As it turned out, they did mean business.
The next day, which was the last day of school, Milton’s father was waiting for him at the bus stop. In spite of Milton’s very emphatic initial protests, his father drove them to the outdoor store, where they spent the afternoon picking out hiking boots and a utility belt and a brand-new field journal and even a straw hat with a peacock feather tucked in its band. It was, Milton had to admit, a truly magnificent piece of headwear, and he hadn’t seen his father smile so much in a long time.
“You’re going to have the best trip, Milt,” his father said when they pulled up to the house afterward. “I can’t wait to hear about it.”
The next day, which was the day before he was supposed to fly out, Milton’s mother didn’t work from her home office or on her phone like she usually did on Saturdays. Instead she helped Milton pack his belongings into a canvas backpack.
Well, actually, mostly she packed his belongings, while Milton (wearing his magnificent headwear) tried to talk her out of packing his belongings.
“This summer is going to be just what you need,” she said before she left his room for the night. Her voice wasn’t one bit impatient, and her hands were on his shoulders, her eyes searching for his under the brim of his lowered hat. “What we all need. I promise.”
After she left, Milton couldn’t sleep. That wasn’t unusual though. At night, in the darkness and silence, with his HandHeld turned off, Milton’s thoughts turned on.
Thoughts about how his father was living downtown in an apartment now.
Thoughts about how his parents had snapped and spat out words (and sometimes even yelled them) before his father had moved into that downtown apartment.
Thoughts about the Bird Brain Incident and his former best friend, Dev.
Totally, terribly, horribly, heinously rotten thoughts.
Most nights, Milton tried to distract himself from all that rottenness with Isle of Wild scenarios. He would imagine that he was Sea Hawk scaling to the spidery-frond tops of palm trees to pluck coconuts or being brought offerings of decapitated lizards by Dear Lady DeeDee, who would then meow-snarl words in a language only he could understand. Pretending to be Sea Hawk didn’t always help him fall asleep, but it was better than being Milton P. Greene.
But tonight, try as he might, he could not distract himself. Tonight, he couldn’t stop thinking about how he did not want to be sent halfway around the world.
And he couldn’t stop thinking about how he sort of did want to be sent halfway around the world.
His thoughts were loud and jumbly and terrified and eager and achy, and when he finally fell asleep, he still had not come anywhere close to sorting them out.