“Can’t he fall?” I ask.
“Not if he’s harnessed in,” Nutmeg says. “As long as he keeps that harness locked to a rope and his knots hold, worst that can happen is he’ll dangle.”
Aaron teeters on the branch as he tries to get the throw line hooked in. I don’t care what Nutmeg says; harness or no harness, I’d be scared shitless to do what Aaron’s doing. He’s going up two hundred feet. That’s where they decided he should build the platform—past the thickest branches, high enough that Cascade couldn’t pull him out even if they tried.
After a while my neck starts to hurt, but I can’t stop watching. Nobody can. The guys quiet down as he gets higher, and we hold our breath as he grips the rope and drags himself up, slowing down more and more the higher he gets, stopping when his strength gives out. Dirt hits my cheekbone like a raindrop, and I realize it’s fallen all the way from where Aaron is, kicked off the tree. Soon I can only see him as a dot, his tan Carhartt pants bright against the dark of Legacy. The next time he stops, Exile, Sage, and Nutmeg go to the pile of gear and rope together wood, parceling it up. Goat and Bender tie rope onto a milk crate full of tools and hook a carabiner on it, then haul it over to the base of the tree. The other kids just stand around watching.
Finally Aaron hollers down to us, “Okay!” His voice echoes through the branches. “I got the spot!” There’s a pause, and then he yells a little softer, “It’s beautiful up here, you guys.”
“You locked in?” Exile yells up.
“Yup!” he yells back. The rope pokes through the branches, coming down toward us. When it hits the ground, Nutmeg latches the rope to a sheet of plywood. And then there’s a grunt from way above us, and the plywood lifts.
Aaron hauls the platform up slowly, catching it on branches as it goes. He gets it all the way up to where he is, unhooks it, then lowers the rope again. The milk crate full of tools goes up next, then Aaron’s pack, then the other sheets of wood. Finally he hollers down, ragged, “I can’t lift anything else, you guys. My arms are shaking. I gotta rest.”
We all stop staring up for the first time and look at each other. He’s up there. The sheets of wood are up there. The tools are up there. I feel his absence down here like a missing tooth, the hole where he used to be almost more noticeable than his presence was. The balance feels different.
CHAPTER 17
That night I sleep by myself in the tent, and for the first time I’m not wondering if Jeff will come back; I know he won’t. It’s his third night in the bus and I’m sure something is going on with him and Cyn, and I know he won’t talk to me about it unless I make him. Coward, I think.
And then I realize: maybe that’s what we had in common. Cowards. Maybe that’s why we’ve never been official: we’ve both been too scared. Maybe we just closed ourselves together in his car, in his basement, cocooned together in a private world where we never had to talk about things and we didn’t have to be alone. Maybe now I want to talk about things. Maybe now I’m not so scared.
* * *
• • •
The next day is the last day before the cops said they’d come back. No one stronger’s looking out for us. There’s no one to protect us but each other. It’s all on us. The whole camp has this nervous energy: there’s nothing to do, Aaron’s up there, all we can do is wait. But none of us knows what will happen when they come.
That morning Exile and I hike out to Legacy to send up water. When Aaron lowers the crate back down, there’s a note. It’s beautiful. You can see for miles: other mountains, even town. Town is tiny compared with everything. It’s so quiet. It’s like another world. Except it’s this one, right here. It’s our world. Take care of it. I started making calls today. Keep an eye on the papers; there should be stories coming out. Tell Sage I miss her. Or better yet, just show her this: I miss you, Sage.
Reading that last line, my throat catches. I cough to cover it so Exile won’t notice. We take the milk crate and the empty jug, and we head back to camp.
I haven’t talked to Jeff in, like, four days. It’s starting to get stupid. And it’s the last day before the rangers are supposed to come and clear us out, and I’m starting to actually give a shit what happens. At first I was working hard so I wouldn’t have to think about my mom or school or Andy. After that I was working hard so I wouldn’t have to think about Jeff. But somewhere in there I started to actually care about all this. Nutmeg got his rib broken; Aaron is hundreds of feet off the ground; Sage, who never gets scared, is scared for him. There’s something here to protect, something worth protecting, and there’s nobody who’s gonna do it but us. The school-bus kids are too caught up in themselves to be useful; I don’t want to be like them. I don’t want weird shit between Jeff and me to distract me. I want to be able to help when it’s time.
I head back to the bus, parked in a clearing away from the tents. The top of it’s covered with pine needles now, rain rusting the edges where the paint’s peeled back. I haven’t been in here for a couple of weeks, not since that night I tried to hang out with Jeff and them, and Stone pulled that creepy shit with me and Jeff didn’t even notice and I had to leave.
There are curtains on the windows; I can’t see in. I walk up to the closed doors, suddenly feeling like I’m in elementary school at the bus stop, not sure who’s on board, if anyone will let me sit with them. I knock.
After a minute, the doors open; pot smoke billows out. It’s Cyn, wearing a dirty wifebeater and no bra, her purple hair faded to a gross yellowish lavender. She looks at me, mean like Naomi fucking Gladstone. “Hey,” she says. “What do you want?”
“I want to talk to Jeff.” I’m not positive he’s there, but I can guess.
“Jeff!” she hollers back, annoyed. Good guess. She just stands there, staring, while I wait for him. She chews on her lip ring. I think she’s trying to intimidate me. I’m not scared of her, though. That’s new.
Finally Jeff comes out, pulling on his black hoodie, the one with the patch, the one he was wearing that first day we met at Point Defiance Park. I suddenly feel really sad about that hoodie. It’s ridiculous, I know, but everything’s changed, and the few things that are familiar suddenly matter. There aren’t many left.
“Come for a walk with me,” I say. “I want to talk to you.”
Cyn watches as we walk away, and then she goes back into the bus.
I take him back to where we saw the deer, in the forest, on the way to Legacy. We both know the trail now. I think part of me hopes the place will magically erase the last couple of weeks, so Jeff and I are back on that sun-dappled, quiet day, so I don’t have to say the things I know I have to.
When we get there, I look at the ground. Out of the corner of my eye I see him watching me. Out here, he looks smaller. But he’s still angry. I can feel it rising off him in waves. I am too.
“So?” he finally says. “You brought me back here, you must have something to say.”
“I do,” I say. My heart is beating hard. I look into his eyes for some flicker of what used to be there, but all I see is far away. “I don’t know how to say it . . .”
“Say what?” he says, his eyes hard and his cheekbones sharp. “I came all the way out here with you. You want to talk to me, talk to me,” he says, impatient. “Otherwise I’m going.” My face flushes. He doesn’t have the right to talk to me that way.
“Okay, fine, then,” I snap back, and then it tumbles out. “You know what I think? I think you’re jealous of Aaron. You’ve been pissy at me ever since we started hanging out.” He looks away. A flicker of feeling shows through his icy eyes, flashes under his set jaw. “Sage is his girlfriend. Nothing happened. You’re the one who’s got another fucking girlfriend. I didn’t do anything wrong. It isn’t fair. You’re being an asshole to me, like I did something horrible, and I didn’t do anything wrong.”
He looks stunned. I just keep going: “It’s fucked up, wha
t you did. It’s fucked up you acted like there was some rule that said I have to tell you where I’m going, and it’s fucked up you made me feel like shit for not knowing what to say, and I’m fucking sorry, okay, I’m sorry I don’t always know what to say or what to do, but you know what? You don’t either, and it’s not like you’re so fucking brave.” It all rushes out at once, and when it’s over, I’m shocked I said it. I’ve never talked that way to anyone except my mom the night I left.
He just stands there, fists stuffed in his hoodie pockets, dwarfed by the forest, looking at the ground. I want him to say he’s sorry. I want him to realize that it’s true: that he was being a dick. And now that I’ve said all that, I want him to feel as raw and scared and open as I do right now.
But he looks away, and then he shrugs, and says, “Okay. If that’s the way you feel.”
“What do you mean, ‘if that’s the way you feel’? If that’s the way I feel what?”
“If that’s the way you feel, we’re breaking up. I mean we already kind of did.”
That’s what I came out here for. It was my choice; I was fine with it. I know that.
But now that we’re here, somehow it’s different. Something in me crumples.
“Yeah,” I say, “we are,” and it’s all gone, the last piece of home that was left, the last thing that felt familiar, and I feel more alone than I can remember in a long, long time.
I tell him I want to be in the forest for a while. The truth is I don’t want to cry in front of him.
While he hikes back, I walk deeper in, toward Legacy. After a minute I hit a fork I haven’t seen before. I stop and scan the trees, trying to figure out which way to go. I track the shapes of the branches, the knots in the trunks: the one on the right has a big gnarled branch twisting out, and I finally recognize it. I wonder if this is how Andy felt on those Scout trips, in the woods with a compass, finding his way, while I was at home with our mom and dad. Andy always seemed so sure that he’d be able to find his way anywhere. I wonder if this is how he got that way.
When I get to Legacy, I look up at the ropes, the platform so high up it’s just a tiny dot. I wish I could talk to Aaron, but it’s too far. I put my arms around the trunk. It’s a fucking cliché, I feel ridiculous, but I need to hold on to something. I’ve got nothing left.
I tell myself, You’ve done this before. I was alone when Andy died, when my mom fell out from under us, when my dad left. It’s not like I’m not used to it. I give my weight over to the tree, collapse into it, let something bigger than me hold me up. I used to lean into Andy like this, when I was little and he was already tall. He was never embarrassed, never acted annoyed; he just stood there, strong, and wrapped his arms around me. Like he knew what to do. Like he was stronger than me, and he was looking out for everything, making sure it all ran right, protecting me. The moss on her trunk is like velvet; I feel wet on my cheek. At first I think it’s dew, but it’s too warm for that, and suddenly I realize that I’m crying.
I stay that way a long time, till the red fades from my eyes and the hitch subsides, before I’m ready to head back to camp.
* * *
• • •
The rest of the day everyone just waits. They said three days; this is the third. That could mean the rangers are coming tonight, or tomorrow. We’ll hear the engines down the mountain, and when we do, we’ll all lock down, so they can’t arrest us. There’s a whole row of dragons now, and a bunch of Kryptonite bike locks; lock one of those around your neck, attach it to a steering wheel or a wheel well, and they can’t cut you out. We’ll stay locked in till they leave, and then again when they come back, and then again until they leave us alone. I don’t want to think about that. I want to keep working. I want to do things. I want something to throw myself into, people to work with, so I can feel not alone, so I can stay here, in this moment, instead of spinning off into futures and lockdowns and arrests, what happens afterward and home. Wherever that is. I chop more wood with Sage and then I help Nutmeg check the dragons and then I find a shovel and finish the ditches that Jeff never did. I stay far, far away from the bus.
* * *
• • •
By noon the next day no one has come and we’re all starting to wonder if those newspaper stories Aaron mentioned ran and the cops decided to hold off. Sage starts to relax, like maybe she was worried for nothing, and I see her smiling again.
By one o’clock we decide we don’t all need to stay near the dragons and Exile and I can hike to bring Aaron fresh water. We send it up the ropes in the crate, and when it lowers back down, there’s another note. Spoke with lawyers from Pacific Land Protection Council—turns out Cascade’s permission to log has an expiration date. The current permit only has two more weeks on it, and then they have to reapply for everything. If we can hold them off that long, these trees will be safe for a good while. PCLC is glad I’m up here—it slows things down. It’s enough just to slow things down, for now. We made the right decision. I miss you, Sage.
Exile gives a little happy yelp when we read that, and we practically sprint back to camp. This might be working. The whole thing. It might be enough to slow things down; if we just stop the bad things from happening, maybe good people will come in and figure out how to make it better. Exile might be right: there might be people out there who support us. What we do might matter. They might actually not cut down this forest and that amazing tree. Because of us.
That night we stay up late around the fire, happy. Sage holds my hand and says, “Good job,” and I feel like I’m a part of something, and when I go back to the tent, I look up at the orange cords and the green fabric, and I think of Andy inside it as a kid, out on his trips. I imagine him looking up at the ceiling of it, the same ceiling I’m looking at now, and feeling safe, and strong, and like he can find his way, and for the first time it’s okay with me that I’m alone in here.
CHAPTER 18
When the noise comes, it’s not even sunrise. I startle awake under the half-dark sky, heart racing, confused. What time is it? Am I dreaming? Did I even sleep? But then the sound starts up again, loud like a construction site, and I rub my eyes awake. I look out my mesh window and see other shapes in the predawn dark, everyone sitting up and stirring.
“Those are chain saws,” Nutmeg whisper-yells across the forest floor. “We must’ve slept through the engines. They’re already up here. They got past the dragons. And it’s not rangers. Those are loggers.”
I’ve never moved so fast, so silently, in my entire life. It feels like we’re animals, or in a war. Adrenaline runs up my spine; my breath is shallow. My foot crunches a stick beneath me and I flinch at the noise, wishing against gravity, hating the heavy realness of my body, wanting to be wind. “Shhhh,” Sage hisses. “Don’t let them hear we’re over here,” and I nod at her: I can’t speak to say, I’m sorry.
When we’re dressed, Sage gathers us into a huddle. The chain saws—now I know that’s what they are—echo into the forest, grinding mechanical wails ramping up, crescendoing, then dropping into silence. They’re not far off. “Okay,” she says under her breath when the saws slow down enough. “Cascade didn’t wait for the cops to clear us out. That gives us information.”
The saws ramp up again, roaring into my ears. It’s terrifying how loud they are, how close. “What kind of information?” I yell over the noise.
“What?” Sage yells back. I only know because I can read her lips.
“What kind of information?” I yell again, but she shakes her head: it’s hopeless.
The cut stops for a second and she says, “It tells us they’re in a rush; they’re trying to scare us out and cut it all before the permit’s up. Motherfuckers.” Her jaw clenches. She looks like someone out of a movie, fierce, with her tattoos and her muddy tank top and her muscles and her fists.
Suddenly something crashes down a hundred yards away. I almost jump out of my skin: the no
ise is huge, like a car crash or a building falling. And I realize: if we were closer, that could have fallen onto us.
“Fuck. That’s a branch,” Nutmeg says. “They’re stripping down a tree. Once they get the big branches down, they’ll make a run at the trunk. We need to stop this before that happens.”
Stop it? I think. How the hell do we do that?
Sage looks at him, eyes blazing like an animal. “What’s the plan.” She says it like a command.
“Let’s start with where they are, and where we are,” he says. “Sounds like a hundred yards south. That means they’re away from Legacy, at least. What’s between them and her grove? Anybody hiked it?”
“I have,” I pipe up. “It’s pretty dense. The path is narrow; there’s a bunch of boulders there.”
“Good,” he says. “That’s good. Boulders are hard for them to get equipment past. That buys us time.”
“But they’ll keep cutting in the meantime, wherever they can,” Sage says. “We’ve gotta block them, wherever they are.”
“There could be rangers out there, though,” Exile says. “If we get too close, they’ll arrest us.”
“I’m not afraid of getting arrested,” Jeff says, loud. Dirtrat slinks backward like he might be. So do the other bus kids. Stone is at the back of the pack of them, not looking at anyone. It’s amazing: on the bus he’s the loudest and the drunkest, the one who gets the cigarettes, the ringleader. Out here when real shit is happening, he makes himself invisible. He’s even standing behind Dirtrat. This shit brings out your true colors, I guess.
“It’s not about being afraid,” Sage tells Jeff, firm. “It doesn’t matter if we’re scared or not. What matters is what we do. It’s not strategic. If we let them arrest us, they’ll just come in and cut, and we won’t be here to block them.”
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