Boys, Bears, and a Serious Pair of Hiking Boots(9)
Author: Abby McDonald

“Good. Tired, but I’ve been traveling all day. Well, since yesterday,” I correct myself, trying not to feel self-conscious as everyone blatantly gives me a once-over. Even the younger boys have stopped their ball game to check me out, and while I’m dressed pretty casually like them, in a tank top and jeans, I can’t help but feel like the outsider I guess I am.

“Cool. Well, you know my charming brother, Grady.” Ethan nods to where Grady’s carving at a block of wood with a ferocious-looking pocketknife. “And that’s Reeve.”

The last boy looks up briefly from arranging firewood. His hair is short and dark, almost black in the fading light, and there’s a calm kind of aura around him — quiet and methodical next to Grady’s restless hacking. He gives me a brief smile and what could almost qualify as a nod before turning back to his task.

So, they do things casual out here. Low-key. I can deal with that.

“Great to meet you. I mean, again,” I add, looking at Grady. “Because, you know, we met before, in the store. . . .” I stop myself before I can babble (or rhyme) any more. I forget that’s what I used to be like, plunged into an unfamiliar crowd, but apparently, my vocal chords have some kind of muscle memory: instant awkwardness.

Grady nods, smirking. “You’re the girl who needed to pee.”

Oh, God, I knew it.

Despite the overwhelming desire to turn and flee all the way back to New Jersey, I force myself to perch on a log, (realizing only when my butt hits the wood that it’s wet from the rain). Ignoring the squelch, I ask brightly, “So what are you guys up to?”

“Just hanging out,” Ethan replies. He leans back on his elbows, watching me.

“Cool.” I keep that big smile on my face. It turns out that the kids of Stillwater, British Columbia, are by far my toughest audience. Shifting around to get comfy, I try to think of something interesting to say.

Finally, Grady looks over. “Where are you from, anyway?”

“New Jersey,” I answer quickly. “Well, a suburb out in —”

“And you’re what, a sophomore?”

“Going to be a senior.” Do I really look fifteen?

“Same as us,” Ethan pipes up. “Reeve’s just graduated.”

“Really?” I turn to him. Again, I can’t help noticing that he has the kind of taut body that half our football team would kill for. “So, are you going to college, or . . . ?” I trail off, wondering if I’ve made a mistake. They drum it into us so often at school, it’s easy to forget that not everyone goes to college, especially not out in these small towns.

“Maybe.” Reeve speaks at last. He’s stacked the wood and is carefully building a fire now, laying branches in a crisscross pattern and pushing twigs and dead leaves into the gaps. As I look closer, I see cuts and bruises all over his knees.

“What happened?” I point at his legs. “Are you OK?”

He looks down at the scars proudly. “This is nothing. Last time I went bouldering, I took half my elbow off.”

“Bouldering?”

“You know, climbing. Rocks.”

“Oh. Right.” I pause. “Isn’t there safety gear you can use — padding and stuff?”

Reeve grins, clearly amused by the idea. “Not if you want to do it right. The gear restricts your moves,” he explains. “It’s better just to take the knocks.”

“Oh,” I repeat faintly. Because blood and gore is better.

“So, what do you do for fun?” Reeve gives me a vaguely encouraging smile. He strikes some matches in quick succession and touches them to the kindling until the fire slowly crackles to life.

“Normal stuff, I guess.” Then I remember that normal in this town means hurling themselves up a cliff face and playing with knives. “You know, music, movies . . .”

“What bands are you into?” Ethan asks, rummaging in a bag. He pulls out a can of soda and then offers it to me. I lean across and take it, pleased.

“All kinds, mainly indie stuff, some rock. I like the new Jared Jameson album,” I offer, hoping they’re not all secret death-metal fans.

Luckily, Ethan nods in recognition, “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to check that out.”

Emboldened, I continue. “And I do a lot of environmental stuff too. I’m part of this group in school — we campaign for different eco causes, organize rallies and protests and things.”

Reeve looks over. “You mean like conservation?”

“Sure, and fund-raising, letter-writing: anything to raise awareness.” I smile, rueful. “You guys probably take it for granted, living right out here in the middle of nature, but a lot of people don’t even know about the threat of global warming, or the damage that’s being done to the environment because of logging, and . . .” I stop, remembering my non-babble policy. It’s easy for me to get carried away with this stuff, but I’ve got the whole summer; I don’t need to hit them with my full Green Teen platform just yet.

“Global warming, huh?” Reeves studies me. I can’t quite tell his expression in the dim light, but something in his voice sounds tense. “Why not fight AIDS or third-world poverty or something that really hurts people?”

I pause, thrown. “Global warming does hurt us. Flooding, droughts . . . It’s already started, and it’s going to get worse if we don’t act.”

“And you’re going to stop it?” I can hear the smirk in his voice.

I fold my arms. “I’m going to try.”

“With what, a school recycling campaign?” he shoots back.

“Dude,” Ethan interrupts, “the wood’s too wet. We need more.” He gives Reeve a warning look.

“Fine,” Reeve answers in a clipped voice. He begins to stack a fresh batch around the flames, poking angrily at the fire with a long gnarled branch. I look around, confused. What did I say that was so bad?

“So, you think you can take the five-nine up by Macaw Ridge?” Ethan turns to his brother, obviously changing the subject. They launch into coversation about rock grades and climbing routes, while Reeve slouches on the other side of the fire, studiously ignoring me. Fiona is still buried in her book, so I have nothing left to do but sit — watching the bright flames and wondering what I did wrong.

7

Another hour creeps past, painfully slowly. I get bitten by about twenty mosquitoes, scrape my elbow on the log, and learn more than a Jersey girl ever needs to know about fly-fishing equipment, but that weird tension from before hasn’t gone anywhere. In fact, it feels worse. All my attempts to ask questions or make a friendly comment are cut off by the boys’ in-jokes and banter, until I just sit back, defeated.