“Each group will have one guide, and a couple of them are already down with their rafts. The first thing you need to do when you get down there is fasten your life vests. Do NOT go into the water or do anything else without that life vest on. The second step is your helmet. No helmet, no raft! Buckle it on, folks. We’re going to have a good, safe time today, and everyone will have fun if you listen and follow the rules, capiche?”
There’s a general laugh as a few people respond to Treva’s rusty Godfather imitation. Then, with her leading the way, the general exodus begins.
Justin bounces his leg as people move down the aisle. Dad waves a hand, then is lost in the press of shoulders, backs, beach towels, and the thick cocoa butter scent of sunblock. The women in front of us stand, chattering comfortably as they step out into the aisle. I wait impatiently as they juggle their life jackets, water bottles, waist packs, and visors. Seeing us watching them, one of the ladies shoots me a conspiratorial smile.
“We’ve never tried white-water rafting before,” she confides giddily.
“Well, life is short,” Justin says sweetly. “Better get out there and give it a try.”
“Oh!” the woman exclaims, looking around and realizing that she’s blocking traffic in the narrow aisle. “Here we go.”
“Finally,” my brother mutters, leaping out of the bus and looking around.
“Where are we supposed to go?” I ask, slipping on my life jacket. Above us, a few thin clouds are whitening the sky, and it’s already gotten quite warm.
“Dad just waved at us,” Justin says, and I look around, finding him standing near a bright orange inflatable raft with Bethany and her father. Dad catches my eye and waves again.
“You want to go with him?” I ask as Beth and I watch each other uneasily.
“Not hardly,” Justin mutters.
“Fine. Let’s find someone else.” I start down the rock beach. “Maybe that Bethany chick will come. I have a few questions I’d like to ask her.”
Justin swivels his head toward me, panic in his expression. “Ysabel, if it’s a question like the one you asked Treva, forget it. You can’t ask people stuff like that.”
“I didn’t actually ask Treva anything,” I defend myself. “She volunteered.”
Justin shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s just raft, okay?”
“I’m not completely stupid,” I insist. “I just wanted to ask her some questions. I mean, if she’s on this trip, she’s got to know something about this trans thing.” I lower my voice. “I promise not to embarrass you.”
Justin just grunts.
We’re almost to the rafts when we’re intercepted by a compact, black-haired girl in a red en|GNDR T-shirt. She shows a quick flash of white teeth as she smiles.
“I think you’re the rest of my crew. I’m Tarie Sabado.” She hands us each a black helmet. “Has either one of you done any river rafting before?”
“I can paddle a canoe,” I offer.
“Well, that’s a start,” Tarie laughs.
Tarie, our guide, drags us over to Bethany, and introduces us to two other guys, Connor and Marco, who fill up our six-person crew. Connor, who is tall and broad-shouldered with long-ish blond hair and a dimpled, good-natured grin, seems okay; at least he smiles. Marco just stares at us when we’re introduced and kind of grunts. While Tarie gives us a little safety lecture and tells us about paddling, Marco mutters something to Connor, who punches him and laughs silently, his fair skin turning red with the effort to keep quiet. I wonder if they’re a couple or if one or both of them is transgender. How does that work?
“Gentlemen?” Tarie’s voice is sweet, but the guys give her straight faces immediately.
“Sorry, Tarie,” Marco says meekly.
After a narrow-eyed look, Tarie starts talking again, and Marco and Connor start messing around again. I glance back at their smirking faces, weirdly reassured. Guys being guys is so boringly normal. Whatever else is unusual about this gathering, Marco and Connor are as normal as it gets.
We get the helmets on, a few of us climb in, and the others push the raft out to where it is floating. Tarie gives us a brief lesson on paddling, then we push off, the five of us seated precariously on the damp rubber ledges that double as seats, the guide on her own perch in the back.
Rafting is deceptively hard work. Digging into the clear water with the plastic orange blade of my paddle, I feel the burn of the muscles in my arms and across my back, and I work up a sweat. Rhythm and pacing and watching for rocks crowd out everything else from my mind. In a way, this reminds me of smithing: instead of banging a hammer against heated metal, I’m dipping a paddle in cadence. It’s swing—wait, swing—wait, all the same.
Bethany, sitting in front of me, gives a panicky scream as her paddle is almost wrenched from her hand by the current. My stomach swoops as the raft abruptly picks up speed and veers, surprising a shriek out of me. Everything feels out of control as we dip down into what seems like a hole in the water.
“Paddle! Don’t stop!” Tarie shouts, and I can hear the laughter in her voice as all of us make sounds of dismay.
“Dig!” Marco shouts from the front of the raft, and on his count, I dig in on the left. Connor digs in on the right, as does Justin, and Beth frantically alternates strokes. Pretty soon, the wild spinning takes on more of a definite direction, and we pop out of the hole—and head for what looks like a boulder.
“Lean!” everyone screams, and we all lean in different directions. No one is paddling anymore, and the raft begins to spin sideways.
“Right! Lean right!” Tarie hollers. I wrench myself to the right. We barely miss being plastered, scraping by the stone with frantic pushes from our oars. Fortunately, on the other side of the rock, the water slows. Our raft bobs in place for a moment, and we stare at each other with shocked expressions.
“I thought we were so dead,” Bethany gasps out.
“We almost were. Where the hell did that rock come from?” Marco’s face is slack.
It’s weird how speed jolts everything else out of your head. Now Marco and Connor turn from the bow and exchange shaky smiles with the rest of us like we’re all friends. Relief makes us a little giddy.
“You okay, Ys?” Justin’s grin is wide.
“I’m good,” I reassure him, adjusting my helmet. There’s a scrape on my arm where I got bushwhacked, but other than my accelerated pulse, I’m all in one piece.
“Okay, folks, that was just the warm-up,” Tarie warns us. “You gave me a heart attack with that rock, but you remembered to lean in time. Connor, you did a great job leading out—keep it up. Everybody ready?”
Even if we weren’t, it’s too late.
There’s nothing you can do when you’re on white-water rapids but get through the run you’re in, and the next one, and the next one. After the first two, my arms are shaking, and I realize I’ve been screaming. Other rafts flash by, spinning through the current. At one point, I hear Dad’s laugh and watch as he and Mr. Han lean into a turn and disappear.
At the end of the next run, Tarie laughs at our shaken expressions. “Rest up!” she shouts, her dark eyes electric with eagerness. “Bucktooth, comin’ atcha!”
All the rapids have such dumb names, like Beelzebub’s Blender, Spin Cycle, and The Maw. Between them, the water eddies along, slowed to a whisper of its roar, and we rub our arms and relax, talk excitedly about the near misses, the granite-walled scrapes, the branch whippings and stomach-clenching plunges and sheer terrors of the last run. And then, the water picks up speed again.
By the time we come to our fifth run, we find out that not everyone has fared so well. We come out of a narrow chute just after Churner, and we mount a rescue that includes a laughing couple of old dudes and some embarrassed girls, all of whom said that they’d rafted before. “It’s just bad luck,” they assure us cheerfully.
A mile or so later, we narrowly avoid colliding with another raft, filled with dripping riders. The group is boosting
one last person back onto the raft. Among the bedraggled crew are the two ladies from the bus.
“Are you guys all right?” I yell, feeling a little guilty for being still mostly dry.
“We’re just fine,” the guide calls back. “We’ll dry out at dinner.”
“When is dinner, anyway?” Justin turns around to ask.
“It’s literally just around the bend,” Tarie reassures him.
“Land, ho!” Marco bellows. Tarie hollers and waves at the other guides, who are pulled in to a cove with a line of tables and some coolers set up near piles of bleached driftwood and big rocks.
“Thank God,” mutters Bethany. Her thin arms are crisscrossed with welts, and her ponytail is plastered to her sweaty back. We all look a little worse for wear.
I dump my helmet and jump out, eager to help the beaching crew, and just about manage to capsize the raft. Tarie has to wade downstream to recover my paddle, and my backpack gets a little wet, but eventually our raft is secured.
I’m grateful for the bins filled with packages of unscented wipes and antibacterial hand wash. A staff member points out the blue portable toilets high up the hill above the beach, and after a super-fast but necessary trip, I wipe down hands and bare, muddy legs and feel a little more human.
Bethany follows me to a driftwood log, hissing as she cleans her scratches.
“Beth!” Her father hurries over, his tanned face creased in concern. He squats next to us and peers at his daughter’s arm. “What happened? Those scratches look bad.”
“I’m fine,” Beth mutters, and I give her father a sympathetic smile.
“It’s from a bush,” I tell him. “It would have been worse if we’d hit that first rock.”
“How are you, Bel?” Dad’s knees are suddenly at my shoulder. “Ready for supper?”
“I’m waiting for Bethany,” I say, looking him over. His clothes are dry, and he appears only slightly rumpled and sweaty. “You guys didn’t tip?”
“Nah, we’re professionals,” Dad brags, stretching his arms above his head. “I could stay out here all the time, if it was always this nice. Let’s eat. We’ll save Beth a spot in line.”
“I’m coming now,” Bethany says quickly, standing. She scans her arms for additional scratches, then shoves her hands in her pockets.
“So, what happened to those arms, Beth?” Dad asks as he falls into step with us.
“We got sucked down a chute sideways,” Beth replies with a little shrug. “I got scraped into a tree. As long as it’s not poison ivy or something, I’ll be fine.”
Beth’s father, walking on the opposite side of her, frowns. “They don’t look fine. I want you to go to the first-aid table. They have antibacterial cream. You don’t want those to get infected.”
“They’re not that deep,” Bethany says stubbornly, crossing her arms, then wincing.
“That’s it.” Mr. Han grasps his daughter’s arm with gentle but insistent fingers. “We’ll catch up with you guys later. Beth is going to get these looked at.”
“Geez, Mom,” Bethany bursts out angrily. “Are you even listening? I said they’re fine.”
“We’re going to take five minutes to make sure you don’t end up with infected welts all over your arm,” Mr. Han retorts, and drags his protesting daughter away.
Mom?!
“Belly.” Dad’s voice is quiet.
I realize I’ve not only stopped walking, but I’m staring like a five-year-old. Quickly I turn away, hundreds of comments and observations crowding onto the tip of my tongue.
I close my mouth on all of them.
“Ready to eat?” Dad asks, his hand light on my shoulder.
“Mm-hmm,” I say, and keep walking.
Happy Hour
Justin
Dad’s running shoes—which are sandy and filled with river water—are trashed. Ysabel’s hair is standing out from her face like a frizzy lion’s mane, and I’ve got sweat stinging my eyes.
Everything is awesome.
“I’m going to get seconds,” I announce.
“Get me some chips,” Ysabel requests, and I stagger to my feet, wondering if our raft is going to float after everything we’re putting away. Marco is in line ahead of me, and I’ve seen him here at least twice.
By now, the eaters have dwindled to a few diehards like me and people coming back for seconds on ice cream sundaes—Treva’s super-secret treat that was packed in ice chests under the bus. Some of the little kids are gathered near the beach, wearing towels on their heads and stick fighting. Dad wandered off in that direction, but all I want to do is eat and catch some z’s before we get on the water again. Tarie said the last eight miles before the bridge are the wildest. I believe her.
I put together a couple of massive hoagie sandwiches on soft rolls and grab a bag of chips for Ysabel and one for myself. Bethany is wandering over, her face covered by her hat again. Marco follows her, balancing two giant peanut butter cookies on his can of soda.
“Hey, Beth.” Ysabel grins. “I don’t see any bandages.”
“I took them off.” Bethany’s voice is a low growl. She snatches off her hat and collapses on the log next to Ysabel. “He drives me crazy.”
I drop Ysabel’s bag of chips in her outstretched hand and sit next to her on the sandy ground. “That’s what parents are for. It’s in the contract.”
“You just need a little brother or something,” Marco says, leaning back on his elbows. “It’d spread the love around.”
“It’s insane.” Beth rakes her fingers through her ponytail, then pulls out her hair tie and begins to braid her hair. “He’s always on my case with the sun hat, the homeschooling, the tae kwon do—he’s convinced something’s going to happen to me. Either I’ll get skin cancer, or fail calculus, or get kidnapped or something.”
“What? You’re already taking calculus?” I blurt, dismayed.
“Justin.” Ysabel rolls her eyes. “Forget the calculus, all right? The woman is venting.”
“Sorry.” I shake my head. “It’s just that I can’t take calculus till junior year.”
“You actually want to take calculus?” Marco stares. “That’s sick, man.”
Bethany looks flustered. “It’s just math,” she says hurriedly. “I shouldn’t be complaining. Homeschooling works better for us now, anyway. Mom travels a lot.”
“Do you go with your mom?” Ysabel asks curiously. “Or do you stay with your … other parent?”
“Nope, it’s just Mom and me,” Bethany says. “Dad bailed on us a long time ago.”
I blink, trying to follow the conversation thread. “Wait, you call your mom ‘him’?” I ask, then wave my comment away. “Sorry. Forget it.” I’m picking up Ysabel’s bad habits.
Bethany looks defensive. “Well, why shouldn’t I call him Mom? He’s always going to be my mother, isn’t he? I mean, a mother is the one who carries you all that time, who gives birth to you, the whole deal. Nothing changes that, no matter what body he’s in, so …” She shrugs.
“Uh, yeah.” I nod, trying to imagine Mr. Han’s buff body pregnant. “That’s true.”
“I wish I had your mom’s biceps.” Ysabel changes the subject. “Do you do weights, too?”
Bethany holds out her skinny arms, indignant. “Does it look like I do weights? I avoid sweat and grunting as much as possible. Mom’s the one who likes the gym.”
“But you still sweat doing tae kwon do, right?” Connor wanders over with a bag of chips and folds himself down to the ground between Beth and Marco.
“Two years this May,” Bethany says. “I have a green belt, with a blue stripe.”
“Cool. This is my fourth year in jujitsu,” Connor offers. “I’m testing for green belt in two weeks.”
“Is that like a rule or something? Every kid who’s with TransParent has to do some martial art?” Bethany and Connor laugh, and I shrug. “Well, I just wondered.”
From down the beach, a little kid with a soccer ball waves his arms and holler
s, “Marco! Come play with me! Marco!”
“Later, Ruben,” Marco yells, and stretches out on his back.
The little boy comes closer, looking uncertainly at the rest of us from beneath his mop of wavy brown hair. “Marco,” he begins mournfully, “you promised.”
Marco groans, shoving a last bite of cookie in his mouth and struggling to his feet. “All right, mijo,” he grumbles, then rolls his eyes at me. “When would I have time for martial arts? I spend my whole life babysitting.”
“Now, you boys play nicely,” Connor advises, then ducks Marco’s kick at his head.
I down the last of my chips and crumple the bag, looking across the beach for a garbage can. Marco has managed to collect half the little kids and is organizing them into a soccer tournament. A few adults are gathering to sit in a polite half circle around the stick-fighting kids, who appear to be acting out a play. There’s a lot of gesturing and running around.
Connor follows my glance and smiles. “These trips are so fun for little kids. They get to be the center of attention for a whole day. Sometimes the staff does face painting or brings stuff for a craft. It’s pretty cool, if you’re eight.”
Ysabel asks, “So, how long have you been coming to these?”
“Since I was eight,” Connor says, and laughs. “Maddie and Mom couldn’t make it today, but if they were here, you’d have gotten the whole story—how they met Treva when she was just starting out, how they decided this was a great program for our whole family. They’re big supporters. We go backpacking with a group every summer.”
“We’ve only been coming a couple of years,” Beth says, tucking a tendril of hair behind her ear. “It’s cool.”
I open my mouth to ask Connor about his parents, then hesitate, glancing over at Bethany. It’s obviously not a secret that Mr. Han was once a woman, so I take a chance. “Beth, can I ask you about your mom?”
Bethany stiffens. “What about him?”
Happy Families Page 11
