The Soggy, Foggy Campout

  For Ricardo and Leticia—thank you for everything—HW

  For Leslie Tomasini, remembering all those great campouts—LO

  For Bobbie and Jack Carty . . . you’re in a book!—SG

  GROSSET & DUNLAP

  Penguin Young Readers Group

  An Imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

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  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Text copyright © 2016 by Henry Winkler and Lin Oliver Productions, Inc. Illustrations copyright © 2016 by Scott Garrett. All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  ISBN 9780448486604 (pbk)

  ISBN 9780448486611 (hc)

  ISBN 9780698183414 (ePub)

  Version_1

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  About the Authors

  “What rhymes with ‘orange’?” I asked my best friend Frankie Townsend. We were sitting in Riverside Park having an after-school snack.

  “Nothing,” he said. “There isn’t one word in the English language that rhymes with ‘orange.’”

  “How about ‘borange’?” I asked.

  My other best friend, Ashley Wong, burst out laughing.

  “Can I just point out that ‘borange’ isn’t a word in any language?” she said.

  “Then I give up.” I threw my hands in the air. “Writing poetry is too hard. I quit.”

  Our teacher, Ms. Flowers, had told us the day before that everyone in our class had to write a poem about nature. We were going to read them at the We Love Nature assembly on Monday in the auditorium. Frankie and Ashley wrote theirs right away. They never have a problem at school in any subject. I have a problem with every subject. I’m bad at reading, spelling, math, and science. But I’m great at lunch.

  The night before I had sat at my desk forever, staring at a blank piece of paper. There wasn’t a poem in my head or anywhere else in my body. So this morning my mom suggested that we all go to the park after school. She said that maybe looking at the flowers and trees would help me come up with an idea.

  But it wasn’t working.

  “Hank, you can’t just give up,” my mom said. “You have an assignment to write a poem. Quitting is not a choice.”

  “Okay, Mom,” I said. “I’ll try one more time.”

  “Look around you and enjoy nature,” she said. “Something will come to you.”

  I concentrated on some bright purple flowers. They were just starting to bloom.

  “Okay, I’ve got the first lines for a poem,” I said. “Ashley, would you please write these down when I say them?”

  Ashley took a pencil from behind her ear and pulled out her little spiral notebook that was covered in rhinestones.

  “I’m ready. Let it rip.”

  I cleared my throat and began:

  “Oh pretty flowers so bright and purple . . .

  I love your smell, it is so gurple.”

  When I got to the end, I noticed that Ashley had stopped writing.

  “I’ve got to hand it to you, Zip,” Frankie said. “‘Purple’ is the only other word I can think of that doesn’t rhyme with anything.”

  “What about ‘gurple’?” I said. “That rhymes.”

  “But it’s not a word,” Ashley said.

  I sighed loudly. This was just too frustrating.

  “I think the problem, honey,” my mom said, “is that you’re not inspired. Do you know what ‘inspired’ means?”

  “I do,” Ashley said. “It means you’re full of thoughts and ideas, and they just come pouring out.”

  “How am I supposed to get inspired about some purple flowers?” I asked.

  “I think we need to take you out into real nature,” my mom said. “I know a beautiful campsite a few hours north of the city called Harmony Acres. I’ll bet you could write a poem there. Maybe we could go this weekend.”

  “Cool! Could we sleep over?” I asked. “In a tent and everything? Can Frankie and Ashley come?”

  “I can’t,” Ashley said. “It’s my grandmother’s birthday this weekend.”

  “But I’d love to come, if it’s okay with my parents,” Frankie said.

  “We have to talk to Hank’s dad,” my mom said. “If he says yes, we’ll leave Saturday morning.”

  “Let’s go talk to Dad,” I said. “This is going to be great.”

  We jumped up and hurried home. My dad was sitting at the dining-room table staring at his computer. He works at home. There’s a desk in the bedroom where he’s supposed to work, but he says he thinks better when he’s dipping pretzels in sour cream. Mom doesn’t like pretzel crumbs all over the bedroom rug, so he spends a lot of time in the dining room.

  “Dad! Dad!” I said as I raced in. “We want to go on a family camping trip!”

  “Have a wonderful time, Hank. I can’t wait to hear all the details. I’ll be right here.”

  “No, Dad! The whole family is going. That means you, too!”

  My dad looked over at my mom. He didn’t look happy.

  “Whose idea was this?” he asked her.

  “Well, Hank needs to write a nature poem by Monday,” she said. “And I thought that being out in nature would inspire him.”

  “You don’t have to drive all the way upstate to write a poem,” he said.

  “But I need to smell the trees to be inspired,” I told him.

  “Nonsense, Hank. I can write a poem without getting up from this table.”

  He took one of his mechanical pencils out of his pocket protector. He always has three pencils lined up in a row, in case one of them runs out of lead. He stared at it for a second and made up a poem on the spot.

  “A pencil like this sure comes in handy.

  But don’t you eat it like cotton candy.

  Use it to write your ABC’s.

  Then write your poem . . . who needs trees?”

  “Wow, Dad!” I said. “That’s terrific. You’re a poet and you didn’t even know it!”

  “You see, Hank? Who needs camping?”

  My sister, Emily, wandered in. As usual, she was carrying her pet iguana, Katherine, around her neck like a scarf.

  “Did I hear the word ‘camping’?” she asked. “Katherine doesn’t like to camp out. Sleeping bags make her scales itch.”

  “For the first time ever, I agree with Katherine,” my dad said.

  “But, Dad,” I said, “you don’t have scales. At least not that I can see.”

  “I was talking about camping,” he said. “I’m a city guy.
I need pavement under my feet.”

  My mom put her hand on his shoulder. “This is just for one night, Stan. We’ll sleep under the stars and sit around the fire and tell stories.”

  “And swat bugs,” my dad added.

  I took a deep breath. “Dad,” I began, “you’re always telling me that I don’t do well in school.”

  “That’s because you don’t try hard enough, Hank.”

  “And also because you put pencils in your ears instead of listening to the teacher,” Emily chimed in.

  Katherine shot her tongue out at me and started to hiss. She always takes Emily’s side.

  “Emily,” my mom said. “Please let Hank finish. You too, Katherine.”

  “I want to try harder,” I said to my dad. “And here is a chance for me to finally do well. Think about it. We’re at the We Love Nature assembly on Monday. I stand up to read my poem. It’s great, and the crowd goes wild. My teacher gives me an A. And you were part of it, because you said yes to camping.”

  Everyone was quiet for a minute. I think they were impressed with my speech. To be honest, I was, too.

  My dad took off his glasses and put them in his shirt pocket. He stared at me for what seemed like a month and a half.

  “I’ll think about it,” he said, “but don’t hold your breath.”

  That wasn’t exactly a yes. But it wasn’t exactly a no, either.

  On Saturday morning, we brought all our bags down to the lobby where Papa Pete and Frankie were waiting for us.

  “Thanks for letting us borrow your car, Papa Pete,” I said.

  “My pleasure,” he answered, handing the keys to my dad. “I filled it up with gas, so you’re ready to roll.”

  “Are you sure this car can make the trip?” he asked. “I don’t want it to break down on the side of the highway.”

  “This old car loves the highway,” Papa Pete said. “I’ve taken it on a lot of road trips.”

  “That’s my point,” my dad said. “Who knows if it has one more road trip in it? So why take a chance? Let’s forget the trip and all go to a Saturday afternoon movie. What do you say, kids?”

  “I say camping.” Then I started to chant, “Camping, camping, camping.” Frankie and Emily joined in. My mom laughed. It looked like my father was going to cry.

  “Seems like you have your answer, Stan,” my mom said. “Let’s load up the car and go.”

  We all helped put our stuff in the trunk. When it was almost full, my dad suddenly stopped and slapped his forehead.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “I can’t go. What about Cheerio? I have to take care of him. He’s just a puppy.”

  “Remember that Mrs. Fink in apartment 10C has agreed to walk and feed Cheerio twice a day?” my mom said.

  “But what happens if she can’t find her false teeth? She won’t leave her apartment. That happened once, and we didn’t see her for three days. No, I can’t risk that. I’m staying home with Cheerio. Have a great time, everyone.”

  He ran into the lobby. I followed him and found him pushing the elevator button over and over again.

  “Dad, you just gave me a great idea,” I said. “We’ll take Cheerio. It will be the biggest adventure of his little puppy life.”

  “You can’t take a dog into the wilderness,” my dad said as the elevator doors opened.

  “Of course you can,” I said as we got in the elevator. “They’re animals. They love wilderness.”

  I didn’t stop talking until we were inside our apartment.

  “Cheerio!” I called. “Want to go on a road trip?”

  Cheerio jumped off the couch and almost flew into my arms.

  “See?” I said to my dad. “He wants to go. How can we say no to this face?”

  Cheerio looked over at my dad, and I swear he smiled right at him. That cute doggy’s smile can even melt my dad’s heart.

  “Fine,” he said, sighing deeply. “I’ll let Mrs. Fink know what we’re doing. Hank, get Cheerio’s things together.”

  Everyone cheered when we came out of our building with Cheerio.

  Emily reached out and scratched Cheerio under the chin.

  “You are not as cute as my Katherine, and you can’t catch flies with your tongue. But I’m glad you’re coming along, anyway.”

  My mom hugged Dad and smiled.

  “You did the right thing, Stan,” she said. “You’ll see. We’re going to have a great time.”

  My dad just grunted like a hippo stuck in the mud.

  We piled into the car. As I was getting in, Papa Pete handed me a brown paper bag.

  “Here’s a little surprise for you kids,” he said.

  I didn’t even have to open the bag to know what was inside. It was pickles, Papa Pete’s favorite snack. We always have a pickle together when we’ve got a big problem to solve.

  “I brought a pickle for each of you kids,” he said. “Just don’t let Cheerio get them.”

  “Thanks, Papa Pete,” we all said. Frankie calls him Papa Pete, too, even though he’s not his grandfather.

  “See you tomorrow,” my mom called to Papa Pete.

  “Don’t forget to put on bug spray,” he replied as he waved good-bye.

  We took off. Mom and Dad sat up front. The three of us were in the backseat. Well, make that the four of us because I had Cheerio on my lap. As we drove out of the city, Frankie, Emily, and I played this game where you count red cars. By the time we were an hour out of the city, I had counted forty-three. Or maybe it was sixty-one. My brain isn’t very good at keeping track of numbers.

  “I don’t think Cheerio likes the car ride,” Frankie said as we sped along the highway. “He keeps breathing in my face, and his breath smells like pickles.”

  “Pickles!” I whispered. “Oh no! Cheerio, you didn’t!”

  “You better check the bag fast,” Frankie said.

  I reached down and felt around on the seat for the paper bag. The top was chewed open. That wasn’t a good sign. When I looked inside, the signs were even less good. There was just an empty plastic wrapper and some pickle juice floating around in it.

  “Um . . . Dad . . . ,” I said. “I think we have to pull over.”

  “I’d rather not,” my dad answered. “We’re almost there.”

  “I think it’s pretty important, Mr. Z.,” Frankie said. “Cheerio needs to use the restroom . . . in a very pickle kind of way.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” my dad asked.

  “He’s going to barf, Dad,” Emily said.

  My dad pulled the car over to the side of the road faster than you can say pickle chunks.

  My dad just stood by the side of the road holding his head in his hands.

  “This is going to be okay, Dad,” I said, trying to cheer him up.

  “Hank, any trip that starts with a dog throwing up is not going to go well.”

  And you know what? He wasn’t all wrong.

  When Cheerio was feeling better, we piled back into the car. My father warned us that we were not stopping anymore until we got to the campsite. My mom was holding a map and looking for the right exit.

  “Oh, there it is,” she said, pointing to a faded wooden sign on the side of the highway. “It says ‘Harmony Acres, next right.’”

  “Good work, Mom,” I said.

  “I’d be more comfortable if it were a big sign with blinking lights that said ‘this way to the city,’” my dad said.

  “Now, Stan.” My mom was using her extra-calm voice, the one she uses when I’ve forgotten my lunch for the third day in a row. “We’re in nature. They don’t want to clutter up the view with flashy signs.”

  “What view?” my dad said. “All I see is trees and sky.”

  “That’s the point, Dad,” Emily said. “We’re out here exploring nature.”

 
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s just us and the bears.”

  “Bears? What bears?” my dad asked. We were heading down the highway ramp past the Harmony Acres sign. The car came to a sudden stop.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Z.,” Frankie piped up. “I read that if we keep our food tied up in a tree, the bears won’t come into camp.”

  “Oh, look,” my dad said, pointing to a few buildings out the window.

  “How sweet,” my mom said. “It’s a cute little general store.”

  “I’m not looking at the store,” my dad said. “I’m looking at what’s connected to it. The Half Moon Motel. We could pull right in. Set up our tent in the middle of the room. I bet it’s got cable TV and no bears.”

  “But, Dad,” I said, “I’m not supposed to write a poem about the inside of a motel room. My poem is about what it’s like to be outside.”

  “Come on, Stan,” my mom said. “Nothing bad is going to happen to us. We’re going to make a family memory.”

  For the twentieth time that morning, my dad sighed. I couldn’t believe he had that much air in him.

  He turned right onto a dirt road. It seemed like we were on that road forever. We passed some farms with real live cows munching on grass.

  “Okay, everybody,” my dad called out. “Roll up the windows, unless you enjoy the smell of cow poop, which I don’t.”

  For the first time that morning, I totally agreed with him. The cow-poop smell was hanging around the inside of my nose like stinky cheese.

  After we passed the farms, we headed up a hill with trees on both sides of the road. Some of the trees had white bark, and others looked like Christmas trees.

  “Maybe I’ll write a poem about a tree,” I said. I opened my mouth and this flew out:

  “I see you, you big round tree.

  I see you’re much, much taller than me.

  “Hey, I did it!” I shouted. “It rhymes and everything. Did I just do my homework?”

  “You sure did, Hank,” my dad said. “This was certainly a great idea coming out here to nature. Now let’s go home.”