Ten by Lauren Myracle

said he was an animal rights activist, which I didn’t know kids could be.
    â€œSure they can,” he said. “It just means you care about animals and don’t think people should do cruel experiments on them.”
    â€œOh. Then I’m an animal activist, too.”
    â€œCool,” he said, holding out his fist. I touched my knuckles to his and giggled.
    â€œDo you have any pets?” I asked.
    â€œA dog,” he said. “She only has three legs, because before we got her, someone tied a lit firecracker to her tail.”
    â€œAnd it blew off her leg ?”
    â€œShe’s fine, though. She can still run around and play fetch and stuff.”
    â€œWhat’s her name?” I asked.
    â€œLucky,” he said.
    I laughed without thinking. Then I clapped my hand over my mouth. “Omigosh. Omigosh , I’m so sorry.”
    â€œNo, it’s okay. She didn’t die, so she is lucky.”
    â€œPlus she gets to live with you, so there’s one more reason.”
    He smiled and kicked the dirt trail.
    Ahead of us, the Polka Dots launched into a Rockettes routine. Earlier in the week I might have thought something like, Ugh, really? A high-kicking routine at Wildnerness Survival Camp? Why, in case a bear comes along and you need to kick it in the nose?
    But they looked like they were enjoying themselves, so I didn’t.
    If a bear did amble out of the woods, however, I would not leave my life in the hands—or high-kicking feet—of the Polka Dots. Nope, I’d climb a tree and yell for Connor to follow me. We’d pelt the bear with pinecones, and if that didn’t work, we’d both be interrupting cows and moo as loudly as we could, until the bear fainted dead away out of pure confusion.
    Imagining the two of us mooing from up in a tree made me giggle.
    â€œWhat?” Connor said.
    â€œNothing,” I said. “But I do have a joke for you. Wanna hear it?”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œKnock, knock,” I said.
    â€œWho’s there?”
    â€œInterrupting cow.”
    â€œInterrupting cow—”
    I interrupted him, of course. “MOOOOO!”
    Â 
    On Thursday, we went canoeing in the Chattahoochee River, and Connor and I shared a canoe. He kept splashing me, so I splashed him back, and we both ended up drenched.
    On Friday, we did a community service project, which was to clean up trash from a nearby public park.
    The Polka Dots didn’t like this, and they turned into Grumpy Dots.
    â€œWe shouldn’t have to pay to do chores,” complained the girl I might or might not have seen at Garden Hills Pool. “Especially on our last day of camp.”
    â€œYeah,” the others chorused.
    I felt sad for a second, thinking about how it really was the last day. Once camp was over, I’d never see Connor again—not unless we ended up going to the same college, or if we randomly ran into each other at Baskin-Robbins, say.
    Then I shook that gloomy thought away. The fact that it was our last day meant we should enjoy it, not be gloomy or grumpy about it.
    â€œCome on, you guys,” I said to the Polka Dots. “It won’t be that bad. Plus, we’ll be doing something good for the earth.”
    â€œWh-hoo,” the shortest Polka Dot said sourly.
    â€œWell, I think it’ll be fun,” I said, and I wasn’t just saying it. I was excited because we’d been given special tools to use called Trash Gators. They were long poles with a handle at one end and a snapping mouth at the other end. If you squeezed the handle, the mouth would clamp down on whatever you wanted to pick up: beer cans, potato-chip bags, anything!
    I headed off toward Connor, squeezing the handle of my Trash Gator experimentally.
    The Garden Hills Polka Dot grabbed my arm and said, “Wait a sec. We have a question for you.”
    I turned back. All four Polka Dots gathered close.
    â€œDo you like that boy?” one of them