Boys, Bears, and a Serious Pair of Hiking Boots(8)
Author: Abby McDonald

Pumpkin? I nearly choke.

“Fine!” Fiona scrapes back her chair. “I wasn’t hungry anyway.” She makes for the stairs, but Adam stops her.

“Are you going out this evening?”

Fiona sighs. “Maybe.”

“Then why don’t you take Jenna along, introduce her to everyone? You’d like that, right?” He turns to me expectantly.

I’m torn. It’s obvious that Fiona doesn’t want me trailing after her, but I can’t wait to meet the other kids in town — and make a better first impression than back at the hardware store. “Sure, that could be fun. If it’s OK with you, Fiona,” I add quickly.

She rolls her eyes. “Whatever. I’m going now, so you need to hurry up.”

“The lake is just down that path.” Susie follows us out to the front yard and points across the road, to where a faint trail disappears into the forest. The trees are thick and wet from the rain, blocking out the dusk light. I shiver.

“And it’s safe out here?”

Susie laughs, handing Fiona a flashlight. “Of course it is. Just don’t go off alone; that’s the only rule. And be back by ten.”

“Dad said eleven.” Fiona challenges her. I bite my lip. Adam said ten as well.

“Fine.” Susie sighs. “Eleven. Since it’s your first night, Jenna.” She smiles at me, and I feel a spark of guilt. Or maybe that’s just a mosquito bite. “Have fun, girls!”

Fiona doesn’t bother with good-byes; she just pulls up the hood of her black sweatshirt and charges into the forest. “Thanks, Susie,” I call out, hurrying to keep up. “See you later!”

Within moments, I’ve almost lost sight of Fiona’s figure in the trees. “Wait up,” I pant, trying not to trip on a tree root. I’m wearing my favorite red Converses, but they’re still no match for the rocky path worn into the ground, littered with tree branches and chunks of dirt.

Fiona pauses and turns back, hands on hips. “What’s wrong now?”

“Nothing.” I force myself to smile at her. “I just thought we could take it slower, maybe talk.” I plan on making friends with this girl if it kills me.

Fiona sighs, but slows her pace a fraction. “Talk about what?”

“I don’t know.” I squint at the dim trail ahead and think of things we might have in common. Something tells me she’s not into Green Teen stuff. “How are you liking that book from dinner, the one by . . . ?” My mind goes blank, just for a couple of seconds, but it’s enough for Fiona to finish my sentence with a withering glare.

“Sylvia Plath. You know who that is, right?”

“Yes.” I try not to sound defensive. “She wrote poetry, too. Didn’t she kill herself in the end?”

“Yup. The unappreciative literary world drove her to her death.”

Lovely. “So.” I try another, less depressing topic. “Have you got any plans for the summer?”

“I wish.” Fiona kicks a tree stump. With her clumpy Doc Martens, I think the tree loses that battle. “Dana is in Calgary, Nina’s traveling with her folks. Everybody’s gone and I’m stuck at home with Dad and Susie.” Her voice twists on the last word.

“The stepfamily thing can be tough.” I offer a tiny bit of sympathy. “Getting used to someone new must be hard.”

“What do you know?” she shoots back, scowling. “Are your parents divorced?”

I swallow. The million-dollar question is out there, drifting between us like a third person, but I can’t bring myself to think about it — or confide in this bratty, unforgiving girl.

“Fine,” I acknowledge. “So maybe I don’t know exactly what you’re going through. But I know Susie, and she’s great.”

“Great?” Fiona does that snorting thing again. “She’s a complete bitch, interfering in everything. Did you see her at dinner? Nagging me like she even has a right. She’s ruined everything. Dad and me were just fine before she came along.”

I’m tempted to jump to Susie’s defense, but something tells me that wouldn’t help with this “making friends” project of mine. I bite back a reply and keep trailing after her through the trees. I can see daylight ahead, where the dense forest seems to end, but just before we emerge out of the trees, Fiona turns back to me one last time.

“And you can forget about being BFFs or a good influence or whatever it is that bitch has planned. I don’t want you here, either.” With that, she pushes back a final branch and strides away.

6

I pause for a moment, still hidden among the trees. I’m on the edge of a small clearing beside the lake; worn patches of grass and wildflowers stretching to a thin, stony beach and tall pine trees looming up above. It’s absolutely stunning, but for once, nature is the last thing on my mind. Farther up the shore, I can see a handful of kids, hanging out in what seems to be a picnic area. They all look pretty young — boys tossing around a baseball, and a couple of girls sitting on a bench, bent over a magazine — but Fiona slouches past them without a word, toward a fire pit, where the older guys from the hardware store are sprawled on the ground.

This is the big Stillwater social scene?

My stomach flutters with nerves. Of all the things I worried about, making friends wasn’t on the list; you don’t spend every weekend at the mall trying to convince shoppers to reuse and recycle without getting pretty comfortable talking to strangers. But now, seeing just how small this town really is, I can’t help but panic. Suppose I can’t get over that embarrassing first impression? Am I doomed to spend the rest of the summer alone, with nothing but Fiona’s bitchy comments for company?

Taking a deep breath, I brace myself and walk over toward the group. Fiona has settled alone on the edge of the water with her book, so I’m left to make my own introductions.

“Hi, guys,” I venture brightly, arriving at their little circle. My voice sounds almost too perky in the shadows, but I add a wide smile and carry on. “Ethan, right? And umm . . .” I trail off, waiting for them to introduce themselves. They don’t. “I’m Jenna,” I say, finally.

After a beat, Ethan speaks. “Hey, Jenna.” He holds his hand up in a semi-almost-wave. He’s wearing a faded T-shirt and a pair of cargo pants, and his brown hair is curling gently over the collar of his shirt as if it desperately needs a trim. “How are you doing?”