A Week in the Woods (5 page)

Mr. Maxwell lit the match and said, “To this day, no one knows what created the spark. But one thing is for certain: There was a spark!” And then he touched the burning match on the stick to the balloon, and—
boom
—it exploded in a flash of flame.

The kids paid attention pretty well, and they all liked the final burst of fire. But it didn't work like it usually did. It fell flat because everyone had already known what was going to happen. Thanks to Mark.

And did Mark watch the big finish? Mr. Maxwell looked his way as the balloon went up in flames.

At that moment Mark was looking out the window.

The show was over.

Mr. Maxwell took off his white lab coat and laid it across the table. He stepped around behind his desk and yanked at the bottom of the out-of-date periodic table chart that covered part of the chalkboard, guiding it upward onto its roller. The chart had been covering the homework assignment.

Patting the chalkboard, Mr. Maxwell said, “Over the weekend I want everyone to reread chapter seventeen so we can discuss it on Monday. Then on Tuesday we'll have a quiz on photosynthesis and how plant life affects different ecosystems. You can all read until the bell rings.”

Most of the kids got out their books and began reading.

Not Mark. He turned sideways in his chair so he could keep an eye on the clock. He didn't want to be surprised again by that awful bell.

With four minutes to go before the last bell of the day, the kids in room seven were pretending to read their science books and Mr. Maxwell was pretending to clean up the lab station.

The kids were actually fidgeting and whispering and counting down the seconds to the weekend, and Mr. Maxwell was actually processing new information about Mark Chelmsley.

He reasoned his way through the results of his experiment. What had he just learned by putting some pressure on the boy?

Well, for one thing, that slacker attitude? Had to be an act. This kid was plenty bright, maybe too bright for his own good. Maybe he should have been put into the gifted program. Probably ahead of most of the town kids, and not just in science class, either. Probably bored as well as spoiled.

And the kid had spirit, too. Got pushed into a corner and what did he do? He pushed back, that's what. Spilled the beans about the hydrogen and the
Hindenburg.
Maybe a bit of a mean streak there somewhere, too. Seemed to enjoy spoiling the show, being the know-it-all. Mean? Maybe. But maybe something else, too.

As he put the acid on a shelf in the locked storage cabinet, Mr. Maxwell remembered there was something he needed to tell Mark. He had some good news for Mark, and he was glad, because he wanted to keep after this boy, keep trying to reach him.

He had recently added a new item to the bottom of his Week in the Woods checklist: Give registration packet to Mark Chelmsley. The other fifth-graders had gotten theirs back in January. He had put a complete packet in his desk drawer two days ago, all stapled and ready with Mark's name written on it. Mr. Maxwell had been waiting for the right moment to take Mark aside and tell him a little about the program, maybe get him excited about it, and give him the information sheets. And ten seconds before the bell rang, Mr. Maxwell decided that the right moment had arrived.

A few quick strides took him to the back of the room. “Mark?”

The boy jerked his head around and flinched as Mr. Maxwell said his name. Then the bell sounded, and Mr. Maxwell saw Mark flinch again.

Speaking loudly enough to be heard above the
sudden burst of noise in the room, he said, “Mark, stay after a second, will you? I've got something you need to take home this weekend.”

For a second Mark looked like he was going to bolt out of his seat and dash for the door. Then he relaxed a little, stood up slowly, and grabbed his backpack.

“Just come up to my desk,” Mr. Maxwell said, leading the way. “This'll only take a minute or two.”

Mark walked to the front of the room and stopped about two feet to the left of Mr. Maxwell's desk. The teacher rustled through some papers and then looked over at him with a smile.

“Have you heard the kids talking about A Week in the Woods?”

Mark looked at him blankly.

“Haven't heard a thing about it?”

Mark's face remained expressionless and he shook his head.

“Well, it's a week when the whole fifth grade goes to a state park campground together. And it's like a campout, except we spend some time each day doing science and ecology observations, and some other assignments and experiments, too. But mostly it's a lot of fun. Here,” and Mr. Maxwell held out a set of stapled pages.

Mark took them and glanced down. The cover had some student artwork of cabins and trees and mountains surrounding the title of the program.

“We've been doing this here in Whitson for a lot of years now, and all the kids have a great time, and so do the teachers. Parents, too. We always need all the helpers and chaperones we can get. If your folks wanted to help out, they'd be welcome.”

When he said that, Mr. Maxwell thought he saw a flash in the boy's eyes.

Mark said, “Anything else?”

“No, that's it, really. The packet has a lot of good information—a permission form you need to get signed and bring back, all the dates, things you need to bring with you, things not to bring.” As he kept talking, Mark began flipping through the pages. “The school provides all the meals, there are boys' and girls' bunkhouses, and the restrooms and the shower facilities are almost as nice as home. It's really a great experience. Any questions you want to ask about any of it? I've been at this a few years, so . . .”

Mark looked up from the packet and said, “Does everyone have to go?”

“‘Have to go?'” Mr. Maxwell was stunned. “Well . . . I mean . . . everyone always does. It's really a lot of fun. I'm sure you're going to have a great time, Mark.”

“So everyone has to go?” Mark asked again.

Mr. Maxwell stood up quickly and his chair banged back against the chalk rail. “I guess I haven't explained it well enough, Mark. This is the best week of the whole school year. Every kid who wasn't sicker than a
dog has always been dying to go.” Mr. Maxwell was leaning forward and he felt like he was talking too loud and too fast, but he couldn't help it. “I mean, don't you see? It's like a whole week of playing hooky, so why wouldn't a kid want to go? But if you're going to put it that way, there
are
assignments every day, and there
are
grades for those assignments, and if you want to think of it that way, then, yes, every fifth-grade student
has
to go.”

There was silence for a second, and then Mark said, “Unless he gets sick.”

Mr. Maxwell clenched his jaw and glared down at Mark. “Right. Unless he gets sick.”

Mark wasn't flinching now. He looked Mr. Maxwell in the eye and asked, “Anything else? That you need to give me?”

With all his heart Mr. Maxwell wanted to give this smart-faced kid a serious piece of his mind. But he managed to take a deep breath and say, “No. That's it. If you or your parents have any questions, let me know. Have a good weekend.” And he turned abruptly, grabbed an eraser, and began sweeping it across the chalkboard with sharp, jerky strokes.

He heard Mark's footsteps out in the hall, but Mr. Maxwell didn't turn around. He kept on erasing. He heard the fire door clang shut. By then, the chalkboard was completely clean, but Mr. Maxwell didn't stop erasing until he'd gone over the whole thing two more times.

* * *

When Mark came out the front door of the school, the buses were just pulling away. He walked over to where Leon was parked, yanked the passenger door open, dropped his book bag onto the floorboard, climbed in, pulled the heavy door shut, and fastened his seatbelt.

Leon nodded and smiled, but didn't offer a greeting. He had learned that right after school was not a good time to chat. The door locks clicked as he put the car into gear and drove out of the school driveway.

Mark took a deep breath and settled back into the seat. Music from a dozen speakers filled the space around him. Jazz. Leon always listened to jazz after school.

Mark looked past the wipers at the falling snow. He sat forward so he could see better. There was no wind, and the snow was forming little piles on the limbs of the trees and on the telephone wires beside the road. And as he began to think about the snow building up on the hills around his house and on the roof of the barn, the school week began to melt away.

Halfway home, Mark thought,
Saturday and Sunday. Two whole days.
And he smiled to himself, his first real smile of the day.

They drove the five miles past the west edge of town. When Leon turned into the long drive, Mark was caught off guard again by the beauty of the place.
It wasn't the weathered house or the dull red barn or the dark rock walls that framed the frozen pond farther down the hillside. It wasn't the stand of pine trees along the ridge to the west, or the top of Mount Washington far to the northeast, hidden now by snow clouds, but still there. It wasn't any one thing. It was everything all together that dazzled him.

As Leon stopped the car to wait for the electric opener to lift the door, Mark jumped out, grabbed his backpack, scooted around behind the car, and dashed for the mudroom door. “Thanks for the ride, Leon!”

Leon smiled and waved, then eased the heavy car forward into the garage. He chuckled to himself, nodding. He knew the change in Mark's spirits weren't just because it was Friday afternoon.

Leon had seen it happen day after day. He looked forward to it now, like a daily miracle. Every afternoon it was as if a bitter old man came limping out of the school and crawled into the car. It was only a fifteen-minute drive, but by the time they reached home, that angry little man became a completely different person: Mark turned into a boy again.

Mark had already been to his room to change into his warm pants and socks. Anya caught him rushing through the kitchen, zipping up his coat. Hands on her hips, she blocked his way. “No you don't.”

“Anya, I don't have time. And I'm really not hungry.”

She pointed at the kitchen table. “Sit and eat. You are a growing boy, and outside it is very cold.” It was the same every afternoon. She always made him eat before he went out.

So Mark sat down, popped a cookie into his mouth and took a gulp of chocolate milk. Anya turned and walked into the laundry room. Before she could come back to inspect, Mark drained the glass and stuffed the other cookies and the apple slices into his coat pocket. He tiptoed to the mudroom, pulled on his boots, grabbed his hat and gloves, and slipped out the door. He had important business in the barn.

* * *

From his very first morning at the new house, Mark had been itching to get outdoors and explore. But he'd had to wait. That first Saturday, two weeks ago, his parents had arrived about noon. His mom had planned a family weekend.

“Family weekend” was one of his mom's code phrases, and Mark knew what it meant. It meant that on Sunday night or early Monday morning, his parents would be leaving again. They would spend some quality time together over the weekend. And since Mark was sure his mom's idea of quality time didn't include tramping around out in the cold, the outdoors would have to wait until the family weekend was over.

Mark and his mom and dad had taken a drive together late Saturday afternoon. They drove through Whitson, and stopped to take a look at the school Mark would be attending. His dad had said, “Looks pretty small, don't you think?”

But his mom quickly said, “I've talked with Mrs. Gibson, the principal, and it's a fine little school. It'll be a good experience. And besides, Mark's only going to be here a few months.”

There wasn't a lot to see in Whitson, so they'd headed sixteen miles east to Atlinboro. It was larger, but there wasn't that much to see there either. They drove around the old center of town, and his mom commented on the quaintness of the homes. They drove past the new mall on the outskirts of town, and
his dad commented on how slow business must be during the winter. Then they drove back to the new house.

Saturday night Anya had cooked steaks on the indoor grill, and Mark and his parents ate dinner in the old dining room. Later Mark sat between his mom and dad in their new home theater. They watched a movie, and ate popcorn and Milk Duds and drank some strawberry soda.

When the movie was over, his dad yawned and said, “I've got to turn in, guys. That flight from San Francisco was a beast. You coming to bed now, Lo?”

His mom nodded, and it was her turn to yawn. “It's been a long day, but a good one. It's so quiet here. I love that, don't you Mark?”

Mark said, “I don't know yet. But I can deal with it.”

“That's what I like to hear,” his dad said. “I've been telling your mom to stop worrying about you. When things change, you just have to tough it out. And believe me, everything keeps changing. All your life, that's the one thing you can count on.” He yawned again as he stood up. “See you tomorrow, kiddo,” and he gave Mark a pat on the back as he left the room.

When they were alone, his mom said, “Mark, we're going to have to leave tomorrow afternoon. Will you be okay? I know it's a lot to get used to all at once. And I'm sorry we can't be here for your first day at the new school. But we have to be in New York, and that's that.”

Mark said, “It's okay. Really. I'm glad you came . . . home.”

And Mark had meant it. He was glad they cared enough to take a cross-country plane trip just to spend a little time with him. Mark knew lots of kids at Lawton Country Day School whose parents wouldn't have bothered.