by Jenn Bennett
“And figure out what to do about this tent,” I say, glancing at Brett. “I don’t think you can sleep here.”
Summer shrugs at Brett. “You can just sleep in Reagan’s tent. I mean, you’d end up there, anyway, right? No biggie.”
My body goes rigid.
“Uh-oh,” Summer murmurs. “Sorry, guys. I know I wasn’t supposed to say anything.”
I glance from Summer to Reagan and Brett. “Are you two . . . together?”
Brett turns around and mumbles something to Reagan that I can’t hear as he takes a couple of steps toward the river.
“Reagan?” I say. “Is it true?”
“Zorie . . .” She squeezes her eyes shut.
Oh, God. It is true.
“You two are together? Why didn’t you tell me?”
She lifts a hand to gesture and then lets it fall back down to her side and shakes her head. “I don’t know. Because.”
“Because why?”
“I knew you’d flip out, okay?” she says, suddenly defensive.
“I’m not—”
“You are doing it right now. Don’t you see? You always get freaked out when things don’t go exactly the way you’ve planned, with all your stupid blueprints and checklists, and maybe I just didn’t want to deal with that.”
I’m humiliated. And confused. If she was seeing Brett, why did she encourage me to go after him back after the kiss at that party? “How long have . . . ? I mean, since when?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Why?” she says, exasperated. “Don’t you get it? I was trying to spare your feelings. That’s why I made Brett invite Lennon along.”
“What are you taking about?”
“I know you guys dated last fall. One of Summer’s friends saw you guys mauling each other’s faces near the skate park. Everyone knows!”
Oh, God. I want to die. I can’t even look at Lennon. I’m utterly humiliated.
“And the thing is,” she continues, “you insisted that the two of you were just friends, even when I asked you point-blank if you were seeing each other. I even asked Avani—because God knows you tell her more secrets than you’ve ever told me—but she covered for you and said nothing was going on.”
This is impossible. Avani never knew, so there was no reason for her to “cover” for anything.
Reagan crosses her arms. “Apparently, I’m not part of the inner circle anymore. I’m just someone you use when it’s convenient, like when you need a place to sit at lunch.”
“That’s not true!” Right? I’m not using Reagan—at least not more than she uses me. She cheats off my tests in class. She calls to ask for help with homework. Do I not help her?
“Clearly you don’t trust me with your secrets,” she says. “So why should I trust you with mine?”
I want to respond, but I’m stuck in place, dumbly staring.
“Reagan . . . ,” Summer says in a tentative voice.
“You just couldn’t keep quiet, could you?” Reagan says, turning on Summer. “A couple more days, and she would be gone on her stupid astronomy club meet-up. All I asked was that you not say anything about Brett and me until after she’d left, but you couldn’t help yourself, could you?”
“I—”
“I just wanted one nice thing this summer. Just one!” Reagan’s eyes gloss over with tears. “None of you has any idea what I’m going through. You have no idea what’s it like to train every single day for years—years! Then my foot slips for a fraction of a second and I have to give up on my dreams.”
“You aren’t the only person here with dreams,” I tell her.
“But I’m the only person here with the talent to back them up.”
“Christ,” Kendrick says. “Listen to yourself, Reagan.”
“I don’t care what you think of me,” Reagan says, giving him a defiant shrug as she swipes away tears. “Your family has money—big deal. So does mine. But I don’t see you trying to do something big with your life. I was headed to the Olympics, okay? The goddamn Olympics!”
“We know you were,” Summer says, sympathetic. “And we’re sorry.”
“I don’t need your pity,” Reagan tells her. “The only reason Kendrick is interested in you is because you piss off his parents.”
“Hey!” Kendrick says, agitated.
“This is my trip,” she says, thumping her chest. “I paid for all this stuff and I arranged everything. This was supposed to make me feel better. It wasn’t about any of you.”
“You’re being a huge asshole, you know that?” Lennon tells Reagan.
“I’m being real,” she says. “And while we’re getting everything out in the open, let me just say what a complete and utter dick you’ve been to Brett on this trip. He wanted you to come.”
“Did he? Because he wants to glom onto my dad’s fame? Or to distract Zorie from the fact you and Brett are seeing each other because you knew she’d be hurt by this? Either reason is shitty.”
“Really uncool, man,” Brett says. “I was just trying to help Reagan play Cupid. Everyone knows you’re carrying a massive torch for Zorie, so why are you complaining?”
What? No way is that true.
Reagan points at Lennon. “See? Brett likes you, and you’ve been nothing but a prick to him since we left Melita Hills. You should be grateful he’s impressed by your has-been punk-rock father.”
Lennon’s lips thin into a straight line. “Keep my father’s name out of your mouth.”
“No one cares! No one even remembers him.”
I’ve seen Lennon angry plenty of times. But right now, he’s furious. He never used to be so defensive about his father. His moms, yes, but every time someone has brought up his dad, a storm cloud drops over his head.
“Everyone, please calm down,” Summer begs.
Brett steps forward. “Look, we’re all saying things we don’t really mean. Zorie, I’m sorry we didn’t tell you about us. But that doesn’t mean we can’t all enjoy each other’s company. Reagan and I both want the same thing—for everyone to have a good time. Is that so wrong?”
“A good time?” Lennon repeats. “You could have gotten us killed tonight.”
“You’d like to make everyone believe that, wouldn’t you? Maybe the problem is that you led us out into bear country. Maybe you’re a shitty wilderness guide.”
This is the tipping point for me. All the revelations that have surfaced in the last few minutes line up in my head like coordinates on a map:
Reagan not only failed to tell me about her relationship with Brett, but she also tried to con me into starting something up with Lennon—just so that she could have Brett for herself.
She’s been holding a grudge against me because I’m friends with Avani.
Summer has spread gossip all around school about me and Lennon.
Brett is definitely not interested in me.
I’m definitely not interested in Brett. Not anymore. The thrill is so gone.
All of these things stack on top of each other, incremental scraps of trash, piling up on the heap of garbage that is my life right now. Because back at home, I still have to face my cheating father. My unaware mother. The embarrassment of the Mackenzies knowing about our sordid family problems.
And Lennon. Being around him has awakened a dormant hope inside me, and to know that my interactions with him were manipulated is the worst kind of betrayal. I thought I was starting to enjoy his company again, but was I? Or were we both just being scripted to talk to each other inside Reagan’s puppet show? Looking back now, I can’t tell what was real and what’s been forced.
Something snaps inside my head.
I pick up the lid and slam it onto the canister, twirling it into place until the safety mechanism double clicks. Then I walk the container over to Brett, shoving it into his hands. “Not faulty.”
Brett blinks at the canister, then at me. No one says anything for a long moment. It’s Reagan’s voice that bre
aks the silence.
“You want to be petty?” she says. “Fine. You can forget about sitting with me when school starts back next week. We’re done. Go back to Avani.”
I turn around and face her, angry tears welling. “Avani never abandoned you. Avani still likes you, for some stupid reason! You’re the one who started hanging out with private school kids after your parents got rich. You’re the one who thought training for the Olympics was more important than hanging out with your friends. And what did that get you? A bunch of friends who only hang with you out of pity or social obligation. Wake up, Reagan. No one even cares that you failed the stupid Olympic trials. Running isn’t even a talent—it’s just moving your legs!”
“Zorie,” Lennon says quietly.
I look around and everyone is staring at me as though I’ve just insulted them. It takes me a second to realize that maybe I did. And you know what? I don’t think I care. Maybe it was unfair to drag Kendrick into this, but the rest of them can go to hell. Right now, I hate Brett for ever kissing me, filling me with hope. I hate Summer for trying to manipulate me. And I definitely hate Reagan for ruining my summer.
Until I look at her.
For one glimmering moment, she looks as though she might cry. And that makes me feel . . . horrible. I’m not this person. I don’t get in nasty fights with people. Arguing gives me hives.
I want to tell her I’m sorry.
I want her to tell me she’s sorry.
I want to rewind back to the morning my mom told me about this awful trip and tell her no.
Just when I open my mouth to apologize, Reagan says, “Thanks for destroying this trip.” She gestures toward Lennon. “You can both go and screw yourselves.” She pivots, about to turn around, but then stops. “Oh, and by the way, your skeevy dad tried to sleep with Michelle Johnson’s mom after the Olympic fund-raiser in Berkeley this spring. I never told my mom, because she’d stop patronizing your parents’ stupid clinic, but you can bet I’m telling her now.”
Time stops. I don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t even blink. It’s not until I feel hot tears sliding down my cheeks that I realize I’m crying. And for a second, I’m still frozen in place, trying to summon a response. But I can’t.
My head is empty. I just want it all to go away. Reagan. Brett. Lennon. This disaster of a camping trip.
My father.
All of it sticks painfully in my throat, unable to escape. I feel as if I’m drowning while tiny piranhas nip at my skin, eating off chunks of my pride. And because we’re out here in the middle of nowhere, in the dead of night, with a hungry bear and God only knows what else nearby, I do the only thing I can do, which is to retreat to my tent.
I barely can find my way in the moonlight. It seems far darker out here than it does in the city. And after I nearly break my neck, stumbling over dead wood and rocks, I somehow manage to get inside and zip myself away from the rest of the group. It’s an ineffective substitute for a door slamming, take that! moment, especially when I realize that I can still hear voices in the distance. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but it really kills the illusion of privacy.
If my hives were bad before, they’re going to rage now. I forage around in my pack for antihistamines and take two, swallowing them dry with no water. Exhaling a ragged breath, I lie back on my sleeping bag and stare into nothing. The ground is hard and cold beneath me, and I can feel a sharp rock poking into my hip.
The fight tumbles around in my mind, and I’m wounded all over again by everything that just happened. And then there’s my dad. Does everyone in Melita Hills know about him? Are Mom and I the only ones who’ve been in the dark? Jesus. How stupid are we? An empty pang stabs my chest, and I wish Mom were here now, so I could talk to her. Or maybe so she could talk to me.
Wind rustles the side of my tent as I take off my glasses and wiggle into my sleeping bag. Everything inside here smells strongly synthetic, like nylon and plastic. Maybe I have it zipped up too tightly. Should I open a vent flap? What if the bear comes back and smells me in here, like he smelled Brett’s cookies?
I decide that it doesn’t matter. I’m suddenly overwhelmingly tired. No sleep last night. Getting up early. All that hiking. The antihistamines. I feel myself teetering on the edge of sleep, and after a while, I stop fighting. I just let it take me under.
* * *
When I wake, the inside of the tent is pale gray and chilly. My fingers and nose are Popsicles, and when I try to move, I realize I fell asleep in my clothes. I also never did anything about that rock beneath the tent, and now my hip feels as if I’ve broken something.
On top of all that, I had weird dreams about Lennon. Very screwed up, very erotic dreams. He was killing that bear, and dear God, why is my brain so messed up? It must have something to do with Brett’s comment last night about Lennon carrying a torch for me. Which is stupid, because Lennon’s not carrying any sort of torch for me. And how could he be, really, because I’m the one with the unrequited feelings. I’m the torch carrier. Lennon left me.
I’d like nothing more than to stay cocooned in my sleeping bag and go back to sleep so that I can maybe redo those dreams in a different, nonerotic direction. But I sit up to check my hives—present, but under control—and soon realize I have to pee. Badly. There’s room enough for me to get into a crouching position, but I can’t really stand in here, so after rummaging through my pack for supplies and a pair of glasses, I crawl my way across the sleeping bag and unzip my way to freedom.
All is quiet. It’s gray outside, but a marigold light shines through the eastern trees. Everything is damp, and the subtle scent of pine fills my nostrils when I walk. I’ve never been more awake in my life. I’m on edge, thinking of the bear, eyes flicking to every bird call, every rustling leaf. I don’t see anyone. No bear, no people. Just the flattened husk of Brett’s destroyed tent next to Reagan’s.
After a trek into the forest to relieve my aching bladder, I trudge back to the base camp and spot movement across the river. Anxiety over last night’s fight seizes me, and I dread seeing Reagan or Brett. It takes me several panicked heartbeats to clear away the antihistamine fog and recognize Lennon in a black hoodie. He’s crossing the rocks from the opposite bank, a hatchet holstered to his hip and an armful of firewood. When he spots me, he lifts his head briefly, and I’m surprised how relieved I feel to see him.
Don’t think about the erotic bear dreams.
He’s headed for the granite shelter area, and I catch up with him there. He dumps the pile of gathered firewood near the pit. When his back is to me, my eyes roam the denim vest he’s wearing over his hoodie. It’s studded with horror-movie patches and enamel pins shaped like tombstones and severed body parts. Some things never change.
“Hey,” I say. “Guess we’re the only people up, huh?”
“Yes and no.” He squats near the pit to arrange tinder in the center, bark and dead leaves.
“What do you mean, yes and no?”
“Are you hungover?” he asks, squinting. “You sound slow.”
“Antihistamines.”
“Ah. Hard drugs. Are your hives acting up?”
“Sort of. What do you mean, yes and no?” I repeat, looking around the camp.
He sighs. “Over there, on the bear canisters.”
They’re stacked in a row near the boulders we were using for seats, along with some camp cookware. Then I spot a strip of toilet paper sitting under a rock. Something’s been written on it, a message in what appears to be eyeliner. It’s Reagan’s handwriting. I remove the rock and read the note:
Find your own way home.
14
* * *
I reread Reagan’s note again and again, but it’s still not making sense. Did they . . . ? I mean, are we . . . ?
“They left us,” Lennon finally says.
“All of them?”
“All of them.”
“I don’t understand,” I say. “Where did they go?”
He carefull
y arranges sticks in the shape of a teepee around the pile of tinder. “Back to the glamping compound.”
“They told you that?”
“Reagan and Brett had a fight after you went to your tent last night.” Lennon keeps his eyes glued to his task, but his body posture looks . . . uncomfortable. “Long story short, he said this trip was too much drama for him. Reagan agreed. They decided to go back home.”
Is this a joke? It must be. Right?
Gingerly, he props up larger branches over the sticks. “Reagan was going to leave last night, which was nuts. Kendrick and I had to convince her to stay until there was light to hike, and that we’d go back together. Earlier this morning, I thought I heard noise, but it wasn’t loud, so I fell back asleep. By the time I’d woken up again and gotten dressed, they were gone.”
He’s serious. This isn’t a joke.
I feel dizzy, so I sit on a boulder. “They left us? Summer and Kendrick too?”
“The last thing Kendrick and I talked about last night before I turned in was trying to estimate how much it would cost to hire a car at the glamping compound to drive him and Summer to his parents’ vacation home in Napa Valley.” He brushes off his hands and digs a lighter out of his jeans pocket. “But I didn’t think they’d just take off like that.”
“Without us?”
“Brett left me a note on the inside of that pack of cookies the bear ate. He basically said it was best we all parted ways to avoid further drama, and that he knew I could find my way back. Then I found the other note Reagan wrote outside your tent.”
Find your own way home.
He gestures toward the riverbank. “They left Brett’s destroyed tent and a bunch of the supplies. Guess Reagan is officially over camping. Nice of her to just leave a huge mess behind for us to clean up.”
“How long have they been gone? Can we catch up to them?” Why is he just calmly building a fire?
“Zorie,” he says, “if what I heard the first time I woke was the sound of them leaving, then they’ve been gone a couple hours. We’ll never catch up.”
