9
Following Brett and Reagan, we all head outside to a deck studded with tin lanterns. It’s beautiful out here, actually. The sun still hasn’t completely fallen, but it’s getting close, and the mountains are limned in orange and pink behind darkening silhouettes of pine trees. Everything’s in that middle stage between day and night, which somehow seems more exciting out here in the wilderness than it does in the city. As though something’s on the verge of happening.
The deck quickly swells with people, some of them standing against the railing to watch the sunset, others claiming seats on the sprawling patio furniture to listen to folksy guitar music. Waiters begin circulating after-dinner coffee and tea. We stroll past Candy, who is chatting with some of her guests, and when she spots us, she calls Reagan over to meet them. The rest of us jog down the wide deck steps to a clearing and head toward the compound’s fire pit.
It’s a gorgeous bonfire, with rustic split-log benches circling it. A few guests are toasting marshmallows over the flames, and there’s some sort of make-your-own-s’mores station on a table. Nearby, white lights are strung on a cedar pergola, beneath which three lanes of horseshoes are set up on sandy ground.
“Want to play?” Kendrick asks Lennon. “I have to warn you, I’m pretty much a horseshoes genius, so I’ll probably beat you.”
“Is that right?”
“Legendary,” Kendrick confirms. “At least, I was when I was ten, which is the last—and, well, only time I’ve ever played.”
Lennon chuckles. “If it’s like ring toss at the fair, I kill at that. Let’s do this.” He glances at me. “You in?”
“Hand-eye coordination is not my strong suit,” I tell him. Every time I’ve ever played games where you have to get up in front of others and do something in a spotlight—like bowling or charades—I generally am too concerned about onlookers watching me and end up looking awkward. “Maybe I’ll watch a game and see how it’s played first.”
“Throw a horseshoe, try to hit the stake,” Lennon says.
“You make it sound easy.”
“No, I think you’re making it harder than it really is,” he says, one side of his mouth tilting. “Sometimes you just have to say screw it and go for it.”
Summer chimes in that she wants to play, and it’s only now I notice that Brett is missing. Maybe he hung back with Reagan to talk to Candy. Or maybe he’s staking out the bartender. Who knows. But I wish he were here so that we could revisit his earlier interest in taking photos of the moon—and maybe so that he could be a natural buffer between me and Lennon.
While we’ve been talking, all the horseshoe lanes have filled with teams. So we stand at the edge of the pergola and wait for a free stake, watching the games in progress. That’s when I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder.
I look up to see a woman about my mom’s age, with pale brown skin and her hair pulled tightly back in a smooth ponytail. “Aren’t you Dan Everhart’s daughter?”
“Yes.” My shoulders tighten. Then I recognize the woman. Razan Abdullah. I’ve seen her in the clinic. She runs a video production company. She used to be one of my dad’s patients.
“I thought I recognized you,” she says with a smile. “Is your family here?”
“No, I’m just vacationing with some friends.” I glance toward Lennon and Kendrick. Lennon nods in greeting.
“Ah,” she says. “Beautiful place, isn’t it? I’ve been here the last few days filming a promo video with a small crew.”
“That’s really cool.”
She nods. “It’s been a great shoot. We leave tomorrow morning. How’s your dad doing? I haven’t seen him since he worked on my back this spring.”
“He’s okay.” I feel like I should say something more positive than that, but honestly, it’s hard for me to muster the words.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She makes a face, gritting her teeth. “Is your mom still with your dad?”
I’m baffled. “Of course. Why wouldn’t she be?”
“I must be . . . confusing them with another couple.” Rapidly blinking eyes dart sideways as she seems to be thinking about something, hesitating. “You know how it is. I meet so many people for work. . . . They all blur together sometimes.”
“Right,” I say. But now a strange, quiet panic is rising inside me. Did she really confuse my dad with someone else, or has she heard a rumor? Please, please, please don’t let her be someone my dad’s had an affair with. I think she’s married, but I’m not sure.
Before I can press her for more information, her phone lights up and she excuses herself.
I watch her walk away, head muddled, and realize that if she’s getting phone service, we should be in Wi-Fi range. I check my phone, and sure enough, I’ve got a signal. I also have several texts. Two are from my mom, and as I meander away to answer them, I can’t help but think about Razan’s question. It doesn’t take long for thinking to become obsessing, and now I’m picturing my parents splitting up.
But not for long. Pulling me out of my thoughts, Brett jogs toward me, Reagan in tow. “It’s happening,” he says excitedly, urging me to follow them while Reagan gets the rest of the group’s attention. “We have to go—now.”
“I don’t understand,” I say.
Lennon dusts his hands off. “What’s happening?”
“The bar,” Brett says. “I convinced one of the guests to order three mixed drinks.”
“Okay . . . ?”
“Which means,” he says, “the bartender will head back to the kitchen to fetch them. The bar will be unguarded. Now is our chance. Are you going to sit around throwing scraps of iron with old geezers, or do you want to have fun?”
“Fun!” Summer says.
“Come on, then,” Brett says, grinning wildly. He winks at me. “Let’s go, Everhart.”
He takes off, and I follow, slipping around the backside of the pavilion. Summer and Reagan are racing ahead across the darkening lawn, and when they make it to a short set of stairs that lead up to the smaller side deck, they pause for several seconds until Summer flashes us a thumbs-up sign.
We all climb three steps cautiously onto the narrow strip of deck circling the pavilion, staying hidden. The bar is only a few yards away, bathed in a strong cone of light. Like Brett predicted, the bartender seems to be headed toward the kitchen, and stops to talk to a pair of the serving crew, who are sweeping the floor and turning chairs upside down on top of the tables.
“That guest you convinced to order the drinks went to the Sunset Deck with her friends,” Summer reports in a loud whisper. “I think she was telling the bartender to bring the drinks out there.”
“Excellent,” Brett says with a grin, waving Reagan and Summer behind him. “Where’s my wingman?”
I realize he’s talking about Lennon, and glance around. He’s nowhere to be found.
“No time to wait,” Brett says. “Zorie, you’re taking his place. Stay here at the steps and keep a lookout in the shadows. Everyone else, follow me when Zorie gives the word.”
Keep a lookout? Why me? I frantically glance around while the others clamor onto the side deck. What am I supposed to be looking for? I check the lawn. I don’t have a decent view of the bonfire from here. And the people mingling on the Sunset Deck don’t seem to be paying attention to us. The only person who has a sightline on the bar is the acoustic guitar player. Can he see us? I can’t tell.
“Is it clear?” Brett whispers.
This is too much pressure. I do one last survey of the inner pavilion and wait until a server turns his back. “Okay, now!”
Brett crests over the top step and takes three strides toward the bar, slipping behind it. He punches the air with a victory fist and then ducks out of view. When he pops back up, he has two wine bottles. He hands them to Summer. She tries to pass them to Kendrick, and he waves them away—at least, at first. She says something to him that I can’t hear and shoves one of the bottles against his stomach. He caves and accepts it.
More bottles emerge. The clink of heavy glass echoes across the bar. It’s taking them forever. Why are they giggling? Someone’s going to hear. And just how many bottles of wine do they need? Summer’s already holding three.
I suddenly smell roasted marshmallow.
“Stuck on lookout duty?” a deep voice rumbles at my ear.
A small yelp escapes my mouth. I punch Lennon in the arm.
“Ow,” he complains, rubbing his sleeve.
“Stop creeping up on me like that,” I whisper. “You’ll give me a heart attack.”
His white teeth flash in the dusk. “Sounds like a challenge.”
“Glad you’re so gung ho for my early demise.”
“You used to like when I sneaked up in the dark.”
Memories from last fall flitter through my head. Tiptoeing out of the house to find him waiting behind the palm tree at the bottom of the steps. His hand over my mouth to stop me from laughing. Feeling like my heart would burst out my chest with wanting his arms around me.
Don’t think about it. Don’t answer him. Just pretend he didn’t say anything. Act casual.
“Where were you just now, anyway?” I manage.
“Not doing this stupid shit. And I also”—he holds up a flattened s’more—“found this. Never turn down toasted marshmallow. That’s a sin.”
“Oh, is it really?” I whisper, irritated that my heart is still racing. Because he startled me. Not because of what he said. Or that he’s standing so close that I can smell wood smoke on his shirt. But why is he standing so close?
“Pretty sure that’s what the preacher said last Sunday at church.”
“You still go to church with Mac?” The New Walden Chapel. They have service outside in a small amphitheater, and people from different faiths go there. I think they mainly exist to feed the homeless and do other charity-work-type things around the Bay Area; Mac used to be homeless when she was our age, and she often got her meals from their soup kitchen. My dad says it’s not a real church, but what would he know about divinity?
“I don’t have a choice. She claims I wear too much black.”
I snort. “Okay, so let me get this straight. Mac believes that God forgives her for selling things like . . .”
“Cock rings?” he provides.
That wasn’t my first choice. His nonchalance frazzles me, and I get a little defensive. “Yet God doesn’t forgive you reading all that gruesome horror manga? All those gory zombie movies?”
“Personally, I’d like to think so. Being prepared for the zombie apocalypse is just common sense.”
“Yeah, pretty sure I remember that being mentioned in the Bible,” I say sarcastically.
“It’s an amendment to the commandments,” he says. “Amendment number thirteen. Thou shall arm yourself with machete and shotgun, and remember to aim for the head.”
I turn away to keep my eye on Brett.
Lennon reaches around my shoulder, holding up half of a marshmallow. “Want some?”
His voice is dark and velvety, so close to my ear that a thousand goose bumps race down my neck. An unwanted shiver chases them, and I pray he doesn’t see it. “No.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, voice even lower. Deeper. Seductive.
No. Not seductive. What I’m hearing is the equivalent of a mirage. See, this is where I went wrong before. Just because one person’s feeling something doesn’t mean the other person intended it. Just because my body wants to slowly turn around, to find him gazing down at me, and our eyes would lock, and—
What’s the matter with me? I have to stop. For the love of God, have some pride, Everhart.
“No, thank you,” I say more resolutely.
“Your loss,” he says, sounding bored. His arm disappears.
And now I do turn to look at him. Slowly. But not because I expect anything. I just want to see if he really is bored, or if . . .
His eyes aren’t on mine. Of course not. He’s gazing off in the distance.
“Oh, look,” he says casually. “Jack Kerouac is about to get busted.”
What?
I swing around and spot the bartender in the pavilion, headed straight toward them. Crap, crap, crap.
“Brett!” I whisper loudly.
He doesn’t hear me.
“Guys!” I say louder, panicked.
Summer glances around as if she possibly heard me, but isn’t quite sure. What do I do? If I take a step into the light, the bartender will see me. But if I can’t get Brett’s attention—
Lennon whistles.
Brett looks up.
I wave frantically and point toward the pavilion.
He understands now. There’s a short scuffle with the wine bottles, and then they’re racing toward us. Problem is, when they get to the steps, the bartender can—
Son of a sea cook!
They’ve been spotted.
“Run!” Brett tells us.
He tears across the lawn, juggling four bottles of wine. Instinct for self-preservation has me running after him. The scent of damp grass and pine needles rise from my feet as my shoes slap the ground. We’re all racing as if our lives depend upon it, a panic-fueled herd of buffaloes driven into shadow. I’m completely turned around. Where are the campgrounds? I don’t remember all these trees and bushes.
Brett veers left just as I spot the main walkway. It’s lit up by tiny gold path lights. Brett and Reagan leap over some flowering shrubs to get to the path. Something crashes.
“Oh, God!” Summer yells.
Glass crushes under my shoes. The scent of wine floods my nose.
“Keep going,” Brett says, chest heaving. “Don’t stop.”
I glance back at the pavilion. It doesn’t look like anyone’s running after us. We leave the broken bottle behind and continue along the main path until we crest the top of a steep hill. The first camp of tents comes into view. Brett slows to a stop, and we all catch our breath and look down into the valley.
This camp is nothing but yurts, all of them the shape of circus tents. They’re eerily lovely, glowing with warm, marigold light—sanctuaries in the darkening forest, one that parts to reveal a black sky. And everywhere—everywhere—in that sky, there are stars.
My stars.
It’s as if they appeared from nowhere. As if this is a completely different night sky than the one back home. We have a pretty clear view at the Melita Hills observatory, but the cities clustered in the Bay Area collectively produce a lot of light pollution.
No cities out here.
Oh, the photos I could take with my telescope!
“Zorie!” Lennon calls.
Crap. The group is on the move again, and everyone but the two of us has already made it halfway down the hill.
“Sorry,” I say. I get my butt in motion and explain, “I spaced out.” I chuckle and catch my breath. “Literally.”
What a dorky joke. All this physical activity is rotting my brain.
“The stars, you mean?” he says, glancing up briefly. “It’s amazing, right? I knew you would love them out here.”
He jogs faster to catch up with the group, and I race to follow, his surprising confession tumbling around inside my head. But not for long, because when we’re a few yards from the camp, Reagan comes to a stop.
“What’s going on?” Kendrick asks.
“On the path, near the third yurt,” she says.
I scan ahead and spot the problem. A large man in a dark jacket stands with his back to us, chatting with a couple of campers. On the back of the jacket, the word MUIR is printed in white.
“Mr. Randall,” Reagan says. “The compound’s security ranger. If you think the bartender was a jerk, he’s Santa Claus compared to Mr. Randall. We can’t be seen with all this wine. He’ll probably have us arrested.”
Summer glances around. “What do we do? Should we go back?”
“To the place that’s filled with people who saw us run?” Lennon says. “Yes, let’s return to the scene of the crime.”
“I don’t know!” Summer says, eyes bright with panic. “Maybe we can hide until this Mr. Randall dude passes us?”
I gesture toward the yurts. “He’s not the only roadblock. Look at all the tents. People are walking around.”
“Guests are returning from the bonfire too,” Lennon says, glancing behind us, where laugher and chatter carry from a short distance.
“We’re trapped,” Summer moans. “This sucks so hard. My legs are covered in wine splatter, and now we’re going to jail.”
“Or we could stash the bottles somewhere,” Lennon says calmly. “And, you know, maybe not go to jail. But your plan works too.”
Kendrick points to a waste disposal box. It’s a metal bear-resistant one, cemented to the ground, with a funny latch. “I doubt they’d clean these out tonight. We can stash the wine inside now and come back later, when people are sleeping.”
“My boys!” Brett praises, helping Kendrick unlatch the garbage bin. “Pure genius. Lennon, I was thinking you failed me back at the bar when you weren’t there to watch my back, but your position as wingman is now restored.”
“All my dreams are realized,” Lennon says, voice thick with sarcasm.
While Reagan fusses about stashing the bottles near food scraps, they manage to clear out a space inside the bin for a dozen bottles. The last one doesn’t fit, so Brett sticks it inside his pants. Crude jokes are made. I ignore them, mainly because I’m watching the ranger.
“Guys,” I say. “Shut the bin. He’s coming this way.”
I don’t think he can see us all that well, but then again, I can see him. And when Lennon points out that we look obvious, hanging out by the garbage bin, we leave it and begin walking down the path. Calmly. Slowly. No getting around the ranger. I steel myself as we approach him.
“Evenin’,” Mr. Randall says, giving us all a once-over. “You kids lost?”
“No, sir,” Brett assures him. “Just heading back to our camp.”
“Which is . . . ?”
“Camp Owl,” Reagan says.
He squints at her. “You look familiar.”
“My parents stay here a lot,” she says.
“If that’s true, then I don’t need to remind you that quiet hours will be starting soon. Plan accordingly.”
“Thank you,” Reagan says.
Mr. Randall nods, stepping aside to let us pass. I’m not sure if it’s my imagination, but he seems to sniff the air. So now I’m paranoid that he smells wine on us. I mean, we did trample a broken bottle into the ground.
But if he suspects anything, he doesn’t stop us. And after I sneak a glance back at him, I breathe out a sigh of relief when he passes the garbage bin and continues up the hill toward the lodge.
“I think we’re in the clear,” I tell the group as we make our way down the dark path through the yurt camp.
“Lucky us,” Lennon says without conviction.
For once, I don’t disagree with him.