why hadn’t I eaten poison oak and suffered a slow, agonizing death by suffocation?
    Anything was better than dying of mortification!
    I ripped the shirt away from Cricket, held it to me, and turned around. “Casey?” I choked out.
    â€œI
told
you I heard her calling your name!” Billy said to Casey. “I told you!” Then he grinned at Cricket. “And she’s with Mo-jo Kuo-jo!”
    Cricket blushed beet red.
    â€œBut . . . ,” Casey said, still not believing it was me. “Why are you . . . ?”
    â€œTicks!” I said, sputtering like a madman. “I was covered in ticks!”
    Cricket tried to come to my rescue. “And there was a scorpion!” She held her fingers at least eight inches apart. “It was this big!”
    â€œNo way!” Billy said. He shoved the lifeless rattlesnake on Casey and cut off the trail toward where we’d been. “Where? Where was it?”
    Casey just stood there, the rattlesnake U-ing from one hand to the other. He looked at my shoes with the laces all dragging in the dirt. He looked at my face, at my filthy, singed skin and cracked, flaky lips. And he did his best to politely
not
look at the rest of me. “What are you
doing
down here?” he finally asked.
    I cringed. “Uh . . . backpacking?”
    â€œWHERE’S THAT SCORPION, MO-JO?” Billy shouted from behind us.
    â€œBY THE TICKS AND THE POISON OAK!” she shouted back.
    Casey was still staring. “But . . . where’s your backpack?”
    Cricket stepped between me and Casey and whispered to me, “Put yourself together! I’ll explain it to him.”
    So I dashed for cover as fast as I could in my blistery feet and clunky, dangly-laced boots. Then I checked over my shirt, pulled it on quick, picked up my hat and daypack, and reemerged before the ticks could attack again.
    â€œI DON’T SEE IT!” Billy shouted.
    â€œIT’S BACK THERE!” Cricket called, then continued talking to Casey. “. . . So we decided to cut cross-country and try to find them. But Sammy’s feet are just raw with blisters and we had to stop to fix them, and then we heard people coming and thought it was those creeps we saw back at Miner’s Camp and got scared—no! We didn’t get
scared,
we decided to be
smart
and play it safe and hide from them. . . .”
    â€œBut then the ticks and scorpions attacked and I totally freaked out,” I said, finishing the story.
    â€œOkaaaaay,” Casey said, still looking confused and uncomfortable.
    But I didn’t want to explain any more. Or apologize for being a wilderness wimp. It seemed like it would just make things more . . . pathetic. And since Coach Rothhammer is always telling us that the best defense is a good offense, I forced a little smirk and said, “So what are you guys doing with a rattlesnake, huh? Jumping rope down the trail?”
    â€œUh, no . . . ,” he said, but it made him sorta grin. Like he was on his way back into a universe he understood. He shook the rattler’s head and said, “This monster and Billy got into a little spat. Fortunately for Billy, Billy won.” He pulled a face. “But not by much.”
    â€œMO-JO! WHERE’S THAT SCORPION?”
    â€œIT’S PROBABLY IN MINER’S CAMP BY NOW!” Cricket shouted back. “It was moving fast.”
    â€œSo why are you carrying it around?” I asked Casey. “Why didn’t you just leave it for the birds to eat?”
    Casey shrugged. “’Cause
Billy
wants to eat it.”
    â€œNo way!”
    Billy was back. “I