“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” murmured Bruno. He struggled to his feet and picked up his own luggage. “Hey, this is lighter than I thought.” He looked inside. His duffel contained exactly one item — bug spray. “Oops,” he declared mildly.
Boots stared at the near-empty bag. “Oh, no! That’s what we forgot! You haven’t packed yet!”
“Ten minutes,” came the Housemaster’s voice.
Bruno was awake now, barrelling around the room like a whirlwind, pulling clothes out of drawers and throwing them at the bag. Then came the packing stage, with Bruno stomping his wadded-up belongings inside the overstuffed duffel, while working the zipper with one hand and combing his hair with the splayed fingers of the other.
“Come on, Walton, O’Neal,” called Mr. Fudge. “What’s the problem? We’re leaving in two minutes.”
“Coming, sir,” called Bruno, heaving his sleeping bag under his arm. “Well?” he said to his roommate. “You’re holding up Die-in-the-Woods.”
“You’re in your pyjamas,” Boots pointed out.
Finally Mr. Fudge loaded the last two campers onto the bus, and the wilderness survival trip started out more or less on time. In addition to Bruno and Boots, the party consisted of Wilbur, Larry, Pete, Mark, Elmer and Calvin Fihzgart. Mr. Fudge and Coach Flynn were the staff supervisors.
As they pulled down the drive to the highway, Boots looked out the window at the caravan of trailers on the east lawn. Usually the scene of so much bustling activity, it was quiet and dark. He had been hoping for one particular figure to break the peace with good-bye shouts and waves.
He sighed. “I guess it’s early for Jordie to be up,” he commented lamely.
Bruno was already ninety percent back to sleep, his eyes closed, his seat in full reclining position. “I’ve decided to sleep through Die-in-the-Woods, so I don’t want to be disturbed by too much talking. And any talking about Cutesy Newbar is too much in my book.”
Boots squinted into the pre-dawn gloom. “I can’t figure out why he didn’t even say good-bye.”
“I can figure it out just fine,” said Bruno. “These movie stars are all alike. They blow like the wind. One minute we’re Cutesy’s best friends in the world. The next — boom! We’re lepers.”
“He should have at least come to see us before the trip,” Boots agreed reluctantly.
“I’ve had it with these Hollywood types,” Bruno went on, warming to the subject. “First Dinkman, and now Cutesy. There’s no friendship! There’s no loyalty! ‘Oh, we were best pals and lifelong chums? Too bad. I’ll get someone else for my next movie.’”
“Don’t you think you’re overdoing it a little?” came a whisper from under the seat in front of them.
Boots stared, but the orator in Bruno was aroused, and there was no stopping him now.
“Overdoing it? Hah! You can’t overdo it with a guy like Cutesy. I was right about him the first time. No wonder he got famous with his butt. It’s the part that best symbolizes the whole person. Look how he turned Scrimmage’s against us. He’s nothing but a low-down, shallow, no-good, pretty-faced, mealy-mouthed —”
“— great guy,” finished the whisper.
Boots grabbed Bruno by the hair and angled his head so that he was looking down at the floor. There, at their feet, lay Jordie Jones, grinning and waving. The swelling in his black eye had gone down considerably. He now looked boyish rather than grotesque.
“Cutesy, what’re you doing here?” croaked Bruno.
“Stowing away,” the actor whispered back.
Bruno and Boots stared at him, then at each other.
“Seth has me scheduled with interviews twelve hours a day,” Jordie explained, “and Goose is treating me like a criminal. I can’t handle it any more.”
Boots slapped his knee. “I told you that’s why he didn’t come to see us!”
“I tried to! I even climbed out the window of my trailer because Security was watching the door.” He shuddered. “Goose was there. He didn’t have his glasses on, so he thought I was kidnapping me.”
Bruno laughed. “You’re a real friend, Cutesy. I never doubted you for a minute.”
Boots stared at him. “Just a second ago, he was a low-down —”
Bruno dismissed this. “I never think straight before sun-up. Hey, Cutesy, I hope you know what you’re doing. You’re going to be in some major hot water for taking off on Academy Blues.”
“Kind of,” agreed the star. “But Seth still won’t be able to use me until my eye heals, and we’ve already shot most of my scenes. So he can’t say I’m sabotaging the schedule.”
Boots went suddenly white. “Forget you! What about us? When The Fish finds out you’re on this trip, we’ll never be able to convince him it wasn’t our fault!”
“I’ll explain that the whole thing was my idea and you were as surprised as anybody,” offered the actor.
Boots shook his head. “He won’t believe it! Not after all those other times! Bruno and I’ll get expelled!”
Jordie looked dejected. “You’re right. It’s too risky for you guys. When we stop at a gas station, I’ll sneak out and take a taxi back to the school.”
“No way,” said Bruno firmly. “You’re our friend, and we’ll never let you down. If you want to stow away on this trip, then that’s the way it’s going to happen, period.”
Boots nodded, a little less certainly than Bruno.
Jordie grinned from ear to ear. “You guys are great!”
Boots was first to come back down to earth. “But how are we going to pull it off? The Coach and Mr. Fudge would recognize Jordie in a second. And even if we can keep his face hidden, they know we’re only eight guys. If they count nine, it’s game over!”
But Bruno’s eyes were closing again. “Details, details,” he murmured. “We’ve got three and a half hours to work that stuff out.” He yawned hugely. “If we can get Cutesy up there and keep him hidden long enough for the bus to take off and leave us, we should be in great shape for our next move, which is — uh —” He drifted off into sleep.
Jordie looked up at Boots. “That’s the only problem with Bruno,” he whispered. “He’s a bundle of nerves.”
Boots was nervous enough for the three of them. He sat in stiff-necked misery, hardly daring to glance down at Jordie for fear one of the teachers would ask what he was looking at. He held his breath every time Coach Flynn or Mr. Fudge strolled up and down the centre aisle.
Jordie was completely unperturbed. He lay in a semi-crouch under the seat, humming along with the half-hearted choruses of “Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall” that occasionally swelled among the sleepy occupants of the bus.
Mark Davies knelt on his seat, pointing his video camera out the open window, recording the scenery that whizzed by.
“How’s this going to fit into your idiot documentary?” grumbled Wilbur, still in a bad mood over having to leave his peanut butter at home.
“This is for my next documentary,” Mark explained. “A travelogue on Die-in-the-Woods.”
“This trip is right up my alley!” crowed Calvin Fihzgart. “Living off the land, struggling against the elements, chopping down trees, eating what you kill —”
“I’d like to kill a jar of peanut butter right about now,” said Wilbur mournfully.
“I guess you’ve done a lot of camping,” commented Pete to Calvin.
“This is my first time, but I’m going to be great!” At 8 AM, the bus pulled into a roadside diner, and the boys filed in for their last meal in civilization. Jordie waited until passengers and driver had gone into the truck stop before clambering out of his hiding place. He treated himself to a trip to the bathroom and stepped into the phone booth outside the building. Much dialling later, he was talking to his parents’ answering machine in California.
“Hi, Mom and Dad, it’s me. I’m taking off on my own for a few days, so don’t worry. And if Goose and Seth call, tell them just to sit tight. I’ll be back. ’Bye.”
Insid
e, Calvin was staring distastefully at the large stack of pancakes on the plate in front of him. “What’s the matter, Fihzgart?” called Coach Flynn, his mouth full. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“I can’t eat this,” said Calvin reasonably. “I didn’t kill it.”
Bruno leaned over and plunged his knife deep into Calvin’s breakfast. “There,” he said. “It’s dead now.”
“Walton!” snapped Mr. Fudge. “Keep your knife to yourself. And take those pancakes out of your pocket. Do you think I’m blind?”
“There goes Jordie’s breakfast,” whispered Boots.
“Pass the word,” Bruno murmured, unfolding lint-covered pancakes and placing them back on the dish. “Every guy sneaks one thing back for Cutesy.”
By nine-thirty, they passed through the main town of Algonquin Park and, half an hour later, left the highway for a dirt road that led into the bush. For the next twenty minutes they bumped along, until, abruptly, the road ended.
“Okay,” called Mr. Flynn cheerfully. “Everybody out. We’re here.”
Bruno looked out the window and then at the coach. “You’re kidding.”
But by that time Calvin Fihzgart was already at the bus door, scratching to get out.
The boys made sure to crowd around Jordie, keeping him hidden as they filed reluctantly off the bus. But the two teachers were far too preoccupied with the unloading of the gear to notice that they had acquired an extra boy.
“All right,” said the driver once the passengers and their equipment were standing in the scrub and weeds. “I’ll be here to pick you up in five days. Uh — have a good time.”
“Very funny,” muttered Wilbur under his breath. Mark filmed the bus as it turned around, drove off and disappeared in the distance.
Next came the hiking stage. This was three solid hours straight into the woods, weighted down with packs, tents, supplies and the school canoe, a wood-and-birchbark replica of the kind used by fur traders in pioneer times. Bruno and Boots called it the S.S. Drown-in-the-Woods. Since the craft was carried portage-style on the shoulders of two boys, Jordie was quick to be one of them. That enabled him to keep his face hidden for the whole trek.
“Not bad,” he whispered back to Wilbur, who was bringing up the rear.
Wilbur glared down at the pine needles underfoot. “Movie star or not, anybody who goes on Die-in-the-Woods on purpose is an idiot!”
It was rough going. There was no path, so everyone followed Coach Flynn, who was navigating by compass and recording their movements in a small spiral notebook. Each step was made more difficult by slippery, muddy ground, brought on by recent rain and spring melting. They snaked their way through the underbrush, which grew more dense as they penetrated the forest. Branches scratched at their hands and faces, and patchy sunlight dappled the ground.
To make matters worse, the botany lecture from Elmer Drimsdale began with the first tree and never let up for a second.
“Ah, the common Norway spruce, Picea abies. I recognize the long, spreading branches. And this is Acer saccharum, the sugar maple.” He frowned. “It looks a little stunted. I’ll have to take a bark sample to do a proper acid rain analysis.”
“You do that,” yawned Larry, struggling under the huge backpack full of canned goods he and Pete were carrying.
They stopped in a small clearing in the thick bush, a damp and chilly place, and Coach Flynn announced that this was the perfect spot. To the boys, it looked like every other spot they’d seen in the last few kilometres, except that down a sharp rocky slope they could see a sparkling blue lake through the heavy vegetation.
“Okay,” instructed the coach. “Our first priorities are drinking water and shelter.” He pointed at the lake. “We’ve got water. Now we break out the tents.”
As the boys unstrapped the tent kits, Mr. Fudge sidled up to the coach. “Alex, I just counted the kids. I think we’ve got a problem.”
Flynn was horrified. “What? We lost somebody?”
The Housemaster put his face right up to the coach’s ear and whispered, “We gained somebody.”
Coach Flynn cast his eyes around the clearing. “… six, seven, eight — nine. How come we have nine?”
“Interest?” added Bruno hopefully.
Boots breathed deeply. He had known this moment would come, but even so, it was painful to watch.
Mr. Flynn scanned a few faces, then roared over to the edge of the clearing where Wilbur and Jordie were trying to look inconspicuous. Guided by Larry and Pete, they edged along the slope that led down to the water.
“Hackenschleimer, put down that canoe!”
With twin sighs, the bearers lowered their burden to the ground, revealing two faces — the wry embarrassment of Wilbur Hackenschleimer and the famous blue eyes of Jordie Jones. In resignation, Larry and Pete tossed the enormous grocery parcel down into the empty canoe. The jig was up.
“Jordie Jones!” chorused the two teachers.
The coach was holding onto his head with both hands. “How did you get here? Why are you here? Please go away!”
Bruno ran up. “Sir, remember what he did for our team! He risked his whole career so we could beat York Academy! You can’t send him back!”
“You bet I can’t!” howled Flynn. “Not unless a cab happens to come by! We’re at the corner of Nothing and Nowhere!”
“We can’t keep him, either,” put in Mr. Fudge. “He’s a star. Half the world’s going to be looking for him.”
“That’s no problem,” said Jordie brightly. “I called my parents while you were eating.”
“And they said it’s okay?” asked the coach eagerly.
“Well, not exactly. They weren’t home. So I said don’t worry on the answering machine.”
“Oh, they’ll love that!” groaned Flynn sarcastically. “That’ll put their minds completely at ease!”
“Sir,” piped up Calvin. “I volunteer.”
“For what?”
“I’m more at home in these woods than in my own living room. I’ll get Jordie to town and be back here in an hour.”
“Fihzgart, it’s fifty kilometres!”
Calvin shrugged. “An hour and a half.”
Mr. Fudge spoke up. “He does have a point. Maybe Jones and I could hike back to the highway and, once I see him safely on his way home, I’ll rejoin you.”
Flynn mopped his brow. “Let me think. I’m the more experienced navigator, so I should go with Jordie. But I’m the experienced camper, too, so I should stay with the group. I guess it has to be you.”
Mr. Fudge nodded.
Flynn pulled out the notebook and squatted down by the canoe. “Look, following these directions in reverse will take you back to where the bus let us off. Then you’re only a few kilometres from the main road, and maybe you can grab a lift to town. I’ll just make a quick copy for myself, and you can start right away. You’ll want to make it in before dark, stay over and rejoin us tomorrow.” He tore out the page with the directions and, using the grocery sack as a table, began to copy the information.
Jordie was devastated. “It’s only a few days! No one’ll know the difference!”
“Aw, come on, sir,” said Bruno. “Can’t you let him stay?”
“This isn’t a game, Walton. There could be a major manhunt going on! Not to mention that the wilderness survival trip is an important part of your education!” He leaned on the grocery sack and turned to regard Bruno sternly. “He goes home, and that’s that.”
There was a gravelly, grinding sound, and the canoe lurched under his weight. Surprised, the coach jumped back, dropping papers, pen and compass to the small boat’s floor. The craft slid away from him, its smooth bottom slipping easily across the marshy ground toward the slope that led to the lake.
“The boat!” cried Mr. Fudge in horror.
“The directions!” bellowed Flynn.
“The food!” shrieked Wilbur.
In an act of desperation, the coach launched himself like a football tackler at
the sliding canoe. He overshot his target, landing heavily in it, flat on his face. That was all the momentum the small craft needed. It jolted over the edge of the slope and rocketed down the hill like a roller coaster, bouncing off boulders and bushes. Mr. Flynn cried out in terror as the S.S. Drown-in-the-Woods picked up speed, hurtling for the lake. Mr. Fudge and all the campers tore down the hill after it.
“Coach! Jump!”
“Look out for that branch!”
“Save the food!”
Just before the water, a large curved rock jutted out of the embankment. It loomed like a ramp in the path of the speeding canoe. Coach and craft hit the smooth surface of the rock like an Olympic champion on a ski jump. Flynn lost his grip and flew straight upward, arms and legs windmilling. The canoe shot off the end of the rock, sailed gracefully through the air and bottomed neatly into the water, seven metres from shore. Its forward momentum carried it smoothly and steadily out toward the centre of the lake.
Bruno was first to reach Coach Flynn, who lay in a heap in the soft mud at the water’s edge. “Sir! Sir, speak to me!”
Dazed, Flynn sat up, cradling his right ankle. “Ow! I think I hurt my foot! Where’s the canoe?”
“Out there!” puffed Mr. Fudge.
The coach followed his pointing finger and sighed with relief. “Thank heaven! If that rock had ripped a hole in the bottom, say good-bye to our food and our directions!”
“I hope it doesn’t drift too far,” commented Mr. Fudge. “That’s a mighty cold swim.”
The coach hugged his injured foot. “What choice do we have? Without that stuff, we’re dead!”
Eleven pairs of eyes watched in agony as the canoe, still sailing gently across the placid lake, rode lower and lower in the water, until only the tiny point of its stern and the top of the grocery sack were still visible. Then the S.S. Drown-in-the-Woods slipped silently below the surface and was gone without a ripple.
No one said anything for a long time. They all stared at the calm waters that had claimed their canoe, their supplies and their way home.
Pete Anderson was first to break the silence. “Hey,” he said, his voice a mixture of disbelief and dread. “We really are going to die in the woods!”