4
“Oh, check out this one. It will look great on you,” Reagan says in a loud, raspy voice as she pulls a Barbie-pink backpack off a hook. We’ve been inside this specialty outdoor gear store for all of ten minutes, and she’s already filled up a shopping cart with enough hiking gear to outfit the Donner Party. The store’s owner is probably counting up the total in his head and putting a down payment on a new house. Reagan’s mom gave her a credit card and told her to go wild.
Must be nice.
“Jesus! Look at the price tag. It’s too expensive,” I tell her. It’s one of those structured backpacks that covers your entire back from head to butt and holds whatever it is that backpackers need when they’re hiking—sleeping bags and tent poles, things like that.
“Mom said we could buy anything, as long as it’s in this store,” Reagan argues, giving me a mischievous look as she swings a light brown ponytail over one shoulder. “She will regret that. Besides, my dad just made a shitload of money on the stock market. Why do you think my parents suddenly decided to fly to Switzerland? They can afford a couple of backpacks.”
“There’re four in the cart already,” I point out.
Four backpacks. Three tents. Hiking sticks. Sleeping bags. Headlamps. And a set of enamel cookware, because it was “cute.”
“We’ll be needing it,” she says casually.
“I thought this was glamping,” I argue. “Your mom told my mom that the tents are already set up and that all the meals were provided.”
Reagan pushes the shopping cart into an outdoor clothing area. “Yeah, I stayed there last year for my sixteenth birthday. The compound has really nice yurts.”
“Yogurt?”
“Yurt,” she enunciates, pretending to snap at my nose with her teeth. “They’re giant round tents. You could host a huge party inside one. Anyway, the tents we’re buying today are for the backcountry trip we’re taking.”
I don’t like the sound of that. “No one mentioned this.”
“It’s just walking, Zorie. Anyone can do it.”
I snort. “Says the athlete who gets up every morning at the butt crack of dawn to exercise.”
A tortured look clouds her eyes. Is she thinking about her Olympic failure? I think of what Mom said about Reagan struggling, and I immediately regret teasing her.
“I suppose you’re right,” I say quickly. “It’s just walking.”
Reagan glances down at my plaid skirt and surveys my bare legs. “Hiking will do you good.”
I’m not sure what she means by this, but I choose to ignore it, and instead route the conversation in a different direction. “You’re planning on pitching tents in the wilderness? Like, with wild animals and stuff?”
Reagan smacks her gum and wheels up to a display of hiking boots. On the nearby wall is a giant poster of pretty models dressed in flannel, grinning with perfect teeth as they brave the wilds of their photo shoot, pretending to be roughing it. “There are a zillion campgrounds in King’s Forest. I’m sure we’ll be sleeping in one of them,” she assures me. “At least, I think so. I don’t know. All I’ve been told is that the place we’re going is a couple hours’ walk from the main compound. Your average Silicon Valley wannabe hikers don’t know about it. We’re talking totally off trail, baby.”
Off trail sounds awful. Unlike Reagan, I don’t have boundless natural energy and calves of steel. I need to be where there’s caffeine in walking distance, not fighting off bears and mosquitoes. I make a face at Reagan.
“We can be as loud as we want and no ranger will be there to shush us,” Reagan says in her big, raspy voice. “The people who run the glamping compound are nice, but they know my parents. We can’t really let loose around them, you know? I don’t need them giving my mom a report card on our activities.”
Now I’m wondering what kinds of activities she has in mind.
Reagan points to the poster of the hiking models. “In the backcountry . . . that’s where things will get good. There’s a hidden waterfall inside King’s Forest to die for, and it’s not far from the glamping compound. I’m talking bucket list. Do you know how many people get internet famous just for having the guts to travel to cool locations and take photos?”
Avani’s story about overhearing Brett talking on the phone pops into my mind. My pulse quickens. “You still haven’t told me who’s going.”
“I thought I did,” she says absently. “Summer.”
One of Reagan’s troop. Summer sometimes eats lunch with us in the courtyard at school.
“And?” I coax. “Who else?”
“Kendrick Taylor.” Goes to the private school across town, Alameda Academy. Which is where Reagan would be going if they had a decent athletics department; they don’t, and that’s why a lot of rich kids who play sports go to public school with the rest of us riffraff.
“Summer started seeing Kendrick a few weeks ago,” she explains before I can ask, and then mutters, “Why are hiking boots so ugly?”
“Because no one cares what you look like when you’re sweating your way up a mountain?”
“Look, if you don’t think you can handle a little hiking, don’t come.”
Her words feel like a slap to the face. And could she have said that any louder? Her booming voice carries through the store, and another customer has turned to look quizzically at us. Public shame is the best.
“I’m sorry,” she says, mouth pulling tight to one side. “I didn’t mean it to come out that way.”
I pretend I’m not upset. Ever since the Olympic trials, Reagan has had the shitty tendency to lash out at people to make herself feel better, so whatever is bothering her probably has nothing to do with me. But now I’m wondering whether I can handle this trip.
“Quit scratching your arm,” Reagan chastises.
I hadn’t realized I was doing that. Stupid hives. I’m going to need to take medication.
Exhaling a long sigh, I calm myself and try to focus on what’s important. “Who else is going?” I press. “It can’t be just Summer and Kendrick.”
She shrugs. “Brett Seager and some dude he’s bringing.”
Bingo. “Oh, really?”
“Yes, really. Don’t faint on me.”
“I won’t,” I say.
“I just know how you are about him,” she says. “You get obsessed and freaky, and I don’t want things getting weird.”
“Why would they get weird? You think I’m going to attack him in the woods?”
She chuckles. “You never know. What happens in the woods stays in the woods.”
I clear my throat and try to sound breezy. “I did hear he’s single again.”
Reagan makes a noncommittal noise. “I thought you were over him?”
“I am.” Mostly.
“Okay, good. But seriously. This is supposed to be a drama-free trip. I don’t want it to be awkward.”
“It won’t be awkward.”
“Excellent.” After a nod, she wheels the cart toward a wall of paddles. Colorful kayaks are suspended alongside them, greens and reds and purples.
“So this waterfall we’re hiking to is only a couple hours away from the glamping compound?” I ask.
“That’s what Brett says. He’s trying to convince the guy who told him about it to lead us there. Oh, that reminds me. Bikinis. We’ll be swimming. Do they sell those here?” She cranes her neck to peer around the store.
No way am I getting in a bikini in front of Brett. Forget it. My stress meter goes up, but I mentally push it back down and try to focus on what I was going to say. “I’m just wondering exactly where the waterfall is, because there are some people I know doing a meet-up on Condor Peak, and I thought about trying to find a ride out there one night.”
Reagan’s nose wrinkles. “Who do you know who’d be meeting on Condor Peak? Oh, hold on. Is this an astronomy club thing?”
“Meteor shower,” I confirm. “There’s a big star party.”
She considers this. “That’s not far from where we’ll be, and you can definitely find a ride out there. The High Sierra bus line has a stop near the compound. I’ll bet even Uber picks up there, if you throw enough cash at them.”
That sounds promising, but I need firmer details. I don’t want to scramble at the last minute. “I guess I could email the compound and ask for advice.”
“Is Avani going to be there?” she asks. “At Condor Peak?”
I nod. Sometimes I think Reagan might be jealous of the astronomy connection Avani and I share. This is ridiculous, because I only spend time with Avani during our club meetings. Before summer started, I saw Reagan every day.
Trying not to scratch my itchy arm, I pretend to browse a display of wide-mouthed water bottles. An idea suddenly hits me. “You could come with me to the star party. I know Avani would like to see you.”
Reagan’s quiet. Just for a second. Then she shakes her head. “I can’t invite people camping and then abandon them.”
I chuckle, slightly embarrassed. “Of course not. Duh.”
A heavy awkwardness fills the space between us, and I don’t know why. Maybe she’s remembering how we used to all be better friends. Maybe she actually wants to go with me to Condor Peak but needs a little push. Sometimes if I prod her, she’ll let down her guard and show me the other Reagan—the girl she used to be when we were younger. Before all of the pressure of the Olympic training. Before her parents got rich.
She slaps my shoulder, startling me. Sometimes Reagan doesn’t know her own strength. “Don’t be such a worrywart. It’s all good,” she says, voice bouncing with positivity. “I think everything will work out for both us. You can spend a little time glamping with my group and then head to your astronomy thing with Avani.”
“Might take some coordinating,” I say, still unsure.
“Nah, it’ll work out fine,” she insists, bugging her eyes out at me comically and then sticking her tongue out briefly. “Just roll with it, Zorie. Let life happen.”
I’m not sure if she realizes, but that’s Brett’s motto. He says it all the time.
Maybe it’s time I take this advice.
* * *
The next morning, I’m letting life happen in the only way I know how, which is me going over my extremely detailed fifty-five-bullet-point list for the camping trip while sitting behind the clinic’s front desk. We leave tomorrow, which doesn’t give me a lot of time to ensure that I have everything I’ll need. I’m a little worried I might forget something.
What that is, I’m not sure. I’ve never been camping. But I’m poking around the glamping compound’s website, and it’s mostly magazine-worthy photographs of the surrounding landscape. The only information I find is a glowing write-up of their chef and wine collection. That and a list of their prices, which are insane. You’d think we were staying at a four-star hotel instead of in a tent.
Avani and I talked on the phone for almost an hour last night. We firmed up plans to meet up at the star party, and she helped me research the bus lines that run out there in the Sierras—which are not frequent. Seems as though I have two chances each day to catch a bus heading toward Condor Peak. At least I now have a plan, which is all I ever wanted.
The clinic’s door opens, and I look up from the front desk’s computer, expecting to see my mom’s next acupuncture appointment. My dad doesn’t have anything booked until after lunch, so he left a few minutes ago to run errands around town. Fine by me. I’ve still barely spoken two words to him. I’m not sure what to say. How’s it going? Any new mistresses this week? Or perhaps, What’s there to do in the Bahamas besides betraying your marriage vows and destroying our family?
I shove all of that into the back of my mind and slip on my polite dealing-with-the-public face. But the smile I’m conjuring quickly fades when I see who’s walking toward the desk.
The Lord of Darkness himself, Lennon Mackenzie.
My first thought: What the hell is he doing in here?
He never comes in the clinic. Ever, ever, ever. It’s probably been a year since he’s stepped foot inside this waiting room.
My second thought: OH SWEET LORD, HE SAW ME SPYING ON HIM IN HIS BEDROOM.
If there’s a God above, please let him or her grant me the power of time travel, so that I can rewind the clock and completely avoid this nightmare of a situation. I blink slowly, hoping Lennon will disappear when I reopen my eyes, but no. He and his too-tall body—don’t you dare think about his bare chest—are still taking up too much room on the other side of the clinic’s desk.
“Hello,” he says. It almost sounds like a question.
I think about lifting my chin without saying anything, like he did to me the other day, but quickly decide I’m classier than that. “Good morning,” I say formally. No smile. He’s not worth the effort.
His eyes drop. He balls his hand into a fist and slowly, gently taps it on top of the desk a couple of times while sucking in a long breath between gritted teeth . . . as though he doesn’t know what to say. Or he does, but he really doesn’t want to say it.
“So . . . ,” he finally says.
“So,” I agree. Is he avoiding my eyes? It feels as if he might throw dynamite over the desk and race out the door. Now I understand why people say you can cut tension with a knife.
Is he not going to say anything else?
Is he here to confront me?
What do I do?
“I wasn’t spying on you,” I blurt out defensively. “I was just making adjustments to my telescope. It was repaired. Recently. Recently repaired. I was checking it.”
Oh, now he’s looking at me. Something akin to horror is dawning over his face. Or shock. Or he thinks I’m an idiot. Why can’t I read him? And why is he not saying anything?
“I didn’t even see much,” I insist.
He nods slowly.
“Anything, really,” I amend. “I was testing my telescope.”
“You mentioned that,” he says, squinting at me through tight eyes.
“Sorry. I mean, I don’t have anything to be sorry about, because I didn’t do anything.”
“Right.”
“It was an accident.”
“Got it.”
My eyes flick to his arms. He’s wearing short sleeves, so now I’m staring at muscle. Look away! Look away! Too late. He caught me. Again.
WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?
“So anyway,” he says, setting down a pile of envelopes on the desk, as if nothing is amiss. “I was told to come here and drop off your mail. It got delivered to our shop this morning.”
Oh.
I can barely control the low groan of misery that’s burring from the back of my throat. If I’d just kept my mouth shut . . .
“Uh, thanks.” I shift the letters toward me with one finger and try to recover what little of my pride is left. “These seemed to be sealed, so I guess you guys didn’t open them by mistake this time.”
He tugs his ear. Chipped black fingernail polish glints under the light. “She really didn’t mean to open it. I was there when it happened.”
Crap on toast. He knows. Of course he does. It’s not as if I didn’t wonder or consider that possibility. But this doesn’t stop embarrassment from washing over me now. I busy myself neatly stacking the letters and avoiding his judgmental eyes.
“Hey,” he says in an unexpectedly gentle voice.
I look up and he has a strange expression on his face. I can’t tell if it’s pity or tenderness, or maybe something else entirely. But it feels like he knows something I don’t know, and that only increases my panic-fueled pulse.
The door to the clinic swings open. My dad rushes inside. “Forgot my . . .” He spots Lennon and halts. His brows narrow to a dark point. “What the hell are you doing in here?”
Lennon raises both hands in surrender, but the look on his face is baldly defiant. “Just delivering mail, man.”
“I’m not your ‘man,’ ” my dad says, voice thick with displeasure.
“Thank God for small favors.”
“Show some respect.”
“I’ll show you mine when you show me yours,” Lennon quips, and then adds, “Sir.” But he sounds anything but polite.
I’m not sure what to do. Why did Lennon come over here in the first place? He knows how my dad is. To stop things from escalating, I pipe up and say, “Lennon was bringing over misdelivered mail.”
It’s as if my dad doesn’t even hear me. He just points to the floor and says, “You aren’t supposed to step foot on my property.”
Lennon shrugs. “Your property? Last I checked, you rent this place like the rest of us.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass.”
“Better a smart-ass than a dumb-ass.”
Oh, that was a bad thing to say. My dad’s expression goes from angry to furious. “Get out.”
Lennon gives him a dark smile. “On my way.”
“Damn right, you are,” my dad mumbles.
Footsteps pound in the hallway behind the desk, and my mom emerges, breathless, head swiveling in every direction as she surveys the scene. “What is going on?” she whispers loudly. “I’ve got a client on the table!”
“Mrs. Everhart.” Lennon nods politely. “Your husband was just throwing me out.”
“Dan!” my mom chastises.
My dad ignores her. “Don’t come back,” he tells Lennon.
“See you, Zorie,” Lennon tells me as he pushes the front door open.
“You talk to my daughter again, I’ll call the cops,” my dad calls out.
Oh, for the love of Pete.
Lennon turns in the doorway and stares at my dad for several long seconds before shaking his head. “Always a pleasure, Mr. Everhart. You’re a beacon of civility and chivalry. An absolute gem.”
Now my dad is livid, and for a second, I’m worried he might punch Lennon. Worse, I’m concerned that Lennon will bring up the Bahamas photo book.
But Lennon’s gaze flicks to my mom’s, then mine. Without another word, he leaves. The door shuts behind him, and I watch his dark form disappear down the sidewalk.
“Dan,” my mother says again, this time in quiet exasperation. In defeat.
Silence fills the waiting room. My father reins in his anger, and just like that, all of his tumultuous energy dissipates into a slant of sunlight that beams through the front windows. He turns to me and calmly says, “Why was he in here? I thought you weren’t speaking.”
I wave the envelopes Lennon brought. “We aren’t. He was telling the truth.”
Does he understand how humiliated I am by what just happened? Whatever issues Lennon and I have are ours alone, and I’m sick of being stuck in the middle of my dad’s squabbles. All of it: his beef with the Mackenzies, and what he’s done to my mom. If he only knew what I was hiding in my bedroom desk . . .
Maybe I should show him the photo book privately and see what he says.
Would he try to talk his way out of it? Or would he come clean?
I don’t think I have the guts to find out.
Dad stares at me, seemingly expressionless, but I can tell that gears are turning inside his head. Does he have some inkling about what I’m thinking? I relax my features to match his.
After a moment, he sniffles softly and jingles the car keys in his hand. “If that boy bothers you again, Zorie, please tell me. Immediately.”
He can hold his breath, but I don’t think I’ll be confiding anything to him any time soon.
Maybe ever.