Cartboy Goes to Camp by L. A. Campbell

my specialty when I was here!”
    My mom, dad, Grampa Janson, and the twins all followed me to the bow-and-arrow area by the pond. I picked up a bow and thought maybe I’d get lucky. Maybe some of those Rifkind hunting genes would kick in. Right when I needed them most.
    I grabbed an arrow, aimed, and started shooting at the target in front of me. It was a silhouette of a squirrel.
    My first twelve arrows missed the squirrel completely. Then by some miracle, I got a bull’s-eye.

    It wasn’t until one of my arrows nearly took out Grampa Janson’s hearing aid that my dad said, “Let’s move on.”
    He looked around at all the colonial activities. “Ooh, how about butter churning, son? I was the fastest at that!”
    We all headed to the butter-churning station. When we got there, it turns out Ryan Horner was just finishing up. It also turns out he left a little present for me on the butter churner handle: about a pound of greasy butter.
    â€œTry this,” said my dad. “It’s a churning technique I invented when I was here.”
    He put both hands in front of him, and pretended they were wrapped around a butter churner handle. “You grab the handle with your thumbs ten inches apart, squeeze hard, and go up and down every three seconds. I even had a name for it: the ‘Rifkind Rip.’”
    I tried the Rifkind Rip for a good ten minutes. I figured it would help me get at least a couple of hats on my score. But thanks to Ryan’s little “gift,” all it did was make hands slip off the handle twice as fast.

    â€œOkay, shake it off,” said my dad.
    He spotted the pile of wood in the clearing. “Let’s see you do some wattle and daub, Hal! I bet you’re great at that.”

    A bunch of girls from Cora’s cabin had gathered with their families at one end of the woodpile. So my family and I walked to the other end. I grabbed a log off the pile, picked up an ax, and gave it my hardest chop.
    â€œI’ve got it.” Cora came over, pulled my ax out of the log, and handed it to me.
    â€œThanks.” I tried to give Cora the “you can go now” look, but she wasn’t paying attention. She walked straight up to my mom and dad.
    â€œI’m Cora,” she said. “Hal and I are going to the dance together!”
    â€œOh! Oh my, that’s wonderful. Just terrific. Stupendous.” My mom practically fell on herself trying to get the compliments out fast enough. She reached out and hugged me like I was three years old. “My big boy!”

    My dad, on the other hand, was not shouting any compliments. Or hugging me at all.
    He was examining the morning score sheet, which Mr. Prentice had posted on a tree near the woodpile.
    â€œHmph,” was all he said.
    My mom and Cora said good-bye and “nice to meet you” for about a hundred years—then my family and I went to lunch.
    All through the beans and corn, my dad was pretty quiet. His face looked the same as it does when I get a D on one of Mr. Tupkin’s history tests.
    I racked my brain to think of some way to improve the situation.
    â€œLet’s head to the museum, Dad. I’ll show you my leather beading!”

    The minute we got to the museum, I took my design off the shelf.
    â€œI made the letter P. ”
    For the first time since Pioneer Day started, my dad actually smiled.
    â€œCheck it out,” I said. I unfolded the fabric to show him the rest of the design. Underneath the letter P, I had beaded a picture of a hot dog and some Cracker Jacks.

    My dad’s smile disappeared.
    â€œGo Phillies?” I tried.
    â€œHal. This beadwork has nothing to do with Jamestown settlers. Or Powhatan Indians. Or colonial history of any kind.”
    â€œI know, but … the Phillies are 15 and 4…”
    â€œAnd your score on every other activity is zero.”
    â€œYes, well, the thing is—”
    â€œWhat exactly