Survival Strategies of the Almost Brave

by Jen White

  Billie climbed out of the camper and we followed the noise toward the red cliffs ahead. And as we got closer, we could see nests, thousands of round, muddy nests, almost smashed on top of one another, hanging on to the side of the cliff like barnacles on a ship. Birds flitted and squawked and fought, darting in and out of nests, not even noticing us as we crept closer and closer.

  “Wow,” said Billie, all shiny and breathless. “A bird city.”

  “I know,” I said, even though I hadn’t seen anything like that, not even on Animal Planet. And I held my breath, because what if they all disappeared right before my eyes like a dream?

  “What are you two doing out here?” asked Dad, coming up behind us quiet as a cheetah. But he had his camera around his neck and he didn’t look mad. He was staring at the birds with the same look of wonder Billie had.

  “We heard them,” said Billie.

  “I’ve never seen so many cliff swallows all at once.” Dad stared at the mountain. “There must be thousands.”

  He brought the camera up to his eye, and soon I heard the familiar click as he tried to capture the magic of Bird City.

  “Billie,” he said. “Run back and get my tripod. I left it on my bed.”

  Billie looked at me and then back at Dad. Usually, he didn’t like us to touch his stuff.

  Dad pulled the camera away from his face. “Quickly. I don’t want to miss the best shots.”

  I nodded at her and started to follow, because that tripod was pretty heavy. I carried it up the trail the last time Dad took us with him, and it was seriously heavy.

  But Dad said, “Take a look, Liberty.” He held out his camera to me.

  Dad had never offered to let me look through his camera before. And I was kind of afraid to touch it, because what if I touched the wrong thing or smudged it or broke it or—

  “Here,” he said, still holding it out to me. “You’ve got to see these eggs.” His left eye squinted so I could barely see his eyelashes poking out.

  I inched my face toward the viewfinder as Dad held it so I could see. And then I saw them, like I was standing only inches away. Little white eggs with black speckles, just like the chocolate eggs Mom used to put in my Easter basket … except these were definitely not chocolate.

  They were beautiful.

  And real.

  And loved.

  I could see that right away, because of all the mom and dad birds circling-spinning-darting-protecting each and every egg.

  “Can you see them?” asked Dad. He was closer than I’d ever been to him before. He smelled like dirty hair. “Everything looks better through a camera,” he said. I knew what he meant. The eggs were so sharp. So clear. Like I could reach out and touch them if I wanted.

  “Here,” said Billie, thunking the tripod down at Dad’s feet. She was breathing hard. She must have run the whole way just to make him happy. But it worked, because he smiled and pointed the camera at her.

  “Picture perfect,” he said.

  Billie smiled as Dad took her picture.

  “Do you know how much I paid for this camera? Thousands of dollars. It makes everything look amazing. And this lens—see how it makes the depth of field go on forever?” he asked.

  I looked through the viewfinder again.

  There was Billie. Beautiful. Golden. Strawberry Pop-Tart smudged on her top lip. The sunlight bright behind her.

  “The trick is in the camera,” said Dad, pulling his worth-all-the-money camera away and aiming it back at the swallows, which didn’t seem so interesting now. “The camera and the photographer make a perfect marriage,” he said.

  And I wanted to say, No. It’s not a photography trick. It’s just Billie. Perfect Billie.

  Mom could always see it. Why couldn’t he?

  Survival Strategy #23:

  BLEND IN

  The smell of food—real, delicious, cooked food—woke me from where I lay in an awkward heap, deposited at the foot of Billie’s lounge chair. For a moment my heart bumped. But there she was, still curled into a ball under the towel. I stood, stretched, and picked a piece of grass off my cheek. The sky seemed to brighten even in the minute I stood there, but there was no actual sun out yet.

  I moved to where I could see Billie’s face. Her worry crease looked deeper. I reached to trace it with my finger, but hesitated. Maybe she was happy somewhere inside a dream where Mom was alive and being left at the gas station was nothing but a make-believe story.

  Finally, I shook her arm gently. “Billie, it’s time to get up.”

  She groaned. “Not yet.”

  It was still early, six thirty. But I felt naked with the rows of blank windows facing the pool where we sat so exposed. In the daylight this would not be considered a proper hideaway for any self-respecting animal.

  “Billie, come on. Let’s get breakfast.”

  She popped up, a tangled mass of white hair. It swayed with each turn of her head. I couldn’t help but smile. “Come here,” I said. “Let me fix your hair.”

  Billie stood and staggered toward me, her face still mashed with lines from the towel. I knew food would inspire her.

  I pulled the plastic bag with our money, leftover food, and my notebook closer to me. Just knowing I had a plan already made me feel better. More like a predator than prey.

  I combed her hair with my fingers, doused with some pool water. Like magic, I turned her bed head into a messy bun with the elastic from around my wrist. “There,” I said, trying to test her mood. “You are ready for the royal feast.”

  Please, Billie, no meltdowns today, please.

  She stuck her tongue out, but the corners of her mouth turned up into a small smile.

  I turned my attention to how I looked, trying to erase any sign that I had taken a bath in an over-chlorinated pool and slept in my clothes all night. I slicked my hair into a tight ponytail and asked Billie, “How old do you think I am?”

  Billie, still grumpy, but not yet at meltdown level, looked at me like I was crazy. “You’re twelve,” she said.

  “I know.” But I was tall for my age, which was one of the top three things people said when they met me. The other two were that I looked like my mom and that I acted mature for my age. Of course I did. Mom worked almost all the time. How else was I supposed to act? I hoped I could pass for fourteen, maybe. “But how old do I look?”

  Billie shrugged. “Old.”

  “Okay, come on,” I said after I counted our money. I guess if I couldn’t get ahold of Julie, maybe we could take a bus back to San Diego, if buses stopped here. Didn’t everyone want to see the Grand Canyon, especially bus people?

  Billie stuck the army man she’d found by the pool in her pocket and followed me as we slipped silently through the wide space in the fence. I didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that she was being so well behaved, so I left it alone. She was like the skittish sagebrush lizard we saw at Zion and I didn’t want to spook her.

  The slap of my shoes, plus Billie’s bare foot, echoed in the empty morning air, reminding me how important it was for us to blend in. We were guests at the hotel, like every other person here. I took a deep breath. I could pretend. Faking it had become my specialty.

  I gave my notebook list from last night a mental check.

  1. Free continental breakfast—like Caterpillar Eyebrows said.

  2. Call Julie again.

  3.

  Three was to be determined. Number three depended on how number two went. And of course, I couldn’t accomplish number two if Billie threw a fit again. And she was most likely not to throw a fit if she was nice and full. But first, we had to find a bathroom.

  After a stop in the bathroom, we were ready to eat. The smell of cinnamon and coffee filled the air, making the breakfast easy to find. It was set up in a large room near the front desk. In the center of the room sat a long table full of doughnuts, bagels, pastries, yogurt, cold cereal, fruit, juice, and pots of steaming something. My stomach gurgled. I planted Billie at a table wher
e I could keep an eye on her, but also where I could hide her a little so people couldn’t see her feet. Surprisingly, there were a few families already there, dressed in shorts and T-shirts and hiking sandals, I guessed ready to get a jump on exploring the Grand Canyon.

  Billie’s eyes wandered hungrily toward the food.

  “Stay put,” I said. “I’ll get your food.”

  Billie shook her head.

  “Stay,” I said. “You don’t have a shoe.”

  “Okay,” she mumbled.

  I filled one plate with doughnuts and pastries and another with fruit and yogurt and set them both down in front of Billie. Next, I filled two bowls with steaming cinnamon oatmeal, chock-full of raisins and apples. It smelled so good. It took almost all of my self-control not to set the bowl down right there and lap it up like a dog. The bowls teetered a bit as I tried to balance one on top of the other. A largish lady in an apron pushed past me.

  “Hungry?” she asked, eyeing my heaping bowls.

  I nodded.

  She added more blueberry muffins to the muffin tray and then wiped her hands on her apron. “Here, let me help you with that,” she said, reaching for a bowl.

  “I’m all right,” I said, pulling them toward me.

  “Don’t be silly. That’s my job.” She plucked the oatmeal from my hands and gave me a cheery smile. “Now, where are you seated?”

  I pointed to Billie. “Right there, with my little sister.”

  Obediently, I followed Apron Lady.

  She set our bowls on the table. “Why, hello there,” she said to Billie. “Are you enjoying your breakfast this morning?”

  Billie nodded, her mouth overflowing with pastry.

  “That’s nice. We aim to please.” She smiled again, looking around the room for our parents, I imagined.

  I smiled and waved at an older man who balanced three muffins on a plate, hoping she would think he was our dad. “Thanks so much,” I said to the lady.

  Apron Lady glanced at the man and then at us; I could almost see her computing everything in her brain. Then, as if everything checked out okay, she smiled at me. “Well, let me know if I can get you anything else.”

  “Okay,” I said, my eyes following her back to the buffet table as she arranged more muffins. Just being here around all these people made me nervous.

  “So good,” said Billie between mouthfuls.

  I pushed a bowl of oatmeal toward her. “Here, eat this, too. It’s good for you.”

  Billie stuffed another piece of banana into her mouth, so blissful in the land of Endless Breakfast that she barely noticed me. She was actually humming.

  I reached down into our plastic bag, grabbed the coins floating around the bottom, and stuck them in my pocket.

  “Billie,” I said. I shoved another spoonful of oatmeal into my mouth and swallowed. “Billie.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

  She nodded, not even questioning that we had just been in the bathroom. This was the perfect time for me to call Julie without Billie getting hyperdramatic. I grabbed my notebook from under the table. After last night’s meltdown I had tried to memorize Julie’s phone number, but I still needed it, just in case my brain wouldn’t cooperate.

  The phone was just around the corner, so while dialing I kept my ears pricked up for anything unusual going on in the breakfast room. Billie would surely make noise if anyone bothered her. I dialed Julie’s cell phone number again and my stomach began to churn—the oatmeal I had just put inside threatened to come out.

  Please be there.

  It rang and then picked up, but the same thing happened as the night before. Julie’s cheerful voice on the voice mail telling me to leave her a message and she’d call me back. For a second I wanted to cry, just like Billie, but then the phone beeped and I knew I had to do a better job of leaving her information than I had last night. I opened my notebook to where I had stuck a free map I picked up near the front desk. Sometimes the best strategy is to be prepared, so I told her exactly where we were, even the telephone number of the hotel, before the voice mail cut off.

  Then I called her home phone and left another message. I had covered everything. There was no way she could miss my messages.

  I hung the phone in the cradle. It was fine. Everything was fine. Julie always had her cell phone except when she was at work; she was probably working a night shift or something. I should feel satisfied now that someone knew we were here. Someone who would come and find us. I should feel so much better—so why didn’t I? After two months in the desert with my dad, I was beginning to recognize that feeling of uneasiness, like someone had drawn a crooked line along my spine with a stretched, cold finger. Instinct was trying to tell me something.

  I stared at the breakfast room door, worried that something had happened to Billie. I spun around and bumped straight into someone sitting behind me in a wheelchair. Someone I couldn’t possibly forget. It was Orson, like a huge roasted marshmallow, wrinkled and brown; he sat just staring at me.

  And right behind him was the Lavender Lady.

  “Excuse me,” I stuttered, trying to get out of their way.

  The Lavender Lady didn’t even glance in my direction; she was too busy marching toward the front desk. But Orson’s cloudy eyes locked onto mine, like an owl with night vision capability, but instead of seeing in the dark, he could see right into me. Like he knew everything—the hijacked car ride, the pee, the stolen money. Somehow he knew it all.

  I took a step back, trying to camouflage myself with a potted plant.

  The Lavender Lady pushed his wheelchair past me and parked it near the front desk, but Orson’s head wrenched back, staring, not letting me free. Slowly, I inched toward the door.

  The Lavender Lady slammed her hand on the front desk. “I demand to see the manager,” she declared to the teenager reading a book behind the counter.

  The girl jumped. “My manager’s not in right now.” She closed the book, but held her place with her finger. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “There most certainly is! I’ve been robbed. I’m certain it was one of your employees.”

  The potted plant behind me tipped over. The Lavender Lady barely noticed. But Orson still stared.

  The girl behind the counter dropped her book and glanced around in a panic. “Hold on a sec,” she said, before she disappeared behind the counter where the little door was. I set the pot upright, scooped up the dirt, and dumped it back in. All the while, my cheeks and face burned. How could I sit here and let her accuse someone else of stealing when I knew that most of her money, the part I hadn’t spent yet, sat in a plastic bag underneath Billie’s dirty feet?

  “They’re getting the manager,” the Lavender Lady said to Orson.

  Orson turned to her and mumbled something.

  “Manager,” she said again.

  Orson looked agitated. He stared at me, and his mouth formed words only he could understand.

  The Lavender Lady’s lips set into a grim line as she tucked her purse tightly beneath her arm. I felt sorry for the girl behind the counter, but there was no way I wanted the Lavender Lady’s anger beam pointed at me.

  Orson raised his arm in my direction, mumbling louder.

  The Lavender Lady patted his shoulder. “I know this is upsetting, but we’re just going to wait and get this whole thing sorted out. Orson. Just wait.”

  Survival Strategy #24:

  RUN

  I ran into the breakfast room, almost knocking into two kids at the juice machine, and slid into my seat next to Billie. My heart thumped so violently that it felt like it might jump right out onto her almost empty plate. Billie glanced at me and then at her plate, disgusted, like its near emptiness was my fault.

  “What took you so long?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Get me another blueberry muffin,” she said, like she was the queen of everything.

  I s
tared at the door, waiting for the Lavender Lady to come charging through to shake me until I had returned every cent of her money.

  “Another muffin,” demanded Billie.

  I glanced at her. “You’ve had enough. No more muffins. Come on,” I said, pulling on her arm. “We’ve got to go.”

  “What? Why? I’m not finished.”

  “Yes you are. That’s, like, your third plate. Hurry,” I hissed as I pulled her out of her seat.

  “No!” said Billie. “I’m not ready yet. Who made you the boss?”

  People were beginning to stare.

  I sat back down. “Billie, stop it. You know why I’m in charge. I’m older.”

  Billie played with a kiwi on her plate, her eyebrows pushed down low over her eyes. “It’s not fair,” she said. “You’re so bossy.”

  I should have sat and listened. I should have been patient. I should have just let her have her way. But then a man walked up to our table. At first I didn’t recognize him, but when I imagined him in a bathrobe with messed-up hair, then I knew exactly who he was: the guy we woke up last night in the hallway when Billie screamed like a howler monkey.

  “Aren’t you the girls I saw last night in the hallway?” he asked, squinting to get a better look at us.

  I pretended he wasn’t there.

  Billie looked pale.

  “Yes,” he said, as if he had made a decision. “It was you.” He looked around the breakfast room, his eyes narrowing. “I’d like to speak to your parents.”

  I stared at the white carnation on the table, tucked between the salt and pepper, and willed him to disappear.

  “Which ones are they?” he asked, scanning the room.

  I jumped up. “You can’t.”

  “Oh, really?” His face twisted into an awkward smile, like his lips weren’t used to being happy. “And why not?”

  “Because they went to the bathroom,” I said, hoping I sounded believable.

  He folded his arms across his chest. “Then I’ll just wait.” He smirked and stood right in front of our table, so close I could smell the coffee and cigarettes on his breath.

  Suddenly, Apron Lady was there, standing right next to the man with her arms folded over her large, aproned chest. “Can I help you?” she asked. She was as wide as he was tall, so she felt more intimidating.