Noses Are Red (10 page)

“I’m fine, Ma. Fine. I really am. A bit tired is all. We were picked up by the rangers in a helicopter. What? I said a helicopter. No, not a doctor, a helicopter. Yes, there’s a doctor here, and a nurse. I’m fine. I really am. I’m not hurt. I’m not hungry – well, maybe a bit.”

Victor is talking on the phone in the infirmary. That’s a new word for me – it means the camp hospital. It’s a cabin with a couple of beds and a desk. And a phone. The infirmary is not a big place. With Victor and me and the doctor and camp director and the guy from the helicopter, it’s pretty full.

Victor’s face is already red from the sun. As he talks, it gets redder and redder. I like his mom a lot, but she does worry. It drives him crazy.

“I’m really tired, Ma. I spent the night at a girl’s campsite. What? I said a girl’s campsite. Aw, Ma! It wasn’t like that. I was under a canoe. I said a canoe. No, you can’t do anything. A canoe – a boat. Yes, Ma. I’m fine. I’m warm enough, Ma. It’s hot. I said I’m warm enough. How are you? Yes, I’m tired. Tired. Yes, a bit hungry too. No, I’m not starving. I had fish for dinner last night. Fish! What? I said fish, not wish. No, I don’t wish I was with you, Ma. I want to stay. They’re having a games day at the camp tomorrow, and they’ve invited me and Alan to play too.”

The camp director is a jolly middle-aged woman about the size and shape of an elephant. She wears a hat that says CAMP DIRECTOR, in case you forget, and shorts that are wider than I am tall. She sounds like a foghorn – no wonder they call her Boomer. Right now she’s beaming at Victor.

Dr. Callous is a skinny little guy with a stoop and a cigarette, and tufts of dark hair sprouting from unexpected places – his ears and his nose and the top of his T-shirt. He’s taking my temperature and pulse, and frowning.

“Yes, Alan’s here too. He already called home. For the last time, I’m fine, Ma,” says Victor. “All I want is a chance to rest…. Yes. I said yes. I do too. Oh, Ma, I can’t say it now. People are here.” He hangs up, the color of a ripe strawberry.

The doctor finishes with me and stands there, cigarette smoke rising and swirling, getting trapped in his nose hairs and eyebrow hairs. He has spider legs: long and skinny and covered in hair.

“Do they have to go to the hospital in Peterborough, doc?” asks the helicopter pilot. “’Cause if not, I’ve got to get back to Kawartha.”

“I don’t think so,” says the doctor. “Nothing here that a day of rest won’t cure. I’m a little concerned about this one.” Meaning me. The doctor has a dry raspy voice, like sandpaper. He wears a pen on a string around his neck. He uses it to make a note on the clipboard he carries.

The pilot snorts. “Ah, him! The mouthy one.”

“Hey!” I say. “What was that?”

“You heard me, kid.”

–
Ru-di-pimp-ig!
says Norbert.

“Rudipimpig?” Dr. Callous is right beside me. “Is that what you said?”

“No,” I say.

–
Yes
, says Norbert.

“That’s what I mean. Boy’s suffering from mild hypothermia.” The doctor makes another note. “He’s delirious.”

“No, I’m not!”

Victor asks what hypothermia is.

“Low body temperature,” says Dr. Callous. “Brought on by exposure.”

“Do I have hypothermia?” asks Victor. The doctor shakes his head.

“Neither do I. I’m fine!” I say.

“Classic,” says the doctor. “One of the symptoms of hypothermia is to claim that you feel fine when you don’t.”

“But I do feel fine,” I say.

“See?” says the doctor. “There you go again.”

“I feel kind of sick,” says Victor. “I guess I must be okay, then.”

They make us both lie down. Everyone but the doctor leaves. “Do you want to call home again?” Boomer asks me, on her way out. No one answered when I called the first time.

“No, thanks,” I say. “I left a message on the machine. My mom knows I’m okay.”

Next thing I know, it’s lunchtime. Dr. Callous brings us our meals on trays. I eat every bite. A pathetic figure hobbles into the infirmary as I’m finishing. A middle-aged guy with thick dark hair, thick dark mustache. He has a crutch under one arm, and a nurse supporting the other. He sees us and smiles. Big white teeth.

“Boys!” he calls. “Great to see you! Just great! How are you?”

“Fine, Mr. Leech,” says Victor.

“Just fine,” I say.

“That’s wonderful. Just wonderful. What a horrible night! I was real worried about you,” says Christopher. He steps up to my bedside and offers me his right hand. I don’t want to shake it, but I do.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Leech?” asks Victor.

“Thanks for asking, Vic. Not too bad. Got a sprained ankle, and some bruises. I’ve been recuperating since yesterday.” He squeezes the nurse’s arm.
Ew.
This man is
hanging around my house, going out with my mom, and he’s squeezing a nurse. She has dark hair and a tan.

“You boys should thank this man,” says the doctor. “When he arrived here yesterday, he could hardly talk, but he insisted on immediate search and rescue helicopters. Maybe next time you go camping, you won’t run away, hey?”

“
Why
did you tell everyone that?” I point my finger at Christopher. I’ve been meaning to ask him.

“What?”

“That we ran away. Why did you say it, when it isn’t true? The helicopter pilot called us stupid kids. Everyone seems to think it’s all our fault we got lost. Why did you tell them that? It
wasn’t
our fault. It was your fault.
You
ran away. We saw you on the lake, paddling away from us.”

He sighs. His eyebrows and his mustache go down. “Now, son-”

“I’m not your son.”

“Well, then. As a matter of fact, you’re wrong. You did run away. I was on the portage with you, and then you wandered off.”

“And what happened to you?”

“I looked for you.”

“And then? What happened to you then?
Why did you leave?”

The doctor clears his throat. “Maybe you two should get some sleep. You especially, Alan. Do you want another blanket?”

“I’m fine,” I say.

“Fine? You’re still fine?” Dr. Callous shakes his head. “That hypothermia … dear, dear.”

Christopher is already at the door. “I’ll look in again later,” he says. “Say, urn, did you call your mom?” He’s so casual. I nod. “Good. Good.” He looks hard at me. “Good,” he says again, and takes the nurse’s arm on his way out the door.

Strangely enough, I don’t feel wholly angry. A large part of me feels relieved. We’re saved, Victor and me. The grown-ups have taken charge. They may not believe our story, but they’re not going to bite us or maul us, or let us starve or freeze to death. The worst is over.

Mind you, I’m still mad. It is
not
our fault we got lost. Christopher left us. I wonder why? And there’s one other thing on my mind, one other tangle in the knot I’m trying to unravel.

“Hey, Vic,” I whisper. “What do you think happened to the artist lady?”

No sound from the other bed. The covers rise and fall regularly.

When I wake up again, it’s much later. The setting sun throws long shadows across the floor of the infirmary. Dust specks float gently down. I lie in bed, thinking about the artist lady and her kayak. Thinking about Christopher and the nurse, and Mom. The infirmary has unpainted wooden walls and posters of needles and one of those big
charts showing if you are overweight for your height. My doctor’s office has one of them too. I checked it a couple of years ago when I was bored, sitting in the small waiting room after sitting in the big waiting room. I matched my height and weight, following over and across, and concluded that the ideal height for my weight would be eight feet, three inches tall. This worried me, so I asked the doctor about it. She laughed and told me the lines were centimeters, not inches.

The door opens and a supermodel walks in. That’s what she looks like. Taller than Dr. Callous, who’s with her. She has long flowing blonde hair, a pert little nose, wide-set eyes, healthy tan, long legs. Her clothes are … well, they’re perfect. Her camp sweater is knotted casually around her shoulders. Her shorts are just the right length. Her camp T-shirt looks as if it just came back from the dry cleaner.

She stares at me for a long ten seconds. I feel like a painting on a wall – not a very good painting. She stares at Victor too, then turns to the doctor. “Which one is Alan?” she asks.

I sit up, clear my throat.

“This one,” says the doctor. He’s taking my temperature.

“Hi,” I say.

She doesn’t reply. “He’s the troublemaker, right?”

“Yes,” says the doctor.

“Hey!” I say.

“You see?” says the doctor.

The supermodel nods. “What’s wrong with his nose?”

I swallow. Does she know about Norbert?

“Sunburn,” says the doctor. “Nothing serious.”

The supermodel comes closer to my bed. She’s so
healthy.
The skin on her arm and hand is smooth and warm and glowing, and totally without flaw. No moles, freckles, beauty spots. No cuts or bruises. I can’t help thinking of Zinta’s big dirty capable fingers.

“Will they be able to compete tomorrow, doc?” she asks. “They don’t look like much.”

“I think so, Trixie,” the doctor rasps. “They’re better than they were this morning. Alan’s temperature is normal.”

Trixie. Where do I know that name from? She turns to me.

“How long would it take you to split a cord of wood, Alan?”

I clear my throat. “What’s a cord of wood?”

“Can you start a one-match fire?”

I shake my head. I don’t even know what she’s talking about.

“Could you paddle across the lake, portage a canoe a hundred yards, and paddle back?”

I shake my head.

“What
can
you do?”

–
Hey! You remind me a lot of Nerissa
, says Norbert.

Why does he choose moments like this to enter the conversation? Nerissa is his girlfriend, back on Jupiter. Quite a tough cookie, apparently, but he really likes her.

Trixie doesn’t notice because she’s frowning at the doctor, who has a cigarette in his mouth. “Do you mind?” she snaps.

“Oh, sorry,” he says, and puts the cigarette in his pocket.

Wow. I try to imagine my doctor hurrying to do something because I asked him to. Can’t do it. I can’t imagine any grown-up hurrying to do what I asked them to. In fact, now that I’m on the topic, I can’t imagine
anyone
– anyone at all, from my own doctor (“Two and a half centimeters to the inch, Alan. Oh, ho ho!”) to colorful Uncle Emil to little Mary Lee Noscowitz, who lives down the street and rides her tricycle past our house – hurrying to do my bidding. I’m just not the sort of guy people obey. Mind you, I don’t look like a supermodel.

She frowns at me. “You’re no good at anything, are you?”

–
She says stuff like this all the time.

“Who are you talking about?”

–
Nerissa, of course. Haven’t you been listening?

The girl leans down. “It’s like this, Alan. I’m the captain of the Trailblazer team for games day tomorrow. One of my team sprained his ankle yesterday, and won’t be able to play, so old Boomer said we could ask you guys to take his place.”

“Uh-huh,” I say.

“But you’re no good to me, Alan. No good at all. Is your friend any better? He looks stronger than you. Has he ever been camping?”

I nod. I’ve got her placed now. Trixie Mintworthy. Zinta’s archenemy. I can believe it.

–
You make me homesick. Of course Nerissa is prettier than you are. But that’s not your fault. You can’t help the way you look.

She jerks her head up. Bit of a pout now. Still looks like a supermodel, though – they often get photographed with pouts. “What’s wrong with the way I look?” she asks.

I open my mouth to say “nothing,” but Norbert gets in there first.

–
You have too many arms
, he says.

She stares at me. “I want Victor on my team,” she says. “This weirdo can join the Lumberjacks.” At which point, Zinta knocks and comes in.

The girls are instantly aware of each other. Trixie stands away from me and the doctor, as if readying herself for combat. Zinta’s eyes widen. The girls circle cautiously. They’re like animals. If they had fur, it would be standing up. I can almost feel them growing physically larger, more threatening.

The doctor’s cell phone rings. He takes it out of his pocket.

“Well, if it isn’t the Master Tripper,” says Trixie. Her voice drips scorn. “Fresh from her night in the wilderness. Too bad you didn’t get a chance to wash your hair.” She smooths her own hair – not that it needs it.

Zinta narrows her eyes. “You should try a night in the wilderness, Trixie. Of course, you’d have to be able to run the rapids without smashing your canoe.”

“Very amusing, Zinta. Very droll. Yes, you certainly earned your scroll. Hope you enjoy it – while you have it.”

Zinta’s face fills with blood.

Trixie gives a tinkling laugh. “Yes, that scroll is going to look good on my trophy shelf. When your mom saves up enough food stamps, maybe you’ll get a shelf for your trophies too.”

“You leave my mom out of this, or I’ll –”