night before had made me nervous about running into Nicky again. Plus my mom’s last word on the subject had been clear: O.J. wasn’t getting me one millimeter closer to having a real dog. So I just left O.J. in my room and didn’t feed him breakfast or anything. I knew if I saw Ace, he’d ask, so I went out back and climbed the big dogwood tree and tried to read a book in it while checking my watch every three minutes. At ten-thirty, I gave up trying to be patient and left for Allie’s house, even though it’s only about a five-minute walk from mine.
Allie’s mom, Mrs. Schmidt, didn’t seem surprised to see me early. She gave me a big hug, even though she’s not a particularly huggy person. I guess she was missing Julia and Allie. We all got in the car, and Allie’s dad drove us to the camp. The road was bumpy, and I was glad I hadn’t eaten because my stomach flip-flopped the whole way there.
But as soon as I saw Allie, I knew everything was going to be okay. Her nose and the tops of her cheeks were pink with sunburn, but otherwise she looked like the same old Allie. She ran right over, yelling, “Zelly!!! Ahhhhh!!!! I missed you so much!” and jumping on me. Then, before I could even say the same thing back to her, she was talking a mile a minute about all sorts of things: some Noah’s Ark play she had been in, the candle-lighting ceremony on the last night of camp, the totally cute boy over there (“Don’t look! Okay, now look!”), and a girl named Krystal Wilton, who seemed super-mean at first but turned out to be super-nice once you got to know her.
When Allie’s parents finally left us alone to get her stuff out of her bunk, I couldn’t hold back anymore. “How come you didn’t write to me?” I asked, swatting Allie on the arm, play-mad.
“Ow!” said Allie, pretend-hurt. “How come
you
didn’t write to
me
?”
I looked at her, startled. “I, uh, I don’t know. You were the one who got to go to camp. I figured you’d write and I’d write back to you.”
Allie rolled her eyes and flopped onto her bunk dramatically. “Ugh, they made us write to our parents, like, every single day,” she said. “After all those ‘Dear-Mom-and-Dad’s,’ I guess I was just kind of lettered out. I’m sorry!”
I pretended to sulk for about a second. Then I picked up Allie’s stuffed mouse off the top of her trunk and swacked her with it. “Just don’t do it again,” I growled. “Or Mousie gets it.”
“Mousie!” Allie grabbed Mousie back and hugged her protectively. “I won’t,” she promised. “Anyway, next summer I’m not going to camp without you, and that’s all there is to it.”
Allie must have hugged about a million kids before we finally got into the car, Julia on one side, me in the middle, and Allie on the other. Allie rolled her window all the way down, leaning out and yelling, “Bye! Bye!!!” to everyone we passed. “Bye, Allison!” they all called back to her.
“Allison?”
I repeated as the car pulled out of the camp driveway and Allie finally settled into her seat.
She smiled shyly. “What do you think? It sounds more grown-up than ‘Allie,’ doesn’t it?”
“I like ‘Allie,’ ” I said.
Did “Zelly” seem babyish too?
“You can still call me Allie, okay?”
“Well, not if you don’t
like
it.”
“Oh, and don’t be mad, Zelly,” Allie added. “But I don’t have any fudge for you. We didn’t make fudge once the whole entire time.”
“Who said you were going to make fudge?” asked Julia.
“Zelly’s grandpa,” Allie told her.
“Where’d he get that idea?” scoffed Julia.
In the front seat, Allie’s mom and dad laughed. “Maybe he went to a different camp,” suggested Allie’s mom. “I don’t recall ever making fudge at camp.”
I guess Ace doesn’t know everything
, I said to myself. Usually, that thought would make me happy, but this time it didn’t. It reminded me of just how wrong Ace had been about the whole O.J.
Allie’s mom, Mrs. Schmidt, didn’t seem surprised to see me early. She gave me a big hug, even though she’s not a particularly huggy person. I guess she was missing Julia and Allie. We all got in the car, and Allie’s dad drove us to the camp. The road was bumpy, and I was glad I hadn’t eaten because my stomach flip-flopped the whole way there.
But as soon as I saw Allie, I knew everything was going to be okay. Her nose and the tops of her cheeks were pink with sunburn, but otherwise she looked like the same old Allie. She ran right over, yelling, “Zelly!!! Ahhhhh!!!! I missed you so much!” and jumping on me. Then, before I could even say the same thing back to her, she was talking a mile a minute about all sorts of things: some Noah’s Ark play she had been in, the candle-lighting ceremony on the last night of camp, the totally cute boy over there (“Don’t look! Okay, now look!”), and a girl named Krystal Wilton, who seemed super-mean at first but turned out to be super-nice once you got to know her.
When Allie’s parents finally left us alone to get her stuff out of her bunk, I couldn’t hold back anymore. “How come you didn’t write to me?” I asked, swatting Allie on the arm, play-mad.
“Ow!” said Allie, pretend-hurt. “How come
you
didn’t write to
me
?”
I looked at her, startled. “I, uh, I don’t know. You were the one who got to go to camp. I figured you’d write and I’d write back to you.”
Allie rolled her eyes and flopped onto her bunk dramatically. “Ugh, they made us write to our parents, like, every single day,” she said. “After all those ‘Dear-Mom-and-Dad’s,’ I guess I was just kind of lettered out. I’m sorry!”
I pretended to sulk for about a second. Then I picked up Allie’s stuffed mouse off the top of her trunk and swacked her with it. “Just don’t do it again,” I growled. “Or Mousie gets it.”
“Mousie!” Allie grabbed Mousie back and hugged her protectively. “I won’t,” she promised. “Anyway, next summer I’m not going to camp without you, and that’s all there is to it.”
Allie must have hugged about a million kids before we finally got into the car, Julia on one side, me in the middle, and Allie on the other. Allie rolled her window all the way down, leaning out and yelling, “Bye! Bye!!!” to everyone we passed. “Bye, Allison!” they all called back to her.
“Allison?”
I repeated as the car pulled out of the camp driveway and Allie finally settled into her seat.
She smiled shyly. “What do you think? It sounds more grown-up than ‘Allie,’ doesn’t it?”
“I like ‘Allie,’ ” I said.
Did “Zelly” seem babyish too?
“You can still call me Allie, okay?”
“Well, not if you don’t
like
it.”
“Oh, and don’t be mad, Zelly,” Allie added. “But I don’t have any fudge for you. We didn’t make fudge once the whole entire time.”
“Who said you were going to make fudge?” asked Julia.
“Zelly’s grandpa,” Allie told her.
“Where’d he get that idea?” scoffed Julia.
In the front seat, Allie’s mom and dad laughed. “Maybe he went to a different camp,” suggested Allie’s mom. “I don’t recall ever making fudge at camp.”
I guess Ace doesn’t know everything
, I said to myself. Usually, that thought would make me happy, but this time it didn’t. It reminded me of just how wrong Ace had been about the whole O.J.
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