BSC in the USA

by Ann M. Martin

  I smiled. I took my backpack from the cashier. I turned. I felt my untied shoelaces whip against my ankles.

  Aauugh. I suddenly felt as if my feet were a size 400.

  Ignore them. Don’t look down.

  I tossed my hair casually back. I waved. I stepped toward him.

  Tip-tippety-tip, went my shoelaces.

  “Coming through!”

  A waiter zoomed by. I jumped away. I landed on a shoelace and stumbled against the wall.

  Ethan was laughing. Laughing!

  I was mortified.

  I wanted to run outside. Hop back into the RV and head for the badlands.

  Some romantic movie. This was a comedy!

  Ethan rushed to me and took my hand. As we walked toward the table, he said, “Weak in the knees, huh?”

  All my tension bubbled up. All the waiting and frantic phone calls and chasing around town. Who was I trying to kid? This was real life, and I was mad!

  “Where were you?” I demanded.

  Ethan shrugged. “Right here.”

  “But I waited until almost twelve-thirty!”

  Ethan’s face fell. “You didn’t get my messages?”

  “What messages?”

  “That I had to change the time. I made sure to leave them on your mom’s answering machine and your dad’s. I figured you’d be talking to at least one of them?—”

  “Oh, Ethan,” I said with a groan. “They’re both on vacation!”

  Ethan winced. “I’m sorry, Stacey. I didn’t know.”

  “It’s not your fault. I didn’t tell you,” I said with a sigh. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the driver’s door of the RV open up. “Uh, sit, okay? I’ll be right back.”

  I darted outside. Mr. Schafer was stepping out onto the street. I waved him back. “He’s here!”

  Mr. Schafer grinned and reached for the door handle. “See you after the game!”

  As I opened the door of the Corner Coffee Shop, I heard the RV roaring away.

  Ethan was red-faced. “Stacey, I am such a dork?—”

  “No, I am,” I said. “I had your number. I should have called to check in. And I’m sorry I yelled at you, Ethan. It’s been kind of a long trip. Fun, but … I don’t know. Tense, too. My best friend and I aren’t even talking.”

  “With all those people? I’d be bouncing off the walls.” Ethan suddenly laughed. “Did you really see a bear in Yellowstone?”

  “You got that letter? That was so-o-o-o scary!”

  “My favorite was the one about the badlands.”

  “A police escort! We had a police escort to the Wall Drug Store!”

  Before long I was going through the trip, stop by stop. The Mall of America. Buzzard Gulch. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. The mammoth site. The Art Institute of Chicago.

  Ethan hung on my every word. Half the time he was interrupting me to ask for details. Half the time we were howling. We sent the waiter away three times before we ordered anything. I’m surprised they didn’t kick us out.

  When I reached the story of my adventures in Seattle, we both were laughing so hard we nearly lost our sandwiches. I was practically crying.

  “What a trip, Stacey,” Ethan said. “You’ll never forget it your whole life. I’m telling my parents to drive next time we come out here!”

  I sat back and sipped my iced tea. All day I’d been so nervous, angry, tired, cramped, impatient. Now, at the Corner Coffee Shop, I felt as if I’d finally begun to unwind. All the memories of my trip were bubbling around inside. Funny, happy, tiring, scary memories. And I felt myself becoming strangely sad.

  I’d been across the whole country. Coast to coast. Soon we’d be in California, and then home.

  It had been a great trip.

  I was already missing it.

  “Want to take a walk?” Ethan asked.

  “Mr. Schafer’s picking me up here after the Mariners game,” I said.

  “They won’t be here until at least five or five-fifteen. We have plenty of time.”

  We paid the bill and strolled toward the bay.

  As we walked along the waterfront, Ethan told me about his art museum trip. He described a sculpture he was working on. He told me about his stepsister in college and his little brother. He listened to the long story of my life and laughed in all the right places.

  I always knew Ethan was cool. I didn’t know he was so sweet. And warm. And that his arm fit so perfectly around my shoulder. And that walking with him felt like gliding.

  If he hadn’t stopped at the Space Needle, I think we would have walked straight into Canada.

  But we didn’t. We took the elevator to the top. We stood squooshed together among the crowd, gazing down at the entire city. In the distance, broad, snowcapped Mount Rainier was watching over us like a guardian.

  “Awesome,” Ethan said.

  “Yeah,” I replied.

  He smiled. I smiled back.

  Soon I wasn’t noticing the crowd at all. Or the view of the city. Or the mountain.

  Just Ethan and me. And the feeling of our kiss.

  Ethan was exactly right.

  Awesome.

  * * *

  The RV did not show up at the Corner Coffee Shop until six. Which was fine by me. I didn’t mind the extra time with Ethan.

  It was rough saying good-bye. As we drove off, I knelt on Claudia’s bed, which looked out a side window. Ethan and I waved to each other until he was out of sight.

  I plopped onto the mattress just as Claudia came over to reach for some chips by the pillow.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Ohhhhh.” I sighed. “Claudia, he is so-o-o perfect.”

  “Really?”

  I gushed about the last few hours — every step, every feeling. As if reminding myself. Printing it in my memory.

  Claudia sat beside me and listened to every word. She fed me chips. She asked questions. She cheered when I told her about the kiss.

  Then, when I was done, she said, “Stacey? I’m confused.”

  “About what?” I said.

  “Are we friends again?”

  Whoa. I had completely forgotten about our fight.

  My smile disappeared.

  But you know what? I just did not feel like being mad. Not after today.

  “Claudia,” I began, “did you really read my journal?”

  “No,” Claudia replied.

  I nodded. “Well, maybe I can read some of it to you. It’s really fun.”

  Claudia burst out laughing.

  I did, too.

  Arguing is so dumb.

  “Woww …”

  “Who-o-oa …”

  “Oh my lord …”

  “Cooooool …”

  Someone should do a study about what happens to people when they see the Grand Canyon.

  I’ll tell you one thing. Their vocabulary shrinks.

  Why? It’s simple. The Grand Canyon is the most amazing sight in the country. It’s as if the earth yawned one morning and then kept opening up, practically to the center. Pictures, movies, videos — nothing compares to seeing the Grand Canyon in person. It staggers you.

  I knew all that before I ever visited the canyon. My dad told it to me. Many times. The Grand Canyon was his favorite place in the world to visit. We must have looked at his slides about a hundred times. I thought they were pretty awesome, but he would always laugh and say, “These pale in comparison to the real thing!”

  He was right. I could tell by the sliver of the view I saw through the window between Mallory and David Michael.

  I stayed in my seat in the middle of the RV. I didn’t really want to see the canyon. I’d been hoping it would be raining or snowing or dust-storming or whatever it does in Arizona. Then we’d just drive past and I would flip through a magazine or take a nap. I wouldn’t have to look. I wouldn’t have to think about my other trip to the canyon. The one that was canceled when my dad died.

  Anna and I were nine. We were so excited. Dad had made all the pl
ans. I remember every detail. We were going to stay at the Mather Campground and take a mule ride into the South Rim. I wanted so badly to try hiking to the bottom, the way Dad had always done, but he said no.

  “When you’re old enough, Abby, we will,” he told me. “If you girls love the canyon as much as I do, I promise we’ll go there many, many times together.”

  We didn’t even make it one time.

  Just before we were to leave on our trip, Dad was killed in a car accident. Just like that, gone. Our lives fell apart, and so did our plans.

  Ever since then, I’ve barely thought about the Grand Canyon. And I hate when others talk about it. It makes me sick inside. It brings back that whole painful time. It reminds me of Dad’s dreams, and mine.

  Back when Mrs. Brewer said she wanted to visit the canyon, I almost choked. I honestly considered asking to stay home.

  But if I had done that, I’d have to explain why. And I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to open it all up again. So I did the next best thing. I tried to convince her to go someplace else. That didn’t work, either.

  Now, as we approached the south rim, I felt dizzy. My breathing was quick, as if I were running uphill. My eyes were watering.

  Outside, the canyon was widening. Inside I felt my own canyon, splitting me down the middle.

  It never totally goes away. That was what my guidance counselor said. She told me I would adjust. I would go on with a happy, healthy life. But she warned me about “triggers” — words, images, or thoughts that would remind me of Dad and bring it all back.

  This trigger was pulled all the way.

  My mind felt like a fortress, fighting off an invasion. But it was losing. The scene was spilling over the top, the scene I’ve relived a million times in my dreams … the pale expression on my teacher’s face as I returned from lunch … the walk to the principal’s office, where Grandpa Morris was waiting … the news that forever changed my life into a Before and After.

  It was a long time ago, Abby, I told myself. Lighten up!

  I swallowed. I breathed deeply.

  In the driver’s seat, Watson squinted as he read a road sign. “‘RV sites … Mather Campground.’”

  The sound of that name hit me. That was where my family would have stayed!

  I tried to choke back a sob.

  Jessi turned from the window. “Abby? Are you okay?”

  “Yup,” I lied. “Just allergies.”

  I kept it inside. I thought about neutral, unemotional things. Math. Parsley. Sofa cushions.

  Luckily, Mather was full. So was the other RV site. No vacancies anywhere.

  I tried to contain my excitement. “So we can’t go?”

  “I saw some other sites back up the highway,” Mrs. Brewer said.

  She was right. Watson pulled into a campground about a mile south.

  Mrs. Brewer was beaming. “Oh, Watson, this is s-o-o-o romantic!”

  Karen, Andrew, and David Michael thought that was hysterical. They were giggling like crazy.

  Mallory was scribbling in a journal. Jessi was already out of the van, dancing for joy in the parking lot.

  “You guys go ahead,” I said to Mal. “I’b feelig allergic.”

  Mallory looked dismayed. “You can’t stay here alone. Won’t the dry air do you good?”

  She was right. It was a dumb excuse.

  I pictured Dad in my mind. I tried to imagine what he’d say if he were watching me.

  He would be pointing toward the canyon. No doubt about that.

  I took a deep breath. I had to face this.

  We took a shuttle bus to the canyon. It was crowded, but that didn’t stop the three Brewer/Thomas kids from jabbering away. By the time we arrived at the South Rim, everyone on the bus knew their names, ages, grades, and favorite foods.

  My legs were a little weak as we stepped out of the bus. I was having trouble breathing. I was sure an asthma attack was on the way, so I pulled my backpack around front to reach for my inhaler.

  When I looked back up, I saw the canyon.

  The breath caught in my throat. Not because of asthma, either.

  Because of the view.

  My dad had been right. It cannot be described. It has to be seen.

  Jessi was already taking photos. Watson was panning a camcorder from left to right. Mallory was still writing. I think she’d already filled up a whole spiral notebook of impressions.

  “Let’s hike down!” David Michael shouted.

  “I want to ride the mules!” Karen said.

  “I want to go to the bathroom!” Andrew whined.

  Mrs. Brewer took him by the hand and headed toward a complex of shops and restaurants. “We’ll be right back.”

  Ahead of us, a sign read KAIBAB TRAIL. It led down into the canyon. Packs of tourists were taking it, some on foot, some on mules.

  Was this the trail Dad had wanted to take us on?

  Too many people. They were ruining the effect.

  I turned to Jessi. “In case you guys need me, I’m going to take a walk that way.” I gestured to the right, where the crowd was much thinner.

  As I walked along, a squirrel followed me expectantly. “No food,” I said with a laugh.

  Soon the crowds were well behind me. Their voices faded, and I could hear the wind echoing below. Or maybe it was the Colorado River, all the way at the bottom. It sounded like whispers.

  I sat near a low wooden fence and listened. And looked.

  Dad had told me that the canyon started as a river. Over time, the current wore away the rock, deeper and deeper until it formed a canyon. Nowadays the trail to the bottom is eight miles long.

  On Dad’s first visit here, he tried to race a friend to the bottom. (Dad was very competitive.) They went on two different trails. Dad’s was much narrower and rockier. Soon he had to rest. But as he sat, looking out over the canyon, he found he couldn’t move. It was as if he’d fallen under a spell. The feeling of peace and openness was so strong he forgot about the race. He just sat there for an hour, silently gazing. He’d never felt so happy and alive.

  When I was a kid, I could not understand that story. “Losing a race on purpose is crazy,” I said.

  Now, for the first time, I understood. I knew why he always liked to return here. And why he had been so eager to take me.

  Because now I felt the spell, too. And the peace.

  That, I knew, was exactly what he had wanted.

  Tears were clouding my vision. I missed Dad so much. But in a funny way, I wasn’t sad. I felt that he was there with me. Looking out over the canyon, saying nothing.

  Just smiling.

  “There you are!”

  Karen’s voice startled me. I turned to see her running toward me with a huge beach towel. “Look what we got!”

  Behind her was Andrew, speeding along with a toy helicopter, and David Michael with a plastic model of a wolf. Bringing up the rear were Watson, Mrs. Brewer, Jessi, and Mallory.

  Karen unfolded her towel as she ran, revealing a landscape with the words GRAND CANYON printed in terrycloth. I don’t know how she managed not to trip. “Isn’t it gigundo?”

  I giggled as the kids surrounded me, all chattering at once.

  I tried listening to them. But frankly, my mind was elsewhere.

  I was thinking of Anna and Mom. And how much we would enjoy a trip here together.

  Click!

  The flash blinded me for a moment.

  “Mary Anne Spier, protected against all harm!” Mr. Schafer intoned, like a pompous TV announcer.

  I could hear Kristy, Stacey, Claudia, and Jeff laughing.

  Okay, I was stretching the truth in my journal entry. I did not find this funny.

  I was cringing. I felt so foolish.

  The cable car stopped and everyone scrambled onto it. “Come on, Mary Anne!” Kristy shouted.

  I almost didn’t go. It would teach them a lesson to lose me.

  Then I realized it would teach me more of a lesson. So I climbe
d on, too.

  As the others giggled and chatted, I just looked at the quaint Victorian houses on the steep, hilly streets.

  It’s hard to remain in a bad mood in San Francisco. The city has so much positive energy. (I guess you have to be positive to live over a fault line and climb those hills every day.) It’s gorgeous, too. Go over one hill and you see a blue bay, spanned by the stunning, orange-red Golden Gate Bridge. Go over another hill and you’re in the middle of Chinatown. Another, and you’re among glittery theaters and clubs.

  We’d only been in San Francisco for a few hours, and I was already in love with it. Mr. Schafer had splurged and rented us rooms at a hotel — one for him and Jeff, and two for the rest of us. We’d checked in and taken a whirlwind tour of the city, and now we were heading back to the hotel garage.

  Our next stop? Candlestick Park, home of the San Francisco baseball team.

  “Mary Anne, are you having a good time?”

  Mr. Schafer’s voice startled me. He had moved from the side of the cable car where my friends were. Now he was standing next to me.

  “Sure,” I replied.

  “Good,” he said with a smile. “I hope you don’t mind my asking. You’ve been so quiet.”

  I shrugged. “I just … am. That’s me.”

  “I thought maybe you were offended by that photo I took of you under the doorway. You looked uncomfortable.”

  I did not know what to say. I felt uncomfortable now, too. I’d been feeling uncomfortable since the trip started.

  I had wanted to say something to him since we left the East Coast, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. He’d worked hard. He’d taken us across the country. He’d been very nice and good-natured and patient. And except for what happened in the badlands, he’d been a good driver.

  But so many of his comments were flashing through my mind. Little things. The jokes about my dad. The teasing. The way he made me feel as if I had to defend my family against his.

  It didn’t seem fair. Why should I have to take that? Just because he’s a grown-up? I know if Dawn had been in my shoes, she wouldn’t have taken it. She would have said something. Not in a bratty way, but in a direct and honest one. That’s the way she is.

  But I’d felt funny about talking back to him. He’s not even my stepdad. He’s just the dad of my stepsister. Is there a name for that? “Dad once removed” or something?