So imagine this: You’ve got these four pieces of a dog-poo sandwich that you’re supposed to eat. Don’t ask me why. (And don’t worry, it’s not real!) They’re just sitting there on a plate in front of you, and you’re not going to be allowed to get up until you’ve eaten every bite.
Okay, now imagine that someone comes along and puts one more piece on your plate.
That’s basically what happened after math. Just when I thought it was the end of the school day, I found out we had one more period to go. (Like I said, poo sandwich!)
It turned out that Major Sherwood was all gung ho about reading, just like Norman. So every morning from eleven o’clock to eleven forty-five, everyone at camp, including the teachers, had to sit and do nothing but stare at a book. They called it D.E.A.R., which stands for Drop Everything and Read. Maybe you even have it at your school, but I’d never heard of it.
The only kind of book I’d brought to camp was my sketchbook. I like drawing more than anything, and all that heavy reading was the kind of stuff “good” kids did, like Norman and my sister, Georgia, and Jeanne Galletta back home. Not me.
I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m not against books. Heck, you’re reading my story right now, and I’m all for that. It’s just that, up until now, the only reading I did every day was on the back of cereal boxes.
Still, Major Sherwood was ready for kids like me. After fourth period, he got on the camp loudspeaker and said that anyone who didn’t already have a book to read should come down to the library in the main building and pick something out. “NOW!”
Yeah, that’s right. Camp Wannamorra had its own library, which is kind of like putting a dentist’s office in an amusement park.
Still, the word on the street was—don’t cross the Dictator! So I got myself down to the main building right away. I even had a new idea about what to do by the time I got there.
The camp library didn’t look much like the libraries I’d seen before. There was no computer, no librarian, not even a scared-looking kid hiding from the bullies in the back.
It was just a big room with a bunch of bookshelves.
I kind of hung back while everyone else started grabbing stuff. Cav took something called Hatchet, which I thought might be about serial killers, but it wasn’t. And Smurf picked out The Chocolate War (which doesn’t have a single thing to do with food fights, in case you’re wondering).
Then I felt this hand on my shoulder.
“What’s your pleasure, Mr. Whatchamacallit?” Major Sherwood asked. It was like the Dictator had come out of nowhere.
“It’s Khatchadorian, sir,” I said. Nobody ever gets my name right.
“That’s what I said,” he told me. “Whatchamacallit.”
Mom says I need to learn how to choose my battles, so I didn’t push it.
“Do you have any of those big books about art?” I asked him.
“Ah! An art lover, are we?” he said.
“Uh… I guess we are.”
I knew that a lot of those art books were huge, and that’s what I wanted—something really big. Sherwood took me around the corner and showed me a shelf with extra-large books sitting on their sides.
There were books about Russia and world records and dogs, alligators, ladies’ jewelry, and a whole bunch of other things. I found two art books. One was on Michelangelo, and the other was about some jumpy guy named Hopper. I took the Michelangelo.
“Good choice,” the major said. “Now go find a quiet spot and get to it!”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
I went outside and scoped out a tree to lean against so no one could sneak up behind me. Then I opened the Michelangelo book, put my sketchbook inside, and “got to it,” like the Dictator had said.
So while everyone else was Dropping Everything and Reading, I was doing what I do best—Dropping Everything and Drawing.
Which I guess made them D.E.A.R. And me D.E.A.D.
