Chapter 22

“Ha! Whaddaya gonna do?” Mike says.

“Yeah, you gonna sing us some dumb song about peeeace and looove?” Jake draws out the words, following them up with loud kissing sounds.

On cue, Mia does indeed break into song in her low, warbly style. It’s something about peace, love, toxic car emissions, and slingshots.

And while Mike and Jake stare, like, totally perplexed and confused, Mia lifts the forked branch, fits a small rock against the thick rubber band stretched across it, takes aim, and shoots. A rock whizzes past Jake’s ear at lightning speed.

“Hey!” Jake winces, cupping his head. He releases his grip on me, and I bound over to Mia, who reloads with another rock.

“Next time,” she announces, “I won’t miss.”

Stunned and wide-eyed, Mike and Jake bolt.

“Come on!” I grab Mia’s arm, and we run the other way, panting and stumbling as we go, not looking back to see if the Rottweilers following us until we’re all the way at the far side of the lake.

In the distance, dozens of kids and counselors are gathered, happily swimming and paddling canoes. I spot Josh, Tyler, and Simon goofing around, playing Star Wars lightsabers with some oars until Yipsy steps in, directing them to a group doing the slow dance of Tai Chi.

“Hey!” I wave, trying to catch Simon’s eye.

“Wait!” Mia pulls me back behind the trees. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Oh. Um. I guess I forgot to say thanks,” I say awkwardly. I reach for her hand and give it a few hearty shakes. “You saved the day back there.”

“Um, yeah.” She jerks her hand back, wiping it on her shorts. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Um . . . I liked your song?” I try.

“And?” she prompts.

“And your really superior slingshot work.”

“And?” she repeats and waits.

Suddenly, I’m embarrassed to talk to her—to tell her about Pops, Agatha, saving the world, and how she and Moses are my role models for doing tikkun olam.

It was so way easier when I talked to Mia in my daydreams. I was suave and not awkward. The words flowed, and sometimes I even had a British accent like Simon. I made clever jokes and she laughed. And I was wearing cool boots—okay, so that part was weird, but it made me feel confident.

“Noah!” Mia snaps her fingers in front of my face. “You there?”

“Oh, sorry,” I say. “I was just . . . thinking.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you could do that later. I’m kind of late for Glass Blowin’ in the Wind. What was that all about anyway? How did you end up alone in the woods with those bullies?”

But before I can even answer, her face darkens, and she looks away. “Forget it. I really shouldn’t even be talking to you.”

And all of a sudden, her room is really confusing, and I don’t even know where to begin. Is she still mad at me from the other day when she saw herself singing on the big screen during Show Your Stuff? I think she is. I’m sure it just didn’t match up with the daydream she has of herself.

“Sometimes,” I say, “we don’t see ourselves like the camera sees us.”

“Huh?”

“The camera,” I repeat. “It’s the way the world see us. ’Cause the way we are in our heads kind of distorts how we are. Sometimes in good ways, sometimes in bad.”

Mia chews the inside of her cheek, and her eyes swing over and settle squarely onto mine.

“So I’m sorry if I distorted your head image,” I continue, “but I think you looked awesome on the screen during Show Your Stuff. And, like, that’s how I see you. Different.”

“Yeah, right,” she says bitterly, picking up a dead leaf and shredding it. “Different. That’s code for weird.”

“No way,” I say. “You’re different in a good way. You don’t need to change the letters of your name to seem special. You are special.”

She tilts her face to mine. “Yeah?” A tiny smile tugs at her lips.

“Like, people don’t get me sometimes,” I add, “but I’m kind of learning that the people who do get me are my real mates.”

How have I not noticed the green and amber flecks in her brown eyes until now?

“And you really care about things.” I’m on a roll. “Important things like toxic car emissions and plastic burp-y containers and the spiritual importance of the moon in connection with lady parts.”

We’re leaning in close now, and it feels like I’m really reading her room and we’re connecting and I wish I was filming this for my opus, ’cause it’s even better than my daydream.

“I do care about those things.” She nods. “I really do.”

“And that’s, like, awesome,” I say.

“Want to know something?” she asks quietly.

I don’t answer. So far I’ve counted five green flecks around her irises.

“Well, do you?” she persists.

“Sorry, I thought you were being rhetorical.”

“I don’t even like Trina or Marisa or Jyll,” she confides.

“Then why do you try to so hard to get them to like you?”

“You noticed that?” she says, her eyes widening in surprise. “You’re, like, perceptive.”

Someone thinks I’m perceptive? That’s a first!

“It’s just like  . . .” She shrugs, twisting one of her earrings and looking far away. “At home, I’m the school weirdo and I’m okay with that. It sort of gives me, like, an identity. But sometimes I think about what it would be like to be cool, go to parties, have friends to text, have a boyfriend . . .” A slight pink blush crawls up her cheeks, and she slides her eyes to mine. “But the more I pretend to be like my bunkmates, the less they like me. That makes me feel all off balance and hurt, and I was starting to forget who I really am. Is that dumb?”

I’m not sure because I’m distracted by how cute she looks and how her fingers wave around while she talks and how the dappled sun glints off her hair. Also, I’m super hungry, and I’m not really following what she’s saying.

“Yes?” I try, hoping that’s the right answer.

“Hey, ya know, I should turn all my feelings into a song,” she says, brightening. “It could be about social conscience vis-à-vis identity. Whaddaya think?”

“It also has great cinematic potential,” I say. “Like a memoir opus with music.”

As if on cue, my stomach makes a low, growly musical noise.

“Yeah, me too.” She gestures to my stomach. “Let’s get lunch. We’ll see what’s organic.”

I’m more in the mood for a hamburger than a plate of kale and carrot frizzies, but I’m feeling super excited because . . . is this a date?!

We start back up the path—until she stops and grabs my arm.

“But,” she says seriously, “I still wanna know what was going on back there. With Jake and Mike.”

So now I’m stuck because I know that she’s not being rhetorical. Am I ready to tell her?

At that moment, a pigeon swoops low on a branch, glares at me, and coos.

“Later, Sal,” I call and wave him away.

Mia shoots me a curious look as we climb out of the woods toward the mess hall.