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

have you been doing for the past two weeks? Have you not taken history camp seriously for a single minute?”
    I could tell my dad was going to launch into one of his speeches about why history is so important. And how history explains who we are and why. Or something like that. So I put my beading on the shelf and headed toward the door.
    â€œSorry, Dad,” I said. “I have to get ready for the tug-of-war.”

 
    Tug-of-War
    Dear Commander of the Hal Rifkind Rescue Mission:
    Inside Cabin 2, things were even worse than the museum.
    I had never seen my bunkmates so depressed. We were in last place. And it was my fault. It was my score that had really brought the team down.

    â€œLet’s just get the tug-of-war over with,” I said.
    â€œWhat if they put us against Ryan Horner? What if I have diarrhea? What if my gas acts up?” Perth was lying on his bed, rubbing his stomach. “I’m scared,” he said.
    â€œTell me about it,” said Scot. “Everyone here is going to put their grubby paws on that rope. It’ll be covered in germs. Rotavirus. Norovirus. Influenza. Staphylococcus aureus. Candida. E. coli…”

    Vinny sat on the floor and started to stretch his legs. “It won’t be that bad, guys.” His back made a loud crack and he got kind of stuck in the bending position. “Okay, it will. I agree with Hal. Let’s get it over with. Let’s be prepared to lose.”
    I sat down and leaned against my dad’s duffel bag. Something rock-hard dug into my back. “Ow,” I said. “Stupid flashlight.”
    I shoved my hand inside the bag and tried to push the flashlight out of the way. While I was digging around in my camp pack, I thought about how mad my dad was about my score.
    And how much madder he was going to be after I lost the tug-of-war.

    And that’s what gave me the idea.
    â€œHow about this, guys? How about we don’t lose the tug-of-war.”
    â€œThat’s pretty funny, Hal,” said Vinny.
    â€œHear me out. Maybe all we need to win is something … extra.”
    â€œExtra what?”
    â€œExtra weight. To make the teams more even. We can each take something from my duffel bag and put it inside our clothes.”
    I pulled the gear out of my giant bag and laid some of it on the floor.
1940s flashlight:
20 pounds
1930s canteen:
20 pounds
Shovel from Stone Age:
40 pounds
1930s chisel:
15 pounds
    â€œThat is the stupidest idea ever,” Vinny said. “Even if we could carry all that stuff, how would we hide it?”
    â€œWhat if we wear long pants and shirts? And put everything underneath?”
    The guys just sat there and stared at me.
    â€œHere, let me try,” I said, pulling some pants and shirts out of the bottom of my pack.
    The flashlight slid inside one of the pants legs pretty easily. But I had to really cram the shovel into the other leg.
    â€œIt looks lumpy,” said Scot. “How are you going to bend your legs? How are you going to keep that stuff from falling out?”
    â€œI happen to have just the thing.”
    I reached around in my bag until my hand landed on something small and tight. With an elastic waistband.

    â€œI have a whole pack of these underwear,” I said. “They’ll fit like the skin on a grape.”
    I could tell the guys were not convinced. But we had no other ideas. And it was time to go.
    D OO   D OO   L OOT !
    Vinny sighed. “Okay, let’s do it,” he said.

    The tug-of-war was going to be held in the middle of the clearing. Which wasn’t too far from our cabin. But still, the trip felt pretty long.
    The whole way there, I was sweating buckets because of the long sleeves and pants. Not to mention the thirty pounds of metal objects an inch from my kiwis.

    But for the first time since we got to camp, I felt something I hadn’t felt before. I think Vinny, Scot, and Perth felt it too.
    Confidence.
    We