Free Cartboy Goes to Camp by L. A. Campbell

Stuff that only a history lover would like.
    I took a breath. “You want me to be you, Dad. And I can’t.”
    â€œHal, I don’t want you to be me—”
    â€œWhy else would you send me here? To Camp Jamestown. You are the person who loves this place. Who loves to learn history. Not me.”
    â€œOkay, yes. I sent you here to learn history, Hal. But it wasn’t just that. I wanted you to have fun too. As the historian Thucydides once said, ‘History is philosophy teaching by examples.’”

    â€œWhat are you saying, Dad?”
    â€œLet me put it this way, Hal. There must be something about history you like.”
    I glanced around camp, at every pioneer activity, trying to find something that was fun. Something I enjoyed doing while I was here. I looked and looked, and was about to give up. But then my eyes landed on the patch of ground behind the museum.
    â€œThere was one thing,” I said. “Hunting for a treasure that was buried a long time ago.”
    I took another look at the back of the museum, and a thought came to my mind: Maybe the whole time I had been hunting for the treasure, I wasn’t just trying to get a new scooter.
    Maybe I was also hunting for the pearls because I thought they had a lot of historical value. And I wanted to be a part of uncovering that.
    â€œSo, yes, Dad,” I said. “I guess you could say I liked looking for the pearls.”
    â€œThere you go! That’s great son. Wait. Did you say pearls? What pearls?”
    I was about to tell my dad about Sam Prentice and his diary, but right then, Ryan Horner walked by. He saw me talking to my dad and decided to stroll right up to both of us.
    â€œExcuse me, Mr. Rifkind, may I have a word with your son?” he said in a big phony voice.
    Ryan pulled me away from my dad, and all of a sudden his voice changed back to normal: Deep. Gravelly. And evil.
    â€œCartboy, you better find those pearls for me before we leave this place. Or seventh grade is going to feel like one long prison sentence.”

    Ryan turned around, flashed my dad a fake smile, then walked away.
    â€œWhat was that about, son?” he said. “And what’s all this talk about pearls?”
    â€œDad, I can’t tell you now. I … I have go,” I said.
    I started to walk back toward the bonfire. As I did, I heard my dad call after me. “Hal, wait. Tell me what’s going on…”
    As I kept walking, I couldn’t help but think that when I got home, I was definitely going to be grounded for walking away from my dad again.
    But I had no choice.
    I had to find Vinny.

 
    Pearls
    Dear Reader:
    It only took me a minute to locate Vinny. He was standing on the far side of the bonfire with Perth and Scot.
    â€œHey, guys,” I said when I got near them.
    At first, they wouldn’t look me in the eyes. They pretty much pretended they didn’t know me.
    â€œSo, um,” I said. “I’m really sorry about everything. My score. The tug-of-war. The stupid idea to put all that stuff inside our clothes.”
    The guys shuffled and shifted around a lot. It felt like about an hour, until finally Vinny said, “It’s okay, Hal.”
    â€œYeah, no worries, Hal,” said Scot. “The truth is, I was pretty thirsty. That canteen came in handy.”
    Perth faced me and rubbed his belly. “Honestly, that shovel hit my stomach so hard, it unclogged the pipes pretty good. Haven’t felt this clear in weeks.”

    Scot and Perth went back to watching the bonfire. So I took the opportunity to whisper in Vinny’s ear.
    â€œI need to talk to you. I think the B. E. stands for bald eagle. Not big elm.”
    Vinny and I left the bonfire and walked behind a tree so nobody could hear us. I told Vinny how I got the idea when I was watching a waitress at the diner. How I remembered that the bald eagle was sacred to the Powhatan Indians.
    â€œEven if the