Not Our Summer

by Casie Bazay

  “Now boarding Group A for passengers heading to Denver,” a female voice says over a loudspeaker. Oh boy, that’s us. I glance at my ticket again. Group B for me.

  Becka and I both stand and move toward the gate, neither one of us speaking. The voice over the intercom tells us to have our tickets ready. I yawn and shuffle along as the passengers move forward.

  The plane is smaller on the inside than I expected and much less fancy. It also has a weird odor, like old plastic and Ritz crackers with a dash of BO thrown in. I find my seat, which ends up being right next to the window. This morning, I would have considered that terrifying. But with the two Xanax fully working in my system, I don’t mind at all. Becka squeezes in next to me, still wearing that same disgusted expression. High-top suit guy takes the aisle seat in our row.

  “Could I trade seats with you, by any chance?” Becka asks him. “I get claustrophobic sitting in the middle.”

  She’s such a freaking liar, but hey, I’m not going to complain.

  “Sure,” he says.

  As the plane backs away from the terminal, he leans his head back and closes his eyes. A nap sounds nice right about now, come to think of it. My stomach roils up a bit during takeoff, but after we’re safely in the sky (or as safe as you can possibly be in the sky), I lean my seat back as far as it will go and zonk out. I don’t wake again until the man is poking me in the arm.

  “You need to put your seat up,” he says. “We’re about to land.”

  “Oh, okay.” I stifle another yawn. “Wow, we’re here already?”

  But then I remember this isn’t our destination. We have a short layover in Denver. Crap. I hope the Xanax keeps working for a few more hours. Mom gave me two more, but I should probably save them for the return trip.

  The Denver airport is way bigger and much busier than the one in Arkansas, and after a stop at the bathroom, I lose sight of Becka. Luckily, a man in a pilot’s hat notices me looking confused and helps me get to the next gate. There, I find Becka with her earbuds still in and no apparent concern for my whereabouts. I decide to do the same. Scrolling through my playlist, I choose a song by Linkin Park, crank it up loud, and find my Zen. When Becka stands to get in line, I follow behind her, and since this plane isn’t full, we leave an empty seat between us. By the time we land in Flagstaff, I’ve made it through roughly a third of my songs and the Xanax hasn’t let me down yet.

  I have no idea where we’re going, so I stick close to Becka after we get off the plane. It’s funny, because I hadn’t really noticed how short she was until now. She’s maybe five-three, tops, but those short legs can sure move. She walks like she’s hoping she’ll lose me, but I manage to keep up.

  “Do you even know where to go?” I ask when we reach a dead end in the airport and have to turn back around. She doesn’t answer. I sigh and pull up the itinerary again. Grand Canyon Shuttle, that’s what we need to find. “Hey, there’s a sign.” I point up ahead.

  Becka turns like she’d known that all along, even though I’m pretty sure she didn’t. When we board the shuttle, she moves toward the back, and I choose a seat near the front. Sitting next to a window again, I watch the unfamiliar scenery pass as we head west. Huge pine trees line the roadway, and the jagged outline of mountains is visible in the distance. Arizona’s prettier than I would have thought, and a lot greener, but now that the Xanax is finally wearing off, excitement and nervousness play a game of tug-of-war in my gut. I’ve never been this far away from home before.

  My stomach rumbles loudly, but I’m pretty sure it’s from hunger this time. Guess I never ate lunch today. I glance at the lady next to me, but she doesn’t seem to have noticed the noise. Or maybe she’s just too polite to act like she did. Remembering the two bags of peanuts I’d saved from the airplane, I grab one from my pocket and tear it open, but after finishing the second bag, I’m still starving. Hopefully, there’ll be something to eat at the hotel. Never been to one of those either.

  Becka and I are the only two people to get off at the Maswik Lodge. By now, the sky has turned orange, and the chilly air causes goose pimples to pop up on my arms. Bags slung over our shoulders, we trudge into the office without saying a word. While Becka checks us in, I fish a gray hoodie out of my bag and pull it on. She seems to know what she’s doing, so I just follow after her as she gets the key cards and starts toward our room. I did hear the lady say it has two queen beds, which I’m extremely grateful for. I’d sleep on the floor before I’d crawl in bed next to Becka.

  The room is small, with southwestern style bedspreads and matching desert artwork hanging above each bed. It smells a little flowery—probably some kind of air freshener—but it looks like a pretty nice place. Mom would approve, I’m sure. A twinge of something like homesickness comes over me for a second but disappears almost as quickly because what’s there to miss at home, really? I kick off my shoes and fall onto one of the beds while Becka carefully unpacks a few things from her bag.

  “I’m taking a shower,” she says without looking my way.

  Like I care. After she disappears into the bathroom, I decide I’m going to make the best of my alone time, so I turn on the TV and flip through the channels. There’s nothing interesting, and I don’t really feel like watching anything anyway, so I turn it back off and pull out my phone instead. Only there’s no Wi-Fi. I sigh and set it on the table beside my bed. With nothing to distract me, my empty stomach commands my attention again. Surely there’s some place to eat around here. Guess I better go look. Stuffing my feet back into my shoes, I grab some money out of my bag.

  “Gonna go get some food,” I yell toward the bathroom. “Want anything?”

  “No,” Becka replies from the other side of the door. “I brought some snacks.”

  She doesn’t even thank me for asking, but whatever.

  I push the cash into my pocket and head outside into the chilly night. The lady at the front desk points the way to the food court, where the only thing still open is the pizzeria. Works for me. When I return to the room with two to-go slices of pizza and a drink, plus a Twix bar from the snack machine, I balance the food on the crook of one arm and search my pocket for the key card. Only it’s not there. Shit. I check my other pockets just in case, dropping my candy bar in the process. Nope, definitely forgot it. I knock on the door, but all is quiet inside. I knock again.

  “Becka, it’s me. Let me in.”

  Nothing but silence.

  I use the side of my fist to pound a little harder. “Hey, open up!”

  The curtains move in the window of the room next door, but there’s no sign of life in ours. What the hell? Is she still in the bathroom? I turn and slide my back down the door, sitting on the cold cement walkway. I’m too hungry to wait any longer, so I open up the cardboard container and shovel a piece of pizza into my mouth. I’m shivering by the time I unwrap the candy bar, and the cold drink isn’t helping things.

  God damn it, Becka. I slap the door hard with the palm of my hand, the resulting sting making me instantly regret the action. “Open the door!”

  Still not a sound.

  I grit my teeth and stand. Leaving my trash on the ground, I stomp back toward the front desk.

  “Can I get another key card?” I ask the woman. “Room 103.”

  She looks at me like I must be the most irresponsible person on earth, but she rifles through a drawer and retrieves one. “There’s an added fee if you lose any more,” she informs me.

  “Alrighty.” Becka can just cover that fee if need be.

  I take the card and hurry back toward our room, but just as I’m about to use it, the door opens. Becka stands before me, dressed in flannel pajama pants and a long-sleeved shirt.

  “Oh, there you are,” she says, her tone completely indifferent.

  I stare back at her, wide-eyed. “Are you kidding me? What the hell have you been doing this whole time?”

  “Nothing,” she says with a shrug. “Just listening to music.”

  I shake
my head and brush past her with a huff. She could still hear me, I’m sure of it.

  Becka puts her earbuds back in and sits cross-legged on her bed while munching on what looks like peanut butter crackers and sipping from a bottle of Coke. Funny, I pegged her for a protein bar and Evian water type of girl. I go to the bathroom to change into my sweatpants and a T-shirt but pull my hoodie back on.

  “Where are you going now?” she asks as I head back toward the door. I hold up my pack of cigarettes and she rolls her eyes. “Don’t forget your card this time.” The hint of a smile tugs at her pouty lips.

  I glare back at her. “Don’t worry, won’t make that mistake again.”

  CHAPTER 7

  BECKA

  IT’S ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE TO SLEEP KNOWING K. J. is in the same room. Plus, this bed is hard as a rock and my pillow feels like it’s had a few too many heads on it. I stare at the ceiling for a long while before shifting to lie on my side. The red numbers on the alarm clock show 1:24 a.m. I need sleep; otherwise, I’m going to be a zombie tomorrow. Lord knows that won’t be good while I’m sitting on a mule, descending into the pits of the earth. My stomach clenches tight at the thought.

  I try counting backward from one thousand—a trick my mom taught me when I was little, and one I had to use quite a bit in the months following Ricky’s death—but other thoughts soon push out the numbers, and I lose track of where I’m at. K. J. lets out a snort and rolls over so she’s facing me, still sound asleep. The dim moonlight peeking through the curtains shines on her face, making her look completely unfamiliar. Of course, she is unfamiliar to me. Until this trip, I’d only seen her in person three times—the lawyer’s office, the funeral, and once by mistake when we were around twelve. My mom and I ran into Jackie and K. J. at a Wendy’s. They were coming in as we were leaving, and I remember Mom cursing under her breath, grabbing my shoulder, and practically pushing me out the front door.

  I’ve always known my cousin best by the grade school picture hanging in Grandpa’s hallway, and she’s always been somewhat of an enigma to me. My trashy aunt’s tomboy daughter. Turns out she’s worse than I thought. She had to have been high today on God only knows what.

  I roll onto my other side, forcing K. J. from my mind and my eyes closed for the hundredth time, silently repeating, “I have to sleep… I have to sleep… I have to sleep,” like a mantra. Eventually it does the trick. The words mush together, my brain grows fuzzy, and sleep finally comes.

  My phone alarm awakens me much too soon. Ugh. Is it five-thirty already? I sit up but have to wait several seconds for my head to clear. I was having this weird dream about playing soccer next to a giant ravine and the only way to score was to kick an opposing player into the abyss. Completely sadistic but maybe not all that surprising considering the circumstances.

  K. J. stirs in her bed and swipes at her eyes. “Shit, is it time to get up?”

  I grunt in affirmation and climb out of bed, taking my clothes to the bathroom to get dressed. By the time I’m out, K. J. is fully clothed and packing a few things into a smaller duffel bag, like we’ve been instructed to do. She wears the same hoodie from last night with jeans and a gray sock cap that nearly covers her short hair. It makes her look even more boyish. I tear my eyes away before she can notice me looking and use the mirror and sink outside the bathroom to get ready. Ten silent minutes later, we step out into the crisp morning air.

  Except for a few chattering birds and the occasional rumble from a vehicle in the distance, all is quiet. The sun isn’t quite up yet, and the air has a gray, misty quality to it. I breathe in the fresh smell of pine, which makes me think of the one camping trip I went on as a kid—back when Mom was married to Ricky’s dad, Billy. We’d rented a cabin in Missouri for the weekend, which was fun until Mom and Billy got in a huge fight on the second night and we went home early. I doubt this trip will be any better.

  As we trudge across the parking lot, K. J. pulls a cigarette from the pocket of her hoodie and sticks it between her lips.

  “Really?” I ask. “Do you have to do that now?”

  She smiles, obviously enjoying my irritation. “Why not?” She lights up and takes a long drag before coughing several times. “It’s just the dry air,” she explains.

  “Yeah, sure.” I shift the bag on my shoulder and read the sign up ahead. An arrow points to Bright Angel Trailhead, but we need to find Bright Angel Lodge first. The lady from Maswik gave me a map of Grand Canyon Village last night, so I pull it out again to study. “I think it’s to the right up there.”

  We haven’t gone much farther when I notice another sign and point toward it: NO SMOKING.

  K. J. sighs and drops the cigarette, smashing it with her boot. “That figures.”

  I bite my lip, attempting to hide my smile of satisfaction. We take a right and follow the sign toward Bright Angel Lodge. It’s a large rock A-frame building that looks slightly fancier than our own lodge.

  “You both have wide-brimmed hats, right?” the woman at the transportation desk asks us. She has the tanned, leathery-looking skin of someone who has spent most of her life outdoors. She could be forty or sixty—it’s hard to tell.

  We both answer yes. The itinerary was very specific in what we needed to pack.

  “Perfect,” she says. “And have either of you ridden before?”

  I shake my head, a jittery feeling expanding in my gut. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I’m stuck with K. J. for the weekend, but this whole mule thing is getting a little too real now.

  “I’ve ridden a horse a few times,” K. J. says.

  Great, so I’m going to look like the total fool here.

  “That should help,” the lady says, “but don’t worry, the wranglers will give you all the instructions you need. I’m sure you’ll have a fantastic time.” She hands each of us a small slip of paper with our cabin number. “Have fun!”

  I must look more terrified than anything because the woman gives me a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry,” she adds. “The mules are very experienced. Most of them have been with us for years.”

  “Awesome,” K. J. says. “Thanks!” She actually looks excited, which only makes me feel worse. My stomach knots and a wave of nausea rolls over me, but I can’t let her know I’m scared. I’m sure she’ll never let me hear the end of it if I do.

  “Just check in at the mule barn by eight,” the woman reminds us as we turn to leave.

  “Got it,” K. J. says before looking at me. “Hey, wanna eat here?”

  “I guess.” It looks like our only option unless we go back to our own lodge.

  A hostess shows us to a small table for two and I spend my time studying the menu so I don’t have to look at K. J. This is bound to be the most awkward breakfast I’ve ever had in my life.

  After the waiter takes our orders, I glance around at the other sleepy-eyed guests in the dining area while K. J. pretends the backs of her hands are the most interesting thing in the world. I pull out my phone and start scrolling through a group text between my friends from a few days ago. Lexi’s love of GIFs makes me smile, and for a moment I can forget where I am. Reality snaps back when the waiter sets down my biscuits and gravy with a side of bacon and K. J.’s plate of pancakes. Neither one of us makes eye contact or talks—we just start eating.

  We must be an interesting sight, two silent girls who refuse to acknowledge each other. It reminds me of how Mom and Billy were toward the end. They used to make me and Ricky deliver their messages. Things like, “Tell RaeLynn I won’t be home for dinner tonight,” or “Let Billy know he needs to pick you up from practice today.”

  “Will you need one ticket or two?” the waiter asks upon returning. Despite my nerves and questionable appetite earlier, I’d managed to scarf my food down in record time. K. J.’s just finishing the last of her pancakes.

  “Two,” I tell him.

  He brings our tickets, and we each hand over the prepaid debit card that arrived along with our plane tickets. Mr. Sisco said
they were to be used for meals and any extra fees not included in the reservations. It’s like Grandpa really did think of everything.

  With nothing else to do, K. J. suggests going to the barn early. It’s still cool out, but the rising sun is blinding. I slip on my sunglasses as K. J. and I stand near a wood fence enclosing the mule pen. The wranglers catch the animals and lead them to the barn, one by one.

  “They seem really big for donkeys,” I mutter.

  “They’re not donkeys. They’re mules.”

  “Same difference, right?”

  K. J. cracks a smile. “Nope, a mule is a cross between a horse and a donkey. They have sixty-three chromosomes. Donkeys only have sixty-two.”

  Whatever. Mule. Donkey. I couldn’t care less about their chromosomes, and I don’t want to ride either one.

  “I hope I get that one,” K. J. says, pointing to the white mule being led to the barn. It’s the only one that’s not brown.

  I don’t care which one I get as long as it’s gentle. The knot in my stomach coils tighter as I realize I’ll be sitting on one of those mules in less than an hour. I can’t believe this is really happening. What if Grandpa were here, getting ready to go on this ride instead of us? It’s hard to fathom the idea. I can’t remember him going anywhere besides his own property.

  One time, probably around ten years ago, the two of us were out walking the trails on his land. I asked what would happen if we went outside the gate and walked down the street. A pained look crossed his face, and he told me he wasn’t sure, but he’d rather not try. I pleaded with him for several minutes, but he wouldn’t budge. I finally gave up. When I told Mom about it later, she said I shouldn’t ever ask him that again.

  “Why?” I’d wondered aloud.

  She frowned and shook her head. “Your grandpa isn’t like everyone else. There are things in the outside world that scare him.”

  “Like what?” I’d asked.