6
“You have everything?” Mom asks, testing the weight of my backpack. It’s almost ten in the morning, and Reagan’s supposed to pick me up in a few minutes. I stopped by the clinic to tell my parents goodbye. “Good lord, this is heavy.”
“That’s my portable telescope and camera.” Who knew ten pounds could be so heavy? It takes up a lot of space in the pack, so I’ve got one of the tents Reagan bought stuffed in the bottom, a compressed sleeping bag, clothes neatly rolled to save space, a couple of energy bars, peanut butter cups, and some chocolate-covered espresso beans—you know, all the major food groups.
I also may have brought a grid-lined journal. Just a small one. And a few gel pens.
“You have the emergency cash I gave you?”
I pat the pocket of my purple plaid shorts. They match my purple Converse, which match my purple eyeglass frames. Did I mention the glittery purple nail polish? I’m killing it. Someone should pay me to look this sharp. One modeling contract, pronto.
“Portable cell phone charger?”
“In my pack,” I lie. It’s an older model that weighs a ton, and in the battle of heavy versus heavy, my telescope and camera won. Besides, they’ll have electricity at the glamping compound. I can just plug my phone in.
Mom inspects my arms. “Hive cream?”
“Yes, I’ve got the stinky homeopathic cream. Where’s Dad? I need to leave soon.”
“Dan!” she calls out to the back rooms, cupping her hands around her mouth. Then she turns back to me. “He’s rushing to head out to the bank. I tried to get an increase on the clinic’s credit card, and they say our credit score is too low because we’re overextended. Which is crazy, because that’s our only credit account, and I paid off your father’s car loan last year. There must be some mistake. He’ll get it sorted out. Oh, there you are,” she says as he jogs into the reception area, keys in hand.
And toward the front door.
“I’ll be back in a jiff,” he says, keys in hand.
“Dan, Zorie’s leaving for her camping trip,” Mom says, sounding as exasperated as I feel.
He turns around and blinks at me, and apparently is just now noticing my backpack. “Of course,” he says, smoothly covering up his faux pas with a charming smile. “Excited to spend time with the Reid daughter?”
“Reagan,” I say.
“Reagan,” he repeats. More smiling. He turns to my mom and says, “Everything checked out at the campsite, right? The girls will be safe there?”
“They have security and everything,” Mom says. “I told you, remember? Mrs. Reid talked to the owner, and they’re going to pay special attention to their group.”
“Right, right,” Dad murmurs, nodding enthusiastically. Then he smiles at me, starts to extend his arms as if he might hug me—which is weird, because we don’t normally do that anymore—and then changes his mind and pats me on the head. “Have a great time, kiddo. Stay in touch with Joy and take your pepper spray in case there are any boys with roaming hands.”
There will be boys, and I certainly hope there will be roaming hands. But no way am I telling him that, so I just laugh, and it sounds as hollow as his smile looks.
He nods stiffly, and it’s awkward. “Gotta get to the bank. See you when you get back,” he says, and before I can answer, he’s jogging out the front door.
When he’s gone, I vent at Mom. “Hello! I’m leaving for an entire week. Does he realize this?”
She holds up a hand in shared exasperation. “He knows. I told him I could take care of the bank on my lunch break, but he insisted it had to be now. He’s just—”
“Stressed,” I say, resigned. “Yeah.”
And what’s up with this credit thing at the bank? That sounds fishy. Or maybe I’m just suspicious of everything my dad touches.
“Hey, forget him. I’m right here,” she says, holding my face in her hands. “And I’m going to miss you like crazy. I will also worry every day, so please call or text to check in when you can.”
“Spotty cell service,” I remind her. We read warnings about it on the glamping compound’s website.
She nods. “If I don’t hear from you, I won’t alert state troopers. Not unless you aren’t standing here in front of me at noon next Friday. In one piece, I might add.”
“Don’t know about one piece, but I’ll be here. Reagan’s got to be back for some presemester orientation thing for her cross-country team,” I remind her. “Speaking of, I’d better get outside. Need to stay on schedule.”
She grasps my arm to peer at my watch and winces at the time. “Crap. I need to get the room ready for my first appointment.”
Good, because I really want to get out there alone before Joy decides to walk me outside and greet Reagan. Like my father, she’s still under the illusion that this is a girls-only trip, and I’d like to keep it that way.
“I changed my mind. Don’t go.” She hugs me extra hard and then clings dramatically.
“Mom,” I say, laughing. “You’re unbalancing my life force.”
“Have I told you how much I love you?”
“Not today. But you did buy me turkey jerky, and if that’s not a token of affection, I don’t know what is.”
“I love you, sweet thing.”
“Love you back,” I tell her.
When she finally lets me go, I lift my heavy backpack onto one arm and salute her goodbye.
“Don’t forget to feed Andromeda at dinner,” I remind her. That’s usually my job; Mom feeds her in the morning.
“I won’t,” she assures me as I’m opening the door. “You don’t pee on your shoes and try not to provoke any bears.”
“If I see a bear, I’ll pass out from fear, so he’ll just think I’m dead.”
“That seems reasonable. And, Zorie?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t be cautious, be careful. Have a good time, okay?”
I give her a confident nod and head outside.
It’s a perfect summer day. Not too hot, not too cool. Pretty blue sky. I’m feeling a weird mix of anxiety and anticipation as I lug my backpack toward a striped no-parking space in front of the curb.
No sign of Reagan yet, so I decide to do one last practice run on my backpack. I tried it on when it was empty, but now that it’s full, I’m forced to squat in order to lift it and am struggling to get it on both shoulders. When I finally manage it, I wobble clumsily and nearly topple over backward. How am I supposed to hike a dirt trail with this thing? Feels like an overweight sloth is clinging to my neck. Maybe if I secure the strap that buckles around my waist . . .
“You’ve got it packed wrong,” someone calls out.
I turn around slowly, in case I actually do fall over—which is a real possibility, not kidding—and it takes me exactly one second to spot the voice’s owner: black Converse high-tops, black jeans with artfully ripped holes in both knees, and a T-shirt with a heart inside an X-ray skeletal chest.
Lennon is sitting on the hood of his hearse, which is parked a few yards away in one of the public spaces in the middle of our cul-de-sac. “You’re supposed to pack the heavy stuff in the center, near your back. Let your hips carry the weight, not your shoulders. When it’s packed right, you won’t be the Leaning Tower of Pisa.”
“I’m not . . .” I shift my feet and lean forward slightly, barely preventing a bodily avalanche. Dammit.
Lennon’s smile is slow and annoying. He’s wearing jet-black sunglasses, so I can’t see his eyes. Double annoying. Why is he even talking to me? Didn’t I tell him I hated him yesterday?
“What do you have in there?” he asks. “Gold bricks?”
“My telescope.”
“You fit Nancy Grace Roman inside that pack?”
I’m shocked he remembers. “No, the portable one.”
“Ah. Well, it’s packed wrong.”
“And I should trust you because you’re such an expert on backpacking,” I say irritably.
He leans back on both hands and lifts his face to the sun. “Actually, I kind of am.”
“Since when?”
“Since forever. I backpacked with my moms in Europe when I was thirteen—”
Oh, yeah. I forgot about that. “But that was in hostels.”
“And campgrounds.”
Right.
“And three times this year. Three? Wait, maybe four,” he says, more to himself than me. He shrugs a shoulder lightly. “One of them doesn’t count, but anyway.”
“You went to Europe this year?” I say, surprised.
“No, I backpacked here in California. My parents gave me a national park pass for Christmas and took me camping in Death Valley over spring break. I even took a wilderness survival course.”
Does not compute. This isn’t Lennon at all. The boy I knew didn’t spend time outdoors. I mean, sure, we technically spent most of our time together outside on all those walks, but that was here in the city. Before I can make sense of this new development in Lennon, Man of Mystery, he speaks up again.
“I can help you repack if you want,” he says, still looking up at the sky, where misty trails of morning fog are drifting back out to the Bay, silver streaks against bright blue.
Lennon Mackenzie with his hands on my private stuff? I don’t think so, buddy.
“No, thanks.” I let the pack’s straps slide down my arms until it’s back on the ground. And then, in an attempt to shut him up, I add, “My ride should be here any second.”
“Yeah, I just got a text.”
Huh? Wait just one stinking second.
Backpack advice. Camping in Death Valley. Spotted hanging out with Brett . . .
Oh, no. Oh no, no, no.
This is not Brett’s new bromance. This is not the “guy” who’s leading us to a secret off-trail waterfall in the Sierras. It can’t be! Reagan knows I avoid him. She doesn’t know why, exactly, but she should have told me. Why didn’t she tell me? There must be some mistake.
Panic fires through my limbs as a dark blue SUV whips into the parking lot. Lennon casually jumps from the hood of his car, landing lightly on his feet. He bends to pick up something out of sight, near the front wheel. When he stands back up, he’s pulling a red backpack onto one shoulder. The top outer pocket is covered with vintage punk-rock buttons and retro national parks patches. A foam bedroll is neatly secured to its bottom.
Holy hell.
Blaring electronic dance music, the blue SUV skids as it brakes between us, and then Reagan’s light brown head pops up from the driver’s door. “Glamping time, bitches!” she shouts merrily over the stereo. “Packs go up top in the cargo container. Let’s hustle.”
My mind can’t form a coherent thought. I know I’m staring stupidly as Brett lurches out of the SUV to clap Lennon soundly on the shoulder. “Lennon, my boy,” he says, voice full of joy. “That shirt is sick! I love it. Come on, I’ll help you get the cargo box open. The latch is screwed up.” Brett notices me for the first time.
My stomach flips over.
You know how people say they are blinded by love? That’s what happens to me when I see Brett. He looks like a celebrity, all tanned legs and sandy brown curls, a face too perfect for a mortal high school boy. And don’t get me started on his teeth. They are insanely perfect. I never knew teeth could be so attractive.
He flashes me those million-dollar teeth in a dazzling grin. “Zorie. Still rocking that sexy scientist vibe,” he says, pointing finger guns at my glasses while making a zinging noise. Then he waves me closer for a hug. “Bring it on in, girl. Haven’t seen you in forever.”
Oh, wow. I’m overwhelmed by the spicy scent of aftershave. He smells a little like my dad, which is a weird thing to think. Shut up, brain! This is all Lennon’s fault for surprising me. His presence is throwing me off my game. And now Brett lets me go, so I wasted the entire two-second hug with the boy of my dreams thinking about (A) my dad and (B) the boy of my nightmares. Terrific.
“What you been up to this summer?” Brett asks lightly.
Say something. Do not blow this. “You know, working.”
Working? That’s the best I could come up with? I work twice a week at the clinic for a few hours, so why am I making it sound like I’m slaving over a paycheck at a real job? I want a do-over, but Brett’s attention has shifted to the task of opening the big plastic cargo carrier attached to the SUV’s roof rack. Meanwhile, Lennon is looking back at me—nay, full-on staring—and I can’t tell what he’s thinking because of those stupid sunglasses, but it feels judgmental.
Is this really happening? Lennon is coming with us?
Brett pops open the cargo carrier and helps Lennon lift his pack inside, nestling it in among several others. Lennon gestures silently with one hand and a tilt of his head, offering to help me lift my pack. I try to do it myself, and end up having to let Lennon and Brett boost it up. Which is humiliating.
“Hey,” I say in greeting to Kendrick Taylor, closing the door as I get settled in my seat.
Kendrick’s family owns a successful winery that’s lauded in the press for being one of the best vineyards in Sonoma County. Since he goes to private school in Melita, I’ve only met him once, when Reagan hauled me to a party.
“Zorie, right?” he says, squinting one eye closed. In a chambray button-down and khaki shorts that contrast pleasantly with his dark brown skin, he’s better-looking than I remembered, and has a friendly, confident demeanor.
A tall girl with long, sun-streaked hair leans around the front passenger seat. Summer Valentino. If you crave gossip about anyone in school, she knows it. And even though her grades were so bad that technically she should have had to repeat eleventh grade, she’s on the yearbook committee and the online school newspaper—which apparently saved her.
“Zorie’s into astrology,” Summer tells Kendrick.
“Astronomy,” I correct.
“D’oh!” she says, smiling. “I always get those mixed up. Which one is the horoscopes?”
“Astrology,” Kendrick enunciates, pretending to give her a slap on the head, which she ducks with a silly grin.
Brett speaks up from behind me and introduces Kendrick to Lennon.
“This is my boy,” Brett tells Kendrick, roughly shaking Lennon’s shoulder. “This kid is wild. Right, John Lennon?”
Lennon’s sitting behind Kendrick, so I can see him better than Brett. “If you say so,” Lennon deadpans.
“Is that really your name?” Kendrick asks.
“Minus the John,” Lennon says. “But Brett never lets that stop him.”
If I didn’t know better, I might wonder if this is a jab. But Brett just laughs as if it’s the funniest joke in the world.
Um, okay. What is going on here?
“Lennon’s father is Adam Ahmed from Orphans of the State,” Summer supplies. “They opened for Green Day a million years ago. His dad was that Egyptian-American drummer dude.”
“Guitarist,” Lennon corrects quietly, but I don’t think anyone hears him except me.
“Didn’t one of your moms crash at Billie Joe Armstrong’s house for a few weeks?” Reagan asks, programming a route into the SUV’s navigation system. “Doesn’t she know his wife, or something?”
Before he can answer, Summer pipes in with: “Is it true that your moms were, like, together with your dad all at the same time?” She pauses, and says in a lower voice, “I mean, the three of them?”
“I got your meaning,” Lennon says.
“That’s just what I heard around school,” Summer tells him apologetically. But not so apologetic that she’s shutting the question down.
“I’ve heard that around school myself,” Lennon says.
“Well?” Summer prompts.
“My parents did a lot of things,” Lennon says enigmatically.
The intrigue inside the car is high. Scandal! Gasp! Thing is, Sunny and Mac are one of the most in-love, devoted couples I’ve ever known. Whatever they’ve done or haven’t done is none of anyone’s business. I start to say this, then wonder why the hell I should defend Lennon if he’s not even bothering to defend himself. I know it used to bother him, all the rumors people at school spread behind his back. Everyone loves to discuss his family life. Even my dad has accused Sunny and Mac of being heathens.
Maybe Lennon doesn’t care anymore. Maybe he’s just embracing it.
“One hundred percent rock-and-roll,” Brett says. “Kerouac would have so approved of that. Did you know he and his best friend Neal Cassady both slept with Carolyn Cassady, Neal’s wife? Wild, huh? I bet you have crazy stories growing up in a punk-rock household.”
“So crazy,” Lennon says flatly.
Brett claps his hands together and tells us all, “This dude right here has legendary blood in his veins. San Francisco punks were the Beat Poets of the eighties and nineties.”
Huh. Now I’m connecting the dots. Brett thinks Lennon has pedigree. That’s why he’s decided Lennon is a “wild man.”
Lennon looks wild, all right. About as wild as a depressed corpse.
“Okay, we’re all here and everyone’s acquainted,” Reagan says. “Are we ready to roll?”
“We’re gonna have some crazy-ass fun this week,” Brett says, throwing his arm over Lennon’s shoulder so that he can snap a quick selfie. Lennon’s expression remains dour while Brett sticks out his tongue toward the screen. “Right?”
Lennon leans back in his seat and echoes his previous words. “If you say so.”
“Right, Reagan?” Brett calls out to the front.
“Let’s do this,” she confirms, shifting the SUV into drive. “Sierras, here we come.”
As Reagan drives down Mission Street, she informs us that the drive to the glamping compound is more than four hours. And for the first few minutes, the car is loud and chaotic, everyone trying to talk at once. Reagan is telling Kendrick about the camp’s amenities while Summer adds her own commentary about a glamping site in Colorado that her parents visited for their anniversary. Brett is trying to tell Reagan about nearby places mentioned in Jack Kerouac’s On the Road. And surprisingly, Reagan seems interested. This is news to me, because she usually tunes out whenever Brett goes all rhapsodic about the Beat Poets at school. He’s always trying to get people to drive across the Bay Bridge into San Francisco for afternoon excursions to Beat-friendly City Lights Bookstore—“It’s a historic landmark.” And Reagan is always complaining that poetry is boring.
And throughout all of this, Lennon stays quiet.
Maybe it will be easy to ignore him.
I glance around the car, and it really hits me that, minus Lennon, I’m going on a weeklong trip with some of the most popular people at school. Mom was right. I needed to do this to feel less like an outsider. I’m going to have fun. Everything’s going to be fine.
Lennon’s unwanted presence can’t ruin this.
And I am definitely not scratching my arm. If anything was going to make my hives worse, it would be Lennon. So I can’t let him. Deep breaths. I’m okay. I’m totally okay.
After we head out of the East Bay, conversation becomes as monotonous as the valley scenery. Outside my window, I spy flat farmland, fruit trees, wide blue skies, and the occasional small town. Long stretches of highway are punctuated with truck stops and roadside fruit stands, and people turn to their phones for entertainment. A little over halfway through the trip, Kendrick points out Bullion’s Bluff, a tiny historical mining town just off the highway. “They’ve got a fairly big winery,” he says. “My parents brought me once. The downtown is totally nineteenth-century Gold Rush era. I’m talking Old West saloon and general store. Gold Rush museum. The works. It’s schlocky, but it’s fun.”
Since Summer complains that she needs to use a public restroom after drinking an enormous soda, Reagan decides to pull off the highway. After passing a run-down gas station, we spot the downtown area easily enough. Kendrick was right: It looks like a set from an old Western movie. A sign even brags that one was filmed here in the 1980s.
The Gold Rush museum looks pretty shabby and has an entrance fee. We agree to forgo that and head to the Bullion General Store instead, parking alongside a line of travel trailers in front of a wooden hitching post—no horses, alas—and a water trough filled with planted cacti.
Inside, the spacious store is bustling with tourists, jammed from floor to ceiling with goods for sale—everything from old-fashioned candy and brown bottles of sarsaparilla, to gold-nugget jewelry and a mining cart filled with polished stones. It also smells like peanut butter fudge, which makes me hungry. Peanut butter is my weakness.
The candy counter has a line, so while Summer looks for a restroom with Reagan, and the boys are magnetically drawn to a display of mining pickaxes—complete with a cardboard standee of a cartoon old-timey prospector—I meander around the aisles until I’m in an outdoor gear section. A sign advertising “bear vaults” catches my attention. Or maybe it’s the gigantic stuffed bear that’s standing on two legs with its arms raised. A sign hanging around its neck reads KINGSLY THE BEAR.
“Gross,” I whisper, seeing that part of its dusty fur is ripped. It also smells funky. But honestly, I’d take all the motley smells in this place 100 percent over the SUV, where Brett’s aftershave was starting to give me a headache.
“You have one, right?” a deep voice says.
Lennon steps next to me like a ghost from the shadows.
“Jesus, sneak up on people much?” I complain under my breath. “Have one what?”
He points to the canisters lining a wooden cubby on the wall. A pleasant scent wafts from his clothes. “Bear vault.”
“Not planning on capturing any bears, so no.”
“They’re for storing food, foolish human.”
I give him a sidelong glance. He’s holding a square of candy inside wax paper. When he takes a bite, I realize why he smells so nice. Peanut butter fudge.
“So good,” he mumbles. He knows I’m a PB addict. At least, he used to know. Maybe he forgot and is completely oblivious that me watching him eat this is total food porn.
I ignore his little moan of ecstasy. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Juggling his fudge, he grabs a black barrel-shaped canister off the shelf and flips open a hinged lid. “Bear vault, to store your food. Bears can smell food from a couple miles away. Not even kidding. They will tear down cabin doors and break car windows to get their grub on. You have to keep everything inside one of these babies. Food. Toiletries. Anything with a strong scent, like Brett’s cologne.”
I give Lennon a dirty look. Brett’s wearing aftershave, not cologne. At least, I think. Who wears cologne? I mean, other than my cranky grandpa John. That’s my dad’s homophobic and slightly racist father, who thinks everyone should “speak English.” My grandpa Sam doesn’t speak English, but he sure as hell doesn’t wear cologne.
“I’m sure the glamping compound knows how to keep bears out of food,” I tell Lennon.
“They do, which is why no food is allowed in the tents, unless it’s in a bear vault,” he says, crinkling the wax paper as he peels it back for another bite of candy.
I hold up an invisible phone and pretend to talk into it. “Hey, Siri, is Lennon full of shit? What’s that? Oh, he is. Great. Thank you.”
“Hey, Siri? Is everything I just said true?” he says, playing along. He pretends to wait for a response and then talks into the bear canister. “Why, yes, Lennon. It most certainly is. You’re in a Bear Zone. It’s against federal law to store unprotected food.”
“That law sounds completely made-up,” I tell him.
“Didn’t you read the rules?”
What rules?
Lennon rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. “I also emailed Brett a list of things we’ll need on the trail. He said he was going to share it with the group.”
What list? I’m suddenly worried that I was left out of the loop. Forgotten. And this just reignites my anxieties about whether my presence is wanted on this trip. But I’m not telling Lennon this.
“Reagan bought a lot of stuff for this week,” I report. “But I don’t remember any bear containers. She’s been camping here before, so maybe she knows something you don’t. Maybe we don’t need them.”
Lennon mumbles an unintelligible curse under his breath. “We’ll definitely need them when we go backpacking.” He holds the canister behind his neck to demonstrate. It’s about the same size as his head—too big. “You can strap it to the top of your pack like this, or down at the bottom, which might be better for people prone to balance problems.” He smirks at me with his eyes.
I fantasize about bashing his big head with the stupid bear vault. “Why are you here?”
“Why are any of us here, Zorie? Life is a mystery.”
I groan. “On this trip.”
“Oh,” he says innocently. He’s not smiling, but there’s a fraction of humor behind his eyes. “The cologne bandit invited me. I’m ‘the coolest,’ apparently,” he says making air quotes with one hand while he takes another bite of fudge.
Again with the snark. Why is he hanging out with Brett if he hates him so much?
“But you knew I was coming?” I probe.
“I did.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
He shrugs. “I only recently decided to go.”
Is that true? I remember back to when Reagan first told me about off-trail backpacking and her not being sure if Brett’s “friend” who told him about this bucket-list hidden waterfall was committed to coming.
“Why?” I ask.
“I have my reasons.”
“Which are . . . ?”
Lennon stares at his fudge for a long moment. Then he seems to change his mind about what he was going to say and hands me the open canister. “Get this. And maybe a bear bell,” he says, pointing to a display of big silver bells designed to be clipped to a backpack. “It gives bears a gentle warning that you’re in the area, so that you don’t surprise them. A surprised bear is a defensive bear, and a defensive bear kills.”
Is he serious? I think he is, but I’m not totally sure. And before I can ask for clarification or point out that he’s avoiding my question, he retrieves something from his pocket and dumps it inside the open canister. Then he walks away.
I look inside the canister. Sitting at the bottom is a square of peanut butter fudge wrapped in wax paper.
What am I supposed to think about this?
I retrieve the fudge and return the canister to the display shelf, abandoning Kingsly the Bear to catch up with the others. Just because Lennon cries bear vault, doesn’t mean I really need it. It’s insanely expensive. Besides, Lennon has a penchant for being super technical and obsessive about details. I think he’s exaggerating the urgency of bear protection.
Probably.
At the last second, I double back and grab a silver bear bell off the rack.
Better safe than sorry.