“Not really, because we did tell you to be ready for anything,” Lenny replies. “And you can consider it an even exchange. You broke our agreement when you brought your pooch along.”
She takes a step back. “Cuddles? He’s not a pooch.”
“Thoroughbred. Purebred. Whatever,” Lenny says. “He’s not on the passenger list. Cuddles O’Neill.” Lenny runs his finger down an imaginary clipboard. “Nope. Not on here.”
With that, he begins to pull out equipment, tents, and sleeping bags that we were all instructed to bring, but we didn’t know why—I just remember Mom telling me to bring mine “in case of emergency.” Uncle Jeff goes over to help, and loses his stamp hat on a tree branch that nearly takes out his eye.
“Look at all this,” Lenny says. “You think any other bus tour gives you this?” He sweeps his arm around, indicating the outdoors, the view, the Happyland RV Park sign. “Not on your life.”
I desperately look for a place where I can email Dylan. I see the campground office and decide to head over there, cash in hand, like only an addict would.
That night Andre and I grab a couple of s’mores and escape the campfire ghost stories that Lenny is telling. It’s not even dark yet, so the campfire and the ghosts don’t really have the same effect they would in an hour. We find a kind of quiet place and sit on a rock.
I can hear the faint, tinny sound of Andre’s iPod through his headphones amid the crickets and other night sounds. He reaches over and hands me one of the earbuds. We just sit there without talking, which is weird because we always talk. I don’t know what’s different, but something is.
When the iPod dies, I hand him the earbud and he puts it in his pocket and we just sit there. Now I can hear the wind in the trees, and it’s a really hot night. Just sitting there next to him, not even touching him, for some reason it’s way more melty a situation than anything I’ve ever felt for Dylan.
It’s not because it’s a hundred degrees, although that kind of contributes.
It might be because he’s putting his hand over mine and we are about to hold hands.
And then as my wrist turns to either hold his hand or push it away, I see on my Nike watch that it’s nine o’clock, which is the time Dylan and I planned to Gchat.
I jump up, and then am really embarrassed that I did. “Sorry. Sorry. It’s just that I told Dylan I’d write him at nine, so—”
“No, it’s okay, go ahead,” he says.
“I wasn’t, um . . . you know.” I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.
“Yeah, I know.”
So I sprint to the Happyland office, where the manager told me earlier that I could get online on her computer with my Hotmail account if I paid her five dollars. So I do, even though that seems kind of like highway robbery. I’m getting used to that, buying stuff at souvenir shops.
Dylan? You there? We’re in Happyland.
Ariel? Where r u?
My heart starts pounding, and I don’t know whether it’s from the excitement of Dylan or the fact I ran so fast to get here. He’s there he’s there he’s there!
It’s an RV park. We’re camping.
Oh yeah?
So I might not have much time. But can you come meet us?
What? R u crazy? I don’t think so.
Y not?
2 far
Oh. R u sure?
Yeah
Come on, D, it wouldn’t be that hard. We could take off and
Come on airel, be realistic
You misspelled my name
Oh
Again
Sorry
I don’t want to be realistic, I’m sick of being realistic
u could come here and visit, maybe
how
I don’t know. Anyway I wouldn’t have time to hang out with you.
It just seems stupid to be this close and not see u
Yeah
But that’s life I guess
Yeah
Did he always just say things like “yeah”? This is the most boring IM ever.
So see u in august
Or not. Right
Ok gtg
Bye
CU
But think about it okay?
If there’s any chance at all
Do it
Escape
right
but you’re not going to, are you?
probably not
ok
great
fantasterrific
what?
I walk out of the office and the screen door slams shut behind me, bouncing against its frame. I feel vaguely crushed. I’d been putting so much into this idea.
Andre is standing there, leaning against a tree. I can’t believe he’s waiting for me. “So was he there?”
It takes me a second, but I finally nod. “Yeah. He actually was.”
“What did he say?”
“Um . . . not much.”
“You guys going to meet up? Reconnoiter? Rendezvous?” Andre asks.
I shake my head. “I don’t think so.” I feel like really crying, only that’s silly because nothing bad happened. But nothing good happened, either, and right now that’s reason enough.
“No? No. So . . . California, then?” he asks.
There’s a rumble of thunder above us, and dogs in the campsites begin to howl, or maybe they’re wolves. “I’m not going to take that as a sign,” says Andre, with a dejected look at the sky, which has finally darkened, and I see lightning flashing across it.
“I should probably go to my tent. Who are you sleeping with?” I ask.
“Excuse me, that’s personal,” he says.
I punch him lightly on the arm. “I meant, sharing a tent with. Or whatever.”
“Dieter and Wolfgang. But I’m not sure if I know the password because it’s German, so they might not let me in.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
There’s another, louder rumble of thunder, and I wave good-bye and take off for our tent. I’m bunking with Mom, Zena, and Grandma in a four-person tent, which barely gives us enough room. It starts to rain, and within seconds it’s raining harder, then harder still, drops attacking the tent from all sides, pinging and rolling onto the nylon fabric.
Andre’s mom calls through our tent door, and before we can answer she unzips the door and starts to climb in. “Room for one more?” she asks. “I don’t feel safe over there by myself. I thought I wanted privacy, but this camping is for the birds. Can you believe they bring us out here without decent shelter?”
She comes in and settles herself in the middle of us like we’ve known one another for years. She’s wearing silk PJs, and Cuddles is in her arms, as usual. He looks terrified.
“So,” Mrs. O’Neill says as she scoots down in her sleeping bag and covers Cuddles to calm him. “Here we are. It’s not exactly what I planned.”
“Me neither,” I say, and so do Zena and Grandma. The only person not surprised seems to be Mom.
We listen to the pouring rain and talk about our favorite and not-so-favorite things on the trip so far. While everyone talks, I lie there and think about my disappointing Gchat with Dylan. I have to wonder: Do I really like him, or do I just like the idea of him? Did he just save me from yet another horrible school party where I was feeling left out? Maybe I only like him so much because I had a crush on him for so long that it became part of my genetic sequence.
Andre is more my type. But what’s the point of getting involved with him? We don’t even live close by now, never mind in the future.
After a while, as I’m mulling all this over, Grandma asks softly, but loudly enough to be heard over the downpour, “Can anyone else sleep in this racket? Because I can’t.”
“I’m awake,” I whisper, waving to her in case she can’t hear me, but then I realize she can’t see me, either.
“Do you want to play backgammon?” she asks.
“Sure.” I scoot over to sit on her sleeping bag and hang a flashlight
from the roof while she gets out the game. She looks good even at midnight in a tent, with a stylish scarf over her short hair, and pink-and-red polka-dot flannel pajamas.
Everyone else is fast asleep. Mom is snoring, Zena is laughing in her sleep, and Andre’s mom looks peaceful and serene, even though she’s never camped or slept on hard ground before.
“Double or nothing?” Grandma asks after I lose the first game.
“Why not?” I say. I’m up for taking chances these days.
Sleep happy, stay happy, be happy. Our hookup, your trailer.
Happyland RV Park: “One Hookup for Life.”
Gloves,
Tried sleeping with that infernal dog last night. Nowhere near as good as a cat. Didn’t keep me as warm, plus slept on my head, plus does this annoying twitching thing in his sleep, like he’s dreaming of chasing rabbits, which is silly because this dog is about ten times smaller than a rabbit.
How is your summer going? Have you caught many flies yet?
Wish you were here to share my pillow instead.
Your BFF,
Ariel
Chapter Seventeen
The next morning everything is wet, and we eat a breakfast of burned toast and leftover marshmallows and damp graham crackers. Or at least some people do. I opt for bottled water and an energy bar. Tents are hanging from trees to dry in the morning breeze. Sleeping bags are draped over bushes.
While we eat, we watch a tow truck hitching up the bus, which makes an awful groaning sound that must wake up every living thing in or near Happyland. Our luggage and all the stuff we had on the bus is sitting on the ground at our camp area.
Lenny comes by to pour “cowboy coffee,” which tastes like burned cough syrup, and informs us that we’ll all be going on a burro ride after breakfast. “We’re going to be here a day or two, people. The bus can’t be fixed, so we’ll be getting a new one.”
“And where’s Jenny?” someone asks.
“Ah, yes, Jenny. She decided to take some R and R in Deadwood. Not to worry, we’ll meet up with her later.” Lenny tells us he’s convinced a fellow Happyland camper to take him to town in his van so he can stock up on food and drink supplies. “It’s all about going with the flow, people. Learning to adapt.” He sounds extremely calm about our predicament.
Is it sick that I’m glad there’s no bus, because then Mom can’t tell me who to sit with?
“Lenny? I’ll go to town with you,” says Andre’s mom. “I’ll help buy the groceries.”
“Lorraine, how sweet of you to help. Thank you, I’ll take you up on that.” Lenny bows to her.
“Help nothing, I need a day in civilization,” she says as she goes to get her things ready.
“We could come help too,” Andre offers. “Right, Ariel?” He nudges me, his elbow crashing against my ribs.
My mother chokes on her cowboy coffee. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Well, uh—”
“We’ll need the space for groceries. Sorry, kids, but thanks.” Lenny surveys the crowd. “Now, who’s going to volunteer for cleanup crew?”
My mother looks over at me and smiles, like she’s achieved something.
“What did you think—we were going to run away?” Andre smiles and pinches my leg under the table.
“How fast do these things go, anyway?” my grandmother asks as she climbs onto her burro. He keeps sucking his teeth, like he just ate peanut butter, which makes him look a bit surly. He spits at the ground, then sucks his teeth again.
“Ma’am, have you ever been on a burro?” Mandy, one of the guides, asks her.
“I think I rode one about ten years ago in the Grand Canyon. At least my butt remembers,” she says, and Zena, Mom, and I all laugh.
“Don’t you have any jeans, or some thicker pants?” Mandy asks, surveying Grandma’s pink velour du jour tracksuit.
“Sorry. This is how she rides,” jokes Zena.
Grandma goes sort of cantering off, her surly burro slightly out of control. “What do I do?” she turns around to ask. “What do I do?”
“Hold on, woman; I’ll be right there!” Grandpa calls, urging his burro to catch up to her.
“I usually travel by bike,” Uncle Jeff tells Mandy as she helps him get onto one of the horses on the lot.
“Really?” Mandy asks politely.
“Harley,” he says, puffing out his chest a little. He’s trying to impress her, so he doesn’t tell her that this was at least ten years ago. “Now, what’s the difference between a burro and a burr-ee-toe?” he asks as he sets off, following Grandma and Grandpa across the field toward a trail.
“Should a person drink cowboy coffee and then go on a long ride?” an older woman riding behind me asks.
“How do you drive this thing?” her husband jokes.
“Where are my spurs?” Ethel adds. “Are spurs extra?”
After about twenty minutes, everyone who hadn’t already left before me and Andre starts to pass us. We have the slow burros, the ones who’ve been ground down by the boredom, like us.
“Hey, guys!” Wolfgang says as he ambles by on the right.
“Wiedersehen!” Dieter calls over his shoulder as his horse goes galloping past on the left.
“How did he rate a horse?” I ask.
“He’s tall? Or maybe he threatened to sing ‘SexyBack’ again,” Andre says. “Fee I pee . . .”
“Don’t,” I say, laughing.
We let everyone pass us, because this isn’t a race. We have all day to kill, even if the burros are only a three-hour rental. Andre suggests we take a detour. I point out that we’ll lose the group if we do that.
“No, we won’t,” he says. “These animals are slow.”
“Right. Especially ours. So how will we catch up?”
“We’ll leave a trail of Skittles to find our way back.”
“That’s dumb,” I say.
“But it’ll work. Come on, try it.”
I reach into my little backpack. But my burro leans to the opposite side and I wobble, and the Skittles bag slips from my hand. “Oh, shoot. I dropped the bag.” I tell my burro to stop, which is easy for him because he didn’t like moving much anyway. I get off carefully, holding the reins.
Andre stops beside me, but just sits up on his burro, watching me.
“Aren’t you going to come down?” I ask.
“Sure. Of course. Definitely,” he says. But he eyes the ground and then eyes the burro’s neck, and looks around at its legs, its hooves. “How do you, uh, get off these things?”
“Just swing your leg over,” I say.
“But what if he panics and throws me to the ground?”
“He’s not Seabiscuit. He’s a burro. Or she. Whatever,” I say. “They’re tame.” I go and stand by his burro, and sort of put my hand on its flank to keep it from moving.
Andre slides off, into my arms, and we totally crash to the ground. Me cushioning his fall. In other words me, on the ground underneath Andre. Burros above us. Not running away. Not even caring. Here’s their moment of freedom and they don’t budge.
I look away from them and up at Andre. He’s not budging, either. He’s lying on top of me.
“Here. I think you dropped this,” he says, and he picks up a grape Skittle from the assortment on the ground and tries to put it into my mouth.
“That was on the ground. Ew.” I look at him. This camping thing is making me desperate in more ways than one. That was my last bag of candy. My pulse is pounding in my ears, because Andre is lying on top of me. I can’t breathe so well. It seems like everything that’s happened between us so far is nothing compared to this.
“Are you going to eat it or not?” He pushes it against my lips.
“Quit it,” I say, but it comes out sounding like “Mm-mm.” I shake my head, and he pops the candy into his mouth, then kisses me, so I can taste the grape, too.
We start to make out right there, which is totally stupid and c
razy and at the same time fun and exciting, and I’m melting as fast as that grape Skittle that is no more.
We stop for a second, and I look him in the eye. “This isn’t cool. You don’t want a girlfriend.”
“No?”
“No, you don’t. You said that. Really rudely, actually.”
“Right.” He kisses me again. “And then there’s the matter of Dylan, who you’re dying to see—”
I kiss him. “Right. I was. Which makes this—”
“Wrong.” He kisses me. “Taboo.” Kiss. “Not on the list of scheduled stops.” Kiss.
“Actually they’re . . .” Kiss. “Unscheduled . . .” I say. Kiss. “Stops.”
Somewhere above me I hear a throat being cleared. Again. Louder. Still louder.
Then it’s a cough and a hack, like someone choked on a piece of hard candy.
We unlock lips and I look up, and the sun nearly blinds me because of course my sunglasses fell off when I crashed to the ground.
“I think you two may have lost the trail,” says Uncle Jeff, towering over us, looking sort of like a large knight on his steed.
He’s holding a walking stick that could be taken as a sword, if you were far away and had poor eyesight. His floppy hat with a hundred laminated stamp buttons and pins on it is glinting in the bright sun and could be seen as a helmet.
It could also be seen as clashing with his three gold necklaces.
“Uh, oops!” I say, kind of too loudly.
We both stand up, brushing needles and dirt and bark from our clothes.
“You should have seen these crazy burros,” Andre says.
“Oh yeah. They went totally wild,” I add. “Threw us off.”
Uncle Jeff looks at the burros, who are eating the dropped Skittles off the ground. More than tame, they’re resigned.
“Why don’t you try to handle them, and get back on?” Uncle Jeff suggests. He’s not smiling.
Andre steps on a large rock to get onto his burro, while I climb up, dragging myself onto the poor animal. Once I’m back on I adjust my watch, which has gotten all twisted around.
“Let’s go. I’ll bring up the rear,” Uncle Jeff says, and I try not to laugh, but then Andre snickers and I lose it.
The Summer of Everything Page 30
