Santi stops at a flat area about twenty yards from the tarp, close to where Amelia and Rico are setting up their two tents, but Victor continues on, his headlamp bouncing through the trees until it finally settles another fifty yards away.
“What the hell?” Santi says.
“I can’t deal with the Beard right now.”
Santi shrugs. It doesn’t matter. He just wants to set up the tent, eat a quick meal, and go to sleep. There’s bound to be some sort of team-building exercise they’ll have to endure, but he can suffer through it on autopilot. He starts assembling the poles while Victor kicks rocks away, clearing a spot for the tent.
Thunder rumbles way off in the distance, and Santi shakes his head. “I should have opted for juvie.”
“What’s the going rate for grand theft auto?”
“You planning on stealing a car?”
“If I stole a car,” Victor says, “I wouldn’t get caught.”
“That’s a good plan.”
“I’m a good planner.” Victor’s headlamp blinds him, so Santi can’t tell what Victor’s expression is.
“You must be. You’re out here with me, in the rain, in the middle of nowhere.” Santi slides the tent poles through the appropriate sleeves. With the two of them on opposite sides of the tent, he and Victor fix the pole ends into their respective slots, and the tent pops up into a dome.
Victor grunts. He whips the rain fly up over the tent and lets it fall like a bed sheet. “Maybe this is exactly where I wanted to be.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it is.” Santi clips the ends of the fly to the tent poles and pulls it taut. After staking it down, they’re done. He nods toward Jerry and the others. “You ready?”
“Not until he makes me.” Victor unzips the rain fly and main tent door. He sits inside with his feet sticking out and his boots still on, the fly’s vestibule offering shelter from the rain.
Santi decides to join him. “So,” he says, fishing. “Your stepdad.”
“Are we bonding now?” Victor scoffs. “The two guys with no dads?”
The rain pelts against the tent, filling the small space with a constant roar. Santi wraps his arms around his knees and breathes in. He can almost count the hours until the trip is over. Three more days, and he’ll be done with it. And with all this shit behind him, maybe he’ll even talk to Diana. Maybe she’ll forgive him.
Victor surprises him by opening his mouth. “He can’t help himself, basically, is the deal. My stepdad. Business guys love to manage people, right? It’s in their DNA or something. And he falls in love with my mom and decides he’s supposed to be the one to manage my discipline, like he’s some kind of family home consultant. I had too much autonomy, he said. Hadn’t my mom even read the research? The research.”
“So how’d he manage you? A belt?”
“What?” Victor sounds almost shocked. He shakes his head, then laces his arms behind his head and lies on his back. “A belt? No. I would have kicked his ass if he tried something like that. He’s more into intimidation than the physical stuff. Grounds me. Takes away the car.”
“What kind of car?”
“Lexus,” Victor says. Then, as if catching himself, “An old one, though. Used.”
“Nice ride.”
“They tell you it’s going to get better, the counselors and whatever. You can work on your relationship if you put yourself in his shoes. Like I’m going to take life lessons from some stranger acting like he knows what’s going on.”
Santi nods like he’s interested, even though, what the hell does Victor have to complain about? Private school, tutors, shrinks, and a stepdad who wants to whip him into shape. But Santi listens because what he really needs is ammo. If Victor’s going to keep using the material from Santi’s sharing circle last night, Santi has to fight back somehow.
“Let’s go, guys!” It’s Jerry. “Time for dinner!”
Victor closes his eyes, so Santi leaves him lying in the tent and heads back downhill, avoiding the puddles that seem to have multiplied in the twenty minutes it had taken them to set up camp.
Celeste crouches by the small camp stove, aggressively stirring the pot with her aluminum spoon while Amelia and Rico rinse out their mess kits. Jerry sits on the edge of his backpack, writing by headlamp in a small notebook.
“Can I talk to you for a second?” Santi says, pulling Jerry aside. “I was thinking. It’s not fair to the others for me to be carrying all the food.”
“Not fair?” Jerry adjusts his headlamp so that it points straight up, reflecting off the tarp and bathing them all in a dim blue glow. “How do you mean?”
“It’s like I’m robbing them of the satisfaction, the feeling of accomplishment.”
Jerry’s face is blank behind that beard of his, and then he smiles. “You should probably get rid of some of it, then.”
“Just to be fair.”
The tarp is just large enough to fit everyone. Victor and Amelia eat standing, but the rest of them sit on their backpacks. An occasional gust lifts the tarp up like a parachute, rattling away any water that has pooled in the center and sending a small river onto the ground.
The old saying that food tastes better when you’re camping clearly never went up against Celeste’s mac and cheese. The pasta is crunchy, the cheese watery, and the ham tastes like fish for some reason. The only thing more surprising than the taste is the fact that Victor doesn’t mention it.
“Sorry about the food,” Celeste finally says. “I’m not so good in the kitchen.”
“It’s fine,” Amelia says.
Rico can’t help himself. “I thought you guys were against fake praise, or whatever you called it. Look at her. She knows it sucks. Don’t lie to her or you’re just proving that you can’t be trusted. Right?”
“Damn, Rico,” Santi says.
“Didn’t we promise to be honest to each other?”
“It’s okay,” Celeste says. She scratches behind her ear and offers an uncharacteristically apologetic shrug.
“No, he’s right,” Amelia says, turning to Celeste. “I’m sorry I lied to you, Celeste. This is, without a doubt—”
“Oh boy,” Rico says.
Amelia starts giggling. “Let me finish.”
“I’m waiting.” Celeste stands up and latches her hands to her waist, thrusting her hip out to the side. And just like that, she’s back!
“I’m sorry,” Amelia says. She opens her mouth, but the giggle overwhelms her and she has to cover her face with both hands. Santi is blown away by how out of place she suddenly looks.
“Okay, I’m ready,” she says, the strain of keeping a straight face so clearly wearing on her. “Celeste, the powdered cheese was lumpy and dry in chunks, the macaroni was crunchy, and the ham was only partially rehydrated. That was, without a doubt, the worst macaroni and cheese I have ever had.”
A long pause. Amelia’s smile returns briefly but disappears when Celeste doesn’t respond right away. More rain beats against the tarp. Amelia seems to realize that she has gone too far.
“Well,” Celeste says softly, looking down at her mac and cheese and then back up to the group. “I guess I should have boiled the water first.”
“You didn’t boil the water?” Jerry says.
“I’m kidding.” Celeste backhands him across the chest, and the tension disappears.
“There’s no team building after this, is there?” Rico says with a laugh. “We’re still alive, right? Isn’t that team building enough?”
“Nothing formal,” Jerry says. “And we’ll cancel journal time tonight, given the weather. But we do need to talk about what happened today.”
“You mean Santi? I told him to be careful,” Rico says, turning to Santi. “Didn’t I tell you to be careful?”
Jerry shakes his head. “Not Santi. Victor.”
“Oh, come on,” Victor says. “I already told you. It wasn’t my fault.”
“That stunt of yours—”
“It wasn’t a stunt—”
/>
“The stunt wasn’t getting lost. The stunt was leaving in the first place—”
“I—”
“Let me finish.” Another crack in Jerry’s patient, super-concerned, trip leader persona. The corner of Santi’s mouth sneaks upward.
“Finish,” Victor says, glancing toward their tent.
“What you did was irresponsible. It was inconsiderate.”
“Yeah, but I saved this jack-off’s life today too. That should count for something.”
Santi points at him. “Don’t bring me into this—”
“That’s not the point,” Jerry says. “You’re here because you’ve—”
Victor sneers. “You have no idea why I’m here.”
“You’re here,” Jerry screams, “because you have shown a consistent inability—or straight-out refusal—to think about anybody but yourself. Today that put all of us at risk, including you.”
“I could kick your Sasquatch ass right in front of everyone.”
Amelia reaches out as if to comfort him, but Victor swats her arm away so hard that she stumbles backward, catching her heel on a small rock. She hits the muddy ground with her legs splayed into the tarp and her upper body outside, in the mud, completely exposed to the rain.
It happens so quickly. Victor freezes, his right fist cocked and ready to strike Jerry, gasping as though he just sprinted up a mountain. Great gulps of air, chest heaving.
Amelia struggles to her feet in a daze. Celeste offers a hand, pulls her back under the shelter, and the two girls step to the far edge of the tarp.
And Jerry snaps. He launches across the space between them, knocking over the pot on the stove, sending watery mac and cheese flying onto Rico’s lap. His hands land on Victor’s chest, and then his fists close around Victor’s jacket.
“That behavior is not acceptable!” Jerry yells, shaking Victor back and forth. “That is not how we act around other people. That is not how we treat other people.”
Victor brings his arms up underneath Jerry’s, breaking his hold. Jerry staggers back, and Santi finds himself lunging in between them.
“Enough,” he says, one hand on Jerry’s chest and the other on Victor’s. He can feel their hearts thrashing, their lungs expanding, struggling in the thin air. “That’s enough.”
12
The county-owned Econoline van shuddered to a stop in the Bear Canyon Wilderness Therapy Program headquarters parking lot. Santi was its only passenger, and he hesitated before stepping out onto the cracked asphalt. It wasn’t even noon yet, but heat came at him from all angles, the full power of the sun bouncing off the concrete path, the double-wide trailer in front of him.
Santi slung a plastic garbage bag of clothes over his shoulder, and the driver escorted him up the wooden ramp and knocked on the screen door. A heavily bearded man appeared instantly on the other side of the wire mesh. The black hair on his face was thick and curly and, set against the smooth pink of the man’s cheekbones, made Santi think of a half-clipped sheep.
The counselor introduced himself as Jerry and extended his hand, which Santi shook as firmly as he could.
“Warm outside, isn’t it?” Jerry said, wincing as he pulled his hand away. Santi allowed himself a tiny smile. “Warmer inside, unfortunately, but there’s supposed to be a front coming in later this week. Should cool everything down for a bit.”
Santi dropped his clothes on the floor next to the wall as Jerry pointed to a brunette organizing food supplies in the next room. She looked younger than Jerry and struck Santi as vaguely nervous when she lifted her head and waved. “That’s Amelia. She’ll be co-leading.”
“This is co-ed?” Santi’s unit in juvie had been boys only.
“There are rules, of course.” Jerry motioned to a small room opposite Amelia. “We do a little pre-trip interview, if you want to get it over with.”
Santi hung back, watching Amelia cut a block of cheese in two pieces. She consulted a list on the table and then put each of the blocks in its own plastic bag. She tucked her hair behind her ear and shook her head, removing one of the blocks and halving it as well. Santi followed Jerry into the interrogation room.
“Figured we should just cut to the chase,” Jerry said once they’d both sat down. A green folder rested on the wooden table in front of him. “Why is this going to be different?”
“Different? I don’t really—”
“What are you hoping to accomplish here that you wouldn’t be able to do in the facility?”
There were a number of things Santi could have gone with, all of them true. He could have talked about his dad, how the mountains had been a haven for them. He could have said that camping food couldn’t possibly be as bad as the food in juvie. He could have said that he wanted to avoid going to the Juvenile Justice Center again at any cost. Instead, he stared at the folder.
“Do you want me to tell you what I see?” Jerry said.
It was hot. Santi scratched the back of his neck and wiped a trickle of sweat from his hairline. “Not really?”
“I see someone who can’t—or won’t—stand up for himself, won’t take command of his own future. I see someone who has the conviction not to divulge the name of his accomplice, the driver, but who couldn’t resist getting in the car in the first place. What do you see?”
“I’m no snitch,” Santi said. “Now everybody knows it.”
“You should never have been in that position, Santi. You and I both know that. This whole business here,” he said, tapping the file with his index finger. “You’re never going to get out of this if you don’t take charge once in a while. Learn to be a leader, Santi, that’s what I’m saying.”
Jerry smiled at him like it was as simple as that. Learn to be a leader. Learn to be confident. Learn to be a different person entirely.
“Let me tell you this,” Jerry said. “We’re surrounded all the time by the pressure to act a certain way, to live our lives a certain way. Television and Internet and phones and friends. All of that distracts us from ever looking to who we really are.”
He pushed the thick file to the side and leaned forward, resting both elbows on the table. “But the mountains have a way of forcing you to listen to yourself, sometimes in a way that you never would have imagined.”
There was a squeak, followed by a slam, as the screen door in the other room opened and shut. Amelia’s tentative voice wafted into the interrogation room. “Welcome to Bear Canyon. What’s your name?”
“Victor,” said a male voice, gruff and cocky. “Victor West.”
“Are we done here?” Santi said.
“Done here?” Jerry smiled again and picked up the file. “We haven’t even gotten started.”
13
Santi squats at the edge of the ravine and dips his water bottle into the flow. In the hour since they arrived at the campsite, Fall Creek has swollen from its former trickle to an actual stream, two feet across now, almost worthy of being called a creek again.
Once he deposits the requisite purification tablets into the murky water, he pushes himself to his feet and heads uphill to his backpack. He pulls the torn garbage bag taut around his pack and hoists it next to Victor’s, fifteen feet in the air. Normally, everyone’s packs would all hang together, but the tents are too spread out for that, so he and Victor are on their own. Besides, there’s nothing normal about tonight.
After the fireworks at dinner, after Victor had stormed away, Jerry had pulled himself together just enough to apologize for losing his temper before telling them all to get some rest before the long day tomorrow.
Victor is already inside the tent by the time Santi unzips the rain fly, but he doesn’t acknowledge Santi’s arrival. With his feet still in the vestibule, Santi inflates his air mattress, lays out his sleeping bag, and dangles his headlamp from the hook at the center of the tent’s dome ceiling. He eases out of his boots and peels off his socks with a grimace.
The bandages on his arms come off with the sleeves of his jacket, the adhes
ive no match for the constant rain, so he crumples them together and tosses the blood-stained wad into the vestibule.
“It’s like you played Slip ’N Slide on a cheese grater,” Victor says as Santi takes off his jeans, one leg at a time.
Santi makes himself look. His elbows are bruised underneath all the scrapes and soon-to-be scabs. He’s got open cuts on his knees he didn’t even know about. He’d look even worse without his T-shirt, which covers up the damage from his fall—red streaks like claw marks all over his chest.
Victor inflates his air mattress and nods to Santi’s heels. “And that’s about the nastiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
After another day of wet hiking, the heels are discs of raw meat the size of silver dollars, way worse than they’d been that morning. “Guess your stepdad didn’t take me shopping.”
“Oh, come on.” Victor tosses his sleeping bag to the floor. “I’m supposed to apologize because it doesn’t look like I’m smuggling pepperonis on my heels?”
“I never said you had to apologize.”
“Hey, I get it. You’re poor. You’ve had bad luck. Your parents died or whatever.”
“Or whatever?”
“My point is that I know I’ve had it easier than you. But I’m not going to wish my life was worse just so you won’t feel bad.”
“You want to know a secret?” Santi says. “I don’t give a shit about your life.”
“You’re lying.”
“And you’re a dick.”
Victor chuckles. “Good, so we got that out of the way.”
The rain picks up again, this time bringing the wind along. A strong gust shakes the tent like a tremor, and Santi’s headlamp jiggles, casting uneven shadows against the thin walls.
Victor shifts gears: “My stepdad threatens me with juvie all the time. Once he even busted out the ‘don’t bend over for the soap’ joke. I guess he figures that if I’m scared enough, I’ll straighten up.”
On the Free Page 5
