“No,” I say, and take a breath. “It helped me navigate through the residues of life.” I look over my shoulder and catch her nodding.
She says, “The residues of life. I like that.”
“It comes straight from my dad.”
She leans back in her seat and smiles.
Grahame rounds a corner. There it is, the gate with a big sign welcoming us to Yosemite National Park. He drives up to the line three cars deep.
While Grahame creeps forward, Ceo says, “Ellie. I have a question for you.”
“Go on.”
“What are your thoughts on Smurfs?”
It takes her thirty seconds to respond, which is twenty-nine seconds longer than the question deserves. I glance in the rearview to see what’s going on. Ceo is focused on her. She’s looking out the window.
“Well?” Ceo says as Grahame pulls up to the gate.
“They’re not completely harmless,” Ellie says. “But they’re harmless enough.”
Ellie heard Nadia’s text come in when Colin was talking about his father.
She resisted checking then because his answer was more than she expected. He talked about his father in the past tense; she heard the notes of sadness around the edges and wanted to know more about the residues of his life. She liked the vision of the right words as an unwavering needle pointing the way and wondered what her compass quotes would be. Before that thought crystalized, Ceo asked her the Smurf question.
Ellie remembered looking at the tattooed barista, believing that Newton’s first law was the reason behind it all. Behind her willingness to tear open the neatly wrapped package of her life. Her willingness to tell lies to her parents, friends, and teammates. All that and more so she could set this object in motion. She told Ceo that Smurfs aren’t harmless but they’re harmless enough. He smiled the way he smiled at her at the beach, then leaned across the seat, tucked a strand of hair behind an ear, and kissed her on the cheek.
The car ahead of them pulls a U-ie on the other side of the booth and leaves. A frowning kid in the backseat waves to her as they pass. It looked like the two adults in the front seat were fighting. Grahame drives up to the booth, lowers his window, and asks the uniformed woman inside, “So where’s the fire, ma’am?”
“In a box canyon six miles southeast of here.”
“How bad is it?”
“Eighty percent contained. If the wind doesn’t pick up ahead of the storm, it will be out by tomorrow afternoon. But it’s going to be smoky in some areas for the rest of the weekend. Where are you headed?”
“Lower Merced Pass Lake.”
She shakes her head. “Sorry. Access to that trail is limited to emergency personnel only.”
Ceo lowers his window. “What’s it like in the valley?”
“About like it is here. Not a good day for pictures. And we don’t recommend going if you have respiratory issues.”
Ceo asks Ellie, “Do you have any respiratory issues?”
“None,” she says. “But my eyes are allergic to smoke.”
Ceo asks the woman, “What’s it like above the rim?”
“All clear on the north side.”
Grahame says, “So what’s the plan, chief?”
Ceo says, “I vote we head into the valley and figure it out from there.”
An engine rumbles behind them. Ellie looks out the rear window. Two men on Harleys are at the front of a very long line.
The woman says, “Sir, you need pay the entry fee or pull forward and turn around.”
Grahame says to Ceo, “What about the pilgrimage?”
Ceo shrugs. “No cannabis, no cove.”
Ellie thinks, Cannabis?
Grahame looks at Colin. “Am I dah only one here dat smells dah fookin’ bool-sheet?”
Ceo says, “Dude, what’s it going to take for you to stop talking like that?”
Grahame says, “Eets dah way ah talk when you be deeshin’ dah bool-sheet.”
“Maybe this will work,” Ceo says.
Ellie watches him pull out his wallet, remove a thick wad of cash, and peel off a hundred-dollar bill. He rips the hundred in half, slaps one half on the armrest between Grahame and Colin. “You’ll get the other half if you don’t talk like a toothless Jamaican mobster pimp for the rest of the trip. Does that work for you?”
Grahame pockets the shredded bill, winks at Ellie in the mirror.
“Sí, señor.”
A quarter mile from the Wawona Tunnel she remembers to check her phone. It’s a good thing she didn’t wait a minute longer because her reception is nearly gone. There are two texts, not one. The first is from Nadia. It’s a screenshot of Ellie’s Instagram, where she posted the fake picture of Ellie with Jenny, the fake admissions representative she met on her fake visit to Pepperdine. The picture has seventeen likes, two of them being from her sister and her mother.
The second text is from her mother.
JANICE BOYER
Dad set up a lunch date on Sat. with Dr. Halliday. His office number is 310-555-4426. He’s expecting your call. Have fun in Malibu. We’re all so proud of you!
Colin is waiting outside the terminal, not sure who or what to look for. The text said someone was on the way. He blinks at the sunlight filtering down through the exhaust of circling shuttle buses and taxis. Not too far away are palm trees, their leaves covered with dust, but the green looks good against the blue sky.
A red two-seater Mercedes convertible pulls up to the curb, and the trunk lid opens.
The driver gets out, shouts over the traffic, Are you Colin?
Yes.
Load your shit and let’s go.
Colin tosses his racquet bag and carry-on into the trunk and climbs into the front seat. Smells leather and coconut oil. And…perfume? The music is something that sounds like Pearl Jam but isn’t.
The guy screeches away from the curb into the flow of traffic. He turns to Colin, reaches out his right hand for a shake, and says, I’m Ceo.
I’m Colin.
Ceo tells him Coach couldn’t make it, so it’s my job to entertain you till practice tomorrow.
Colin says, Thanks, then to keep things going he adds, this is my first time in a Mercedes.
Ceo says, This is my first time with a Vermonter.
Colin tells him Vermonters don’t get out much. They’re basically hobbits.
Ceo says, Dude, I’ll never go to your state.
Why? Colin asks.
I hate maple. The taste, the smell, the fucking word. Brrrruugh. So I won’t go to Vermont because of all those freaking maple trees.
Colin says, Good to know, thinking about all the maple treats his mother insisted he bring for gifts.
Ceo puts on aviator sunglasses. Dark, like the leather seats. They reflect the sky.
He says, Do you have Frisbees in Vermont, Colin?
We’ve had the technology for two years. They’re starting to catch on.
Ceo regards him for a beat with those glasses. Says, Two years is no excuse. You better have skills because if you suck, then you might as well go home.
He grins wide, says, We’re going to the beach, and pushes a button on the dash. The top opens up and folds behind them. Ceo’s hair floats across his tanned face like a mane of yellow in the wind.
Colin thinks he’s never seen anything quite like it.
Except in magazines and movies.
Ceo insists we stop on the other side of the Wawona Tunnel. He says if Q’s going to pop his Yosemite cherry, that’s the proper place to do it. I’ve seen pictures of Yosemite from Inspiration Point, so I know what to expect. But my eyes still water when we exit the tunnel and park at the overlook. It’s like we traveled back in time to this vast, scooped-out valley complete with thousand-foot waterfalls and everything all green and gold and so screamingly ancient I find myself expecting to see the heads of long-necked dinosaurs grazing on treetops.
But all is not right in the valley.
Massive granite walls rise up from
a translucent yellow-brown smoky haze. The air has the disturbing scent of charred wood with an occasional ash flake floating down like the one I just blew off my hand. Unlike the camera-toting folks from the four charter buses idling nearby, I don’t bother taking pictures. No sense wasting the little juice my phone has left.
Ceo asks a woman to take a picture of the four of us. We line up, Grahame, me, Ceo, Ellie, backs to the expanse, and she takes the shot. Then Ceo asks her to take one more and changes places with Ellie. That move strikes me as odd, and I’m sure my confusion shows when she counts to three and snaps the second pic.
On the way back to the car Ceo walks with Grahame, talking about something I can’t hear. He points up to the valley rim; Grahame nods and laughs. Fifty yards from the car Ellie tells me she feels like she’s seen me before. That I’m familiar and she can’t line up my face with the where and the when, which is unusual for her, and that’s been bugging her since the airport.
I could go with the truth and nearly do. But at the last second it ducks into the shadows, and I’m left with my old friend, the fish. I say you probably saw my picture. It was on page four in the C section of the Burlington Free Press. When I was eleven I just missed the state walleye ice-fishing record by a quarter ounce.
She says, “To be so young and so close. What’s it like being a quarter ounce from number one?”
I say, “Five years of hypnotherapy and I still ask myself every day how different would my life be if that fish hadn’t skipped breakfast before it bit my yellow-tailed jig.”
I catch her studying me with those miss-nothing eyes just before we get into the Cherokee. I say, “There’s a different story that doesn’t involve a fish.”
She smiles. “I’d like to hear that story.”
All I can see from there to the valley floor are those eyes and the smile below it.
Since the pilgrimage to Cannabis Cove went up in literal flames, we need a plan B. Our first stop is the visitor center, where Ceo buys Best Backpacking Trips and Trails of Yosemite and the Central Sierra. We assemble outside in the smoky air to discuss our options.
Ellie says, “Whatever you decide is fine with me. I need to take care of something,” and she walks back into the visitor center.
Grahame, watching her go, says, “Is she using the restroom again?”
“Why?” Ceo says. “Is there a limit?”
“Just making an observation.”
“About what?”
“It seems like a lot to me.”
“Meaning what exactly?”
“Nothing. Forget I mentioned it.”
“I’ll just add it to the crazy-shit-you-say list.”
Ceo starts rattling off trail descriptions and their highlights. I know I should be listening, but it really doesn’t matter to me which trail we take out of the smoke. It’s going to be a thigh-busting grind no matter what. I can deal with that. What I’m having problems with is what I heard when Ceo leaned over in the Cherokee. I’m pretty sure he kissed her, and it’s really crazy how this is spinning me because (a) they weren’t, like, making out, and (b) she’s with him and that’s
How. It. Is.
I’ve been friends with Ceo long enough to know when girls are present, he is the sun and I am the shadow. But I keep thinking about Ellie’s John Cusack question (I’ve never told anyone about the compass quotes), and the smile she gave me at the overlook. For a moment, one blindingly ridiculous moment, I knew what it felt like to be the sun. Now the thought of her spending two nights in a tent with a confessed Cusack hater—while I’m rubbing shoulders with Grahame—is a tough pill to swallow. But swallow I must because Ceo says he’s found it, the ultimate freaking trail.
He reads us the description and highlights, making sure to emphasize 2,600 feet of elevation gain in 1.5 miles, 108 switchbacks, and the fact that the Snow Creek Trail is widely considered the toughest trail out of the valley.
When he’s done, he looks at Grahame and says, “Well?”
Grahame nods. “That could work.”
They share a smile. Bump fists.
“What could work?” I ask.
“LMS,” Ceo says, “to the freaking top.”
On Tuesdays and Thursdays Coach has us run bleachers. It’s the most dreaded drill we do. Ceo would always beat everyone—until Grahame transferred in last year. They turned it into a race called Last Man Standing, or LMS. The winner laps the stadium twice, or someone collapses, whichever comes first. Vomiting is usually involved, along with some kind of demeaning wager designed to humiliate the loser. Coach outlawed LMS after Rhody fell down a flight of stairs, resulting in a separated collarbone and an ambulance ride to the hospital.
I look up at the valley rim. The distance is staggeringly vertical. I can’t imagine hiking it, let alone running it. “When did you come up with this insanity?” I ask.
“At the overlook,” Ceo says. “I suggested it to Grahame, and he said sure, if I found the right trail. One hundred eight switchbacks in one point five miles sounds right to me.”
“With packs on?”
“Even better.”
Ellie returns in time to see them bumping fists again.
“What did I miss?” she asks.
There’s something odd about her voice, a slight shake to it that wasn’t there before.
“These guys are going to race to the top,” I say.
“In this air?” Her voice is back to its steady self.
“No worse than running on Wilshire in the summer,” Grahame says.
Ceo says to us, “You two are welcome to join.”
“I’ll pass,” I say. “Someone needs to notify your next of kin.”
Ellie rolls her eyes, like let the stupid begin.
Ceo says to Grahame, “So what’s on the table?”
“It needs to be something good. Something special. A prize, you know”—Grahame looks straight at Ellie with a thin smile—“worthy of the challenge.”
She doesn’t flinch or turn away. For a sickening beat I think he’s going to put her on the table.
Grahame says with his eyes still locked on hers, “Do you know CPR?”
“Yes.”
“Good. When this is done, your man’s gonna need chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth.”
“He’s not my man,” Ellie says evenly. “My implies possession, and that was abolished in 1865.”
Grahame considers her point. “Okay, whatever that means.” Then to Ceo, “How about a Double-B for a week?”
“Make it two weeks and you have a deal.”
Ceo offers a hand to Grahame.
They shake, grinning like hounds at a bunny hunt.
As we climb into the Cherokee I’m thinking about my dad and all those fish that found their way into his net. He said the secret isn’t in the bait, it’s in the presentation.
Poor Grahame.
He never felt the hook.
“I’d like to speak with Dr. Halliday.”
“I’ll see if he’s in. Please hold.”
Ellie listens to Vivaldi on the phone. Wishes something less cheerful were on, something more closely aligned with what she’s about to do. She mentally rehearses what she’s going to say while watching a little girl spin the postcard rack next to a woman wondering which stuffed animal is worth forty-five dollars, beaver or bear.
“Dr. Halliday speaking.”
Ellie winces. She was hoping for voice mail. Oh well.
“Hi, Dr. Halliday. This is Ellie Boyer—”
“Oh, hi, Ellie! So nice to hear from you. I’ve been looking forward to our lunch. There’s a new place in Temescal Canyon I’d like to try. You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”
“No. I’m a flesh eater. But I need to—”
“Just a second. My travel agent is calling. Hold on.”
Back to Vivaldi. Music to lie to, she thinks.
“Hi, Ellie. Sorry about that. I’m leaving for Brussels on Monday, and there’s a hitch in my accommodations at that end. So wher
e were we? Lunch. But first, how’s your dad?”
“He’s fine.”
“Has he cured cancer yet?”
“No. But he gets closer every day.”
“And Janice? The last time I saw her was at Pete’s wedding. Your mom is an excellent dancer. Are you as good as her?”
“Yes she is, and no I’m not.”
Polite laughter on the other end.
“So? How are you enjoying our campus?”
She looks outside. Evergreens and soaring cliffs. “It’s beautiful. I love it here.”
“Have you seen the soccer fields yet?”
“No. But that’s a must for sure. Speaking of tomorrow, I’m afraid I can’t make our lunch date.”
A disappointed sigh at the other end. “I’m sorry to hear that. Hang on.” She hears a keyboard clicking. “Luckily it looks like my afternoon tomorrow is wide open. We could switch our lunch to an early dinner if that works better for you.”
“No. They have me on a pretty tight schedule.”
“What do they have you doing?”
“Actually,” she says, searching for something that is at least partly true, “I’m going on a hike.”
“I didn’t know hikes were part of the recruitment process.”
“It was a special request on my part.”
“Well, that shows how much we want you here.”
“I guess.”
“Where will you be hiking?”
“A park, but she didn’t tell me which one.”
“Probably Malibu Creek, or maybe Topanga Canyon.”
“All I know is I’m supposed to bring sunscreen and a hat. Lunch will be provided.”
“Who’s taking you? I’d like to personally thank him or her for treating you so well.”
“Jessie. I don’t remember her last name. She’s a student. From Texas.”
Hears writing at the other end. “Is that Jessie with an i or a y?”
“An ie, I think.” Shit!
“Well, looks like you have a perfect day. Hopefully, the weather up north won’t make its way down here. Carl may have to cancel his tee time.”
“He stopped playing golf because of his back. But that’s another story. I’m sorry, but I have to go. My new friends are waiting.”
“Okay, then. A rain check?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
Bad Call Page 6
