Chapter 19

My body must think it’s breakfast time because I’m starving. We order practically everything on the menu and sloppily shovel it in, grunting so loudly that even the truck drivers look disapprovingly at our super-bad manners. The tired-looking waitress, whose name tag says “Madge,” keeps bringing stuff. And she’s saying things like . . .

“Here you go, hon.”

And “You boys are awfully hungry, ain’t ya?”

And “What’re y’all doing up this early, anyhow?”

Pops winks at us and tells her we’re on a fishing trip. Then he and George take turns saying flirty things like . . .

“How come a pretty gal like you’s not married?” (Because they asked her if she was married and she said “Not anymore.”)

And “I like a modern woman who earns her way.”

And “I was a secret agent in World War II, but I’m a lover, not a fighter.” (Which is Pops.)

After a while, Madge seems mostly bored and is like, “Uh-huh.” And she tells us to pay the cashier.

Outside, the morning glows at the bottom of the hills. I wonder if Nathan has checked our bunk or if Yipsy is doing any nightly rounds. Because even if Nathan wanted to cover for us, if Yipsy saw our empty bunks, he’d freak. Then he’d rat us out to Rabbi Blum, and then Rabbi Blum would call the police, and then the police would call my parents.

I imagine how angry they’d be if they thought I’d just disappeared. Though a small part of me wonders if they’d be just the tiniest bit relieved.

“So, George,” I say, draining the last bit of juice from my glass, “are you the same George who was stationed with Pops during the war?”

“One and the same,” George says, sipping his coffee from one of those thick, beige-colored ceramic diner mugs.

We all nod silently and keep eating.

“Enough small talk,” Pops exclaims. “Now you boys lean in, ’cause I’m gonna explain what’s going on.”

We lean in.

“First of all . . . who are you?” he demands.

“Um, well, I’m Noah,” I start.

“I know who you are!” Pops huffs. “And that’s the hippie.” He gestures at Simon. “But who are these two?” Pops says, narrowing his eyes. “I hope they’re not internet trolls.”

Simon coughs like he’s trying to hide a laugh.

“Actually, Mr—” Tyler starts.

“Mr. Pops,” Simon mouths at him.

“Okay. Well, actually, Mr. Pops,” Tyler says, “we’re campers. We share a bunk with Noah. I’m Tyler.”

“What about you?” Pop snaps at Josh.

“I’m Josh.” Josh clears his throat nervously. “You might have caught a glimpse of us the other night in the woods.”

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“They just told you, you old coot,” George chimes in. “They’re friends of your grandson, Ned, here.”

“Noah,” I say softly, raising my finger in the air.

“Ned, Noah, whatever,” Pops says. “You kids think you know everything. Well, let me tell you—”

And suddenly, for some reason—maybe it’s all the sugar from the thick shakes, donuts, maple syrup, and pie talking—I kind of feel like I’ve had enough.

“Pops!” I shout.

A few truck drivers snap their heads around.

“I know you, like, yell at everyone and say things that don’t make sense,” I say. “But it’s getting a little annoying, ya know?”

A hush falls over the table, and all eyes swing toward me. There’s no turning back now.

“It’s, like, four-thirty in the morning. I’m supposed to be at camp. But I just dragged my new mates into the woods to spy on two big guys digging stuff out of the ground, who are probably gonna beat me up tomorrow. And now I’m in a diner. I don’t know what we’re doing here. I’m trying to do tikkun olam, but I don’t even know what this save-the-world business is about! Plus, I’m super tired, and I have Real Boys Swing Dance class first thing in the morning. And if Yipsy finds us missing, we’ll probably be sent home. Now could you please tell us what’s going on? Oh, and don’t call me Ned. Mom and Dad named me Noah. So I’m Noah. Your grandson. Is all that clear?”

It’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop, and there’s a part of me that’s like, Who just said that?

But there’s another part that feels good. Really good. Like I’m reading this room to the max. I feel more confident than I have in a long time.

Pop stares at me. George puts down his cup and stares at me. Josh lets out a low whistle. Tyler and Simon stare at me, then exchange a He is so busted look, darting their eyes everywhere but at me.

Finally, Pops is like, “Who’s Yipsy?”

“Gah!” I grunt and drop my head onto the table.

“You tried, mate.” Simon pats me on the shoulder.

“Well, do you want to hear what I have to say or not?” Pop says, all exasperated.

“Sure.” I lift my head. “Hit me.”

“I’m not gonna hit you,” Pops replies.

“It was a figure of—”

“It’s 4:40,” he interrupts, glancing at his watch—one of those big, bubble-faced, magnifying-glass jobs balancing on his skinny wrist.

“That’s 0100 hours,” George says solemnly.

“Let’s get back to headquarters,” Pops says.

“And where might that be?” Simon asks.

“The motel! Where else?”

Pops motions for George to slide out of the booth, and his behind makes that squeaky noise across the pleather. Pops slides out after him, and we all follow.

“It’s time,” Pops announces solemnly, brushing crumbs from his Boy Scout pants, “for you boys to learn the truth.”