Boys, Bears, and A Serious Pair of Hiking Boots

by Abby McDonald

  “Come on.” She smirks. “You guys were all over each other the other day.”

  “Were not!”

  “I nearly barfed with all that flirting in the truck. And then the movie: ‘Oh Ethan, let’s see the action one,’” she mimics in a high voice. “‘No, Jenna, not if you want to see the comedy.’ Ugh.” She shudders.

  “So that’s it — I hang out with a boy for what, a few hours, and then everyone acts like we’re together?”

  She gives me a smug grin. “If you wanted to get away with being a slut, you shouldn’t have come to such a small town.”

  I storm away. It would be one thing if I had been flirting — if I’d even had a crush on Ethan for them to pick up on — or if I’d spent more than one lousy afternoon alone with him, but God! At this rate, we’ll be married by next week!

  “Jenna?” Adam catches me as I barrel out the front door. He’s working on the porch railing, and it seems like I never see him without that toolbox by his side. “Everything OK?”

  “It will be,” I snap, before catching myself. “Sorry, I’m just, kind of stressed.” I try to take a few deep breaths. Adam is looking at me with quiet concern.

  “Can I help at all?” He puts down the sandpaper, as if he wants to talk.

  I shake my head, already backing down the porch steps. “Thanks, but I’m fine. I just need to talk to Ethan, that’s all.”

  “Ethan, eh?” He scratches his beard. “I think he’s out by Barlson’s Creek.”

  I stop. “You mean he’s not in town?”

  He nods. “I ran into him about an hour ago — said he was going to get away and do some fishing. There are shallows about five miles out of town where the boys usually go; I’d say that was your best bet.”

  I pause. The chance to get Ethan alone is too good to pass up. “Is it easy to find?”

  Adam chuckles. “Let me draw you a map.”

  Armed with scribbled directions, the truck, and a pair of waders, I find Ethan up above town where the river bends away from the road. Curving between boulders and driftwood, the water runs in a broad, shallow flow. I scramble down the banks and call across to where he’s standing, knee-deep in the water.

  “Hey!”

  Ethan looks over and almost drops his fishing line. “Jenna? What are you doing here?”

  “Well, I heard you were up here, so I thought I’d come learn something.” I make sure to keep my tone even, hiding all traces of hurt and confusion.

  “Uh, great.” Ethan seems taken aback, but he begins wading toward the shore.

  I wait, wondering about my next move. I spent the drive up imagining what it would be like to push his lying ass over into the ice-cold river, but now I’m not so sure. Ethan seems so nice, maybe he has a reason for saying the stuff he did.

  Or maybe he’s just an idiot.

  He’s reached dry land now and is busily sorting through his stash of equipment, finding me a spare rod and line. “I’ve got a folding chair, too, if you want to borrow it.” He grins over at me, his face open and good-natured. “I’m guessing your legs hurt like hell after yesterday.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” I study him, thrown. These aren’t the actions of a lying scumbag. If I just charge ahead and start accusing him . . .

  In an instant, I decide: maybe instead of confronting him head-on, I should play by the rules from my mountain man manual. Jeremiah says nothing about the intricacies of teen mating rituals, but he does have a whole section on understanding your prey. To really get inside an animal’s head, you have to spend hours quietly observing it: tracking its routines, habits, behavior — everything.

  Realizing that he’s waiting for me, I walk over and take the unfamiliar equipment.

  “Fly-fishing, huh?” I survey the clear, rushing river. “Where do I start?”

  Once Ethan’s shown me how to spool my line on the long rod and flick it out into the water, I set up beside him in the middle of the river. To my surprise, my anger soon drifts away. The water is rushing past me in a soothing flow, the sun warms my bare shoulders, and the tranquil calm of the breeze rustles at the overhanging branches. It’s like the ultimate Zen paradise. I can definitely see why Ethan is always so laid back.

  “What was that?” Ethan looks over, after we’ve been standing in companiable silence for about twenty minutes.

  “Hmmm?”

  “You sighed.”

  “I did? Oh, I was just relaxing. It’s so peaceful out here.” There’s not a single man-made sound anywhere — nothing but water, wind, and occasional birdsong. It’s as if we’re the only people in the whole valley.

  He nods, shifting his weight a little and testing the pull on his line. Like me, he’s wearing thick rubber waders that reach halfway up his thighs, but he’s stripped off his T-shirt and has nothing but his tackle bag strung across his chest. “I like to get away from it all and just chill up here. There isn’t much to get away from in Stillwater, I know,” he adds, “but sometimes I need a break. From my brother, especially.”

  Here’s my chance. “What’s Grady done?” I glance over, but Ethan just looks uncomfortable.

  “Oh, nothing. Just guy stuff.”

  I decide to probe a little more. “Yeah, he was acting kind of weird yesterday, saying these things . . .” I keep one eye on Ethan.

  His head whips toward me. “What kind of things?”

  “Crazy things,” I say meaningfully.

  “Uh, yeah. Don’t pay any attention to him,” Ethan advises quickly. “Really, he just talks trash.”

  I break. So much for sly patience. “Trash, huh? You mean like saying we hooked up?”

  “What?” Ethan looks as if he wants to bolt, so I flick my fishing rod over in his direction, tangling my hook in his line.

  “You heard me — he’s saying we were fooling around the other night.” I can’t help the plaintive note that comes into my voice. “And Reeve was in on it too, so don’t even think about denying it. Why would you do that?” My voice rises accusingly. “You know nothing happened. I haven’t even been in town two weeks, and already everyone thinks I’m some kind of slut!”

  Ethan stands there wordlessly as I wait for the magic explanation that will make this all OK.

  “I’m sorry,” he finally says, in a quiet voice.

  My mouth drops open. “So you did say something!”

  “Not exactly!” He begins to edge away toward the shore, but my cable picks up the slack and pulls taut against his rod. Ethan tries to untangle the lines, avoiding my gaze.

  “Why would you do that? I thought we were friends, and then you turn around and —”

  “They blew it out of proportion, OK?” He looks flustered. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

  “So why didn’t you set them straight?” I try to understand. “Just say, ‘Hey, guys, nothing happened.’” I tug harder on my line, keeping it tangled in his. “Or how about warning me instead? I was completely ambushed — even Fiona’s got the wrong idea. And your mother!”

  “My mom?” Ethan tugs back. “What did you say to her?”

  “Me? Nothing! But from the way she sounded on the phone, she thinks I’m your girlfriend. She tried to invite me to dinner!”

  “Oh, man.” Ethan is looking so miserable now, I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

  “You didn’t have to pretend like that.” I yank at my rod again. “I mean, were you trying to score points with the other guys, or what? It’s not like you’re some kind of loser who can’t get a girl, or gay, or —”

  At those last words, Ethan freezes.

  I gasp.

  “No. Way,” I say slowly. He tries to cover and shrug it off, but a small vein is bulging in his forehead and his eyes dart back to me nervously. These would be the instinctive reactions Jerry said to keep a lookout for.

  “You’re gay?” I exclaim, my mind racing to figure this out. “But what . . . ?” I make a move toward him, lowering my fishing rod, but the change in tension sends him reeling back, unsteady.
“Ethaa —”

  My warning cry is no use: he falls backward, still holding the line, which yanks me right after him.

  With a splash, we both tumble into the river.

  “This is getting to be a habit,” Ethan says ruefully, shaking water out of his hair. We’ve managed to haul ourselves to shore. Now we’re sitting side-by-side on the riverbank, drip-drying in the afternoon sun.

  “You mean spreading rumors about girls to hide the fact you’re gay?”

  “No, I meant you and rivers — and how you always seem to end up in them.” He tries to laugh, but it just comes out awkward and flat.

  “Oh.” I’m not sure how to react, and it’s clear Ethan doesn’t either. We both sit, staring at the water and avoiding each other’s eyes. I scrunch parts of my tank top up in my hands and watch the trickle of water pool on the ground.

  “You can take that off, if you want,” he suggests, before adding, “It’s not like I’m going to look.”

  “How do I know this isn’t just some devious plan to see me topless?” I finally glance over at him. Despite my joke, Ethan looks truly miserable, his whole face shadowed with tension. I sigh. “I was just kidding.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  We sit in silence for a moment.

  “So . . .” I say quietly, still watching the river. “Gay?”

  “Yup.”

  “Right.” I pause, wondering what to say. The way he answers is so matter-of-fact, it doesn’t seem like he needs a big supportive speech about acceptance and being yourself. “So, I’m guessing this means you’re not out.”

  He shakes his head. “No. Nobody knows.”

  “Even Grady?”

  Ethan sighs. “Especially Grady.”

  “Oh.”

  There’s another silence. I wonder what it must be like for him to hide something this major from his own brother. Suddenly, he grabs my hand, looking at me with wide, pleading eyes. “Please, Jenna, I know I messed up, but you can’t tell anyone. I’m sorry about what they said, and —”

  “Whoa, it’s OK.” I cut him off, uncomfortable with the desperation in his tone. “I won’t say a thing!” I promise, squeezing his hand. “I swear.”

  He stares at me a second longer, as if he’s not convinced, and then exhales slowly. “OK. I mean, thanks.”

  Another silence. I slowly let go.

  Eventually, I have to ask. “So you did say we hooked up. To cover . . . all of this.”

  “I didn’t say anything, not really.” Ethan looks at me, apologetic. “I really am sorry. It’s just, Reeve asked about us hanging out, and then he jumped to conclusions. And I let him. I shouldn’t have,” he adds hastily. “But I thought it was a good idea at the time, you know, to let them just assume . . .”

  I flop backward onto the grass, tired out by all these revelations. “So now they think I’m the crazy, slutty city girl.” I sigh, resigned.

  “I’m sorry,” Ethan says again. He lies down next to me, so that we’re both staring at the clear sky. “It was a dumb idea.”

  “Really dumb.” My top is still clinging to my skin, cold and damp. I think for a minute and then strip off my tank in one quick movement. “You said you wouldn’t stare,” I remind him, spreading out the fabric to dry. I cross my arms self-consciously over my worn polka-dot bra.

  “Don’t even worry.”

  I wait another minute before asking slowly, “So if you’re cool with it, why don’t you tell people? I mean, it’s not exactly the Dark Ages around here — people seem decent.”

  He snorts. “Sure, when it comes to regular stuff. But Jenna, it’s still a small town, and my parents . . . Let’s just say they’re big on their ‘family values’ stuff.”

  I feel another pang of sympathy. “That must be terrible.”

  “Not so much.”

  I sit up, surprised. “What?”

  He shrugs, one arm slung over his eyes to keep out the sun. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll come out when I move away to college, but for now, I don’t mind.” He catches my gasp of disbelief. “It’s not all drama with this stuff, Jenna. I mean, not for me, anyway.”

  “But don’t you feel like you’re not being honest — that you have to hide part of yourself?” I can’t believe he’s being so nonchalant.

  “But I’m not, not really. So I like guys? Big deal. It’s not the sum total of my entire identity.” He sits forward. “And if I came out here, then it would be. Everything would be different. Maybe I’d think about it if I, you know, wanted to date or whatever. But that hasn’t happened yet.” He tosses pebbles into the river, one by one.

  “And nobody suspects anything?”

  “You didn’t.” He turns and meets my eyes. “Seriously, it’s not that big a deal. Sure, there’s guy talk, and I play along with that, and sometimes I’ll say something about liking some girl in school — someone with a boyfriend, who I couldn’t date even if I wanted to — but aside from that . . . it doesn’t come up. I just want to keep things normal, you know?”

  I nod, dubious. It still doesn’t sound right to me, to just shut off a whole side of his identity, but he seems to be content to keep it that way. And I would be too, if it weren’t for one major flaw in the plan.

  “I don’t want to be your girlfriend. No offense,” I add.

  “None taken.” He manages a half grin. “I can straighten it out, I guess.” We both stop and smirk at his choice of words. He laughs. “You know what I mean.”

  “That would be OK? It wouldn’t, you know, blow your cover?”

  “No, it’s cool. I’ll just say I realized you weren’t right for me.”

  “Or that I shot you down,” I suggest. I’d prefer a version of the non-truth that made me look good, at least.

  “Fine,” he agrees, grinning. “I fell at your feet, proclaimed my love for you, but you refused.”

  “That’s more like it.” I smile, finally relaxing.

  Ethan gets to his feet, surveying our pile of tangled equipment. “So, do you want to give it another try? I can’t go home empty-handed.”

  “You mean the fishing? Sure.” I put out my hands, and he helps pull me to my feet. “But I’m not catching anything, I promise.”

  It turns out I’m wrong. Barely ten minutes after we wade back into the river, my line begins to tug.

  “Ethan!” I cry, taken by surprise. “What do I do?”

  He splashes closer, applauding. “Reel it in, reel it in!”

  “I don’t want to!” I jiggle my rod, trying to dislodge whatever is caught on the line, but it just tugs harder. “I didn’t want to actually catch anything!”

  Ethan stares. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m a vegetarian!” I explain, still trying my hardest to get rid of my catch. “I don’t believe in killing animals.”

  He pauses. “Technically, a fish isn’t —”

  “Or fish!”

  Ethan looks at me, bemused. “Then why did you —?”

  “I left the cork on the hook! I didn’t think anything would actually bite.”

  “Looks like something did.” Shaking his head in amusement, Ethan takes the rod from me and begins reeling in the line. Sure enough, the cork is nowhere to be seen, and there’s a fish flapping away on the hook: silvery gray scales sparkling in the sun. “It’s a big one!” he says, admiring.

  “I don’t want a big one!” I wail. The fish is suspended over the water, gasping and thrashing around like it’s in a huge amount of pain. At least, that’s what it looks like to me. I watch it, guilty. “What do we do?”

  Ethan looks uneasy. “Umm, this is when I smash its brains in with a rock.”

  “What?”

  “It’s too late to save it,” he says hurriedly. “The hook’s done too much damage. It’ll just die in the water.”

  I let out a whimper. So much for rushing river and relaxing sun: I’m a murderer now. “You’re sure we can’t just let it go?”

  “I’m sorry.” He scrunches up his face. “But I’ll make
it quick!”

  “OK,” I say at last. “Do it.”

  I watch as Ethan grabs the fish off the line, wades over to the edge of the water, and presses it down on a boulder, still flapping around. He reaches for a smaller rock and raises it up. I cover my eyes as I hear a faint squelching noise. “Is it done?” I ask.

  “Done.”

  I slowly lower my hands. The fish is lying there, a smear of silver gunk beside it on the rock. It’s definitely dead.

  “I’m a hypocrite,” I murmur sadly. “I spend all this time telling people how killing animals is wrong . . .”

  “Technically —”

  “I know, it’s a fish! But still . . .” I look at the lifeless body and sigh. “What do we do with it now?”

  Ethan looks evasive again. “Umm, now we cook it over a nice open fire?”

  I glare at him.

  “What?” he protests. “I’m hungry; it’s dead . . .”

  “I’ve got snacks in the car,” I inform him icily.

  “C’mon . . .” Ethan puts his arm around me and steers me to shore. “It’s dead now. Shouldn’t we, you know, pay respect to it?”

  “By eating the poor thing?”

  He shrugs. “It’s better than just letting it rot on the ground.”

  “You’re serious!”

  He sighs. “Jenna, this is what we do out here. We fish; we hunt; we eat stuff!”

  “I don’t agree with that,” I tell him, stubborn.

  “Fine.” Ethan gives up. “You sit here and dry off. That just leaves more for me!”

  He’s serious. As I perch on a (non-fish-smeared) rock, letting my feet dangle in the cool water, Ethan busies himself. Taking out a hunting knife, he hacks off the fish’s head, slices it open, and proceeds to scrape out all the slimy guts and tiny bones with swift motions.

  “You’ve done this a lot, haven’t you?” I say, watching curiously.

  “My dad’s been taking us out since I could walk.” He grins. “I caught my first two-footer before I turned seven.”

  “That’s . . . nice.” The father-bonding part, not the fish killing, obviously.

  “Hey, why don’t you set up the fire, and I’ll rustle us up a proper meal. It won’t take long, now that I’ve got some decent bait.” Ethan holds up a mess of fish entrails.