On the Free

by Coert Voorhees

  Text copyright © 2017 by Coert Voorhees

  Carolrhoda Lab™ is a trademark of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

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  An imprint of Carolrhoda Books

  A division of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  241 First Avenue North

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  Front cover and interior images: © Ethan Welty/Aurora/Getty Images.

  Back cover: © Seleneos/photocase.com.

  Foilstamp: Chinch/Shutterstock.com.

  Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 10.5/15.

  Typeface provided by Linotype AG.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Voorhees, Coert, author.

  Title: On the free / Coert Voorhees.

  Description: Minneapolis : Carolrhoda Lab, [2017] | Summary: When a mudslide wipes out multiple members of a wilderness therapy trip, the three surviving teenagers must survive the elements, their demons, and one another.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016036266 (print) | LCCN 2016058537 (ebook) | ISBN 9781512429138 (lb : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781512448597 (eb pdf)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Survival—Fiction. | Wilderness areas—Fiction. | Camping—Fiction. | Juvenile delinquency—Fiction. | Hispanic Americans—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.V943 On 2017 (print) | LCC PZ7.V943 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016036266

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1-41568-23393-3/6/2017

  9781512467383 ePub

  9781512467390 ePub

  9781512467406 mobi

  For all of you on unit.

  The next chapter is one only you can write.

  1

  When you’re built like Santiago Rivas, you learn to deal with pain. Gaunt and gangly gets you practice. Repetition. You hang with pain on weekends. See each other at school and mix it up on the way home. But this is different. Not blinding like a pop to the nose, or shocking like a kidney blow. Not even unexpected, like that one time at the McDonald’s on Osuna, when that pendejo from Belen ambushed Santi with a Little League bat.

  Pain like that, he’s used to. Pain like that happens in an instant. But not this. This is a slow, building kind of pain. Inevitable, like a thundercloud on the horizon.

  Santi stays barefoot in his tent for just one second more. Just one minute longer. His sleeping bag and pad all stuffed and rolled and ready to go. He stares at his boots, a size too large, the tread worn smooth, the thin leather like cardboard compared to what everyone else is wearing.

  And now his heels, which look like someone went after them with a blowtorch: open wounds, deep red beneath flaps of bloody skin, shredded from days of popped blisters.

  The wool socks fit. The tent doesn’t leak. The sleeping bag is warm enough. And even though his air mattress has a hole, it’s small; he only has to refill the pad once a night. Everything is fine except the boots.

  It could be worse, of course. It could always be worse. He could be back in juvie, lying on a three-inch mattress, leaning against the wall, his legs straight, ankles crossed, his undamaged feet sheathed in Sandoval County–issued cotton tube socks.

  “Let’s go, Santi. We need the oatmeal.”

  “In my pack,” he says. “Top pouch, Ziploc bag.”

  Jerry unzips the tent door and sticks his head inside. A cool orange tint covers what little of his face isn’t swallowed by a thick black beard. “Did it sound like I was asking for directions?”

  It did not. Santi ties the laces together, slings the boots over his shoulder, and emerges from the tent carrying his sleeping bag and mattress.

  “Good morning, Mary Sunshine. Why did you wake so soon?” Santi’s tentmate sits next to the small campfire, drinking something hot from a mug. “You frightened off the little stars and scared away the moon.”

  “Victor,” Jerry says.

  “I’m just messing with him. Kid let the rest of us set up breakfast.”

  “That’s not the point. We’ve got to focus on treating one another with respect.”

  “Santi-San can take it,” Victor says. “He’s hardcore, remember? So hardcore.”

  Santi ignores him and continues past the fire to where his pack dangles from a length of nylon rope he’d tossed over a branch. Twenty feet high or higher, Jerry had told them. Company policy, on the off-chance that a bear happened by the camp in the middle of the night.

  Rico Salazar wanders up as Santi unties the knot. Rico, youngest of them, a wiry little punk, just barely fifteen. “Why do you let Victor talk to you that way?”

  Santi stares at him. The last thing he needs is a voice like this in his ear.

  Rico blinks. Blinks again. His whole face commits, like eye-blink Tourette’s. Even his cheeks get involved.

  “What does it matter?” Santi finally says.

  More blinking. The little dude is stumped. “It matters.”

  Santi lowers his backpack, which hits the ground with a satisfying thud. “Here.” He hands Rico the big Ziploc of instant oatmeal pouches. “Jerry wanted this.”

  “Are you eating?”

  “I’m eating. The hell is it to you?”

  “You should put your shoes on,” Rico says, nodding at Santi’s feet. “You could step on something.”

  He watches Rico bound across the campground, short and spindly and full of shit.

  It’s starting to come back to him, with every breath of mountain air that passes through his lungs, every piece of dirt that crunches between his teeth at mealtime. As though Santi’s been given a week’s pass to his former life. Just glimpses, but they’re becoming more frequent and more detailed each time. Maybe when the trip is over, he’ll even remember who he was before the move to his uncle Ray’s.

  He takes a deep breath and tries to clear his head. Another to slow his pulse. The air is so thin up here that his heart is racing from the simple effort of lowering his backpack.

  They’re higher than ten thousand feet this morning, day three of the weeklong hike through southern Colorado’s Weminuche Wilderness. “Wem-in-ooch,” Rico whispered to Santi at orientation, “like ‘screw-the-pooch.’ ”

  They’ve basically done nothing but climb since they left the trailhead, and the elevation profile of the hike looks like the outline of a mountain itself: starting at 7,000 feet, then three days of a jagged rise to Bonfire Pass at almost 12,000, followed by an equally jagged three-day descent to the wilderness exit at 8,000.

  Hiking uphill is bad enough, the blisters grinding against the back of his boots with every step, but at least uphill he can try to walk flat-footed. Santi knows downhill will be worse. There’s no way he can avoid his heel hitting the ground, his body weight scraping it against the ruthless leather.

  His feet aren’t even the only problem; his lower back, just above his waist, feels like someone took a sledgehammer to it. His own fault, because he’s probably carrying food for half the group, but he’d wanted it that way. Every time Jerry asked for a volunteer, Santi raised his hand. Yes, I can take the oatmeal. Yes, I can take the Bisquick. I’ve got the rice. It’s heavy, I know. I’ve got it.

  Once you’ve known what it’s like to be hungry, you don’t let food out of your sight unless you have to.

  “Oh my God, Santi.
What happened to your feet?”

  The concern belongs to Amelia Something. The assistant leader, a volunteer from somewhere in Texas. Houston? He should know by now, but soon he’ll be back in Albuquerque and she’ll go back to Houston—Dallas, or wherever—and the amazing boyfriend she can’t stop talking about and then her freshman year at the amazing college she also can’t stop talking about. It’s easier not to care.

  “I’m cool,” Santi says. “Just letting them breathe.”

  “I got certified in first aid last week,” she says. “My skills are fresh.”

  She orders him to stay where he is, her arm outstretched like a traffic cop. Then she turns around, springing to her backpack in a supple-looking pair of new hiking boots.

  Santi follows her, barefoot, tiptoeing as he avoids the minefield of pointed rocks. He’d rather do it himself, but he doesn’t even have a Band-Aid, much less a first-aid kit. Amelia sits on the ground and gestures for him to take a seat on the log in front of her.

  The only other girl on the trip is Celeste, a sixteen-year-old from Colorado Springs whose only goal seems to be winning the Who’s the Most Messed Up? competition.

  In all, they’re a fearsome foursome of theft (Santi), rebelliousness (Rico), emotional distress (Celeste), and—as far as Santi can tell—being a gigantic asshole (Victor). Entrusted into the care of the Bear Canyon Wilderness Therapy Program under the all-star leadership team of Jerry and Amelia.

  “That’s just nasty,” Celeste says now, faking a gag.

  Amelia scissors a large donut out of a thick piece of moleskin. “You should have asked for better boots.”

  “Budget cuts, I guess,” Santi says.

  “It’s because your pack is so heavy,” Amelia says. “You don’t have to impress anyone.”

  “That’s not why,” Santi says. “Besides, there’s nobody here to impress.”

  “That’s a little harsh.”

  Santi grins. Amelia is slight, with brown, shoulder-length hair and a set of wide green eyes that take up more of her face than they should. But she’s cute enough, and cuter every day they spend in the wilderness. “Are you saying you think there’s a future for us?”

  Victor laughs from across the campsite. Dudes like Victor. Rich kids playing badass. Full swagger right up until the moment of impact.

  Santi closes his eyes for a moment and lets the scene unfold. His fist will work just fine. Or maybe a fallen branch. Or that rock, just a foot away, which could obliterate Victor’s nose in an instant.

  But there are some things you can’t unsee, Santi knows. And the tweaker next to him in his holding cell at County pulling a little baggie of meth out of his ass and snorting it on the bench? That’s one of those things.

  So Santi does not pick up that rock. This time will be different. The straight and narrow. No more fighting, no more lifting cars. He’ll make it to the end of the trip, only four days away, and the felony larceny charge will be dropped, and he’ll spend the two years until his eighteenth birthday as a choirboy. Then, once his juvie record is expunged, he can start fresh.

  “Good as new,” Amelia says. “Well, maybe not as new.”

  White athletic tape now covers the moleskin over Santi’s heels. If he’s lucky, it will last until the evening, at which point he’ll have to wander barefoot across Amelia’s line of sight again.

  Thick smoke from the morning campfire drifts his way, and his face broadens into a smile when he remembers his dad’s old nickname for him: smoke magnet.

  Before the weight of the pack, before the agony of the blisters, before the lunchtime ice-breakers and team-building exercises—as if Jerry and Amelia really believe that a trust fall is going to trigger some anti-delinquency feature in their young brains—before all of that, there is the morning. The sun creeping over the ridge, showering warmth on the valley below. The breeze. And the birds, too many to count, tweeting and singing and completely unaware that Santi’s day is about to go to shit.

  “Gather ’round, everybody,” Jerry says, clapping twice. Next he’ll ask how they feel, encouraging them to “dig a little deeper.” Jerry’s heart is probably in the right place, but it’s almost worse that way. He wouldn’t be as condescending if he didn’t care so much.

  Santi perches himself on a rock in front of the fire as Rico passes around the bag of oatmeal pouches. Santi takes one Apples & Cinnamon and one Maple & Brown Sugar and rips the tops off both at the same time. A little cloud of powder billows up from his bowl when he dumps the pouches inside.

  Celeste follows Rico with the pot of boiling water, her arms trembling slightly as she grips the handle with both hands. “Nobody to impress?” she says.

  Santi bounces his eyebrows up and down. “You know I like ’em crazy.”

  He notices her jaw tighten, and for a second he thinks she might dump the water on him. She seems to catch herself, and her face relaxes. She tilts the pot and begins to pour. “Say when.”

  “When,” Santi says, but she keeps pouring. “When!”

  Celeste shrugs at the extra water in his bowl. “Oops.”

  “We’ve got a difficult ten miles today,” Jerry says, groats of oatmeal burrowed into the thicket on his chin, as if hiding from his mouth. “We’ll break every ninety minutes for water and snack. If we make it over Bonfire Pass in time, I want to stop for lunch at an abandoned gold mine in the ghost town of Felton.”

  “Gold mine?” Rico says. “Like real gold?”

  “Hope you brought your pick and shovel!” Victor’s voice drips with fake enthusiasm.

  Jerry ignores him. “It’s been abandoned for over seventy years, Rico, but yes, there was real gold there. And everyone, make sure you have easy access to your rain gear. We may run into some weather before we get to camp tonight.”

  While the rest of them finish eating, Jerry pulls Santi aside and whispers, “If you lag again today, we’re going to have to redistribute the food—”

  “It’s not the food. My feet are—”

  “I’m just saying, if we need to make it easier for you, we can do that.”

  Santi gulps the last of his oatmeal and checks to see if any of the others have noticed their discussion. He gives Jerry a nod and goes up to help Victor break down their tent.

  But Victor sits on a log ten feet away, his sleeping bag and pad already packed at his feet. He whittles with a long knife, scattering curled ribbons of wood across the ground.

  “A little help?” Santi says, motioning to the tent.

  “Nah, that’s okay. You let us set up breakfast, right? I’m gonna sit this one out.”

  Santi shoots Victor double birds before unclipping the tent poles from their anchors and sliding them through the little sleeves at the top of the tent.

  “We’re not waiting for you today,” Victor says. “If you’re slow, you’re slow.”

  “Like I need you to wait for me.”

  “Just remember to keep up. Mountain lions always go after the stragglers.”

  Santi laughs. “I thought Boy Scouts were supposed to be Good Samaritans. Helping old ladies across the street and all that.”

  “It’s Eagle Scout, first of all,” Victor says. “And are you seriously comparing yourself to an old lady? I know how much you like to waddle at the back of the line, but still.”

  Santi says nothing, trying to mask how close Victor is to the truth. Santi is not meant for the front of the line, on the trail or off it. Never has been. It’s how he found himself in this position in the first place.

  Victor just keeps talking, though his eyes never move up from the spike as he whittles. Cut. Cut. Cut. “You’ve had a hard life, we know. So sad. But stop blaming people. Jesus.”

  Santi turns back to the tent, closing his eyes and concentrating on the cold aluminum in his hands. Collapse the pole. Pull the section apart, fold it, pull another section. Pretend Victor isn’t using what Santi said in his group “sharing” session against him.

  “I’ve got to admit, I didn’t know real peop
le used the term broken family. I thought it was just in the movies. What the hell is that, anyway?”

  Santi can’t help it. He tosses the collapsed pole onto the dirt and spins around, sprinting the ten feet to Victor. No pain in his feet. He could be walking on broken glass and it wouldn’t matter.

  Victor is ready, standing before Santi even reaches him. He’s a year older, four inches taller, and a good twenty pounds heavier, but Santi figures Victor’s extra bulk will slow him down just enough. A couple punches before Victor can react, and it will be over.

  “I know how bad you think you are,” Victor says, his arms relaxed at his sides, a spike in one hand, knife in the other. “You’re welcome to give it a shot.”

  “Guys!” Jerry yells from across the campsite. He jogs over. “Guys!”

  The straight and narrow, Santi thinks. The straight and narrow.

  Jerry’s beard is almost upon them. “Let’s get past this, okay?” the counselor says. “Let’s apologize.”

  “I’ve got two words for you,” Victor says under his breath. “And I think you can guess they’re not ‘I’m sorry.’”

  2

  The knock came in the early evening. A quick rap against the metal of his uncle’s front door. Santi had been expecting it, in a sense, in the same way that a field mouse expects the shadow of an owl.

  Eric Ayala stood at the front door, his hands in the back pockets of jean shorts that went halfway down his calves. An array of tats snaked up his arms and disappeared beneath the bleached white beater: an eagle with a snake in its talons, the Virgen de Guadalupe, a rose, a bullet.

  Two words: “You ready?”

  Two more words: Not tonight. Santi could have said, Not tonight. Would have been so easy. Instead, he came up with two other words: “I guess.”

  Santi yelled inside to his sister that he’d be back later and followed Eric down the uneven South Valley sidewalk. In the six years he and Marisol had been with Ray, the neighborhood had hardly changed at all. Same neighbors behind the same thick doors. Same cars in the same driveways. Same painted dirt and rocks trying to pass for lawns. Same dogs. Same barking.