Like Bug Juice on a Burger (13 page)

All my love
,

which is the MOST POSSIBLE love,

Eleanor

When I finished,

I handed my positive letter to Hope.

“Will you please mail this?
Soon
?”

I said. “It’s important.”

“I will,”

she said.

“I promise.”

I had farm that afternoon.

It was nice to see Cornelius.

But he had a big sign on his pen

that said:

OUR GOAT’S NAME IS

ALFIE!

CONGRATULATIONS

TO JACKIE BOBROW,

PRAYING MANTIS

I felt like tearing up that sign.

Alfie was a stupid name!

Cornelius was so much better!

I bent down

and looked that goat in the eye.

“Do
you
like Alfie?”

I asked.

He gave a little snort.

“Me neither,” I said.

Soon after that,

the farm counselor gathered all the kids in the barn

and taught us how to clean the pens.

“Yuck,” Kylie kept saying

as we shoveled out Cornelius’s stall.

It
was
pretty yucky.

But I figured

Cornelius couldn’t clean his stall himself.

And he deserved a nice space.

So I didn’t mind.

I took a fast shower after farm.

Then,

still wearing my bathrobe,

and with my hair still dripping wet,

I sat on my bed

and chewed on a pen

and tried to think.

Because I had to write my two pieces

for the Wall of Feelings.

The camp director had told me to describe

how I’d felt about camp

the night of the Esmeralda letter.

And how I felt about it now.

I squeezed my eyes shut

and recalled the Esmeralda night,

when I’d just skinned my hands and knees and chin

and failed my swim test

and then woken, terrified, from a rat nightmare—

in the middle of the night, in a strange room

and a strange bed,

with no chance of seeing my parents.

I could remember
exactly

how that felt.

So I opened my eyes

and started writing.

I wrote:

I hate camp
.

I just hate it
.

I wish I didn’t.

But I do.

Being here is worse than

bug juice on a burger.

Or homework on Thanksgiving.

Or water seeping into my shoes.

I want to go home right now.

I really do.

I drew a picture next.

Because the camp director

had told me to.

I’d just finished when Joplin rushed over,

startling me.

“Come
on
!” she said.

“Dinner starts in three minutes!”

I gasped

and leaped off my bed

and threw on some clothes.

Because of this camp rule:

Any camper late for a meal

must sing a crazy song about a chigger

to the whole dining hall.

We’d already seen one poor Cicada do it,

and two Dragonflies,

at breakfast that morning.

After I’d pulled on my shoes,

Joplin and I both sprinted from our cabin.

She was cheetah-fast,

with her ridiculously long legs.

I huffed and puffed behind her,

thinking,

I will
not
sing that chigger song

all by myself.

I will
not.

I pushed myself harder than I ever had before.

And reached the dining hall,

sweaty and exhausted,

five seconds behind Joplin.

And just barely in time.

Hope let me skip flag-raising the next morning.

Because I still hadn’t even begun to write

my second piece for the Wall of Feelings.

It was so quiet as I sat on our cabin steps,

with no one else around.

Just me and a couple of birds

in the trees around me,

chirping at each other.

I hugged my knees

and thought and thought

about all that had happened

since the Esmeralda night.

Then I wrote:

I hate swim lessons.

But I like being better at treading.

I hate not having my thick quilt.

But I’m getting used to my bed.

I don’t like tetherball with tall people.

But I do with short.

I like Cornelius a lot.

I just wish he wasn’t named Alfie.

I hate chili and sloppy joes and bug juice

(and the chigger song).

But croutons

are delicious.

I miss my parents.

But I like my counselor and my very tall friend.

And,

more than anything else,

I hate my stupid life jacket.

When I’d finished writing, I added this picture:

Then I went to find Hope.

So I could give her my pages to post.