Small as an Elephant - Jennifer Richard Jacobson [4]
As he turned to the right, he heard Aiden’s voice and his little sister’s, too — Julie, he remembered Aiden calling her — and realized that they were the family that had hung an enormous blue tarp over their entire campsite, protecting it from rain. He was tempted to pop through the brush that made their site particularly private and say hi, but didn’t want to draw too much attention to himself, didn’t want Aiden’s parents to start wondering who this kid was, anyway, and why he was just hanging out, all alone.
Plus, he didn’t want to break the spell.
But it wasn’t to be. His Hubba was still the only thing on his site.
“Anything wrong?”
Jack jumped. He’d been so intent on seeing his mom — willing her to appear right there at the picnic table, waiting for his return — that he hadn’t heard the park ranger come up behind him.
She was dressed in a gray uniform with a badge and carried a clipboard. Her face was slightly wrinkled; her eyes were kind.
At this point, any other kid would tell the ranger that his mother was missing, that he had no idea what had happened to her. Then the adults would take over. They’d ask questions and put out a missing-person report. Someone would take him in and feed him dinner while they looked for her. And they’d probably find her. If not tonight, then soon.
But Jack wasn’t any kid. And his mom wasn’t just any mom.
“Nope,” said Jack, placing his hands in his pockets. “Everything’s good.”
It wasn’t much past six, and the sun was already setting. Jack needed a plan. He figured he could eat at the camping supply store again, but maybe it would be smarter if he bought a few groceries and brought them back instead.
And a fire would be sweet. A fire would add light (although he did have his flashlight, he reminded himself) and warmth. And he could cook something on it . . . or he could if he had some pots and pans. Which he didn’t.
Marshmallows. A stick was all you needed to cook those. He’d buy one or two healthy things, something to drink, and marshmallows for toasting. Wouldn’t his mom be surprised when she rolled in and saw him sitting there in front of the fire, popping a perfectly browned marshmallow into his mouth! He might just turn to her and say, “Want one?”
“Smell you!” she’d say, which was her way of saying, You are one cool kid, Jack Martel.
Jack liked imagining these scenes, even though he knew, in truth, he’d leap up and demand that she tell him where she’d been. And then she’d say something like, “I knew you’d be fine, Jackie,” to make him feel better, but it wouldn’t. Just the opposite. And then he’d be so mad, and at the same time so relieved, that he’d start to cry. So instead of being all OK and independent, he’d look like some helpless little kid.
This time he jogged out of the campground. He was nervous about bumping into the same ranger — not sure if he could keep his voice steady, keep his eyes conveying cheerfulness. As soon as he got onto the beat-up island road, he tried calling his mother again. Still no answer.
This time it was a guy with a mustache and a baseball cap behind the counter at Seawall Camping Supplies. Be natural, Jack told himself. Kids probably come in here by themselves all the time. No big deal, right? He gave the guy a quick nod (which felt more nerdy than cool) and checked out his options. He decided on salami, cheese, marshmallows, and orange juice, but when he added them up, they came to more than ten dollars. He had a little over nine. What to give up?
He was still trying to decide when he looked over at the coffee station and saw paper cups. Maybe they’d be willing to give him a cup, or sell it to him for ten cents or something, and he could get water out of the tap at the campground. Then he wouldn’t need to buy the orange juice.
“Hey, OK if I take a cup?”
“No problem,” the guy said. “Take one. Heck, take two.”
So he put the orange juice back, then walked to the counter with the rest