by Jenn Bennett
Who knew walking could lead to heartbreak?
Out of curiosity, I screw on a low-power eyepiece and hesitantly aim my assembled telescope toward the Mackenzies’ duplex. Just for a quick look. It’s not as if I usually spy on all the neighbors. I quickly focus on Lennon’s room. It’s empty. Thank God. After an adjustment, I can see an unmade bed and, right beyond it, his reptile terrariums. The last time I was in his room, there were only two, but now there are at least six sitting on shelves and one big floor model. It’s a freaking jungle up in there.
I scan the rest of his room. He has a TV and a million DVDs stacked precariously, out of their cases. Probably all horror movies. An enormous map hangs over his desk. A map of what, I’m not sure, but it’s professional, not one that’s he’s drawn himself—definitely not one of our late-night walking routes. Silly even to think it could be.
A shadow catches my eye as the door to his room swings open and closes. Lennon walks into view. One by one, I watch him turn off lights and heat lamps inside the terrariums. Then he sits on the edge of his bed and begins unlacing his boots.
That’s my cue to bail.
Only, I don’t.
I watch him take off both boots and chuck them in the middle of his floor. Then he tugs up his shirt and pulls it off. Now he’s bare-chested, wearing only black jeans. I should definitely look away before this turns X-rated. But holy mother of God, when did he get all . . . built? I mean, it’s no soccer-player physique, or anything. He’s too lean to be buff. But he flops on his bed, lying on his back with his arms spread, and stares at the ceiling while I keep staring at him.
And staring . . .
There are now muscles where there weren’t before, and his chest is a lot bigger. Is he lifting weights? No way. That is not him at all. He hates sports. He’d rather hole up with a comic book in the dark.
At least, I think he would. I suddenly feel like I don’t know him anymore.
“Of course you don’t,” I whisper to myself. He’s changed.
I’ve changed. Only, I haven’t, or I wouldn’t still be looking at something that should be off-limits.
When I sharpen the focus, I home in on a stack of muscles rippling down his stomach as he sits up again. And—
I pan to his face. He’s staring this way.
Not in my general location, but RIGHT AT ME.
Heart racing, I jerk back from the telescope and lurch to the floor. Smooth move. Like he didn’t see me do that. If I had just kept a level head and shifted the telescope to the sky, I could have played it cool and pretended I wasn’t really spying on him. But now? My humiliation is total and complete.
Good job, Zorie.
I lie on the floor, dying. Wishing I could take back the last few minutes.
Guess I can add that to the list of everything that’s gone wrong today. Andromeda jumps off the bed and licks my nose in concern.
New plan: I am going on that glamping trip—and to the star party on Condor Peak—if it kills me. I have to get away from this place. Away from my cheating dad. Away from the daily mortification of living next door to a sex shop. And far, far away from Lennon.
4
* * *
“Oh, check out this one. It will look great on you,” Reagan says in a loud, raspy voice as she pulls a Barbie-pink backpack off a hook. We’ve been inside this specialty outdoor gear store for all of ten minutes, and she’s already filled up a shopping cart with enough hiking gear to outfit the Donner Party. The store’s owner is probably counting up the total in his head and putting a down payment on a new house. Reagan’s mom gave her a credit card and told her to go wild.
Must be nice.
“Jesus! Look at the price tag. It’s too expensive,” I tell her. It’s one of those structured backpacks that covers your entire back from head to butt and holds whatever it is that backpackers need when they’re hiking—sleeping bags and tent poles, things like that.
“Mom said we could buy anything, as long as it’s in this store,” Reagan argues, giving me a mischievous look as she swings a light brown ponytail over one shoulder. “She will regret that. Besides, my dad just made a shitload of money on the stock market. Why do you think my parents suddenly decided to fly to Switzerland? They can afford a couple of backpacks.”
“There’re four in the cart already,” I point out.
Four backpacks. Three tents. Hiking sticks. Sleeping bags. Headlamps. And a set of enamel cookware, because it was “cute.”
“We’ll be needing it,” she says casually.
“I thought this was glamping,” I argue. “Your mom told my mom that the tents are already set up and that all the meals were provided.”
Reagan pushes the shopping cart into an outdoor clothing area. “Yeah, I stayed there last year for my sixteenth birthday. The compound has really nice yurts.”
“Yogurt?”
“Yurt,” she enunciates, pretending to snap at my nose with her teeth. “They’re giant round tents. You could host a huge party inside one. Anyway, the tents we’re buying today are for the backcountry trip we’re taking.”
I don’t like the sound of that. “No one mentioned this.”
“It’s just walking, Zorie. Anyone can do it.”
I snort. “Says the athlete who gets up every morning at the butt crack of dawn to exercise.”
A tortured look clouds her eyes. Is she thinking about her Olympic failure? I think of what Mom said about Reagan struggling, and I immediately regret teasing her.
“I suppose you’re right,” I say quickly. “It’s just walking.”
Reagan glances down at my plaid skirt and surveys my bare legs. “Hiking will do you good.”
I’m not sure what she means by this, but I choose to ignore it, and instead route the conversation in a different direction. “You’re planning on pitching tents in the wilderness? Like, with wild animals and stuff?”
Reagan smacks her gum and wheels up to a display of hiking boots. On the nearby wall is a giant poster of pretty models dressed in flannel, grinning with perfect teeth as they brave the wilds of their photo shoot, pretending to be roughing it. “There are a zillion campgrounds in King’s Forest. I’m sure we’ll be sleeping in one of them,” she assures me. “At least, I think so. I don’t know. All I’ve been told is that the place we’re going is a couple hours’ walk from the main compound. Your average Silicon Valley wannabe hikers don’t know about it. We’re talking totally off trail, baby.”
Off trail sounds awful. Unlike Reagan, I don’t have boundless natural energy and calves of steel. I need to be where there’s caffeine in walking distance, not fighting off bears and mosquitoes. I make a face at Reagan.
“We can be as loud as we want and no ranger will be there to shush us,” Reagan says in her big, raspy voice. “The people who run the glamping compound are nice, but they know my parents. We can’t really let loose around them, you know? I don’t need them giving my mom a report card on our activities.”
Now I’m wondering what kinds of activities she has in mind.
Reagan points to the poster of the hiking models. “In the backcountry . . . that’s where things will get good. There’s a hidden waterfall inside King’s Forest to die for, and it’s not far from the glamping compound. I’m talking bucket list. Do you know how many people get internet famous just for having the guts to travel to cool locations and take photos?”
Avani’s story about overhearing Brett talking on the phone pops into my mind. My pulse quickens. “You still haven’t told me who’s going.”
“I thought I did,” she says absently. “Summer.”
One of Reagan’s troop. Summer sometimes eats lunch with us in the courtyard at school.
“And?” I coax. “Who else?”
“Kendrick Taylor.” Goes to the private school across town, Alameda Academy. Which is where Reagan would be going if they had a decent athletics department; they don’t, and that’s why a lot of rich kids who play sports go to public school with the rest of
us riffraff.
“Summer started seeing Kendrick a few weeks ago,” she explains before I can ask, and then mutters, “Why are hiking boots so ugly?”
“Because no one cares what you look like when you’re sweating your way up a mountain?”
“Look, if you don’t think you can handle a little hiking, don’t come.”
Her words feel like a slap to the face. And could she have said that any louder? Her booming voice carries through the store, and another customer has turned to look quizzically at us. Public shame is the best.
“I’m sorry,” she says, mouth pulling tight to one side. “I didn’t mean it to come out that way.”
I pretend I’m not upset. Ever since the Olympic trials, Reagan has had the shitty tendency to lash out at people to make herself feel better, so whatever is bothering her probably has nothing to do with me. But now I’m wondering whether I can handle this trip.
“Quit scratching your arm,” Reagan chastises.
I hadn’t realized I was doing that. Stupid hives. I’m going to need to take medication.
Exhaling a long sigh, I calm myself and try to focus on what’s important. “Who else is going?” I press. “It can’t be just Summer and Kendrick.”
She shrugs. “Brett Seager and some dude he’s bringing.”
Bingo. “Oh, really?”
“Yes, really. Don’t faint on me.”
“I won’t,” I say.
“I just know how you are about him,” she says. “You get obsessed and freaky, and I don’t want things getting weird.”
“Why would they get weird? You think I’m going to attack him in the woods?”
She chuckles. “You never know. What happens in the woods stays in the woods.”
I clear my throat and try to sound breezy. “I did hear he’s single again.”
Reagan makes a noncommittal noise. “I thought you were over him?”
“I am.” Mostly.
“Okay, good. But seriously. This is supposed to be a drama-free trip. I don’t want it to be awkward.”
“It won’t be awkward.”
“Excellent.” After a nod, she wheels the cart toward a wall of paddles. Colorful kayaks are suspended alongside them, greens and reds and purples.
“So this waterfall we’re hiking to is only a couple hours away from the glamping compound?” I ask.
“That’s what Brett says. He’s trying to convince the guy who told him about it to lead us there. Oh, that reminds me. Bikinis. We’ll be swimming. Do they sell those here?” She cranes her neck to peer around the store.
No way am I getting in a bikini in front of Brett. Forget it. My stress meter goes up, but I mentally push it back down and try to focus on what I was going to say. “I’m just wondering exactly where the waterfall is, because there are some people I know doing a meet-up on Condor Peak, and I thought about trying to find a ride out there one night.”
Reagan’s nose wrinkles. “Who do you know who’d be meeting on Condor Peak? Oh, hold on. Is this an astronomy club thing?”
“Meteor shower,” I confirm. “There’s a big star party.”
She considers this. “That’s not far from where we’ll be, and you can definitely find a ride out there. The High Sierra bus line has a stop near the compound. I’ll bet even Uber picks up there, if you throw enough cash at them.”
That sounds promising, but I need firmer details. I don’t want to scramble at the last minute. “I guess I could email the compound and ask for advice.”
“Is Avani going to be there?” she asks. “At Condor Peak?”
I nod. Sometimes I think Reagan might be jealous of the astronomy connection Avani and I share. This is ridiculous, because I only spend time with Avani during our club meetings. Before summer started, I saw Reagan every day.
Trying not to scratch my itchy arm, I pretend to browse a display of wide-mouthed water bottles. An idea suddenly hits me. “You could come with me to the star party. I know Avani would like to see you.”
Reagan’s quiet. Just for a second. Then she shakes her head. “I can’t invite people camping and then abandon them.”
I chuckle, slightly embarrassed. “Of course not. Duh.”
A heavy awkwardness fills the space between us, and I don’t know why. Maybe she’s remembering how we used to all be better friends. Maybe she actually wants to go with me to Condor Peak but needs a little push. Sometimes if I prod her, she’ll let down her guard and show me the other Reagan—the girl she used to be when we were younger. Before all of the pressure of the Olympic training. Before her parents got rich.
She slaps my shoulder, startling me. Sometimes Reagan doesn’t know her own strength. “Don’t be such a worrywart. It’s all good,” she says, voice bouncing with positivity. “I think everything will work out for both us. You can spend a little time glamping with my group and then head to your astronomy thing with Avani.”
“Might take some coordinating,” I say, still unsure.
“Nah, it’ll work out fine,” she insists, bugging her eyes out at me comically and then sticking her tongue out briefly. “Just roll with it, Zorie. Let life happen.”
I’m not sure if she realizes, but that’s Brett’s motto. He says it all the time.
Maybe it’s time I take this advice.
* * *
The next morning, I’m letting life happen in the only way I know how, which is me going over my extremely detailed fifty-five-bullet-point list for the camping trip while sitting behind the clinic’s front desk. We leave tomorrow, which doesn’t give me a lot of time to ensure that I have everything I’ll need. I’m a little worried I might forget something.
What that is, I’m not sure. I’ve never been camping. But I’m poking around the glamping compound’s website, and it’s mostly magazine-worthy photographs of the surrounding landscape. The only information I find is a glowing write-up of their chef and wine collection. That and a list of their prices, which are insane. You’d think we were staying at a four-star hotel instead of in a tent.
Avani and I talked on the phone for almost an hour last night. We firmed up plans to meet up at the star party, and she helped me research the bus lines that run out there in the Sierras—which are not frequent. Seems as though I have two chances each day to catch a bus heading toward Condor Peak. At least I now have a plan, which is all I ever wanted.
The clinic’s door opens, and I look up from the front desk’s computer, expecting to see my mom’s next acupuncture appointment. My dad doesn’t have anything booked until after lunch, so he left a few minutes ago to run errands around town. Fine by me. I’ve still barely spoken two words to him. I’m not sure what to say. How’s it going? Any new mistresses this week? Or perhaps, What’s there to do in the Bahamas besides betraying your marriage vows and destroying our family?
I shove all of that into the back of my mind and slip on my polite dealing-with-the-public face. But the smile I’m conjuring quickly fades when I see who’s walking toward the desk.
The Lord of Darkness himself, Lennon Mackenzie.
My first thought: What the hell is he doing in here?
He never comes in the clinic. Ever, ever, ever. It’s probably been a year since he’s stepped foot inside this waiting room.
My second thought: OH SWEET LORD, HE SAW ME SPYING ON HIM IN HIS BEDROOM.
If there’s a God above, please let him or her grant me the power of time travel, so that I can rewind the clock and completely avoid this nightmare of a situation. I blink slowly, hoping Lennon will disappear when I reopen my eyes, but no. He and his too-tall body—don’t you dare think about his bare chest—are still taking up too much room on the other side of the clinic’s desk.
“Hello,” he says. It almost sounds like a question.
I think about lifting my chin without saying anything, like he did to me the other day, but quickly decide I’m classier than that. “Good morning,” I say formally. No smile. He’s not worth the effort.
His eyes drop. He ball
s his hand into a fist and slowly, gently taps it on top of the desk a couple of times while sucking in a long breath between gritted teeth . . . as though he doesn’t know what to say. Or he does, but he really doesn’t want to say it.
“So . . . ,” he finally says.
“So,” I agree. Is he avoiding my eyes? It feels as if he might throw dynamite over the desk and race out the door. Now I understand why people say you can cut tension with a knife.
Is he not going to say anything else?
Is he here to confront me?
What do I do?
“I wasn’t spying on you,” I blurt out defensively. “I was just making adjustments to my telescope. It was repaired. Recently. Recently repaired. I was checking it.”
Oh, now he’s looking at me. Something akin to horror is dawning over his face. Or shock. Or he thinks I’m an idiot. Why can’t I read him? And why is he not saying anything?
“I didn’t even see much,” I insist.
He nods slowly.
“Anything, really,” I amend. “I was testing my telescope.”
“You mentioned that,” he says, squinting at me through tight eyes.
“Sorry. I mean, I don’t have anything to be sorry about, because I didn’t do anything.”
“Right.”
“It was an accident.”
“Got it.”
My eyes flick to his arms. He’s wearing short sleeves, so now I’m staring at muscle. Look away! Look away! Too late. He caught me. Again.
WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?
“So anyway,” he says, setting down a pile of envelopes on the desk, as if nothing is amiss. “I was told to come here and drop off your mail. It got delivered to our shop this morning.”
Oh.
I can barely control the low groan of misery that’s burring from the back of my throat. If I’d just kept my mouth shut . . .
“Uh, thanks.” I shift the letters toward me with one finger and try to recover what little of my pride is left. “These seemed to be sealed, so I guess you guys didn’t open them by mistake this time.”
