Like Bug Juice on a Burger Read online

  I hate camp.

  I just hate it.

  I wish I didn’t.

  But I do.

  Being here is worse than bug juice on a burger.

  Or homework on Thanksgiving.

  Or water seeping into my shoes.

  ELEANOR IS OFF TO SUMMER CAMP.

  At first she’s excited about carrying on the family tradition at Camp Wallumwahpuck, but when she gets there, she finds icky bugs, terrible food, and, worst of all . . . swim class, where she just can’t seem to keep her head above water. But as the days go by, Eleanor realizes that life offers happy surprises even when it feels full of belly flops.

  In this sequel to the bestselling Like Pickle Juice on a Cookie, Julie Sternberg again teams up with Matthew Cordell to tell a tender and humorous story about the bittersweet process of growing up.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Sternberg, Julie.

  Like bug juice on a burger / by Julie Sternberg; illustrations by Matthew Cordell.

  pages cm

  Sequel to: Like pickle juice on a cookie.

  Summary: “As the days go on, nine-year-old Eleanor realizes that maybe being at summer camp isn’t so bad after all, and is full of special surprises” — Provided by publisher.

  ISBN 978-1-4197-0190-0

  [1. Novels in verse. 2. Camps—Fiction.] I. Cordell, Matthew, 1975- illustrator. II. Title.

  PZ7.5.S74Lf 2013

  [Fic]—dc23

  2012033169

  Text copyright © 2013 Julie Sternberg

  Illustrations copyright © 2013 Matthew Cordell

  Book design by Melissa Arnst and Robyn Ng

  Published in 2013 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.

  Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact [email protected] or the address below.

  115 West 18th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  www.abramsbooks.com

  FOR ISABEL.

  WHO HAS HAD HER OWN CAMP STRUGGLES.

  AND FOR EMILY.

  WHO WILL RUN THROUGH MUD

  WEARING ONLY ONE BOOT

  TO HELP ISABEL

  —J. S.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  About the Author

  This all began one day

  when Grandma Sadie called me up on the phone.

  “I have a wonderful surprise!”

  she said.

  Right away,

  the best possible surprise popped into my mind.

  “You’re giving us a dog?” I said.

  Grandma Sadie was quiet.

  Then she said,

  “Eleanor, honey.

  Your parents don’t want a dog.”

  I knew that.

  But I didn’t understand it.

  “We’d be so happy with a dog,”

  I told Grandma Sadie.

  “And I’m old enough to take care of it.

  I’m nine.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “We could name it Antoine,” I said.

  “I love the name Antoine.”

  “Then I love it, too,” she said.

  “But

  should we talk about your actual surprise?”

  “Oh!” I said.

  I’d almost forgotten about that.

  “Sure.”

  “Well,” Grandma Sadie said,

  “I was just remembering

  how much your mother enjoyed

  sleepaway camp,

  when she was a girl.

  I think you’d also enjoy it.

  So I’d like to treat you to sleepaway camp

  this summer.

  Would you like to go?”

  “Yes!” I said. “I would!”

  I really meant it, too.

  “My friend Katie went last summer,” I said.

  “Every single day she ate M&M’s.

  And rode horses.

  And jumped on a floating trampoline.”

  “How marvelous!” Grandma Sadie said.

  “She got great at diving, too,” I said.

  “They gave her trophies.”

  “Let’s get you started winning trophies,”

  Grandma Sadie said.

  “I’ll call your mom’s camp right away.

  Camp Wallumwahpuck.”

  She did, too.

  She called that camp with the crazy name

  right away.

  She also sent me a photograph, in the mail.

  An old camp picture of my mom

  when she was a girl.

  She’s standing outside a small white cabin,

  wearing a backpack

  and hugging a rolled-up, puffy sleeping bag.

  She looks so happy.

  I taped that picture to the wall by my bed

  and looked at it night after night

  before the start of summer.

  All those nights,

  I believed I’d be happy at Wallumwahpuck, too.

  I really did.

  The day before camp began,

  my mom and I packed up together.

  I read aloud from the camp list.

  “‘Two flashlights,’” I read, “‘with batteries.’”

  “One moment,” my mom said.

  She searched through shopping bags

  and pulled out two flashlights

  and two packs of batteries.

  “Marker, please,” she said.

  I handed her a permanent marker,

  and she started writing my name on a flashlight.

  Because the camp list said to label everything.

  “Next?” she said.

  “‘One sleeping bag,’” I read.

  My mom pulled my sleeping bag into her lap.

  It was so much thinner than hers had been.

  I saw that without checking the photo

  on the wall by my bed.

  Because I already knew that picture by heart.

  “Your sleeping bag must’ve been so much softer,”

  I said to my mom.

/>   “This one’s plenty soft,” she said,

  writing my name on my bag.

  “And remember what Natalie told us?

  She has practically the same one!”

  Natalie is my nice babysitter,

  who has beautiful hair.

  “I know,” I said.

  “But I still like yours better.”

  “Mmm,” my mom said.

  She’d gotten distracted.

  She sat very quietly for a second

  with the bag in her lap,

  thinking.

  “What is it?” I asked her.

  She smiled.

  “I was just remembering how beautiful

  Wallumwahpuck is,” she said.

  “You’re going to have such a nice time.”

  Then she set my sleeping bag aside and said,

  “What’s next?”

  “‘Seven pairs of underwear,’” I read from the list.

  “Get them, please,” my mom said.

  So I opened a dresser drawer

  and started counting out underwear.

  I gave my mom the stack,

  and she uncapped her marker.

  “Wait!” I cried.

  She looked up, surprised.

  “I don’t want my name in my underwear!” I said.

  “But what if you lose it?” my mom said.

  “What if you drop it somewhere?

  Like on your way back to your cabin,

  after taking a shower.”

  “Then I really don’t want my name in it!” I cried.

  “I don’t want everyone knowing

  it’s my dirty underwear!”

  “Please, Eleanor,” my mom said.

  “Don’t forget—

  your laundry gets done after the first five days.

  If you don’t have your name in your underwear,

  you won’t get them back for the last five days.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  I tried to decide which was worse.

  Everyone seeing my dirty underwear.

  Or wearing no underwear for the last half of camp.

  I couldn’t decide.

  Finally, my mom said,

  “How about just your initials?”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “But I’m leaving the oldest ones at home.”

  As she handed me back my most

  worn-out underwear,

  I realized

  she wasn’t going to be at camp with me at all.

  Not even to help me put my things away.

  Or make sure my flashlights worked.

  Or tuck me in, under my thin sleeping bag.

  My heart started to hurt.

  “What if I miss you and Dad too much?”

  I asked her.

  “Will you come get me?”

  “You won’t miss us that much,” she said.

  “I can’t even call you, can I?” I said.

  I was starting to feel sweaty.

  “Only in an emergency,” my mom said.

  “But what if they keep me from calling?”

  I said.

  “What if they’re evil?”

  I thought for another second.

  “And what if they read my letters before

  mailing them? To make sure

  I’m not telling you their evil deeds?”

  “I promise you, they’re not evil,” my mom said.

  “The director was a counselor back in my day.

  She’s always been lovely.”

  I ignored that.

  Then I had a brilliant idea.

  “We’ll have a code!” I said.

  I came up with one, real quick.

  “If I write in one of my letters,

  ‘I just met Esmeralda,’

  then you must rescue me.

  Got it?”

  “If you meet Esmeralda,” my mom said,

  “then I rescue you.

  Can we finish packing now?”

  “Yes,” I said,

  feeling much better.

  “We can.”

  The next morning,

  I stood with my parents

  in a Brooklyn parking lot,

  waiting for the bus to camp.

  All around us,

  girls were unloading cars

  with their families.

  A few of them had dogs, too.

  Such lovable dogs,

  wagging their tails and licking those girls’ faces.

  Sometimes girls would see one another across the lot

  and scream

  and run toward each other

  and hug

  and jump up and down.

  I wanted a friend to run and hug and jump with.

  I wanted my best friend, Pearl.

  But Pearl goes to Oregon every summer

  to visit her grandparents.

  I also wanted a dog.

  I frowned at my parents,

  who kept crushing my dog dreams.

  Neither of them noticed.

  My mom was chatting with another mom.

  And my dad had started walking off.

  He stopped and talked to a woman with a clipboard.

  She flipped through some papers,

  then pointed across the parking lot.

  Finally, my dad came back.

  “Who was that?” I asked him.

  “The head of the junior unit,” he said.

  “She says you’re in the Gypsy Moth cabin.”

  “Gypsy Moth,” I repeated.

  “Isn’t it pretty?”

  my mom said.

  “I always wanted to be in

  Gypsy Moth

  when I was a girl.”

  “The name is pretty,” I said.

  “But aren’t gypsy moths ugly?”

  “They’re prettier than cicadas,” my mom said.

  “I was in the Cicada cabin

  my first year.

  Do you want to hear how creepy

  those bugs are?”

  “No!” my dad said, very quickly.

  My mom and I both laughed.

  Because it’s funny

  how much my dad hates yucky things.

  Then he told me,

  “I have more news.

  Your counselor is already at camp.

  She’ll meet you there.

  But there’s one other Gypsy Moth camper

  getting on this bus.

  Her name’s Joplin.”

  “Really?” I said.

  I’d never heard of anyone named Joplin.

  “Really,” my dad said.

  “She’s standing over—”

  He turned to point,

  then stopped and dropped his arm.

  “That’s her!” he said in a low voice.

  “With the red glasses. Walking right toward us.”

  The girl with the red glasses

  walking right toward us

  was very thin

  and very, very tall.

  “She’s nine?” I said.

  She was as tall as a seventh grader!

  “Yes, definitely,” my dad said.

  “I asked the same thing.”

  A second later,

  Joplin stopped right in front of us.

  My head barely reached

  her shoulders.

  We all said “Hi” and

  “Nice to meet you.”

  Then Joplin looked down

  at me and said,

  “Do you eat chocolate?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  I waited for her to offer me some.

  Because why else would she have asked?

  But instead, she said,

  “Good.

  A girl in my cabin last year said it gave her a rash.

  I never liked her.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  We were all quiet for a second.

  I wondered what that girl’s rash looked like.

  Then Joplin told me,


  “Gypsy Moth is a good cabin.

  It’s near the bathroom.

  So you won’t get lost if you need to go

  in the middle of the night.”

  “That’s good,” I said.

  I started to imagine

  being in my pajamas

  lost in the deep, dark woods

  with only a flashlight,

  scared

  and

  searching for the bathroom

  and

  needing to pee.

  Then someone called out,

  “There it is!”

  We all turned

  and saw a big silver bus

  with a sleek black top

  pulling into the lot.

  I stepped behind my mom when I saw it.

  It was gigantic!

  How was I supposed to get on that thing

  without either of my parents?

  “You have to drive me to camp!” I told them then.

  “In our car!”

  “You know we can’t,” my mom said.

  “All campers arrive by bus—that’s the rule.”

  “I hate that stupid rule,” I said.

  “We’ll pick you up on your last day, though,”

  my dad said.

  “We can’t wait to see you at camp!”

  You’ll have to wait forever,

  I thought.

  Because I am not getting on that bus.

  I am not.

  I’ll stay right here in Brooklyn.

  Maybe my dad read my mind.

  Because he asked me and Joplin,

  “Would you like to sit together on the bus?”

  I held my breath.

  Of course I wanted to sit with her.

  But maybe she wanted to sit with someone else.

  Or by herself.

  She looked at me.

  Sunlight bounced off her red glasses.

  “Want to?” she asked.

  “Sure,” I answered.

  Then the head of the junior unit shouted,

  “Time to load up!”

  “We’ll meet you at the bus,” my mom told Joplin,

  “after you say good-bye to your parents.”

  “OK,” Joplin said.

  And she walked off

  the way she’d come.

  “Let’s get this trunk on the bus,” my dad said.

  He took one end,

  and my mom took the other.

  I grabbed my backpack.

  As we all crossed the lot toward the bus,

  my heart started beating faster.

  I hurried to catch up to my dad.

  The trunk wobbled a little

  as I took his hand.

  I could tell it wasn’t easy

  for him to walk