“Whatever—if I don’t have one, they’re not letting me into seventh grade.”
Already, he had been compelled to paint over the graffiti, and he had been suspended for the remaining week of school. However, the school had made it clear that some further action must be taken if Clay was ever going to return.
“All right, Clay, have it your way,” said Clay’s mother, as if she were indulging him in a meaningless diversion. “What is to be your consequence?”
Clay was very curious—in a morbid sort of way—to hear the answer to this question. His parents had very little experience disciplining him, if any. As Clay would have been the first to admit, this was not because his behavior was especially good (although, I hasten to add, his behavior wasn’t especially bad); it was because his parents considered themselves too enlightened for the old-fashioned reward-and-punishment system.
“Well, Clay?” prompted his father.
Clay blinked in disbelief. “You want me to come up with my own punishment?”
“Naturally,” said his mother.
“It won’t mean anything if we decide for you,” said his father.
Clay felt perversely disappointed. Of course, he didn’t want to be punished, but he’d hoped that for once his parents would act more like normal parents.
“Well…” he said, stalling. “Don’t parents usually ground their kids when they do something like write on a wall?”
Clay’s mother looked out at him from the computer screen as if he had suggested a trip to Mars. “Should we ground you, Clay? Is that what you want?”
Clay shrugged. “If I wanted you to, wouldn’t that kinda defeat the purpose?”
Before anybody could say anything more, the doorbell rang, or more accurately, buzzed. Glad of an excuse to leave the room, Clay leaped up to answer.
CHAPTER
FIVE
A SUMMER CAMP FOR STRUGGLING YOUTH
When Clay opened the door, he saw a large envelope resting on the doorstep. His heart started beating fast; it had to be from his brother. Who else would send mail timed to arrive in the middle of a Friday night meeting?
Clay’s mind raced with possibilities as he picked up the envelope. Would Max-Ernest at last tell them where he was? Might he even announce that he was coming home?
But then he saw the return address: Mr. Bailey. No doubt the envelope contained a letter repeating the threat about his not getting to enter seventh grade.
No longer very excited, Clay walked back to the dining room and emptied the envelope onto the table.
There was no letter, only a stack of summer camp brochures.
A Post-it was attached:
Maybe one of these is right for Clay?
Regards, E. Bailey.
Camp.
Clay had never gone to camp. He’d never even gone on a camping trip. Camp was something that other families did. Like Little League. Or piano lessons. Or family dinner.
Why was Mr. Bailey suggesting camp?
As soon as he started looking closely at the brochures, Clay saw the answer: All the camps were designed for kids with problems of one sort or another. The first offered to “treat mood disorders through music.” Which sounded fine except Clay didn’t have a mood disorder—or at least not a diagnosed mood disorder, agreed his parents—and he didn’t play any musical instruments. The next was a high-security facility for violent and “seriously at-risk” youth, with “on-call psychiatric assistance.” (“I already have on-call psychiatric assistance,” Clay pointed out to his parents. “You guys.”) Another offered “rehabilitation through construction”—in other words, Clay thought, slave labor.
The most intriguing brochure featured a photo of a lake backed by a waterfall and, in the far distance, a smoking volcano. A llama grazed in the foreground.
At his mother’s request, Clay read the text aloud.
Clay looked up from the brochure. “Animal husbandry? No way am I being some animal’s husband.”*
“There’s no need to joke about it,” said Clay’s father. “This camp could be exactly what we’re looking for.”
“Don’t tell me you want me to go to this place!” exclaimed Clay. “It’s for delinquents.”
Clay’s mother nodded. “Didn’t you say you wanted a consequence?”
“But I’ve already got summer plans,” Clay protested.
“What plans?” asked his father.
“To go to the skate park. I’m turning thirteen, remember? I’ll finally be old enough to go without an adult.”
Near the skate park, there was a famously treacherous hill—called Kill Hill by skaters—that Clay and Gideon had vowed to conquer that summer. He didn’t feel it was necessary to mention Kill Hill to his parents, however.
“That’s not a summer plan,” said his mother. “That’s a one-hour activity.”
“Besides, you’re not turning thirteen for weeks,” said his father.
Clay seethed as he ate a second slice of the now cold and stringy pizza.
Why would they want to send him to a camp for bad kids, or “struggling youth,” as the camp called them? It was one thing for his teacher to think he was a degenerate, but didn’t his parents think better of him? Or did they only pretend to be so permissive and accepting? He almost wished he really had been the one to write on Mr. Bailey’s wall; it would serve his parents right.
Later, Clay hunted online for some incriminating piece of information about Earth Ranch or Price Island that would convince his parents to let him stay home.
Here is what he learned:
Price Island is a small private island in the Pacific Ocean, approximately eighty miles northwest of Hawaii. The island belongs to the estate of the deceased Wall Street financier Randolph Price and is home to Mount Forge, one of the few privately owned active volcanoes in the world. An eccentric collector of art, books, and other curiosities, Price spent a vast fortune building a palace, which was destroyed in minutes when the volcano erupted. Currently, the island is believed to be uninhabited.
About Earth Ranch itself, Clay could find no information at all. He looked at travel websites, summer camp websites, information-for-parents-of-troubled-kids websites, but nary a mention did he see.
He called his father back into the dining room and called up his mother on his computer. Both his parents had been up late working; neither liked being disturbed.
“Guess what—Earth Ranch is totally off the grid!” he said. “What kind of camp doesn’t have a website?”
“An old-fashioned camp,” said his father.
“Yeah, too old-fashioned,” said Clay. “It probably doesn’t have flushing toilets.”
“Your father and I have discussed it,” said Clay’s mother. “We’ve decided a consequence isn’t such a bad idea after all.”
“It’s not the graffiti,” said his father. “It’s your failure to take responsibility.”
“There has clearly been a breakdown in our communication,” said his mother. “Maybe some time apart will help.”
“Great,” said Clay, incensed. “You never punish me—sorry, consequence me—once in my whole life, and suddenly you’re sending me to Alcatraz… on a volcano… with llamas!”
That night, Clay dreamed about the journal. But this time when he looked into the tiny mirror on the front, he didn’t see himself; he saw a volcano exploding in flames. Rivers of lava gushed in all directions, until the lava’s red glow eclipsed everything else and merged with the journal’s red cover.
CHAPTER
SIX
A LOOSE SCREW
I won’t tell you how Clay spent his next week—not because he did anything you wouldn’t approve of, but because he hardly did anything at all. Except fret about where he would be spending his summer and about whether he’d have a school to return to in the fall.
When the Earth Ranch enrollment packet arrived, it did nothing to assuage Clay’s anxiety. Indeed, the brief letter that accompanied the packet raised more questions than it
answered. While noting that Clay had applied late and would be enrolling a week after the other campers, the letter said that the camp would make an exception for him because of the “special circumstances” of his case. Furthermore, his entire fee would be covered by the estate of Randolph Price, the camp’s founder.
What special circumstances, Clay wondered. Weren’t there kids who were more deserving than he was? Disabled kids, maybe, or poor kids? Kids who were better students? Better athletes? Better artists? Or, if they wanted problem kids, weren’t there worse criminals, tougher cases to crack?
What was most peculiar, however, was the packing list—which was quite long, considering everything was supposed to fit in a single backpack. The list included routine items like a water bottle, sunscreen, flashlight, hat, bandanna, socks, and underwear, but also some rather unexpected and even alarming things, such as a gas mask, a life jacket, and a bag of carrot tops. The last item, carrot tops, was underlined, and accompanied by a handwritten notation saying it was very important that the carrot tops be kept handy during Clay’s trip to camp.
“You think I’m going to be feeding rabbits, or is it for dusting furniture?” Clay asked his parents at their next family meeting.
“Maybe the carrot tops are for recycling?” suggested his father, whose turn it was to participate via computer screen.
“I think you mean composting,” said his mother, now in the room with Clay.
“I think this camp is crazy,” said Clay.
Travel instructions were equally specific. In three days’ time, a parent was to take him as far as the seaport, where he was to meet a privately chartered seaplane at dock sixteen at precisely 9:12 a.m. Clay was to be wearing his life jacket and an old pair of sneakers.
“It’s like they’re expecting the plane to crash into the sea!” Clay complained.
Predictably, Clay’s parents couldn’t agree on who would take him to the plane. Unpredictably, and at the last minute, both elected to escort him (in person); and they arrived at the gate to dock sixteen as a surprisingly normal-looking family of three.
As his parents walked down the ramp to the dock, Clay lingered, inspecting the various tags scratched into the gate. Then he jumped onto his skateboard for one last ride. The ramp wasn’t exactly Kill Hill, but it would have to do for this summer. (In the Earth Ranch enrollment packet, skateboards were listed very clearly among forbidden items.) He sailed down to the dock and sped across the wooden boards, vibrating like a jackhammer. When he got close to the end of the dock, he popped the tail of his board, attaining a last fleeting moment of air, then skidded to a stop, his face flushed.
He glanced at his parents to see if they were watching—would they be angry or impressed?—but their attention was fixed on the object in front of them. Clay brushed away his disappointment; it wasn’t the first time their attention was elsewhere.
Tethered to the end of the dock was an old seaplane with two rusty propellers and two ski-like legs. A man with tattooed arms and a long ponytail was attacking one of the plane’s propellers with a wrench. Next to him, a fat bulldog lazed in the sun, pink tongue glistening. The man grunted in frustration, then gave up and threw his wrench into the sea.
Clay eyed the plane dubiously. It looked like it would have enough trouble staying afloat on the water, let alone flying in the sky.
“Is this the plane for Price Island?” asked Clay’s father.
“Do you see any other planes?” asked the man.
“No boats, either,” said Clay’s mother. “We thought this dock was closed.”
The man grinned. A gold tooth glinted. “That’s why I dock here. Much cheaper.”
“As in free, you mean,” said Clay, smirking. “Is that even… allowed?”
“Clay!” reprimanded his father. “I’m sure he wouldn’t dock here without permission.”
Clay’s mother nodded. “You’re going to a camp where they teach kids to respect the rule of law. I hardly think they’d hire a lawbreaker to fly you there!”
The man’s smile faded a little bit. “Right you are, ma’am. Even so, maybe we’d better not mention this to the folks at camp, eh?”
The pilot slapped Clay on the shoulder. “You must be the lucky camper. I’m Skipper.” He gave his dog a pat on the head. “This here’s my copilot, Gilligan.”
The bulldog took a lumbering step toward Clay and drooled all over his hand.
“Hey,” said Clay, wiping his hand on his pants.
“What about the propeller?” asked Clay’s father. “Is there a problem?”
“Oh, just a couple loose screws…” said Skipper. “Just kiddin’! This plane’s sturdier than a tank. Besides, a little rattling builds character, right?”
Clay seized the initiative, pulling his parents aside. “Can I talk to you guys a second?
“Are you really going to make me get on that thing?” he whispered.
“You won’t get into seventh grade otherwise, remember?” said his father.
“It won’t matter what grade I’m in, if I’m dead!”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Clay,” said his mother.
Skipper whistled from beside the plane. “All aboard! Last call for Price Island!”
“Fine. Nice knowing you,” Clay said to his parents.
Fuming, Clay thrust his skateboard into the hands of his surprised father and headed for the plane. His parents were as crazy as the pilot, he decided. It would be a relief to get away from them.
About to step in, Clay looked at the side of the plane. The letters had chipped away, along with the rest of the paint, but he could just make out a name: The Tempest.
“The Tempest? Like the play?” he asked, surprised.
“No, like the plane,” said Skipper, as if Clay had suggested something idiotic. “It means ‘storm.’ ”
“I know, but it’s also the name of this Shakespeare play I was in.”
“Oh, is it now?” said Skipper mockingly. “I didn’t know I had such a literary traveler on my hands.” He turned to his dog. “We’ll have to mind our p’s and q’s, won’t we, Gilligan?”
Clay smiled weakly, wishing he hadn’t said anything.
Five minutes later, Clay was wishing even more fervently that he had stayed home.
After making several sputtering circles in the water like an oversized bird learning to fly, the plane was finally airborne, but Clay was not convinced it would maintain altitude. The cabin wasn’t pressurized or even very well sealed. It was cold and noisy, and Clay, who had inherited a slight fear of heights from his brother, could see bits of blue water through the cracks. He kept picturing the plane plummeting back to earth—and deep into the sea.
His life jacket around his neck, he was squeezed into the back of the plane between his backpack and a large cardboard box addressed to Jonah P—, c/o Earth Ranch, Price Island. At least we’re headed to the right place, Clay thought.
Gilligan, the bulldog copilot, occupied the only seat other than Skipper’s, which would have been fine except that the dog kept turning his head around and slobbering all over Clay’s neck. When Clay pulled away from him, he growled.
Clay tapped Skipper on the shoulder. The pilot pulled his right headphone away from his right ear. “What’s that, Shakespeare?”
“Hey, you think your dog could maybe turn back around?” Clay asked, wiping dog saliva off his neck.
“His name is Gilligan.”
“Sorry. Do you think you could get Gilligan to turn around?”
“You don’t like dogs, huh, Shakespeare?”
“I like dogs; I just don’t like slobber. My name is Clay, by the way.”*
Skipper pulled his headphones down around his neck and turned to face Clay, leaving the plane’s controls free. The plane dipped slightly, and Clay wondered nervously if it had an autopilot function.
“You think people don’t slobber… Shakespeare?” Skipper asked. His bloodshot eyes stared at Clay.
“Sure they do, but—forget it.” Thi
s was one time, Clay decided, when it was best not to argue.
Thankfully, Skipper turned to face the windshield and put his hands back on the controls. Clay noticed that Skipper’s biceps was decorated with a tattoo of a bulldog.
“Cool tattoo,” Clay said, trying to be conciliatory. “Looks just like him.”
“You mean Gilligan? All dogs look alike to you, don’t they?” said the pilot, insulted. “This isn’t Gilligan. This is my last dog, Tattoo.”
“You mean this is your last tattoo of a dog?”
“No, this is a tattoo of my last dog, Tattoo.” The pilot turned around, causing the plane to dip again.
“That was his name? Tattoo?” asked Clay, wishing he’d never brought it up.
“Yeah, you know, like the guy on Fantasy Island,” said the pilot.
“What’s Fantasy Island?”
“Fantasy Island. The TV show. Who doesn’t know Fantasy Island?”
“Me.”
“And I suppose you don’t know Gilligan’s Island, either, huh, Shakespeare?”*
“Nope.”
Skipper groaned in disgust. “You know all these fancy-pants plays and you don’t even know a simple TV show? How you going to survive out on Price Island when you don’t even know Gilligan’s Island?!”
“Actually, the play The Tempest—it takes place on an island, too.”
“Oh, does it now? I guess you don’t need TV, then, after all, huh? Shakespeare thought of everything.”
That pretty much ended the conversation. The dog continued to drool all over Clay. Clay tried pulling away from him; it didn’t work.
“Try scratching his ears,” said the pilot after a few minutes. “He likes that.”
Sure enough, Gilligan started wagging his tail as soon as Clay started scratching behind his ears. Alas, he didn’t stop slobbering.
Clay woke about two and a half hours later, covered in dog drool.
“There it is. Price Island,” said the pilot, pointing out the window. “Your new home away from home.”