He laughs softly. “Yeah, I’m not real nostalgic for high school. Maybe in twenty years. I’ll take a trip to Nepal over sitting in those crappy chairs for six hours a day, anytime.” He sighs. “You have no idea how pumped I am to be out of that place.”
I snort. “It’s not exactly a vacation. You know we’ll be trying to stay alive in the death zone on Everest, right?”
His hands stop moving for a second, then start up again. “Yeah. I remember.”
I sigh. “But I guess it’s easy for you. You’re the toughest of us all. Who barely gets jet lag? Who’s the least sick from altitude? Who’s the only one who made it up Engelhorn without puking? Also, was that a boat?” I ask, trying to stay awake.
“Shhh, no. It was an owl. Go to sleep; I’ll keep drawing.” Tate’s fingers brush the skin of my neck for a minute, then they’re gone.
I’m so tired. “Are you sure? I can stay up.” My voice isn’t very convincing.
“Go to sleep. I got this,” Tate says, and I do.
Chapter Two:
Tate
(Five Months Earlier) December 19
Boorman Creek High School, California
7 feet above sea level
It’s entirely possible that the thing that will finally kill me won’t be trying to ollie a stupid-wide gap on my skateboard or cracking my skull falling at El Capitan but will be…Advanced Seminar Literature. I wasn’t going to take the class—I’m not an advanced kind of student, except for electives like Real-World Design Challenge—but my favorite teacher, Mr. Abrams, did that thing where he looked me in the eye and told me he reallyreallyreally thinks I can do it if I put my mind to it. He meant well, I’m sure, but now it’s halfway through first term of senior year and all I hear while he’s talking about persuasive arguments and fallacy of reason is the adult voices in the Charlie Brown specials: Waah-waah WAAH-waah, wah-wah. I have a feeling both Mr. Abrams and I are going to regret this by the time final grades are due.
I slide my sketchbook out from under my notebook and start to doodle. My brain’s in that place where a million thoughts collide and crash into each other: Are we finally heading back to Mount Rainier in a few weeks even though the temps are going to be ball-shrinkingly freezing? Is Rose wearing yet another new necklace, and if so, how many necklaces does one human need? Is there a material lightweight and strong enough to build retractable wings on a small airplane, since realistically I think that’s the only way we’re going to get flying cars in my lifetime? The only thing that shuts off my brain is letting my fingers fly over my sketchbook.
Rose, who sits beside me, slides her foot under my desk and stomps on my toes. “He’s telling us what will be on the midterm,” she whispers. “TAKE. NOTES.”
I sigh. Flip her the finger discreetly behind my sketchbook. Slide it back under my notebook and dutifully try to take notes.
The thing is, school’s easy for Rose. No. That’s not true. She works incredibly hard, unlike our friend Ronan, who does dick-all and still mostly gets As. No, working hard is really easy for Rose. And not just in school. In every part of her life. She has color-coded calendars and bullet journals and list-making apps and whatever else it takes to juggle a million things and make it look effortless.
With climbing, like everything else, Rosie’s a natural. That’s what Dad said the first time he took us to the rock gym when we were ten, and he repeats it—feels like every single time we’re out together. It’s true: she clings to the rock like she grew there, like she has magnets in her hands that move automatically to the strongest hold on the mountain. And unlike at school, I am too. The two of us were phenoms at the rock gym when we were little, and now I’ve got six feet, three inches of reach that make it almost easy to monkey up stuff other people can barely touch. And the gnarlier it is, the better…It sends my mind into hyperfocus so that there’s nothing to do or worry about except the next reach in front of me.
Somehow climbing went from one thing we do for fun—along with surfing (me), skateboarding (me), sketching (me), eating frightening amounts of fish tacos (me and Rose), buying necklaces (Rose), planning world domination via architecture (Rose)—to…everything. Every weekend filled with overnight, extreme-condition climbs in the Sierras or the Rockies. Every summer paycheck put into an account for climbing expenses. Every vacation’s air miles cashed in for tickets to climbing playgrounds in South America, Canada, Europe. Every conversation leading to speculation about how long it will be until the big one: Nepal. Mount Everest. I love it.
Closing my eyes for a second, I imagine me and Rose and Dad and Maya, Rose’s mom, on our way to Everest. Immediately my brain’s overloaded with a million different images, facts, thoughts—like a beehive exploded in there. It’s too much. Jimmy, the shrink I’ve seen since I was seven, would probably tell me to get a hold of my toolbox and figure out which tool was going to help me chill out. I’ve been trying to pull things out of that toolbox for ten years now. Sometimes it works, others not. But I get it now: I’m wired to be hyper.
We’ve been planning this trip for so long—longer than I have ever worked for anything in my life, by far. We were in fourth grade when I asked Rose and Maya and Dad if we could climb Mount Everest someday. I was hanging on an advanced route at Rockface, the gym where we started climbing, literally hanging in midair, because I could. Maya was belaying me, and Rose was on a route nearby, with Dad below. We both loved being roped in. When you’re belaying, you’re suspended by your climbing harness: even if you fall, you don’t go anywhere, at least as long as you trust the person holding the rope. It’s awesome knowing you can’t fuck up if you try.
I asked her the question only because hanging there I could see this huge poster-sized photo of the gym owner on Everest, and it looked incredible. And Rosie said sure, like I was asking if she wanted to go to Mount Tam again this weekend. But Maya looked up at us, then at Dad, and shrugged and said, “Really? Would you?”
And we both said yes, and I don’t know about Rose, but my heart was beating so fast, like someone was really asking me if I wanted to see dragons or travel to the moon. It seemed impossible, something that only climbing rock stars could ever consider, but that night over In-N-Out burgers, Maya pulled up some facts about Mount Everest, and the kind of climbers who did it, and said if we were serious, we could talk about planning for it.
I’ve never wanted anything so much in my life. School sucked, and fighting with my parents about school sucked worse, but when I was training to climb Mount Everest, I wasn’t a school fuckup, I was a climber, someone working toward one of the most elite and extreme adventures on the planet. The more people we told, the more it felt like we were nailing down a promise. It felt impossible but also inevitable, like I had to do it.
With Maya’s help there were bake sales every Thursday, with two hundred individually wrapped chocolate chip cookies and a cute handwritten sign saying Cookies for Climbing: Help Us Reach the Top of the World. And in fifth grade, a car wash every Saturday. And selling bags of popcorn every Friday lunch period in sixth. Maya was doing all the research, following each year’s climbing season the way some people follow their favorite football teams. But I was the one who couldn’t stop talking about it. And of course Dad was all in. He was climbing long before I came along. It was his idea to get me to Rockface in the first place. He said if I was going to climb the walls at home, I might as well learn how to do it right. But he was stoked that I love it so much and brags to all his friends about my climbing. It’s cool to have one thing in common.
The bell rings, and I stare down at my language arts notebook, where I have the word Everest written in blocky, jagged letters that get larger in the middle, then taper down again. If the mountain needed a logo, this would be cool. But I’m pretty sure it has all the name recognition it needs. Crumpling the paper with a satisfying noise, I rip it out of the notebook and arc it toward the recycle bin.
Rose raises an eyebrow. “Were those your notes?”
I shake my head. “It was nothing,” I say, not wanting to get into my poor note-taking skills. “Hey, we climbing today?” I try to keep my voice chill because Rose gets pissy when she thinks I’m nagging her. But the truth is that the trip of a lifetime is coming up in a few months, and I’m sorry, but her school yearbook/environmental club/unpaid internship/part-time job/AP course load all need to take a back seat. You can’t half-ass training for Mount Everest.
“No, I can’t.” Rose peers down into her bag as we walk out of the room, and I put a hand on her back to steer her away from the wall. Sometimes she takes multitasking to dangerous new levels. “My mom has a doctor’s appointment and needs a ride home after.”
We’re in the hallway now, pushing through the mob of people, and so many of them seem like babies. Was that really us, four years ago? I glance at Rose: climbing partner and best friend since the first-grade school bus. Four years ago she was five inches taller than me and had braces, but the summer after that year, all my guy friends started asking if they could climb with us sometime, and it wasn’t because they all suddenly developed an interest in alpine ascents. She had turned into what Ronan called a “totally naturally occurring homegrown babe,” which is, sure, maybe true but totally beside the point. We’ve both changed since first grade, but thank the god of whatever’s up there, our friendship’s stayed the same.
“Another one? Bummer,” I say, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice.
“Seriously. I don’t know what the doctors are even looking for. I keep telling her—she’s just getting old.”
I laugh. “Yeah. Right. Your mom’s like Wonder Woman…Thank God she’s almost fifty, or we’d get our asses kicked every time we climb.” It’s true. Maya’s literally a foot shorter than me, and thirty years older, but she’s a total badass. Still, she’s been achy and dizzy with some weird virus for ages, hence the endless doctor’s appointments.
“I’ll tell her you said so,” Rose says. “But tomorrow, though, yeah? We’ll go to Rockface?” She waves at a friend down the hall. “I’ll bring the Twizzlers.”
“Deal.” I wave her off, then head toward the door, wondering if anyone’s around to climb with me, not wanting to waste the day.
Chapter Three:
Rose
April 4
Kathmandu, Nepal
4,600 feet above sea level
“Watch out for the cow!”
It’s not the first time Tate has said this since we got in the van outside the airport. The airport was total chaos between the baffling language gap at customs and trying to find Paul, our climbing partner, who left a few weeks before us to visit India, and whose flight was an hour late. We finally cleared security after several people shouted at us in Nepali for being in the wrong line. When our guide met us outside, holding a sign with our names, I was ready to jump into his arms.
Finjo is young, probably barely thirty—a fact that’s a little alarming, given that he’s the one leading the Everest expedition. But his company, Mountain Adventure, is one of the only full-service Mount Everest climbing expeditions that is owned by Nepalis, not Westerners. They have a great safety record and cost less than the better-known American and Australian groups that promise everything from Ping-Pong tables to fresh seafood at Base Camp. For the next few months, he and his staff of guides, porters, cooks, medics, weather forecasters, and support workers are going to be dedicated to helping us get up the tallest mountain in the world.
Finjo is all bright eyes and sly smiles and bossiness. Bossy is fine with me right now. Anyone who can navigate this place is my favorite person in the world. He took one look at our luggage and started talking fast in Nepali to the driver, who quickly abandoned his attempt to cram it in the van and instead started lifting it on top. There was nothing up there but a shallow cage, and as we bump over every pothole and crack, I imagine our bags bouncing off the roof and being lost forever.
“Are you seeing this?” Tate asks. “That one was in the middle of the road. We nearly hit it.”
Paul grins. “ ‘A whole new woooooorld!’ ” he starts to sing. “ ‘Don’t you dare close your eyes!’ ‘A new fantastic point of view!’ ”
We all groan. Paul’s fondness for Disney movies is just one of those things, like the weird clicking Jordan does with his jaw, that we’ve learned to live with on our climbs. He insists that watching Disney movies at the hospital offers endless opportunities for psychological insights with his young patients, but I think he’s just a mega fan.
Cows are sacred in the Hindu religion. I knew this. But somehow I never really extrapolated that fact to the reality of dozens and dozens of skinny cows wandering through the snarled and smoggy traffic of downtown Kathmandu, ignored by everyone from the traffic cops to the speeding motorcycles. Also ignored: families, children, old people, beggars, and monks who dart through the traffic, somehow knowing when to avoid being hit.
My eyes burn and sting from sheer exhaustion, and maybe from the fact that everyone in the airport appeared to be chain-smoking fistfuls of cigarettes all at once. I’m not even sure what day it is. The sun is so bright, and the horns…Drivers honk like mad here. It is a concerto of beeps—loud, lively, and constant. It’s almost musical. I slouch against the van door, despite my fears that it will open up and dump me on the road.
“God, this is like some kind of amusement park ride in hell,” I mumble to Tate, trying not to crash my head on the ceiling when we hit a pothole. “Remind me why we wanted to leave California?” Through the blaze of noise, of pollution, of exhaustion, I remember. Mami. With a groan I pull out my phone. “Hang on. I’m going to get some video.” I turn it around so that it’s filming me and the passing scenery. “Heyyyy, Mami and Dad! As you can see, we are here and happily ensconced in the local scene! Don’t even worry about this van…While we don’t seem to have seat belts, I’m sure it’s totally roadworthy!” I turn it off, let the smile fall off my face, and wrap my arm through Tate’s. “Don’t let me fall out of this thing if the doors fall off,” I mutter and drop my head on his shoulder.
“Rose. ROSE. We’re here.”
For a moment I am lost, hot, nauseated, and unsure where I am or who is calling me. Then I open my eyes to see a palace. An enormous building, wedding cake white and trimmed with frosting-like curls and flowers, is in front of me, surrounded by fountains and lush flowering plants. Off to the right, turquoise pool water is glistening.
“What…?” I ask. “What happened to the—” I wave my hand to encompass everything: the noise, the dirt, the honking “—the cows?”
“This is the Hotel Shanker,” Finjo says, smiling. “You’re home. For now, anyway.”
“This place is seriously swank. And we look like something the cat dragged in,” Tate says, staring around. He turns to me and scrubs at his dark, shaggy hair, making it stand up like crazy. “Well, you look like something the cat dragged in. I look like something the cat dragged in, ate, then puked back up.”
“Nice,” I say, shooting him the finger and trying to smooth down my own hair, which has totally escaped its braids and is a mass of frizz and curl.
“It was a compliment. Kind of,” he says, leaning over to mess up my hair.
Jordan sighs.
The hotel guy starts talking about our rooms, and Jordan is asking about timing for our first team briefing, while Tate is interrupting to ask if he can go crash, but I tune them all out. Beyond the lush green of the hotel gardens are smoggy sky and decrepit buildings. But beyond that, in the distance, are mountains. Dimmed by smog and barely there, but snowcapped and enormous against the sky. The Himalayas.
It’s all starting. I try to imagine what it’s like up there, two weeks’ walking distance into the mountains, so far from home. Unbidden, my thoughts fly to Mami. She would love this. Love the roads with their chickens and c
ows and shrines, love the hotel with its wedding cake balconies, love the start of this adventure. My excitement dims, and the Dread shows up, strong enough that I must have made a noise because Tate glances over.
“You okay?” he asks, and I know he catches a whiff of it on my skin, fear so deep it feels bottomless.
I nod, take a deep breath, and reach for the excitement, fan it, coax it back into flames. I will love it enough for both of us. I will soak it all in and bring it home to her.
* * *
—
Noise and light and color. Kathmandu has a serious overabundance of all of them. And traffic. In addition to the cows. Walking through Thamel, the main tourist district, is like being in a developing country made up of mostly white hippies and climbers. Every storefront promises Everest View Trekking—Best Price or Mountain Panorama Helicopter Rides—Safety First or sells fake North Face down jackets for five dollars. People follow us down the block, holding out trekking poles, water bottles, Mountain Hardwear gloves.
Tate realizes he forgot his water bottle on the plane and asks if we can stop for one, which has Jordan huffing in annoyance about the amount of gear Tate loses. But Paul makes a joke about Tate and leaving a trail of water bottle bread crumbs to follow home, and we all laugh. I’m reminded again that I’m glad to have him here. We’ve known Paul for years, when some friend-of-a-friend introduced him to Jordan before a climbing trip. He’s younger than our parents and older than us, a peacemaker who always offers a welcome voice when we’re getting on each other’s nerves. But now, without Mami, I’m even more grateful he’s with us. He’s another grown-up for Jordan when Tate and I want to be by ourselves, another non-Russo for me when Tate and Jordan are squaring off. Maybe it’s because he’s a pediatric and adolescent psychiatrist, but he’s able to calm the Russo men down better than most. Listening to Tate and Jordan fight is not my favorite part of climbing.
Above All Else Page 2
