Oh, G.o.d.
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 h.e.l.l 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 h.e.l.l-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.
"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 pa.s.sed that camcorder around for the last half-hour, snorting with amus.e.m.e.nt 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 d.a.m.n 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 h.e.l.l.
"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.
"You guys are pathetic," Fiona informs us, slouching through the kitchen. She grabs a box of cereal and then finds a milk carton in the fridge, not even pausing before she takes a swig.
"Umm, germs!" I protest.
She rolls her eyes. "Susie can buy more." Breakfast in hand (and b.i.t.c.hy comment of the day dispensed) she retreats back to bed.
Susie smashes through the first chunk of wall. I jump back.
"Well, on the plus side, she did refer to you by name, rather than just "she" or "her."" I look to see if Susie is going to show any frustration at all. Other than tearing the house apart, I mean.
Nope. She just sets her mouth in an even smile, as if her stepdaughter isn"t the most aggravating child since Veruca Salt. "Why don"t you add milk to that grocery list, before I forget?" She punctuates her suggestion with another loud crash.
"Okaay." I do as I"m told. Far from me to argue with a woman armed with a sledgehammer, even if I do think all that pent-up rage might be better expressed by, you know, actually expressing it.
"That reminds me - I was thinking you and Fiona could take the truck down to the city this weekend, maybe go shopping together?" Susie actually looks enthusiastic. "It"s a two-hour drive each way, but you could make a day of it and catch a movie, pick up some decorating things. It could be fun."
Fun? With Fiona?
I pause, thinking of four hours in a confined s.p.a.ce with her. "Maybe," I say, politely. "Sure. If she wants to."
"Great. You know, you"ve spent so much time helping me out, you haven"t had much chance to hang out with her." Susie looks concerned, as if this is actually a bad thing. "If you girls want to go swimming, or get an ice cream or something, go right ahead. Don"t worry about all this mess."
I look over carefully to check if she"s joking, but no, there"s nothing but a concerned mom-type expression on her face.
"I . . . don"t think that"s a problem," I say slowly. "We see each other plenty. I mean, we are sharing a room."
If by "sharing" you mean "begrudgingly allowing me a tiny corner and a single drawer."
"Sure, but you need some girl time!" Susie still looks sincere, but she is wielding that sledgehammer with a lot of enthusiasm. "To talk, bond, relax!"
Crash. Another section of wall falls away.
"Is . . . is everything OK?" I ask hesitantly, before a thunder of footsteps heralds Fiona"s delightful return.
"What the h.e.l.l are these?" she yells, waving some catalogs around.
Susie lowers the hammer. "They"re for your room." She smiles - with what must be superhuman strength. "Since we"re redecorating the whole house, I thought it would be nice for you to pick out some things."
I look back at Fiona. Surely she can"t find a way to make that generous offer into a tantrum.
Oh, how little I know.
"You don"t get to say how I have my room!" Fiona yells, furious. "It"s my room. Mine!"
I carefully withdraw behind a counter.
"And what"s so wrong with the way I have it right now, huh? Just because it"s not stupid and bland and chintzy like how you want the rest of this house!" She hurls the magazines down. I catch a glimpse of the covers: Crate & Barrel, IKEA, Anthropologie? Man, I should be so lucky as to have a vintage-inspired quilt forced on me.
"This isn"t just your house!" Fiona sure has a set of lungs on her. "It"s mine, too, and I don"t want you touching any of my stuff!" Finally, she turns and storms out.
Susie looks forlorn.
"I think it"s a great offer," I say, moving closer to comfort her, but she just looks at me with a big fake grin.
"Hey, I just remembered . . . I need to do some stuff in the yard! You"ve got plenty of other things to do, right?"
I nod. "Are you sure you don"t want . . . ?"
"No! I"m fine!" She swallows back what I"m pretty sure are tears. "See you later!"
I have no choice but to let her hurry into the backyard and disappear behind the old workshop. If she were a friend my own age, I wouldn"t wait a moment before sitting her down and forcing her to talk about what"s wrong, but she"s not. I forget it sometimes, when she acts like we"re just pals, but she"s a grown-up, and right now, the twenty-odd years between us are like a gaping chasm. With a sigh, I exchange my hammer for a bag and my binder, and change my ugly work shoes for some sneakers.
After all, we need more milk.
I"m wandering Main Street with a raspberry Popsicle, enjoying the gorgeous mountain panorama and clear blue sky when I hear a faint call. Adam is over by the gas station, his arms full of boxes, and he"s not alone. Reeve and Grady are chatting with him, slouching in their summer uniform of cut-offs and Ts. I quickly cross the street.
"Hi!" I arrive with a smile. It"s been days since my little kayaking mishap, so hopefully the guys will have forgotten - "Demolition girl, hey." Grady smirks at me, idly spinning his cap on one finger.
No such luck.
"Hey, yourself," I answer casually, as if their constant teasing isn"t already getting old. Adam is a few paces away, talking on his cell, so I"m left to face them alone. "So . . . what"s up?"
"Nothing much." Reeve shrugs. He shades his eyes with one hand against the sun and gives me a lazy smile, but his eyes linger so long that I have to wipe my face to check for Popsicle stains. Nope, all clear.
"How"d that video turn out?" Grady finally asks. "Extreme enough for you?"
"It looked great," I reply, determined to stay upbeat.
"Cool." He smirks in that dismissive way of his. There"s a long silence. My smile starts to slip.
"So, when"s the next project?" Adam finally returns, looking back and forth between us. "Another adventure for the website? You know, that could turn out to be a really great advertising tool."
Grady doesn"t seem to care. He shrugs. "I don"t know; that"s Ethan"s thing. Maybe this weekend?"
"That sounds like fun." Adam is oblivious to the weird tension. He smiles broadly at us. "A good way for you to get out and see the mountains, right, Jenna?"
"Yup. Just let me know what you"re planning!" I say brightly. "I"m up for whatever."
They exchange a look.
"Sure," Reeve agrees slowly. "Maybe."
"Don"t call us, we"ll call you," Grady quips. It seems good-natured, so I force a laugh.
I decide not to linger. "I, umm, have to get some errands done."
"See you back at the house." Adam gives me a rea.s.suring smile. Reeve nods a farewell, but that"s all: the boys just turn back to themselves and keep talking.
I walk away quickly, my flip-flops slapping against the asphalt.
I know it"s only because I"m new in town and that these things take time, but suddenly, I"m just so tired of trying. Trying to be friendly, trying to be fun - I have to be constantly on my guard, laughing off their stupid jokes and acting like I don"t care.
But I do.
I duck into the nearest store, blinking at the dim light. I"m in the map center, I realize quickly. The main room is set up with a couple of tables in the middle; maps and tourist posters pinned to the walls, yellowed and fading. More maps are curled in boxes on the floor, and there are stacks of big books on mountain terrain and forestry boundaries. I circle the dusty table, wondering when it"ll be safe to go outside again. There"s only so long I can hide out in a room full of old papers, but then I see an entrance to a second, back room.
Jackpot.
Shelves of dusty paperback books cover every wall, from old sci-fi to crime to my personal escapist favorite, bodice-ripper romance novels. Since I arrived, I"ve had nothing but Fiona"s dense fantasy novels to browse (filled with characters named things like Faa and Gdun on a grand quest to protect the city Liinck from the evil Magushun tribe), so with a satisfied sigh, I pluck an armful of possibilities from the sagging shelves and settle in the corner chair to decide which feisty-yet-historically-accurate heroine is going to transport me away from my worries.
"Were you looking for anything in particular?"
The voice startles me. I shoot up in my seat, knocking into a stack of books balanced on a shelf beside me. I make a grab for them, but the pile tumbles to the floor.
"c.r.a.p! I"m sorry."
"Don"t worry." The owner of the voice waves away my concern. A st.u.r.dy woman in her fifties or sixties, she has long gray hair in a thick braid and is wearing a white shirt, khaki pants, and a pair of worn hiking boots. "I have too many of them anyway; they just sit around gathering dust."
I scrabble on the floor to retrieve the books. They seem to be old nature manuals: how to navigate cross-country with nothing but a needle and a magnet, that kind of thing.
"You"re Susie"s kid, eh?" She stares at me with sharp blue eyes. "Heard all about you."
"Her G.o.ddaughter," I explain, unnerved. The woman"s accent is thicker, more Canadian than any I"ve heard so far. With the boys and Fiona, you would just figure them for Americans, but there"s no mistaking this voice - especially with that eh. "I"m just, ummm, staying for the summer."
"Hmm . . ." The woman narrows her eyes at me thoughtfully. I shift, uncomfortable, and reach for my stash of romance novels.
"I just wanted to take these . . ."
She nods and strides back through to the main room. I follow, piling the books on the front desk while I root around in my pockets for change.
"A Breathless Seduction, Her Wild Ways . . ." The woman reads out the t.i.tles as she notes them down, her lips curling with amus.e.m.e.nt. I feel a twinge of embarra.s.sment, especially when the covers - full of heaving bosoms and bare-chested men - are laid out carefully on the desk. "And The Modern Mountain Man"s Survival Guide." She adds a battered green hardback.
"Oh, no - that must have gotten mixed in by mistake." There are no heaving bosoms on this cover, just a torn dust jacket with a black-and-white photo of a rugged young man looking out over a valley, a dead animal of some kind slung over his shoulder.
The woman smiles at me for the first time. "Ah, take it. You look like you could use some pointers."