With the cold remnants of the macaroni and cheese forming a yellow cement in our aluminum plates and the fire reduced to yellow flickers over glowing coals, Ceo says, “Well, folks, I think it’s time we head for the bags.”
And there it is: the moment of truth.
The kick-in-the-gut moment I’ve been dreading ever since Ellie smiled at me at the overlook, and maybe even before that. Ellie hardly said a word during dinner, making me wonder what Grahame said to her and whether this moment is weighing on her, too. I need to know where her head is on all this. But getting to that information, given the way the stars are aligning, is an unknowable thing.
Then Ceo says, “But before we get all comfy we have some chores to do. Grahame, since you’re the official bear sheriff, you get the honors of picking out the tree we’ll use to hang the food. I’ll keep you company. That leaves you two”—a nod to me and Ellie—“in charge of doing the dishes.”
“I’m good with any plan that keeps me close to the heat,” I say, resisting the urge to glance at Ellie.
Grahame says, “But I’m not. Since I’m the bear sheriff, I pick Ellie as my deputy.”
Ceo says, “I think you’ll like my original plan.”
“Hard to see that happening.”
“Do you remember when I told you I sold all the weed to buy the Laker tickets?”
“I’ll never forget,” Grahame says.
“Well, that isn’t all true.”
“How much isn’t true?”
Ceo unzips a pocket in his coat. Waves a baggie with a couple joints inside.
Grahame smiles under his headlamp. If he was a dog, his tail would be wagging. He says, “Dude, let’s hang some food.”
Ceo says, “I figured you’d see the light. Colin, can you hand me the rope?”
It’s on a rock next to their tent. We’re about the same distance away, but I shrug and do as he asks. He meets me on the way back. As I hand it to him he whispers something in my ear.
Then he and Grahame walk into the woods.
One swinging a rope.
The other carrying an ax.
Colin scrapes the remains of dinner into the coals while Ellie pours water into the cooking pot, puts it on the stove, stands back to wait for the boil. Colin stands beside her, hands in the pockets of his jacket.
“Alone again, again,” he says.
“Strange how that keeps happening.” She remembers what Grahame said—date-dumping—and wonders if he’s right.
They watch two headlamps move from tree to tree. She glances at the water. Bubbles are forming. Steam rises from the surface in feathery wisps carried away by the wind. She senses he has words in him, feels the tension of the unsaid by the way he stands stiff against the cold and shuffles his feet and keeps looking at her to see if she is looking at him. Well, she has words too. But time is working against them. The guys must have found a good tree because they are throwing a rock tied to a rope at a high branch. It shoots out like a spiderweb in the beams of their headlamps. The rock arcs over a branch on the second throw, and they lower it to the ground. As the stuff sack with their food rises up and up, Colin turns to her and says through a cloud of cold, “It’s boiling.”
“Oh.” She uses her gloved hand to lift the pot off the stove. He holds out their plates, and she pours a little water in each. Their eyes catch and release. He swirls the sludgy water around, dumps it on the coals that hiss and steam. While he wipes the plates dry with a paper towel she looks out at the two guys and says, “I get the feeling that Grahame likes pot.”
“He told me he wants twins just so he can name them Fattie and Blunt.”
“And Ceo?”
“He’s more on the retail end. His twins would be named Supply and Demand.”
Ellie watches Colin stack the plates on a rock next to Ceo’s pack. He returns to the fire and asks, “How did Ceo do it?”
“Do what?”
“Get you to say yes to a camping trip with three guys.”
“Do you have a problem with it?”
“No. I’m glad you’re here. Seriously glad, in fact. I’m just wondering how he did it.”
She glares at Colin over the sparks. “You make it sound like it’s all him. Like I didn’t have a choice.” As shock registers on his face, she adds, “Or maybe you think I’m some soccer slut looking for a romp in the woods with three racquet swingers.”
“Hey, I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant. If you’d—”
Ellie elbows him in the ribs. “Just kidding. I’ve been asking myself the same question.” Ellie looks across the fire and into the woods. Ceo and Grahame are standing under the food sack hanging ten feet above their heads. They’re passing something between them in the beam of their headlamp, smoke and vapor rising. She figures she has as much time as it takes them to share a joint. Back to staring at the flames, she says, “Ceo told me that he was coming with friends. He didn’t tell me they were all guys. I assumed at least one would be a female. Or worst case, they’d all be female.”
“So you had a surprise at the airport.”
“Yes, I did. Two of them.”
“You could have turned around.”
“That’s true. And I almost did.”
“Yet here you are.”
“Yet here I am.”
“What stopped you?”
Laughter echoes down from the hill. Ellie recognizes the depth and tone. Grahame. She says, “How familiar are you with Newton’s first law of motion?”
“I just happen to be taking physics this quarter. Objects at rest remain at rest; objects in motion remain in motion, unless acted upon by an outside force.”
“That incomplete answer gets you a C-minus. An object at rest stays at rest, and an object in motion stays in motion at the same speed in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force.”
“A C-minus is pretty harsh.” Colin looks at her, smiling just a little. “So which are you? The object or the unbalanced force?”
Ceo starts howling like a wolf. Grahame joins him.
Colin says, “All right. So you’re not the unbalanced force.”
The wind shifts and picks up a little, blowing smoke in their faces. She waits for the smoke to clear, using the time to figure out how far she’s willing to go. “My life has been moving in a straight line ever since I was ten. That’s when people noticed that I was pretty good at kicking and catching a soccer ball. So those people made a plan. They said train hard. Hone my skills. Win tournaments. Make the Olympic Development Program. Train harder. Win more tournaments. Make the US national team. Win the Olympics. Get a gold medal. Make my family, town, and country proud.”
“That’s an impressive plan.”
Ellie says nothing, waits to see if Colin will fill in the blanks.
He says, “But it isn’t your plan.”
“You raised your grade to a C-plus.”
“That’s all?”
“There’s still room for improvement.”
“You’re worse than my mom. So tell me your plan.”
“I’m taking next year off.”
“Soccer or college?”
“Both.”
Colin whistles between shivers. “That’s bold. What are you going to do?”
Ceo tries to jump up and touch the food sack. Then Grahame tries. He falls. Ceo helps him up. Ceo tries and falls. They laugh, try again.
“I made a connection with a screenwriter at the workshop. I’m going to move into the apartment over her garage, get a job at a studio, and enroll in USC film school the following year. It’s time to follow my deeply held passion.”
“And that deeply held passion is…?”
After a beat, “Do you know how many females have received an Oscar for cinematography?”
“Please tell me there’s at least one.”
“Wrong. Eighty-nine shows, over six hundred fifty candidates. No woman has ever even received a nomination.”
“That has to be among the worst shut
outs in the history of shutouts.”
“Someone has to end it.”
“Someone with mad soccer skills, no doubt.”
“It’s my Olympic medal.”
He nods while avoiding smoke. “And that’s why she’s quitting soccer.”
“And you just raised your grade to an A-minus.”
“Can’t you do that after playing in the real Olympics?”
“My heart isn’t there. It wouldn’t be fair to the team.”
“True that. Do your parents know about this plan?”
“No. But they will as soon as I get back.”
“How will that go?”
“My father’s still mad at me for skipping a showcase tournament to attend the workshop. When he hears my plan, his head will literally explode. My mom—she’ll spend thirty minutes reminding me that she gave up her career as a pilot. That my little sister, Lizzy, didn’t have a childhood, all so that I could follow my dream to be a professional soccer player. I’ll tell her that it’s been her dream, not mine. Then her head will explode, too.”
“Is that a genetic condition, all these exploding heads?”
“The people of my tribe have very thin skulls. They’re basically eggshells.”
Grahame takes a final hit from the joint, tosses it to the ground, and grinds it with a boot. They start walking back to camp. It’s a thirty-second journey. She watches Colin watch the fire, sees the gears turning.
The fire snaps. Sparks fly. He turns to her and says, “You met Ceo at the workshop.”
“Correct.”
“So you know his father owns Dancing Hippo Studios.”
She smiles as Colin’s eyes fill in the blanks.
“Congratulations, student Q. You earned an A-plus.”
We crawl into our respective nylon-walled bubbles, the zippers making a final closing statement on this night. Their tent glows orange under the stars. Ours smells like weed. I feel every bump and ridge of the rock beneath me, and the cold seeps up through my sleeping bag and into my skin, even though I’m wearing every piece of clothing I have. Grahame brought the ax. It is between us like a little fence. Once we’re completely settled, Grahame turns off his headlamp. The other tent continues to glow. Thankfully my nightmare vision doesn’t come true. There are no silhouettes, female shaped or otherwise.
Grahame asks, “Did you and Ellie have a nice little chat?”
“We did.”
“Then can you explain how the hell she wound up with Ceo?”
I think about what she told me, and what I figured out. I could tell him the truth, that Ceo is a means to an end, but I don’t see that being helpful in any possible way. That’s a secret Grahame would not be able to keep. And it hurts me in ways I don’t want to think about. All I say is, “He reminds her of Isaac Newton.”
“The fig cookie dude?” Grahame laughs. Since he’s way better at physics than I am, I figure that’s the weed talking and say nothing.
A minute later he says, “She looks like a true athlete. Too bad she plays soccer. Can you imagine those legs in a tennis skirt? Man, I could watch her serve all day. Maybe I will.”
I hope that’s the weed talking.
The wind is picking up. After a few minutes of playing hockey with our tent, Grahame says, “Every time that happens I think it’s a bear.”
“Did you see Kung Fu Panda?”
“Yes.”
“I pretend it’s that bear.”
The light goes off in the other tent.
Darkness descends to claim its long-awaited prize.
After a minute Grahame says, “Shit, Q. Do you need to move around so much?”
“I’m sorry. Are my chattering teeth keeping you awake?”
“Isn’t camping awesome?”
“It’s the best,” I say.
An hour later Grahame is snoring while the wind roars over us like a thing unleased. We are alone on the side of a mountain, where every creak and shudder traces back to padded feet with claws. My feet are cold. An ax blade keeps digging into my right shoulder. But none of that matters because my mind is looping the words Ceo whispered to me when I handed him the rope and Ellie stood by the fire, waiting.
This is your moment, Q. Use it or lose it.
Colin gets the text just as class is ending. Grahame wants to warm him up before his challenge match with Ceo, says to meet him on the glory court at three. Grahame usually warms up with some stud Coach brings in for him to play because Grahame is like a jungle cat and needs fresh meat. Colin usually warms up with Ceo and Rhody, but this offer from Grahame is too good, and this match and the scholarship that hangs in the balance is too important. Ceo will get what he needs. He always does.
Colin texts, OK, while cutting through the library, where he hopes the kiosk girl with the short blond hair and nose ring will sell him a blueberry muffin. She is, she does. She tells him these muffins come from a bakery down by the pier and if he gets there before eight a.m. they’ll still be warm. He tells her that sounds like an excellent way to start the day, but doesn’t tell her that he would rather buy them from her even if they are cold and wrapped in plastic. She tells him, Oh, by the way. I’m there every Tuesday and Thursday at that time, gives him a smile and a napkin with his change. He puts one dollar in the tip cup and thinks about finally doing what he couldn’t do last time or the time before that or the time before that.
Ask her her name.
Ceo witnessed the most recent muffin-for-money-but-no-name moment and told him it was too painful to watch. He said, A, it’s a good thing she doesn’t sell lobsters, otherwise you’d be more broke than you are already, and B, there’s no doubt she wants to trade bodily fluids with you, but dude, getting her name is like the base before first base. He then said, Observe, my friend, take notes if you must. He walked up to a random girl, said, Hi, my name is Ceo, what’s yours?
Her name was Jilleine, spelled like caffeine, except with a Jill in front. Ceo had coffee with her the next morning. Which turned into yet another night sleeping off campus.
As he turns away she says, Bye, Colin.
He stops and smiles at her, and above the sudden pounding in his ears says, Thanks for the pastry, and oh, I’m wondering—
But the next guy in line steps between them, and she is occupied with another transaction. Colin walks away, muffin in hand, because that’s how the world spins for people that say stupid shit like thanks for the pastry. Rather than dwell on the unrelenting order of his universe, he reminds himself that Grahame is waiting and he needs to get his head where it belongs:
On. The. Match.
He exits the library, and his phone rings.
Ceo.
Colin knows he shouldn’t answer, but he does because otherwise he will never hear the end of it.
Hey, Colin says.
Where you at?
On my way.
Is there a muffin in your hand?
Yes.
And?
Blueberry.
No shit. And…?
Colin sighs. She knew my name.
A laugh from Ceo. I guess you’ll have to do the right thing and marry her.
You told her, didn’t you?
We had a conversation about muffins and the people who buy them. I believe your name did come up. So did the word cute.
Colin responds by strangling the phone.
Ceo says, Did she give you a napkin with that muffin?
Yes.
Don’t throw it away. That’s all I’m saying. See you at warm-ups.
Ceo hangs up.
Colin looks at the napkin. She wrote in blue pen inside the fold: Emily 229-0037.
He throws away the muffin because eating a carb bomb right before a big match is a stupid thing to do. He had no intention of eating it anyway. He never does. But the napkin goes in his back pocket. He hates himself for putting it there.
Then he texts Ceo: Warming up with G. See you in 20 with my A game.
After the warm-up Grahame tells Colin
to attack Ceo’s backhand and his second serve. Make him bleed like a gutted hog when he hits the short ball, especially to your forehand, which you’re hitting great. Don’t be afraid to come to the net, just remember to cover the crosscourt pass when you do. That’s his money shot. He’ll spray down the line, nine out of ten. He may throw up a couple lobs, but they’re more pathetic than his backhand. Play your game, Q, not his, an’ eet will all be good, mon, don’t cha know. Just don’t let him fuck with your head. You won’t let him do that, right?
Colin thinks about the homeless guy and the bird.
About the bet he lost and the pending trip to San Clemente.
About the napkin with the number he should call but now he won’t.
About this match he can’t afford to lose, because if he does, he drops out of the top two, and his scholarship goes down in flames.
Say it, Grahame repeats. Say you will not let him fuck with your head.
I won’t let him fuck with my head, Colin says.
I open my eyes, and the sky is gray. Someone is pouring water nearby. The sound resolves into Grahame bare-assed and pissing where the fire used to be. I sit up and smile because all is right with the world. Mother Nature shook us like Vegas dice all night long, and we’re on the other side of it.
One night down, one to go.
Grahame pulls up, zips up.
I say, “So, we’re not making a fire?”
He turns, sees me through the tent. “Dude, when nature calls, you don’t put her on hold so you can dig a hole.”
“But why on the fire rocks?”
“I needed something to aim at.”
I unzip the tent, crawl out into the dawning day. I’m expecting a blast of cold but am happily surprised. The Vermonter in me guesses a temp around the freezing mark, maybe slightly above. The clouds are thick and drifting, like bored thugs looking for something bad to do. I scan full circle. There’s a lot more rock than I remember from yesterday. Barren spots with drop-offs of uncertain height are scattered on a landscape featuring steep slopes and thinning trees. The mostly naked summits are clear of weather but not by much, including Mount Watkins, our destination for today. I give those clouds another suspicious look, then jam my fingers into my leather gloves, which are too much like me, stiff and cold. I hope we start for that summit sooner rather than later. But the other tent is zipped up tight with no visible signs of life therein.
Bad Call Page 11
