Boys, Bears, and a Serious Pair of Hiking Boots(11)
Author: Abby McDonald

“It was a joke!” Reeve says again, getting exasperated. “You don’t have to get so wound up about it.”

“Wound up?” I can’t believe this guy. “You’re the one playing dangerous pranks!”

“Whatever.” He turns to walk toward his truck, yelling behind him, “Ethan — you coming?”

“Uh, sure.” Ethan looks at me almost apologetically. “See you around, Jenna. Sorry,” he adds quietly before jogging after Reeve. They climb into a mud-splattered white pickup truck — the same mud-splattered pickup truck that left me wet and cold on the side of the road earlier this evening. Reeve starts the engine and makes a swift U-turn, pulling past me with a rattle of tires in the dirt and a blast of some macho rock song.

And I limp miserably back to the house.

8

“COLDCOLDCOLD!”

Stumbling backward as a jet of ice-cold water hits my skin, I scramble for the faucet. It’s too late. By the time I manage to shut the water off, I’m so frozen that even my goosebumps have goosebumps.

I hear someone running up the stairs, and a few moments later, there’s a knock. “Sorry!” Susie apologizes through the bathroom door. “I forgot to tell you about the water — it runs cold for the first five minutes!”

“No problem!” I manage to answer, even though my teeth are literally chattering. “I’m OK! It’s . . . refreshing!”

Susie laughs. “We should get it fixed up in another couple of weeks. In the meantime, how about I make you some breakfast?”

“Uhhmmmm.” I manage a faintly upbeat response.

“Blueberry pancakes coming right up!”

She retreats, leaving me to wrap myself in three different towels and collapse, shivering, while I wait for my body temperature to return to normal. And then I wait some more. In fact, I linger as long as possible in the small, blue-tiled bathroom, until I realize that for all her Bohemian leanings, Susie probably prefers clothing at the breakfast table, and that means getting back to my suitcase. Which is in Fiona’s bedroom.

Bracing myself, I cross the hallway, remembering to tap lightly on the door in case she’s changing or something. I’ve never shared before, but I’m guessing that a good roomie always knocks. There’s silence, so I creep in, blinking to adjust to the dark shrouding the room. Even though it’s after nine a.m., thick, purple drapes are still blocking out all sunlight. Mixed with the navy paint on every wall and an array of bleak emo posters, the effect is pretty depressing.

“Umm, Fiona?” After reaching around blindly in the dark for five minutes, I finally have to speak up. “Would you mind if I opened the drapes a little? I need to get dressed and I can’t really —”

A mumble emerges from her motionless form. I take that as a yes.

“Thanks!” I whisper. With light, soon comes the locating of clean underwear, and in no time at all, I’m dressed and armed with sandals and my notebook. “Susie’s making pancakes,” I offer. Fiona pulls her comforter up over her head. “OK, well, see you later!”

I let myself out quietly. It’s my first morning in Stillwater, the sun is shining, and the sweet buttery smell of deliciousness is wafting from the kitchen, but still, I feel a pang in my chest — and my ankle. I miss home. I miss Olivia. I didn’t think being away would be a breeze, but I didn’t expect homesickness to set in so soon.

I wonder what my parents are doing, in their separate corners of the world. Dad’s already texted me, a brief line about jet lag and meatballs, but I can’t help wondering if —

No.

Carefully putting all thoughts of the future out of my head, I maneuver my way down the stairs and past that gaping pit in the hallway. The sun is streaming in fierce strips through the window frames, and I can hear Susie singing along with a pop song on the radio down the hall. Something about the calm domesticity of the scene helps ease the tight sadness I have bubbling in my chest.

I’m not powerless, I remind myself, clinging to my number-one mantra. I got here, didn’t I? To this sprawling wilderness, to what I wanted my summer to be. All I have to do now is learn the intricacies of Susie’s plumbing system, read a few of Fiona’s dystopian novels, and find some way of getting along with the Stillwater boys.

And, as Principal Turner would agree, I’m nothing if not persistent.

After a stack of pancakes drenched in genuine Canadian maple syrup (one of the bonuses of being north of the border, although the other — bacon — I sadly had to refuse), I put together a tote bag of beach supplies and prepare to head out to the lake for a swim in that glorious sparkling water. But for some reason, my feet won’t take me farther than the front yard.

“Everything OK, Jenna?” Adam finds me sitting on the porch. He’s unloading planks of wood from the back of the truck but pauses to check on me, scratching absently at his beard.

I pretend to fuss with my ankle — still kind of swollen after my fall. “Oh, yeah. I’m good.” I nod vigorously, shooting another look across the dirt road at the dense trees. In daylight, they look innocent enough, but I feel a chill across the back of my neck when I remember last night and how scared I was in the dark.

Adam follows my gaze. “It can take a while to get used to it out here. Susie couldn’t sleep properly for weeks when she first arrived — all the noise we get from the forest at night.”

“I’m fine,” I repeat, embarrassed. “But . . . I think I’ll just hang out here today. Settle in,” I add quickly.

“Good plan.” He nods gently. “Maybe you can drag Fiona out of her room sometime before noon.”

I doubt it, but nod. “Sure, maybe. Well . . . thanks.”

“Uh, anytime.” He blinks and then seems to collect himself. “I better . . .” He grips the plank of wood again. I nod, and he hoists another armload onto his shoulder and disappears into the house.

I let out a breath. The awkwardness between us will fade, I’m sure, but right now, it’s still weird to be around him; he’s like some distant relative I’m supposed to be comfortable with, despite the fact that he’s a complete stranger.

A complete stranger who thinks I’m a scared kid, afraid of the forest.

I take one last look across the street at the trees, green and dappled with sunlight.

Maybe tomorrow.

I spend the morning in the backyard instead, stretched out in the hot sun and working on some letters. I have a big blue binder of the names of all my important congressmen and state government officials, and whenever I get some free time, I work my way through the list with letters about Green Teen issues and the environment. I used to shoot e-mails over, copying everyone to the message, but then I realized they just filter them into a “crazy activist” file and forget about them. A handwritten note, on the other hand, seems to have way more impact.