Boys, Bears, and a Serious Pair of Hiking Boots(17)
Author: Abby McDonald

Reeve turns back with a devious grin. “Now we get to the fun part!”

Fun? I gulp, swerving around a rock in my path. The relaxing trip has suddenly turned into a white-knuckle ride. My whole body tenses up, and I squint through the splashes, trying to follow the boys’ path between rocks and shallow sections.

“Can we”— I feel the kayak scrape against something as I hurtle faster down the river —“maybe slow down just a —?”

“See you on the other side!” Reeve calls, and then disappears around a bend. Literally disappears: when I make it after him, he’s gone, and there’s only a mass of foam and choppy water where he once —

“Agggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

The river drops away and suddenly I’m falling, nothing but air and emptiness beneath me for what seems like an eternity until I hit, a slap against the water that jolts right through me. Water drenches my face and I’m fighting for my balance, but there’s no time to steady myself — even to breathe — before the kayak is caught in the current and plunges on through the waves. To the next fall.

Oh, God.

My whimper is lost in the sound of pounding water as I shoot off another ledge and plummet again. It can’t be far, no more than four feet or so, but those milliseconds I spend in the air seem to last forever. Then I’m crashing to the river again, choking on a faceful of water and clinging to my paddle for dear life. I hear a whoop of glee as Ethan and Grady land behind me.

These people are insane.

We hurtle through two more drops before the river evens out again, and by then, I’m soaked through and at serious risk of a nervous breakdown. The minute we’re all on a calm stretch of water, I catch up to Reeve.

“Fun, right?” His blue eyes are flashing with excitement.

“Fun?” I splutter through a mouthful of river water. “What the hell was that? You could have warned me!”

“Come on, it’s cool.” He expertly swoops between two dangerous-looking outcroppings of rock. I say a quick prayer and lurch after him. “And if you want some warning, then fine — we’ve got another three stretches coming up.”

I can’t believe this guy.

“No.” The first time I say it, it’s too quiet for even me to hear, so I yell it again, louder over the sound of the falls ahead. “No!”

There’s no sign anyone’s even heard me: both other kayaks plunge ahead around the bend, leaving me frantically back-paddling alone in the middle of the river. Three more falls? I don’t want to go even another stroke in this tiny plastic hell-vessel, let alone another few miles. But my feeble swipes are nothing compared to the current. As soon as I tire, it sweeps me on again, toward the inevitable rapids.

I have absolutely no control over what’s happening. There’s nothing left for me to do but take a breath, close my eyes, and brace myself for the worst.

11

“Show me that part again, when she flips over!”

“Wait, wait — here it is! And then . . . smash! Man, that beaver dam didn’t stand a chance.”

Grady still hasn’t stopped laughing by the time we arrive back in Stillwater. The boys have merrily passed that camcorder around for the last half-hour, snorting with amusement as they replay my crash. What started as gentle teasing has worn down my patience until I can’t wait to get away from them.

“I get it: I’m hilarious,” I finally pipe up from the back. “Can you give it a rest now?”

Reeve ignores me. “Fast-forward to when she trips on that rock again. Yup, right there!” I hear the sound of my startled cry as I catch my foot and tumble back into the river with a huge splash.

I sink deeper into the wet upholstery, gazing miserably out the window as we turn toward Susie’s. Bad enough to capsize like that, but I took out a protected habitat in the process, crashing through the web of sticks and branches like it was a barrier at the edge of a racetrack. And they’ve got it all on film.

“Watch your step,” Ethan teases as we pull up by the yard. “Don’t want you tripping again.”

I glare at him and slip down from the truck. My hair is plastered wet against my head, and I’m soaked through all the way to my underwear. I just want a hot shower and some dry clothes. Oh, yes, and my dignity back. “Can I have the camera now?”

“I don’t know. . . .” Reeve dangles it out the open window, just out of reach. I try to take it, but he pulls it back into the truck, grinning playfully the whole time.

“You wanted me to edit the film!” I protest, reaching for it again. “What are we, like, in fifth grade?”

“What’s the magic word?” Ethan calls over. His grin is friendly, but my patience snaps.

“Now!” I finally grab the damn camera and wrench it out of Reeve’s hands. I only said yes to this doomed outing to try and make friends with them, but they’ve been so busy ripping into me, they’ve barely paused for breath!

“She’s stressed,” Reeve says to the others as if I’m not even here.

Grady nods. “Probably just mad she messed up her hair. It is pretty messed up.”

“Not as bad as that poor beaver’s dam, though.”

“Mmmmhhhn!” I stifle a sound of frustration and start toward the house, my shoes squelching with every step. They keep laughing.

After that splashing failure, I don’t hear from the guys again, so I decide to take a break from making friends with the Stillwater teens. Instead, I become Susie’s demolition apprentice, write fifteen more letters to my congressmen and women, and rack up significant cell-phone charges texting Olivia — now settling into her collective in upstate New York. For one whole week, I manage to live the kind of helpful, constructive, creative, and productive summer routine that would have most parents flipping cartwheels and cheering with joy.

By the end of it, I’m lonely as hell.

“So which is it today, Jenna? You want the big hammer for the wall or the small one for the frames?” Susie greets me in the morning in her paint-splattered overalls, brandishing our tools of destruction.

“The small one,” I decide, tying my hair back in one of her printed scarves. “I think I pulled something swinging at the cinder block yesterday.”

“It’s all in the shoulder action,” she agrees. The toaster pops, we each take a Pop-Tart, wrap it in a paper towel, and face today’s task like the well-oiled construction machine that we are.