Starry Eyes

by Jenn Bennett

  “Do you just stick a camera on a telescope and zoom in?”

  “Sort of. Not exactly? It’s . . . There are a lot of fiddly, techy parts. Hard to explain.”

  His smile is gentle. “Maybe you can teach me how? Because I’d love to take photos of the night sky. Especially the moon. That would be so badass.”

  Is he serious? He’s interested in astrophotography? I want to scream, I WILL TEACH YOU! I WILL TEACH YOU SO HARD. But Kendrick calls his name, and Brett ducks around me to answer. Before I can open my mouth, he’s gone, laughing with Kendrick about a carved wooden statue that looks like two squirrels having sex.

  Dammit.

  I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched. It’s the same prickly feeling I had in the car, and it makes me anxious. I glance around, and my eyes immediately meet Lennon’s. The intensity of his stare is startling.

  For the love of Pete, what do you want? It’s as if he’s accusing me of something. I haven’t said a word to him since the Gold Rush store, so I’m not sure what his problem is. I used to be able to read his expressions, but now he’s like the mediocre mime who performs outside the Jitterbug on Mission Street, and I can’t tell if he’s trying to get out of a glass box or signal a taxi. Does Lennon expect a thank-you for the peanut butter fudge? Or is he just trying to unsettle me?

  If so, it’s working.

  But I’ll never let him know that. I quickly turn away and head toward Brett and Kendrick and the mating squirrels.

  After we’re registered, Candy leads us to our cabin tents, giving us an abbreviated tour and answering questions along the way. The main lodge has several lounge areas and connects to a screened-in dining pavilion where dinner will be served later. Outside, winding paths lead to dozens of canvas cabin tents nestled in the woods. Some are rectangular, some round—the yurts—but all are the color of unbleached muslin. They’re grouped into areas named after birds, each area a short walk from the next. It takes us about ten minutes to get to our area, Camp Owl, where two of the rectangular tents sitting near a dense forest are reserved for us.

  Reagan isn’t happy about this. “We’re supposed to have a yurt,” she argues, “with a view of the valley.”

  “Sorry, but Camp Falcon was accidentally overbooked. I put a family of six in my last one earlier this morning.”

  “Not cool,” Reagan says grumpily. “We’ve had the reservation since last summer. My mom isn’t going to be happy.”

  “If you’d like, I’ll call her and explain,” Candy says. “But this might work out better for you. Girls can take one tent, and the boys can take another.”

  The implication is obvious. Candy will call Mrs. Reid and inform her that her daughter has brought along three boys. Reagan fumes quietly, but acquiesces. We really don’t have a choice.

  “Just let life happen,” I tell Reagan.

  “Yeah,” Brett says cheerfully. “That’s right, Zorie. You’re preaching my word, and I dig it.”

  The look Reagan gives me could slice through steel.

  The tents are both exactly alike: sealed cement floors, canvas walls fixed to a wooden frame, a screen door, slatted windows that can be opened to take advantage of the breeze during the day and closed at night to keep the cabin warm, along with a glass-front tent stove. A small seating area surrounds the stove, with a real sofa and brightly patterned Navajo rugs. Two sets of bunk beds stretch across the back of the tent, all with feather-top mattresses, luxury linens, and down pillows.

  Behind the bunks, past a canvas divider, is an en suite toilet and sink. No showers. Those are in the bathhouse down the hill, shared with six other cabins in Camp Owl, Candy reports.

  Candy reports a few other things, as well. “You’re in bear country, and yes, they’ve gotten through the national park fence and come into the compound. For everyone’s safety, all food must be stored in the food locker when it’s not in the process of being served or eaten,” she says, pointing outside the tent’s door to a green metal box that sits beneath a canopy with two rocking chairs. “Either there, or inside a portable food locker, meaning a bear-resistant food container that’s approved by Yosemite and King’s Forest.”

  Lennon’s head slowly turns toward mine.

  Why, oh, why does he have to be right? That peanut butter fudge is not sitting well in my stomach right now.

  Candy ticks off a list on her fingers of what we need to store in the locker. “Unopened food, even in cans. Snacks, drink mixes, vacuum-sealed pouches. Every bit of it. All toiletries with a scent. Lotion, makeup, deodorant.”

  “Cologne, too?” Lennon asks.

  “Yes,” she says.

  “I’m talking strong cologne. Like, some kind of extreme body spray.”

  “Most definitely,” the woman answers, perplexed.

  Lennon flicks his eyes toward Brett. But Brett is completely oblivious, as he’s currently trying to restack water bottles into a pyramid on a console table behind the sofa.

  Candy points to the bathroom. “If you need extras of anything—water, razor, towels—just ask at the front desk. You can call, of course, but cell phone service is hit-and-miss up here. If you ever need to make an emergency call, we’ll let you use the landline. If it’s after ten p.m., Bundy and I stay in the log cabin to the right of the lodge.”

  “What about backcountry permits for King’s Forest?” Lennon asks. “Your website said you can arrange it and have one delivered to our tent.”

  “For a fee,” she says. “We have to drive to a park station to pick them up.”

  “Put it on my credit card,” Reagan says breezily.

  Candy gives Reagan a withering look. “You can stop by the desk at your convenience and fill out the form.”

  Yikes.

  “No music is allowed in the tent cabins,” Candy says to all of us. “No loud talking after sunset when you’re inside your camp. Other guests may be trying to sleep, and these walls aren’t soundproof. Quiet hours start at ten p.m. and last until seven a.m.”

  “Geez,” Summer mumbles under her breath near my ear. “This place is a dictatorship.”

  Candy points in the general direction of the lodge. “We have a small store that sells sweatshirts and rain gear. You can also rent bear canisters and camp stoves. It’s run on the honor system, so you’ll need to put cash in the bin or write your tent number and name on the sheet to have it added to your final bill. Also—”

  Brett’s water-bottle pyramid crashes. Bottles roll across the floor. “Oops, sorry,” he says.

  Candy pauses, and her inner struggle with patience is showing in the slant of her brows, but, clearing her throat, she finishes her speech. “Evening social time starts at six. We serve drinks, then a four-course dinner. We encourage you to mingle with other guests at the nightly bonfire afterward. The pavilion closes at nine. Any questions, come see us at the registration desk.”

  What if I have questions now? No one else is paying attention to Candy, but I wish they’d listed all of this stuff on the website or given us a printout so I could review it and memorize everything. I’m itching to ask her to repeat everything so that I can write it all down. Actually, I’m literally itching and resist the urge to scratch. Lennon’s gaze flicks to my arms, and I feel as if he knows, which only makes the itch worsen.

  If I make it through this week without having a nervous breakdown, I’ll consider it a win.

  8

  * * *

  Since it’s already late in the afternoon, there’s no time to do anything before dinner. So the boys retreat to their tent, and we all unpack. I stash all my food and toiletries in the food locker outside and check my telescope for visual damage; it seems to have survived the bumpy trip on top of the SUV and arrived intact. Then I try to call Mom to let her know I arrived intact. But there’s no service in the tent cabin. There’s Wi-Fi at the lodge, so I go ahead and text—both to her and to Avani—and trust that my messages will go through when I get a signal.

  Reagan disappears, so Summer an
d I set out and explore the Camp Owl section of the compound on our own. There’s a picnic table between our tent and the boys’, and a small trailhead behind us, with a sign warning that the trail feeds into the national forest; Muir Camping Compound absolves itself of responsibility should hikers choose to leave their property. A group of wild, unsupervised kids is running into the woods here, so it can’t be all that scary.

  We avoid the screaming kids and follow a fastidiously landscaped trail: cream-colored rocks banded by the occasional flowering shrub and a steady line of path lights. The trail leads to a cedar-shingled bathhouse.

  “Whoa,” Summer whispers appreciatively when we peek inside, and I’m feeling the same way. It’s practically a spa, one that’s themed to match our beautiful surroundings, and even nicer in person than it was in the online photos: stained wood countertops, stone benches, pretty lanterns hanging from iron hooks near the mirrors. Unlike our tents, there’s electricity here, and a woman is charging her cell phone while she blow-dries her hair. There’s even a small sauna in the back.

  “I’m getting naked with Kendrick in that sauna later,” Summer tells me as we step back outside.

  “Too much information,” I say.

  She laughs. “If you want to get naked with someone, I wouldn’t care. Are you still hung up on Brett?”

  “Umm . . .”

  “He told me you guys hooked up.”

  What? “We didn’t—not like that.” It was just a kiss, for the love of Pete.

  “You’re so easy to embarrass,” she says, grinning. “Did you know your ears turn red? That’s so cute.”

  Jesus.

  “Hey, I was just teasing,” she says, slapping my arm playfully. “Brett’s sweet. And I like how he’s so cool with everyone. Like, I never would have hung out with Lennon in a million years because I didn’t know how cool he was.”

  I’m not sure how to take this. I think I understand what she’s trying to say, and maybe there’s a core of earnestness in there somewhere. But I think she’s also implying that Lennon wasn’t okay until Brett decided he was.

  “You and Lennon used to be a thing, huh?”

  My body stills. “Who told you that?”

  “I just remember seeing you together at school all the time.”

  “We were just friends,” I insist. “Nothing else.”

  Lie.

  One that Summer seems to buy. With a shrug, she says, “I think you guys would make a good couple.”

  “No,” I say, and it sounds like a dog barking. “Absolutely not. We aren’t even friends anymore.”

  She holds up both hands in surrender. “Hey, I only call ’em like I see ’em. Think about it, Miss Astrology.”

  I won’t. And I don’t bother to correct her again—not about her word mix-up or Lennon. It’s true that people at school used to tease us about being best friends—which was often said with a wink and air quotations—and rumors were spread that we were more. That’s precisely one of the reasons we decided to conduct the Great Experiment privately. To avoid gossip at school. Mainly, though, to avoid my dad finding out. Because no way in hell would Diamond Dan allow his daughter to date the son of two heathen women.

  Anyway, I don’t know why I care that Summer assumed something was going on between Lennon and me. I think I should be more concerned that Brett told Summer we hooked up. Maybe Summer heard it wrong or made assumptions. She’s making it sound like he was bragging, but I shouldn’t assume the worst. He could have been telling her that he liked me, for all I know.

  Anything’s possible. But now I’m self-conscious about my ears flaming up, which makes me want to avoid the entire topic. I discreetly make sure my bob covers the telltale redness and don’t say anything further.

  By the time we’ve finished walking the path around our area of the camp, we spot Reagan and the boys lounging at the picnic table between our tents. I’m a little worried Summer might try to tease me about Brett in front of the group, but she just runs to Kendrick, throwing her arms around him and begging for a piggy-back ride. As though the whole conversation about Brett and Lennon is forgotten.

  Good.

  It’s nearly time for dinner service, so we all decide to trek back up to the lodge. We aren’t the only ones. Small groups of campers are headed in the same direction, and once the pavilion is in sight, we join dozens of other guests. Wineglasses in hand, they mingle on rattan-and–carved wood outdoor furniture overflowing with plush pillows on a massive wraparound deck that overlooks a beautiful rocky valley. Everything is suffused with golden light from the setting sun. It’s photographic. Literally. Brett is breaking out his phone to take pictures as a waiter circulates with a tray of hors d’oeuvres.

  Brett whistles. “They must make a killing here.”

  “Maybe not,” Kendrick says, eyeing a bar that’s been set up outside the dining area on a side deck, away from the stunning views. “That wine they’re serving isn’t cheap.”

  “Think they’ll serve us?” Brett asks with a devious smile.

  “That’s the same bartender from last year,” Reagan says, shaking her head. “He’s a dick. I think he’s Candy’s cousin, or something. He’ll probably remember me.”

  “I’ll try,” Summer says. “He won’t know me, and I look legal.”

  She casually strides to the bar and flashes the bartender a smile. After several seconds of small talk, she turns around and returns empty-handed.

  “No way,” Brett says, disappointed. “He wouldn’t do it?”

  “You were right, Reagan. He’s a dick,” Summer reports. “Says he was warned by Candy that a group of underage teens had just checked in, and we’re not to be served alcohol.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Brett says, and turns to Lennon. “We need a plan to get that wine.”

  “I’ll get right on that,” Lennon deadpans.

  Brett laughs, either unbothered by Lennon’s sarcasm or not noticing it. Nothing ever seems to bother Brett. He’s always so happy-go-lucky and at ease with his life. I wish I could be more like that.

  We trail a group of retirees and investment bankers in catalog-perfect outdoor clothes. Reagan spots a place for us to sit inside the pavilion, and we follow her lead to a large, round table. It’s set with modern-rustic china, and the confusing number of glasses and utensils intimidates me. I’m also sitting between Brett and Lennon, which makes me nervous. It’s exciting to have Brett so close, and he’s pretending to stab my hand with a fork, his mood fun and playful. But I’m self-conscious and trying to play it cool.

  And then there’s Lennon. I wish I could just block him out. While Brett’s presence feels light and capricious—he’s moved on to fake-stabbing Reagan, and she’s laughing in that husky voice of hers—Lennon’s feels . . . solid. Weighty. Like I can’t forget that his leg is a few inches from mine. If Brett is Sirius, brighter than anything else in the night sky, Lennon is the moon: often dark and hidden, but closer than any star. Always there.

  One after the other, each table is served the first of four courses, which is some sort of zucchini-and-basil soup. Once it’s on the table, I realize how sorry I am that I’ve only had Lennon’s gifted fudge to eat today, and forget all about the silly tableware and practically inhale the soup. I don’t even care if I’m using the correct spoon. The second course is grilled scallops with some sort of fancy sauce and a tiny salad. The scallops smell amazing. I’m all in.

  “Someone’s feeling plucky,” Lennon notes, gesturing toward my plate with his knife. “Hive-wise.”

  “Scallops are a shellfish with which I’m compatible,” I tell him stoically. Shrimp and crab are iffy, but anything in the mollusk family is low-risk.

  “Oh yeah, that’s right,” he says, nodding slowly.

  We both eat in silence for several seconds.

  Then he asks, “Remember when we had that shrimp scampi?”

  “You never forget a trip to the ER.”

  I was fifteen, and at the time, Sunday dinner with the Ma
ckenzies was a regular event. It was just takeout, typically, and a movie in the living room. Sunny is the chef of the Mackenzie family; Mac, not so much. So it was a big deal when Mac decided she’d make something from scratch. It turned out pretty good, but for some reason, I had a major allergic reaction. Face swelling up, throat closing, trouble breathing—the works. Mac freaked out and took all the blame. My parents were out to dinner, so Sunny rushed me to the hospital emergency room in her car.

  “Bad shrimp! Bad shrimp!” Lennon says, mocking Sunny in a high-pitched voice.

  Sunny had yelled that at the nurse in front of the entire ER waiting room. Loudly. We repeated it for months out of context. It was our inside joke. Anything that went wrong, we blamed it on “bad shrimp.” It never got old.

  It’s still funny. I chuckle softly with a mouthful of scallop and nearly choke.

  Lennon’s eyes slide toward mine. The corners of his mouth turn up as he struggles with a smile.

  Okay, hell has officially frozen over. Pigs flying. Lightning strikes. It’s all happening. Because we are both smiling at each other. Actual smiles!

  What’s going on here? First peanut butter fudge, now this?

  Just stay calm, I tell myself. It doesn’t mean anything. Enemies share a laugh now and then. I keep my eyes on my plate and try to act normal. But when the third course comes, some kind of braised meat—leg of lamb, I think—and Brett has the rest of the group focused on tracking the location of the bartender, I pick up the next fork in my place setting and accidentally bump his hand. He’s left-handed, so his right hand is propped on the edge of the table. And it stays there, even when I snatch my own hand back.

  “Sorry,” I mumble.

  He shakes his head dismissively. “So many forks. And why do we need two spoons? I already used one for the soup. Are they backup spoons?”

  “One pair of fancy chopsticks would have saved them some major dishwashing,” I say.

  “Amen to that.”

  My mom taught him how use chopsticks. The Korean kind, made of stainless steel.

  “What’s that quote from that martial arts movie Once Upon a Time in China?” I ask. “Jet Li says it when he sees the Western place setting.”