DINOSAUR BONES

The expedition was going exactly as we planned. A hundred miles into the
woods — (okay, a quarter of a mile from my house…use your imagination)
— we set up base camp. It was still a good hour before dark, so Jory
started rummaging through his supply pack for the tools.

It wasn’t our first dig. We were professionals. But this time, we were
going for the big bones.

He took out a long leather case from his pack, unrolled it and spread it
on the ground outside of the tent.

Neither one of us cared that the leather case was really one of my mom’s
dish towels — the gross green one with the dancing cats — and the
digging tools were a few various spoons from her silverware drawer. When
you’ve got the museum back in London crawling up your ass for a major
archeological discovery, you don’t have time to let the kitchen sneak in.

My name’s Kane. I’m 12. Jory is Jory. He’s 12, too. We live in Rhode
Island, so if you’re trying to find us on your map, lean in close and keep
your glasses on.

We live in the same town, go to the same school, do the same things, like
the same people. It’s a pretty easy life. No complaints.

My name is really spelled “Kayne,” but I took the “Y” out two years ago
because it looked dumb. My mom still shits her pants about it and yells
at me to put it back in. No way. It’s gone. With the “Y” in there,
people kept calling me “Kay-nee.” Even teachers. How they mess that one
up, I’ll never know. Dyslexia, I guess.

Jory’s real name is “Jordan.” He doesn’t like it. “Much too basketball,”
he told me. We both agree that sports basically suck. You sweat too
much, your legs hurt, and you have to wear a jock. Not exactly a picnic.

So, even though he’s a Jordan, he leaves the “D” out. If a kid’s name is
Jordan, you’d pretty-much expect people to call him “Jordy.” But he hates
that. I guess he got the hots over my missing “Y,” so he took out his “D”
to keep up. Competition is fierce with nickname letters.

The reason we started hanging out together is…we both have stupid names.
I mean, face it. When you’re walking around with a Kayne and you bump
into a Jordan, you’re pretty-much destined to be a match. It’s like, one
step up from being a Floyd and a Walter. You run for cover and hope nobody
notices.

“Any sign of limestone deposits?” Jory asked. He squinted into the
setting sun and scanned the terrain with a fake telescope.

“Down a little farther,” I pointed. “They should be right over there, if
the map is right.”

I unfolded the map from my pack and laid it out in front of me, just to
make sure. Yep. It looked promising. (Okay, so it was really a Warwick
city map I ripped out of the downstairs phone book, but let’s not get
technical.)

“Better get going,” he said, wrapping up the tools. “Sun’s going down.”

Spoons clinked. Dancing cats disappeared face down, thank God.

We hiked up the path away from our base camp. We’d been at this dig site
before, with no major results. A few pterodactyl skulls. A frozen
Neanderthal. The usual.

“The problem with dinosaur bones,” Jory began in his English
archeologist’s accent (which truly sucked), “is the depth in which they
lay.”

“Here, here, Old Chap,” I replied quickly.