My face breaks into a grin, not because of the reading, but because I’m thinking of Mr. Bob down at our cabin. He sees the blinds absolutely straight, all pulled to exactly the same height, with each cord coiled around a nail. That’s another one of Margie’s ideas; it will make him crazy. If Sara will just get going with our skit for Talent Night, we’re sure to win the inter-cabin competition. If she’ll just stop talking long enough, I’ll ask her about it.

She takes the letter all the way to its crotchety conclusion. “Our generation knows what it’s like to work for a living. It’s time for them to find out.” I laugh, but I also wonder if I would have found the article so stupid if I had been reading it myself. My dad often expresses similar views.

Over Sara’s shoulder I look at the comics. “Sa-ra, when are you going to write the skit for Ta—”

I hear some sort of commotion down toward the lake. I can’t make it out. It’s a voice, possibly angry. Now, I hear it, clearly—a howl of rage.

“Noooooo,” it bellows. “No. No. No. No.” It gets louder. Now it’s unmistakable: it’s the aussie. Robert. We listen. I think I hear Norm calls of alarm, but they’re just background noise, static, overpowered by the roar of Robert’s rage.

Now the voice is making words. Human words. Words that strike the lake’s smooth surface and resound in bell-like clarity over the whole camp:

“I AIN’T GONNA RIDE IN NO FUCKING CANOE!”

With a crackle, the newspaper page Sara was turning falls to our feet. Our heads turn toward the voice.

“Right on, Robert!” Sara yells loud enough to be heard all the way down there. At the same instant, I send forth a wordless animal sound, half squeal, half roar—most definitely a cheer.

Other voices join ours. From the boys’ cabins overlooking the lake. From the dock. From the path up the hill to the lodge. On the way to the stable. Pandemonium. The chorus swells like ocean waves and merges with what’s left of Robert’s roar.

Sue rushes out of the lodge. “Be quiet, girls. We don’t want to reinforce Robert’s inappropriate language.”

“Inappropriate?” Sara sputters. “Surely Robert’s language is very appropriate. In fact, it’s the only appropriate language I’ve heard from him in eight years.”

“Don’t be so smart.”

“But isn’t it great? He knows they’re trying to put him in a canoe. He knows he doesn’t want to get in. And he’s figured out how to say it. Loud and clear.”

“Yeah.” My voice is squeaky. I’m flushed. Sue ignores me and looks at Sara with a face that says “there she goes again.”

“He’s like us,” I say.