Ten by Lauren Myracle Page A

asked.
    I furrowed my brow. “Who? Connor? ”
    â€œYeah,” the Polka Dot from my fire-making group said. “Do you think he’s cute?”
    Well, huh . I guess I did, but I saw no reason to share this with the Dots. “He’s okay.”
    â€œBut do you like him?” the Garden Hills Dot pressed. “Like, like him like him?”
    â€œWe’re just friends,” I said, because I hadn’t reached the boy-crazy stage yet. I knew girls who had—for example, the Polka Dots with their Starbucks crush—but not me.
    The Dots looked disappointed.
    The shortest Dot stepped closer and said, “Well, we think his friend is totally crush-worthy.” She used her chin to indicate a boy wearing a Braves ball cap. “Don’t you?”
    I glanced at the boy she meant. I hadn’t said a word to him the whole week—well, other than thanks when he handed me a crayon I needed. We’d been doing leaf rubbings. He had the burnt sienna, which had always been one of my favorite crayons.
    â€œIsn’t he adorable?” Short Dot said.
    â€œ So adorable,” Fire-Making Dot said.
    â€œWe call him Mars Bar,” the roundest of the Dots said, making all the Dots giggle.
    â€œMars Bar?” I said. “Why?”
    â€œBecause we aren’t sure what his real name is,” Short Dot explained.
    â€œAhhh,” I said. “But why Mars Bar?”
    â€œBecause Mars Bars are yummy,” Garden Hills Dot said, which led to more giggling. “And because his name is something like that.”
    â€œSomething like Mars Bar ?” What name sounded something like Mars Bar?!
    â€œNot the whole Mars Bar,” Short Dot said. “Just the Mars part.”
    Round Dot nodded. “Yeah. It’s like Nars , or Sarge , or something.”
    â€œMaybe it’s Plars,” Fire-Making Dot said.
    Plars , I thought, my lips twitching. Maybe the Dots weren’t as bad as I’d thought.
    â€œOr Jarz,” I suggested. “With a z .”
    â€œWell, of course with a z ,” Fire-Making Dot said. “What other way is there?”
    â€œGirls!” Lily called. “More trash collecting, less gabbing!”
    â€œComing!” I called back. Again I started off, and again Garden Hills Dot stopped me.
    â€œIf you find out his name, will you tell us?” she asked.
    I grinned at them. “Sure.”
    Â 
    Connor and I had a blast picking up litter. We made up a game we called Gator Grab, which involved grabbing aluminum cans and using our Trash Gators to try and toss them into the park’s recycling bins. It would have been easier to walk over and drop the cans into the bins, but it was more fun to try to lob them in from several yards away.
    It took finesse, it took precision, and it took excellent timing, skills that neither Connor nor I possessed. One of Connor’s cans flew so high that I cried out, “Aaah! You’re going to hit a little birdie! Fly, little birdie! Fly for your life!” Another time, I released the handle grip too late, and the Coke can went sailing behind me and clonked our counselor Jake on the head.
    I cringed. “Sorry!”
    Jake rubbed his head. Connor cracked up. I did, too, once Jake wasn’t looking.
    As for Mars Bar, I did make a stab at finding out his name. I didn’t want to ask Connor, because that would have been weird, and what if Connor thought I had a crush on him? Which I didn’t, of course, but the thing about crushes was that once somebody— any body—mentioned them, the whole subject became . . . like . . . explosive.
    I didn’t want Mars Bar or Connor exploding on me, so I played it cool. I strolled toward Mars Bar with the thought of saying, “Hey, I’m Winnie. It’s the last day of camp, and I still don’t know what your name is. Isn’t that weird?”
    But I totally blew it. I said, “Hey, I’m—” And then I