Ten (10 page)

“Hey!”
Connor protested.

“But this
is
Wilderness Survival Camp, right?” I said, directing my words to Lily while keeping my eyes on Connor. “So you should be proud, because I'm doing exactly what you and Jake taught me to do !”

“And what would that be . . . ?” Lily said drily.

Did I really have to explain it to her? Apparently, I did.

“Well, as I said, there is wildness going on
right here in front of me
.” I lunged forward. Connor tried to force me back, but he was so weak from laughing that I easily overpowered him.

“But you don't even have to worry,” I huffed, “because look! I am fully and completely surviving!”

A
ugust was Ty's birthday month, which was exciting, because birthdays were always exciting, as were the birthday parties that went with them. But Ty's parties were also exhausting, because of the littleness of everyone involved.

Ty's party this year was especially exhausting because of one mother who did something sneaky. The sneaky mother accidentally-on-purpose dropped off
not
just her four-year-old, Dylan, but also Dylan's seven-year-old brother, Chad.

“Is that all right?” the sneaky mom asked, wide-eyed. “So many parties allow siblings these days, so I just assumed . . .”

“Of course,” Mom said, because of her good manners. “He's totally welcome to stay.”

“Oh, thank God,” the other mother said, her words pouring out in a relieved rush. She caught herself and pasted on a smile. “I mean—terrific!” She hastily exited the house. “I'll leave you to it, then. Bye, boys!”

Dylan was fine, but Chad, the seven-year-old, was a bad egg. He jumped on the furniture and bounced off the walls and was so loud and hyper that he made my ears hurt.

When present-opening time came around, Chad grew even more annoying. Every time Ty unwrapped a new gift—
every single time
—Chad said, “I hope it's a dirty diaper.
Hahahaha
. I hope it's a dirty diaper.”

I wanted to put a dirty diaper on Chad's head. I might have, if I wasn't ten and above such things.

When twelve o'clock rolled around and parents started showing up for their kids, Sandra tromped through the scraps of wrapping paper and plastic packaging and took my hand.

“Come on,” she said. “We're going to the park, just the two of us. We deserve a sanity break.”

“Yes, we do,” I said, standing taller and feeling more in control than I had just two minutes earlier, when that Chad boy peered inside his goody bag and said, “SweeTARTS! I
hate
SweeTARTS!”

“Then don't eat them,” I said, snatching the goody bag out of his hands. He wasn't even supposed to get a goody bag. He wasn't even one of the party guests!

He made an ugly face and tried to grab it back. I held it high above my head. Just then his mother arrived, and when she saw Chad jumping for his goody bag, she said, “Is there a problem?”

“Winnie,” Mom said wearily.

So I scowled and gave Chad his goody bag, saying, “Here you go, little boy. I just thought maybe you didn't need any more sugar, since you're already so much taller than the other four-year-olds.”

“Winnie,” Mom said even more wearily. She shot an apologetic look at Chad's mother, which made me feel awful. Chad was seven, but
I
was ten. I was supposed to act mature regardless of how
im
mature other kids acted.

But at Memorial Park with Sandra, I was able to put my humiliation behind me. The day was lovely, there were no longer any little kids yelling and screaming and being sticky, and Sandra was treating me like someone she enjoyed spending time with.

Everything was perfect . . . except for one dang wasp that refused to leave us alone. First it dove for Sandra's Coke, making Sandra jerk her Coke away and cry, “Go a
way
, wasp! Go find your own Coke!”

The wasp barreled over to see if
I
had a Coke. I didn't, but it darted around my face and my hair anyway. Normally, I wasn't freaked out by bees or wasps or yellow jackets, and I thought it was silly when kids—and sometimes even grownups—screamed and started hyperventilating if a bee even looked at them from a thousand feet away.

This
wasp, however, was a crazy lunatic wasp. It was the “Chad” of the wasp world, and after five or six minutes of its furious buzzing, Sandra groaned and said we might as well leave.

“What? No!” I protested. I wanted to keep having Sandra-time.

Sandra got to her feet. “Listen, that wasp isn't going to quit bugging us. August is when wasps get the crankiest, you know.”

“Why?”

“Because they're in their final days. Because they know they're going to die as soon as fall comes.”

“Well, that's silly. If I knew
I
was going to die, I would be nicer to everyone, not meaner.”

“Maybe,” she said. “Come on, let's get out of here.”

I grabbed her leg. “Let's not—
please
? I don't want to go home.”

“Who said anything about going home?” Sandra said. “Let's walk to Baskin-Robbins. We can get ice cream and eat it
inside,
away from these stupid wasps.”

Oh
, I thought, because that changed everything. Ice cream was delicious. Ice cream was the opposite of returning home and no longer having Sandra-time.

“Do the wasps really know they're in their final days?” I asked as I got to my feet. The Chad-wasp was still divebombing my head, and I felt the teeniest bit sorry for it.

“Yup, so do yourself a favor. For the next couple of weeks, stay out of their way.”

 

A few days later, I passed Sandra's good advice along to Amanda, who nodded and said she already knew. In fact, the Wilsons had such a big wasp problem that Amanda's dad hung up a wasp catcher in their backyard. I'd never seen a wasp catcher before. It was a clear plastic tube the size of a cardboard toilet paper roll, but unlike a toilet paper roll, the wasp catcher had a bottom and a top. The top was yellow and triangular, like a roof, which was kind of cute—or so I thought at first.

Up close, however, I saw that the cute little wasp “house” was a HOUSE OF DEATH, because the tube was full to the brim with dead and dying wasps.

“Ew,” I said. “Why do they go in there? Can't they see that it's a bad idea?”

Amanda shrugged. “Something inside smells yummy to them,” she explained. “They push their way in, and then they can't get back out.”

We studied the heap of wasp bodies. Fluff and dryness and broken wings. Tiny black leg-things. At the top of the tube, a still-alive wasp rammed repeatedly against the clear plastic.

“Okay, I'm officially grossed out,” I announced, heading for the play structure her dad had built. It was awesome, with two swings, a climby rope, a slide, and a fort at the top with a rainbow awning. Sometimes we had tea parties on the flat wooden floor of the fort, and I loved the feeling of being alone with my best friend, tucked away from the rest of the world.

But today I wanted to fly. I got on one swing, and Amanda got on the other.

“Are you excited for school to start?” she asked. Her tan legs straightened and bent as she got herself going. She was wearing a lime green shirt with slices of watermelon all over it, and her shorts were the exact red of the watermelon slices. So was her hair bow. Amanda was very good at matching.

“Yup,” I said. “I mean, I'll miss summer . . . but totally! You?”

“I've already picked out my first-day outfit,” she said seriously. She pulled against the chains as she moved forward through the air. She slackened her grip and swung back. “Let me guess—you haven't.”

“You got that right, sister,” I said. First-day outfits didn't require planning. You just . . . put on some clothes, and ta-da! Instant outfit!

“But even with my outfit all picked out . . .” She sighed. “Oh, I don't know.”

I felt a stab of shock. “Omigosh, Amanda. Are you
not
excited?”

“No, I am. I
am
. It's just . . .”

It's just what?
I wanted to say. But I held back, because Mom said I needed to give people time to say things. She said sometimes the best thing a friend could do was listen.

Amanda sideways-looked at me. “If I tell you, will you swear not to laugh?”

“Of course. Spill.”

“Well, it's just . . . it's just . . .”

I
kept
waiting. It was getting harder and harder, as it totally went against my natural instincts.

“Never mind. It's nothing.” She made her lips form a smile shape, which anyone other than me might have fallen for. But her forehead was way scrunchier than usual, and plus, I was her BFF.

“Baloney,” I said. “Stop scrunch-smiling and tell me what's bothering you, you silly custard!”

Her scrunch-smile turned into a sheepish
oops, ya
-
got-me
smile. But even though it was sheeplike, at least it was
real
.

“Oh, all right. I
am
excited for school to start. But . . . I'm scared, too.” She lifted her eyebrows, Amanda language for,
Do you still like me?

Of course I still like you!
my stern downward-pointing eyebrows told her. I
was
baffled, however.

“Scared?” I said. “Of what?”

She made puppy-dog eyes and shrugged.

“Amanda, we're talking about
school
here. Trinity! Friends! The joyful laughter of happy, innocent children!”

“I know,” she said meekly.

I frowned, because I could tell I hadn't eased her fears. How could I when I didn't know what they were? I racked my brain for things she was scared of just in general.

“There are no sharks at Trinity,” I said, ticking
sharks
off with one finger. “There
might
be spiders, but if you see one, just tell me and I'll take care of it.”

She nodded, and I made a mental note to pack a paper Dixie cup in my backpack, as Dixie cups were the perfect size for bamming down on top of spiders. Not to kill them! Just to trap them so that they could be relocated.

Amanda knew how much I loved rescuing spiders, so if spiders were the problem, my promise should have reassured her. But her expression remained troubled.

I blew out air from between my lips, making a
pbbbbb
sound. “Well, there are no flesh-eating viruses making their way from elementary school to elementary school,” I said. “At least, not that I'm aware of.”

“I know.”

“T. rexes died off a long time ago, in case you forgot, and killer ants are only in Africa.” I wasn't completely sure of that, but close enough. “
Hmm
. Spontaneous combustion? Hurricanes? Harpoons?”

“Harpoons?” Amanda said. “Do you maybe mean
ty
phoons?”

Ah
. Yes, I
did
mean typhoons, but I did some quick thinking to cover my mistake.

“What are you saying?” I said. “You're scared of a giant windstorm, but the thought of being stabbed by a long spear doesn't bother you one bit?”

She looked at me like I was a loon. It was a look I got a lot, and my usual response was to play it up by acting even loonier. Why not? I liked being a loon.

So I pumped vigorously, laughing like a maniac. “Ha ha HA! Ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha!”

Amanda gazed at me. Not meanly, or in a
bad
way, but not in a particularly amused way, either.

I stopped with the maniacal laughter. I stopped pumping in such a fling-about way, too.

“Fine,” I said. “If not typhoons, if not
harpoons
, what
are
you scared of? Won't you please just tell me?!”

She shifted her focus to the far end of the yard, where honeysuckle vines twined their way up a wooden trellis. “Just . . . fifth grade is different from fourth.”

“And?”

“And that means things are going to be . . .
different
.”

“And???”

“I don't know! What if I mess up?”

“Mess
what
up? You get straight As. You've gotten the perfect attendance award every year since first grade. What could you possibly mess up?”

She shrugged that shrug again, the shrug that made me feel powerless. In a tiny voice, she said, “Yeah, but what if I . . .
mmmfffle
?”

I squinted. Ty had said
mmmfffle
once. It was on the day we saw Hairy Speedo-Wearing Man at Garden Hills Pool, and
mmmfffle
was Ty's way of saying,
Winnie, help! I can see that man's privates!

While I felt strongly that Amanda's
mmmfffle
meant something else, I still heard it as a cry for help. I
wanted
to help . . . only I wasn't sure how. I'd already tried being goofy, and it hadn't done the trick.

But sometimes being a goof was all I could think to do, even when I secretly suspected it might not be the solution. I held onto the swing with one hand, cupped my ear with my other hand, and bellowed, “I can't hear you, little girl! Speak up!”

Amanda's cheeks turned pink. “Forget it. Seriously, just forget it.”

“No, I refuse to forget it. And so what if fifth grade is different from fourth? It's supposed to be!”

“See? I knew you wouldn't understand.”

“Wouldn't understand what? If things were always the same, they'd be boring. I understand that. I also think that
being different
is good, and I thought you did, too. Do you not?”