under Morrie’s bony nose. “
What
am I supposed to do about camp? Eh?
Eh
?”
Camp.
Camp
.
Campcampcampcampcampcampcampcamp . . .
It wasn’t so much an odious word now as a chant, haunting his head morning and night. The chant had been gaining in force and volume since Mr. A had distributed the camp papers two weeks ago. On Friday the forms were due back at school.
The papers were color-coded in Mr. A’s usual way. Orange, yellow, green, blue — what Mr. A called “the bureaucratic rainbow.” The bureaucratic rainbow was, he said, a hangover from his probation days, when he had nearly drowned in color-coded forms. Gigs had raised his hand and said that this meant Mr. A had been burned-out
and
wet back in his probation days, and could those two things actually happen at the same time?
“In the world of corrections”— Mr. A fixed Gigs with a gimlet eye —“
anything
can happen. Listen up, please . . .
One
— the
orange
sheet is a permission slip for your parents or guardians to sign.”
He held up the yellow sheet. “
Two
— this is a list of costs.
Three
— the
blue
sheet is a list of gear you will need for camp. Note that it
excludes
listening devices of
all kinds
. This means Walkmen, Discmen, MP3s, iPods, iPod Nanos, iPod Shuffles, mobiles, two-way radios, field telephones, car phones, tin cans joined with a string . . . Is this crystal clear to even the most obdurately cloth-eared among you?”
“What’s obdurate, Mr. A? What’s cloth-eared?” said Bronwyn Baxter.
“
Four
— the
green
sheet”— Mr. A ignored her —“is a note enticing your parents to accompany us, one day, two days, three, a morning, an afternoon, half an hour, twenty-seven seconds, whatever they can manage. . . . Bring all these back read and signed by your parents or guardians, two Fridays from now. No questions! Dictionaries out!”
Frankie, trying not to think about camp and its implications, had noted automatically that Mr. A had had a haircut. About two inches, Frankie figured, assessing the newly neat halo of silver hair. He’d had an eyebrow trim, too. His eyebrows looked like eyebrows now instead of shaggy hay bales. Gigs and Frankie were convinced that Mr. A was bossier and more officious in the days immediately following his haircuts.
Frankie had stared vacantly at the colored sheets for some time in class, then stowed them in his backpack. At home he had transferred them from his backpack to his desk, where he regularly stared at them, since they had continued to lie there, unread and unsigned, for the last fortnight.
It was hearing about the Year Eight Notts camp five years ago that had made Frankie wish fervently to transfer, along with Gigs, to the school. Gigs had told him all about it; his cousin Vivi had told
him
. It was
amazing,
Gigs had said.
Eight
days
more or less in the bush, horseback riding, bird-watching, kayaking, rock climbing, a mini drama production with the band, a dance competition . . . The camp was the high point of the Notts experience. No other school had anything like it, blah, blah, blah . . .
Frankie wound up the old music box and watched the one-armed ballerina perform her jerky pirouette. He thought of the ballerina as Lara, though she didn’t look anything like the Lara in
Doctor Zhivago,
which was the film that “Lara’s Theme” came from.
Doctor Zhivago
was Ma’s favorite film; naturally it was set in Russia. Frankie had watched the film often with Ma.
The film Lara was voluptuous and fair-haired, with pouting lips. She wore cloaks and fur and moved with grace. The music box ballerina was skinny and plastic, with only a few strands of black hair and no discernible lips. Her pink tulle skirt was tatty; her dance was bumpy and oddly fevered. It was because she was old, Frankie knew; the music box had been Ma’s sixth-birthday present from her parents. It had also been her last birthday present from her parents because when she was six years and five days old, her
What
am I supposed to do about camp? Eh?
Eh
?”
Camp.
Camp
.
Campcampcampcampcampcampcampcamp . . .
It wasn’t so much an odious word now as a chant, haunting his head morning and night. The chant had been gaining in force and volume since Mr. A had distributed the camp papers two weeks ago. On Friday the forms were due back at school.
The papers were color-coded in Mr. A’s usual way. Orange, yellow, green, blue — what Mr. A called “the bureaucratic rainbow.” The bureaucratic rainbow was, he said, a hangover from his probation days, when he had nearly drowned in color-coded forms. Gigs had raised his hand and said that this meant Mr. A had been burned-out
and
wet back in his probation days, and could those two things actually happen at the same time?
“In the world of corrections”— Mr. A fixed Gigs with a gimlet eye —“
anything
can happen. Listen up, please . . .
One
— the
orange
sheet is a permission slip for your parents or guardians to sign.”
He held up the yellow sheet. “
Two
— this is a list of costs.
Three
— the
blue
sheet is a list of gear you will need for camp. Note that it
excludes
listening devices of
all kinds
. This means Walkmen, Discmen, MP3s, iPods, iPod Nanos, iPod Shuffles, mobiles, two-way radios, field telephones, car phones, tin cans joined with a string . . . Is this crystal clear to even the most obdurately cloth-eared among you?”
“What’s obdurate, Mr. A? What’s cloth-eared?” said Bronwyn Baxter.
“
Four
— the
green
sheet”— Mr. A ignored her —“is a note enticing your parents to accompany us, one day, two days, three, a morning, an afternoon, half an hour, twenty-seven seconds, whatever they can manage. . . . Bring all these back read and signed by your parents or guardians, two Fridays from now. No questions! Dictionaries out!”
Frankie, trying not to think about camp and its implications, had noted automatically that Mr. A had had a haircut. About two inches, Frankie figured, assessing the newly neat halo of silver hair. He’d had an eyebrow trim, too. His eyebrows looked like eyebrows now instead of shaggy hay bales. Gigs and Frankie were convinced that Mr. A was bossier and more officious in the days immediately following his haircuts.
Frankie had stared vacantly at the colored sheets for some time in class, then stowed them in his backpack. At home he had transferred them from his backpack to his desk, where he regularly stared at them, since they had continued to lie there, unread and unsigned, for the last fortnight.
It was hearing about the Year Eight Notts camp five years ago that had made Frankie wish fervently to transfer, along with Gigs, to the school. Gigs had told him all about it; his cousin Vivi had told
him
. It was
amazing,
Gigs had said.
Eight
days
more or less in the bush, horseback riding, bird-watching, kayaking, rock climbing, a mini drama production with the band, a dance competition . . . The camp was the high point of the Notts experience. No other school had anything like it, blah, blah, blah . . .
Frankie wound up the old music box and watched the one-armed ballerina perform her jerky pirouette. He thought of the ballerina as Lara, though she didn’t look anything like the Lara in
Doctor Zhivago,
which was the film that “Lara’s Theme” came from.
Doctor Zhivago
was Ma’s favorite film; naturally it was set in Russia. Frankie had watched the film often with Ma.
The film Lara was voluptuous and fair-haired, with pouting lips. She wore cloaks and fur and moved with grace. The music box ballerina was skinny and plastic, with only a few strands of black hair and no discernible lips. Her pink tulle skirt was tatty; her dance was bumpy and oddly fevered. It was because she was old, Frankie knew; the music box had been Ma’s sixth-birthday present from her parents. It had also been her last birthday present from her parents because when she was six years and five days old, her
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