Boys, Bears, and A Serious Pair of Hiking Boots

by Abby McDonald

  “Right, that.” He nods slowly. “It was cool.”

  More silence.

  I roll over onto my stomach and begin to play with the pebbles scattered on the thin grass. I’m beginning to notice the differences between the guys now. Grady is abrupt and always restless: he would have left by now or still be out in the water. Reeve is sitting almost perfectly still, but instead of the relaxed vibe Ethan always gives off — like he could care less about anything going on — Reeve seems like he’s holding back all this energy.

  I don’t know what he’s waiting for. Maybe he’s just hanging around to be polite, like me, but the silence drags on even longer this time, until I’m tempted to run back into the freezing lake to get away from this awkwardness. Instead, I rummage through my bag for a granola bar and find that nature manual I picked up by accident. The Modern Mountain Man’s Survival Guide.

  The pages are old and yellowed in places, with dark rings from someone’s coffee mug, but I flick through, curious. It reads like any other manual, with tips for building shelter and tracking animals and other things I hope I’ll never have to try, but the author’s crotchety style sucks me in. Jeremiah B. Coombes, it says on the back cover, under another photo of him — this time, brandishing a hunting knife. I can just imagine what he’s like now, old and grumpy, banging on a nearby surface with his cane as he lectures his unfortunate grandkids about the importance of a good hatchet.

  I flip the page.

  Stay away from a creature’s home turf. Whether it’s a cave, nest, or plain ol’ hole in the ground, that place means everything to an animal, and it’ll fight tooth ’n’ nail to keep you away. Track it away from the habitat and take the upper hand on unfamiliar ground.

  That sounds about right. I remember Fiona’s outrage that Susie would even think about redecorating her gloomy pit of a bedroom. Her reaction seemed over the top, but according to Jeremiah here, it was just a primal instinct to protect her habitat. Fiona and the black bear: just a species or so apart.

  I read on, amused.

  People spend their lives trying to cut a path through the wilderness, and all they get is a sore arm and a blunt blade. The trick is to follow the trail already laid in the woods. Nature ain’t ever going to change for you — you’ve got to make your plans around what you can’t control. It’s raining, so are you going to stand there cursing the clouds or get on out of the storm?

  Get out of the storm, obviously, unless you want to get struck by lightning. I shoot a sidelong glance at Reeve. He’s looking more relaxed now, propped up on his elbows, his eyes closed as he tilts his face up to the sun. I wonder what Olivia would say to this situation. I can almost hear her now, urging me to flirt and crack jokes, or whatever it is girls do around cute boys. Then again, she hasn’t had the pleasure of being drenched, ditched, and dismissed by the aforementioned cute boys. . . .

  A breeze kicks up suddenly, scattering some of my papers from their folder. Reeve reaches them before me.

  “‘Green Teen target list,’” he reads, holding the page out. A smile slowly curls on his lips. “Wow, you really are serious about this environment stuff.”

  “So what?” I snatch it back.

  Reeve lifts his eyebrows. “Nothing . . . It’s just, you’re on vacation.” He regards me with amusement, like he’s caught me with a stack of textbooks. “It’s kind of weird to be working like that when there’s no extra credit or anything. Don’t you have other stuff to do — fun stuff?”

  “Maybe I enjoy this,” I reply lightly, refusing to rise to the bait. “Saving the planet seems like a good use of my time, I figure.” Reeve studies me for a second, his expression unreadable.

  “Is that what you think you’re doing?” His tone has changed; it’s got that edge to it again. “So what are your plans for Stillwater, huh? Going to swoop in and save us from using plastic bags, or something?”

  I push my sunglasses up and look at him, puzzled. “You don’t have to make it sound like that. Small things matter, OK? Maybe not on their own, but if people change how they think, and start paying attention —”

  He cuts me off with a look. “You really figure you know best, don’t you?”

  “I’m just trying to do something good in the world,” I protest. I’m used to people disagreeing with me, but I wouldn’t have expected it from someone like Reeve, who goes hurling himself down rivers every weekend.

  “Good?” He repeats the word slowly, his voice tight. “Sure. Because places getting shut down, people losing their jobs — it’s all just great if it’s helping the environment.”

  “I don’t know what —” I blink, but then it dawns on me, what Ethan said in the store. I swallow.

  “Is this about the mill?” I ask, hesitant. He shrugs, as if it’s no big deal, but I can tell from the flicker of his jaw that I’m onto something. “It closed, right?” I ask, watching him. “What happened?”

  “What do you think?” He’s back to acting calm again, sitting there plucking grass out of the ground, one blade after another. “Your people got new codes passed, protecting all of this”— he nods out at the valley —“and they shut it down.”

  “Oh.” I’m not sure what to say. I can’t believe he’d prefer that this gorgeous landscape be destroyed, but then I think of Main Street, with the boarded-up storefronts and the emptiness around town. “I’m, ummm, sorry.”

  “For what?” He looks at me, blue eyes almost sad. “It’s done. And I’m guessing if it were up to you, you’d make the same call.”

  I don’t answer that.

  Reeve gets to his feet, brushing dust off his legs.

  “You don’t have to go.” I look up at him, feeling strangely guilty. “I mean —”

  “I’ve got work to do.” He shrugs. “Real work, I mean.” He shoots a pointed look at my Green Teen binder, then pulls on his sneakers, slings his towel over his shoulder, and walks away.

  When he’s disappeared into the forest, I flop down again, unsettled. It’s terrible how the mill closing affected everyone in town, but what am I supposed to say: that we should just let logging companies raze the wilderness to the ground? I take a gulp of water from my bottle — now lukewarm — and try to shake off my unease. He’s wrong about the Green Teens. What we do matters.

  Lying down, I let my arms fall wide onto the grass. It was back in freshman year when I first joined the group; friends from junior high had all scattered or thrown themselves into the sprawling new school with teams and clubs, but I just . . . drifted. I still can’t pin it down exactly. It wasn’t like I was bullied or excluded on purpose, but I was lost in a way I’d never felt before: unfamiliar faces rushing everywhere, hallways filled with kids who seemed so certain of their place in the world. I hovered on the edge of my old crowd and ate lunch at a table of strangers, alone. Some days, I could go from the school bus to classes to home again, barely even speaking a word to anyone but my teachers.

  Even thinking of it now, the loneliness is something I can taste.

  I tried to join in, of course. I tried out for field hockey and volunteered to build sets for the theater club, but I never really fit. I always felt like an intruder, laughing along at in-jokes I didn’t understand and trailing after the real members like some pathetic puppy. And then I showed up at a Green Teen meeting one week, after I read their leaflet on global warming and student activism. It was a skeleton crew: barely six members sitting amid the debris of one of the art classrooms, and I lingered, unsure, in the doorway. But the leader, Miles, looked so happy to see a new recruit, he just beamed and swept me into the room.

  “We’re saved!” he declared, depositing me at a table where another small, nervous-looking girl was painting a banner. “You can be in charge of posters.”

  That afternoon was the first time I felt like I belonged in that school, painting away with Olivia to the sound of unfamiliar indie music and the older kids’ chatter. Only this time, I knew what they were talking about: conservation, clean-up programs, community
outreach. I agreed with them; I could make a contribution.

  I fit.

  And now I’m on my own again. With a sigh, I turn back to Jeremiah B. Coombes and all his dog-eared survival tricks. Who knows? Maybe he can teach me something about handling three suspicious local boys and a resentful goth girl!

  A hatchet and a good pair of boots — that’s all you really need in the world.

  —“Outfitting for Survival,”

  The Modern Mountain Man’s Survival Guide

  “You should probably gas up before you hit the highway.” Adam circles the beat-up station wagon for a final check. It’s early(ish) morning, and I’m getting ready to head out on my first Canadian road trip. “I’ve put some bottled water in the back in case the radiator overheats again.”

  “Dad.” Fiona sighs, snatching the keys. “I’ve driven down there before — alone,” she adds, shooting me a look that makes it clear she’d rather be solo this time, too.

  I don’t mind.

  After ten days, I’m getting immune to her drama-queen bitching. I don’t know if it was the endless glaring or the five hundredth tormented sigh, but I’ve finally figured out that nothing I do or say will make Fiona like me — so I shouldn’t even try. Instead, I’ve got a new plan.

  The more I read through Jeremiah’s grumpy advice about huntin’, shootin’, and fishin’, the more I realized that maybe I don’t have to be out in the wilderness to put his know-how to good use. If that section about animals and their habitats applies to Fiona just as well as a grizzly bear, then I’m betting the rest of it can be applied just as, umm, imaginatively. So, I’m going to do what Jerry (as I like to think of him) would demand and make sure I’m equipped for action. His version means scary hunting knives, plastic sheeting, and thermal underwear, but I get the idea. It’s no use trying to bond with the Stillwater boys over all their adventure activities when I’m trailing along in my flip-flops: I need a serious pair of those clumpy, waterproof hiking boots.

  “Here, Jenna, snacks for the road.” Susie hands me a Tupperware container of sensible-looking carrot muffins. She’s been beaming ear-to-ear ever since I suggested Fiona and I go into the city, and for some reason, I don’t think it’s because she’s happy to get her out of the house. Susie wants us to be BFFs.

  “We’ll be fine,” I reassure her, but she hugs me good-bye as if we’re about to embark on an epic voyage cross-country. Fiona is already in the driver’s seat, so I check my bag for essentials — iPod jack, earplugs, the wilderness manual — and climb into the car. I barely have time to slam my door and promise to call Susie at every major arrival/departure before Fiona guns the engine, leaving a cloud of dust in our wake.

  “We should stop at the gas station, like your dad said,” I suggest, shoveling tools and old candy wrappers into the backseat. “Pick up some more snacks. I’m going to need a ton of caffeine for my driving shifts.”

  “Who said you were driving?”

  “What?” I laugh. “Come on, Fiona, it’s like two hours each way!”

  But evidently Fiona’s a seasoned road hog, because she ignores me — driving the winding back road like it’s a NASCAR track and pulling up by the gas pumps with a lurch. Never mind splitting driving duties out of fairness and equality; I’m going to need to take the wheel just to avoid whiplash.

  “You can fill it up,” she offers generously, handing me the credit card. “And get Doritos, the cheesy ones.”

  “Sure thing.” I leap down and head into the air-conditioned building, making sure to pick up her junk food of choice before browsing the sodas. As my new guru says, when you find yourself stranded in a storm, it’s best to take shelter and wait it out rather than make things worse by fighting it. Fiona is nothing if not a force of nature.

  I’ve got an armful of Diet Cokes, Red Bulls, and Snapple when I bump into somebody by the register. “Sorry,” I say, but since I’m hanging onto the bag of chips with my teeth, it comes out more as a mangled noise.

  “Hey, no problem.” The person laughs, helping me unload everything onto the counter until I can actually see who it is.

  “Oh, hi, Ethan.” My greeting comes out more hesitant than happy. I haven’t seen him since that kayak disaster, so I brace myself for a crack about my fear of the dark/terrible balance/girly weakness, but he just nods at my haul of junk food.

  “Hungry?” His sports sunglasses are propped on the top of his head, pushing his dark fringe back up into messy spikes, and he’s wearing a navy T-shirt with a small rip in the shoulder.

  I smile, relieved. He’s talking to me! “No, these are just supplies for the road — Fiona and I are driving down to the city.”

  “Good luck.” He casually tosses a bag of chips from one hand to the other. “Last time I caught a ride with her, I managed about twenty minutes of that music, then I got out and walked. It was like, three miles.”

  I laugh. “I hid all her CDs during breakfast,” I confide, “so it’ll be my iPod or the radio.”

  “Nice move!” He pauses, looking around the empty store before turning back to me. “So . . . have you got room for one more?” Ethan’s expression becomes hopeful. “I need to pick up some stuff. It’s been ages since I made the trip.”

  “Umm, sure.” I blink. “But we’re heading out right now . . .”

  “Give me two minutes?” I nod slowly. “Cool, I’ll be right out.” He abandons the chips and takes off, sprinting out of the building and disappearing across the street. I watch him go, wondering why he’d want to come along for —

  “You getting those?” The gravelly voice of the old store clerk brings me back; she’s already bagging my snacks.

  “Oh, sorry.” I pay quickly and walk back to the car, where Fiona is (surprise, surprise) waiting with a scowl, scuffing her Doc Martens in the dirt.

  “Took you long enough.” Today, she seems to be making a bold new fashion statement, ditching the black and adding a green T-shirt to her usual dark jeans, with a baggy dirt-colored cardigan that looks like something a grandfather would wear. A color-blind grandfather.

  “Here, Doritos.” I toss her the bag. “And you’ll have to wait some more. Ethan is coming, too.”

  “Great.”

  “I think so.” I ignore her sarcasm. I’m still not sure why Ethan wants to spend hours locked up with us but it’s something: a chance for me to try to get to know him away from the other guys.

  Plus, he’s another vote against Fiona should she manage to find a stray copy of Misery Anthems, Volume 5 somewhere in the glove compartment. . . .

  “I don’t know — ever since he went solo, I haven’t liked the music so much.”

  “Come on — it’s way better than the Alarm stuff!”

  “Yes, but he’s such a skeeze — hitting on that girl from 5th Avenue? I mean, she’s fifteen!”

  “Lucky guy.”

  “You would say that!”

  “God, would you both just SHUT UP!” Fiona yells, sitting up from the backseat where she’s been sprawled, ignoring us, for the last hundred miles. “I don’t care about some washed-up rock star and those stupid reality-TV bimbos!”

  I shoot Ethan a look. He’s trying not to laugh.

  “Relax.” I glance in the rearview mirror. She’s slumped back down, eyes closed in despair. “We’re nearly there.”

  “Thank God.”

  I flip the radio to another station as the wide expanse of trees and mountains gives way to the strip-mall outskirts of the city. Fiona vetoed my iPod on principle, so we’ve been stuck with the best of the Canadian airwaves for the whole trip; in other words, country and butt rock. Ethan has been the only one happy, humming along with the manly relationship angst, while I grit my teeth and wonder how many times they can play Nickelback in a single hour.

  Answer? Too many.

  “What things do you need to get?” I ask him, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel as we begin to hit traffic. “Susie says there are a couple of malls, and then I thought I would wander dow
ntown for a while, but it really depends on what you want.” He doesn’t answer, so I continue. “Music? Clothes? Books?”

  Ethan looks embarrassed. “Uh, to be honest, I don’t really need to buy anything.”

  “You don’t?”

  He shrugs, draping his arm out the open window. “I just wanted to get out of town for a while. It can get kind of . . . claustrophobic.”

  “Right, I can imagine,” I agree. “Living in such a small town must be something else.”

  “I like it,” he answers quickly, glancing over. “Don’t get me wrong — I’m looking forward to college. I’m applying to UBC in Vancouver, and McGill out in Montreal — places with more than a thousand people. But for now, it’s kind of nice. I know everyone; we’ve all grown up together . . .” He gives an awkward smile. “Must sound dumb to you.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Well, you’re from a big city.”

  “Is that what you think: that I’m some fancy city chick?” I laugh. “I’ve spent my whole life in the suburbs. I mean, sure, I can get into the city for trips and stuff, and my development is a lot bigger than Stillwater, but it’s nothing great. Tracts and tracts of identical houses as far as you can see.”

  “Grass is greener, eh?”

  I smile. “Except in this case, the grass really is greener here. And the trees, and rivers —”

  “Pull in here to park.” Fiona interrupts imperiously. I grit my teeth but follow her instructions, circling the lot and managing a tight display of parking that has Ethan applauding by the time I’m done.

  “Thank you, thank you very much.” I bow.

  “Whatever.” Fiona climbs out, slamming the door. “Don’t even think about calling me before six.” She takes off in the general direction of the mall, almost getting hit by a reversing van; the driver sounds the horn and leans out of his window, yelling at her. She ignores him.