Gifted by Beth Evangelista Page A

ascend to pinpoint my location besides the important sand dune system. Navigating by the stars was out, since it was just past midmorning, and in spite of my earlier confidence when I’d told Mr. Z that I knew where I was going, I wished to amend that now and just say I had roughly an approximate idea and that I would probably know the parking lot when I saw it. I cast my mind back to our arrival and could remember nothing except that I’d kept a close and suspicious eye on the Bruise Brothers the whole time and that we’d followed a woodland path of a rustic description. Now I saw that there were several paths of this kind, and they all branched off of the one I was on.
    I was debating whether to just pick one or give it up and head back to camp for a compass when I heard a series of twigs snap and the distinct murmur of adolescent voices. I peered into the trees. The twig-snappers turned out to be a group of students, and they looked like they were either collecting samples of plant life or trying to catch poison ivy.
    I set the wheelbarrow down and slipped on my black aviator jacket. With my arms sufficiently covered and my legs protected by my sturdy mauve corduroys, I stepped off the trail and set a course through the undergrowth, feeling certain their team leader would be able to point me to the parking lot.
    The forest emitted a sweet smell of decay that made my nose run, so I breathed through my mouth, keeping my teeth jammed tightly together so as not to inhale a gnat or something. I passed scattered students along the way, and while nobody said anything to me, I received a goodly number of admiring looks. Mr. Zimmerman had been the least popular teacher in recorded history, and those looks said to me, “George, you rock!” I was an overnight success.
    In the near distance stood Mr. Meltz, my Social Studies teacher, talking to assorted kids. To his left I saw an area where the forest petered out, giving way to dune grass rippling in the breeze.
    Two thoughts occurred to me at once. If I approached Mr. Meltz for directions to the parking lot, I would receive its coordinates in approximate degrees of longitude and latitude, owing to the fact that Mr. Meltz couldn’t answer a question simply. Mainly because he didn’t know anything useful. But if I headed left, I might be looking at the very sand dune that housed the bunker of my fantasies.
    I decided on the detour and proceeded in that direction, but not without first grabbing a stout walking stick in case I should lose my footing. I strolled straight past the Keep Off Dune Grass sign, bounded down to the beach below,
and there it was
. The concrete face of the bunker, complete with a sturdy-looking steel door. At the top of the door was a small window opening, and atthe bottom, reclining against it, were Sam and Jason. They scrambled to Their feet when They saw me, and Jason dropped a glowing ember to the sand, crushing it with his heel.
    â€œOh!” he said. “It’s just the Worm. Why are you here?”
    I thought quickly. “Mr. Zimmerman sent me to find a hammer. He said there were lots of tools in there.” I pointed at the bunker.
    Sam moved to the door and got up on his toes to peer through the opening.
    â€œHe’s crazy. There’s nothing in there but a bunch of old junk. See for yourself.”
    I joined him, standing up the same way, but I would have needed foot-long toes to get me up that high.
    â€œSlide over,” Sam told me, yanking on the metal handle. He pried the heavy door open a couple of inches, then kept pulling with all his might until it opened all the way.
    â€œSee? Nothing but junk.”
    He was right. Dusty boxes and miscellaneous debris were everywhere. It wasn’t at all how I’d pictured it. I wanted ancient weapons of mass destruction swarming with spiders and rats and hermit crabs, but it looked just like somebody’s basement. It had that moldy basement fragrance,