Summer Island - A Prince in Peril

1 - The Invitation

Greta hated summer vacation with all her heart. She knew this wasn't normal. She knew every other kid she'd ever met loved summer vacation. They couldn't wait until that bell rang and they were free for ten whole weeks. Well, they don't have to spend the summer at Poor Camp, thought Greta. That is really what she hated: Poor Camp. The concrete, the hoop without a net, the snacks made with government cheese and stale crackers. It would be her sixth year and she just couldn't bear it. No, she thought, that isn't the right word. I am dreading it. I am filled with morbid consternation. I am morose. As Greta started to think of even more words to perfectly match her feelings, she was reminded of what it was that made Poor Camp so deplorable. Sure the concrete was bad, the kids were exceedingly big-and mean-but she could have survived it if she had been able to go unnoticed.

You wouldn't think to look at her that anyone would notice Greta. She was small for her age and very thin. She was black, but so were most of the kids at her school. And all the girls wore the same dreary, blue uniform. No, Greta wouldn't stand out one bit, if she didn't know quite so many words. Expansive. That is what Principal Jones called it.

"You have an expansive vocabulary, Greta. You should be very proud. It is good for a girl your age to excel at something all her own."

Greta could not care less about excelling. In fact, if she had her choice, she would prefer not to excel. Then she wouldn't be noticed. She didn't like people looking at her, thinking about her, making assumptions, thinking they knew her, knew her family, knew everything about her. It was presumptuous. What Greta did care about, had always cared about for as long as she could remember, was rightness. The perfect fit. The "click" she felt in her gut when she found just the right word to express a situation or person or feeling. She loved it. It was like solving a puzzle and it made her so happy that she couldn't help smiling at the beauty of it. Of course, that didn't help at all.

"What're you smilin' at?" one of the biggest girls from Poor Camp had asked her last year. "You think you're so smart, 'cuz you know all those fancy words, huh?"

"No," Greta had said softly.

"Yes, you do. You think you're smarter than me. You probably think you're smarter than every kid here, don't you?" the girl had demanded as she started to shove her.

Greta had looked around, hoping to find a counselor. She saw a sea of children but no adult in sight. They were probably smoking cigarettes in the break room, she had thought.

Greta shuddered with the memory. She looked at the clock. Eleven minutes left. Eleven minutes of school, of structure, of reliability, of all the things Greta treasured. But she wouldn't have them for long. In just a few minutes, now only eight, she would be immersed in the frenzied chaos of hot concrete, terrifying children and horrible food. Greta was miserable.

A rustling of feet brought her mind back from her daydream. The bell had rung and kids all around her were racing to get out of the classroom. They were laughing and talking and pushing. They seemed so thrilled. Greta didn't know what their summer plans were, but she was almost certain that none of her happy, carefree classmates would be joining her at Poor Camp.

Greta grabbed her book bag and slowly walked through the door and out into the hallway. As she made her way to the bus, all she heard were pieces of excited conversations. Plans for family vacations: horseback riding, swimming, hiking, sailing and camping. Each adventure sounded even better than the one before and just made her more melancholy. If these kids were riding horses, she'd be riding one of the four bikes at Poor Camp without a flat tire. They'd be swimming in lakes and she'd be swimming in her own sweat!

By the time Greta got off the bus, she could not have been in a worse mood. She walked the two and a half blocks down Carver Avenue until she reached The Ocean Vista Apartments. That's a joke, Greta thought to herself. I've lived here my whole life and I haven't seen one single drop of an ocean. She climbed the stairs to the third floor and opened the door of number 317, the apartment she shared with her mother.