“Just leave the beets and kale and…whatever that root thing is,” I suggested. “No one’s going to eat them anyway.”
“Yeah,” Mo said. “I hate kale.”
The veggie peddler turned to help someone else. Mom ignored us and tried to unearth her missing money. “I don’t understand this,” she muttered. “Am I losing my mind?”
I cooled it for a few weeks after that. But when she was flush again, I resumed pinching. I was more careful, and took less, too.
Then one morning in the commotion to get out the door to work and school, Anabella spun me around as I was going by her in the kitchen. “That’s a Jack Wills hoodie?” she gasped. “How did you get that?”
“It’s Meadow’s.” I’d prepped that lie for other clothes I’d worn, and it was a good thing, because I really wasn’t expecting to have to use it now. “She lets me borrow stuff all the time.” I couldn’t help throwing in a dig. “Like sisters are supposed to.”
“It’s nice that you think of Meadow that way,” Mom said. She was wetting down Mo’s hair. “Too bad you and Anabella don’t like the same clothes. I always loved trading outfits with my sister.”
Anabella was giving me a suspicious look. “That’s a hundred-dollar hoodie,” she said. “And brand-new.”
I wanted to kill her. Why couldn’t she just mind her own business? It was brand-new but made to not look it. Everyone else in my family would have thought it was a five-dollar thrift-store find. But no, not Anabella.
The narc.
Mom was distracted, but not completely. “Wow. Better not spill your grape juice on it!”
On her way out the door, Anabella cornered me and said, “I’m not stupid, you know.”
“About what?”
She pointed a finger at me as she left to catch her ride. “You know exactly what,” she said. “I suspected before, but now I know.”
I grabbed the door. “Suspected what?”
“You know what!” she yelled up the walkway. “And I’m going to prove it!”
I closed the door thinking, I hate you. I hate you so much.
I didn’t know exactly what Anabella was going to try to prove, so I had to be careful about everything. And it came at a really bad time.
“My parents know,” Meadow informed me as we were lighting up in the Wing-8 faculty bathroom that same day. “They moved their stash.”
I stopped midpuff. “What happened? Are you grounded?”
“I’m alive.” Meadow took the joint back. “At least they’re not your parents, right?”
That was an understatement. Meadow’s parents were living off a trust fund and basically just hung out watching Netflix in their condo all day. Meadow said they never smoked in front of her, but you didn’t have to look or smell too hard to figure out that the downstairs TV room was a stoner temple.
“I know how to score some,” Meadow was saying, “but you’re gonna have to chip in.”
“Can’t you just find where they put their stash? It’s gotta be somewhere, right?”
She laughed. “So you want me to get killed—is that what you’re saying?”
“No! But—” I explained about Anabella. “So I have to be really careful for a while.”
She puffed down the joint until there was nothing left to smoke. I felt like she was hogging it. Making a point. Though I wasn’t sure what the point was.
She flicked the nub into the toilet and flushed. “You can just quit if you want….”
The thought of quitting felt like spiders crawling under my skin. Getting high with Meadow was the only thing that made school tolerable. “Well, what’s it cost?”
“What have you got? I’ll see what I can score.”
I turned over fifteen dollars, and the next day she handed me a skimpy baggie of weed and a package of rolling papers.
“You’re kidding, right?” I asked.
“Don’t I wish.”
So I had to find a way to get some cash, but Anabella was now watching me like a hawk. She thought she was being sly, but I was watching her like a hawk now, too, so I noticed things.
Her door left open a crack at night.
The money left as bait in our bathroom.
Her spying through my bedroom window.
What a stalker!
I had to go past her bedroom door to get down to the alcove where Mom’s purse was. I’d seen Anabella sneak down there a couple of times, so I was pretty sure she was setting up something to trap me. I didn’t think it was anything sophisticated like a video camera, but I wasn’t a hundred percent sure.
This was Anabella, after all.
But I suspected it was something more like sticking a twenty up from the rest of Mom’s cash so I’d be tempted to take it. Like when we were little and we played Old Maid—she’d stick the bad cards up a little so I’d reach for them without thinking.
Well, I wasn’t her gullible little sister anymore. I wasn’t going to take whatever bait she’d set up, and I also wasn’t going to call her on any of the stuff she was doing. If I sprang her traps, she’d just set others up.
Instead, I stayed away from Mom’s purse, called out, “Hey, Anabella—is this your money in the bathroom?” and made like I was doing my homework when she was spying through my window.
And I smiled.
Smiled a lot.
Which drove Anabella nuts.
Then one night I had an idea for how I could turn the tables. I could almost not believe how brilliant the idea was. A lightbulb hadn’t just come on, it had exploded in my mind.
I waited for Anabella to do her ridiculous evening routine—brushing her teeth, flossing her teeth, brushing her teeth again, rinsing with mouthwash. Gargling with mouthwash. Cleansing her face, moisturizing her face. Lotion everywhere—hands, toes, elbows, arms, calves. Brushing her hair—brush, brush, brush, to one hundred. Tying up her hair to give it volume the next day. Rubbing beeswax into her fingernails.
Sharing a bathroom with Anabella is a nightmare.
When she was finally done, I waited a good fifteen minutes, then walked down to the alcove, making just enough noise to alert Anabella. I stood in the alcove for thirty seconds, killing time, then hurried back to my bedroom.
Anabella scurried out of her room and down the hall like the rat she is. I slipped out of my bedroom and crept after her like a cat. And just as she was checking inside Mom’s purse, I took a picture with my phone and screamed, “Mom! Dad! Come quick!”
Mom and Dad came flying into the alcove like the house was on fire and ran right into Anabella, who was so shocked that her hand was still in the cookie jar.
“Anabella!” they gasped. “You?”
It was one of the best nights of my life.
I’m a Coyote for one night—just one night—when reality comes knocking. The sun isn’t even up yet when it starts. “Rise and shine, Grizzlies! We’re striking camp.”
I don’t really know what this means.
It sounds like picket signs will be involved.
At the moment I don’t feel like picketing or protesting. At the moment I’m warm and cozy in my mummy bag, looking out my tarp tent at the soft glow of a new day. There’s the crackle of fire, the smell of sagebrush shriveling to ash. I am lying in a cloud of smoky content.
With me, I’ve got the memory of last night. Being accepted into the circle around the campfire. Meeting the other girls—Brooke and Kelsey, who are in their fourth week and a level ahead on Elk, and Felicia, the only Falcon, who is in her sixth week. I’m not great with names, so I was glad at least the F was a Falcon. It helped.
We ate a warm meal of rice and lentils, and nothing had ever tasted so good. And being the storyteller was fun. I did part of 101 Dalmatians, and the Coyotes especially loved me!
“Rise and shine, Grizzlies! We’re striking camp!”
It’s Michelle, busy at the fire, hyped up like she’s been pinching from an illegal stash of caffeine.
“Now, ladies! Unless you want to hike o
n empty stomachs!”
Grizzlies groan, but none of us get up.
Michelle’s tent is already down and bundled into a pack. Dvorka’s is too, and I can see her working on dismantling John’s tarp. The sun crests the horizon and glares across camp, and Jude staggers around his stuff like he’s not really sure what he’s doing.
“What happened to John?” I call out. “Did he catch Dax?”
Across camp, Mia sticks her fluffy head out of her tent. “That’s right—what happened?”
Shalayne’s ratty bleached mop appears. “Yeah, what happened?”
Hannah moans from inside her tent, which is right next to Michelle’s spot. “How can you not know? The stupid walkie-talkie was going all night!”
“So?” Shalayne asks. “What’s happened?”
“John will meet up with us later today. Dax is in custody and going back to court,” Michelle says, sounding totally testy. “Now let’s move. It’s going to be a hot one.”
“What about my canteen?” I ask. “Dax stole it.”
“We’ll deal with that later.”
“But—”
“Let’s go.”
I stay put. “Maybe we would if you weren’t being such a bossy grouch!”
Camp goes quiet. Even the fire quits crackling.
“Not cool,” Felicia says.
Without a word, the other girls all get up and get busy.
“You’re kidding, right?” I ask, but no one answers. They just go about their business, stuffing away their bags, tearing down their tarps. I can’t believe it, but I know the signs. I’ve been here before.
Shut out.
Shunned.
Blacklisted.
But why?
I tear down my tent and work at packing up my stuff like everyone else is doing. I’m terrible at it. I only really did the tarp-pack thing that first day, and I don’t remember how to do it. I feel like kicking my stuff. Yelling at it. At everyone. Why am I being treated like rotten fish? Is there a secret Fish level they didn’t mention? A place to which you get exiled if you say something wrong? I didn’t even say anything wrong! I just stated facts. Michelle’s tired and grouchy! They’re all tired and grouchy! Why else would I be exiled to Fish?
“Need some help?”
It’s Mia. I’m suddenly jealous of her hair. It’s like a crown, puffed and proud behind her headband bandanna. My hair’s dirty and gross, and even braided back, I want to cut it off.
“Why did everyone shut me out?” I whisper.
Mia unfolds my tarp, bringing me back to square one. “You don’t get it now, but you will.”
“Get what?”
“How much Michelle cares. Her and Dvorka both.” She drops her voice. “You’re on Coyote now. You don’t dis them. Ever.”
“But I didn’t—”
“Yes”—she holds me with a hard look—“you did.”
I’m dying to argue. Dying to say, What Utopia are you from where you think that was disrespectful? But her list from yesterday plays through my mind—abused by her uncle, hooked on drugs, tried to kill—and I feel more lost than ever.
So I’m just quiet as she shows me how to fold the pack, how to keep my fire kit, a canteen, the billypot, and some food strapped outside the pack so it’s easy to get to.
“Thank you,” I tell her when I’m packed.
“We need breakfast,” she says. “Believe me, you want to eat.”
The other Grizzlies are already cooking oatmeal, whispering. I’m sure it’s about me, because they go mute when I arrive. Mia offers to cook my oatmeal with hers, and when it’s done, she scoops some across to my cup and shares her brown sugar.
No one says a word.
I watch Michelle, who’s across camp having a powwow with Dvorka and Jude. It seems pretty serious. Maybe they’ll get rid of me, too. That would be good, right? Anything’s better than sleeping in the dirt, right?
They finally come over to the fire ring, and Dvorka asks, “How we doing?”
Everyone nods. No one speaks.
There’s a battle raging inside me. I want to shout, “Really? Really?” I mean, how stupid is this silent treatment? And at home that’s exactly what I would have done. I would have stormed out of the room cursing and slamming doors and hate-hate-hating until the house was bursting with it.
But there are no doors here.
There is no place to hide.
And as hard as I might try, I could never fill the desert with hate. The wind would just blow it away.
And, weirdly, I don’t want to hate on them.
Even more weirdly, I want to say something I haven’t said in a long, long time.
Have not said honestly, anyway.
Even thinking of saying it is putting a rock in my throat. I don’t understand why I want to, don’t even agree with it, but it’s like I need to stand up and say it.
I have no idea why I need to stand, but I do.
So I do.
And then I freeze in place.
Everyone looks at me.
Waits.
I can barely breathe as I look right at Michelle and remember how she helped me build my bow and spindle and board, how she trusted me with her knife, how she cheered when I lit my first fire, how she made me believe I could.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out. “I’m sorry I was disrespectful.”
And then my eyes burn with tears and I sit down trying my hardest to hate this place for making me want to say that.
For confusing me so much.
My apology works like an unmuting. Grizzlies are talking to me again. Smiling at me.
I should be happy, but instead I’m suspicious. Are they all just minions? Is this actually some desert cult? Is Michelle the supreme leader? Do they put behavior-mod drugs in the oatmeal? Is that why I got emotional? Should I try to barf up my breakfast?
We finish packing, put out the fire, scatter the ashes, cover the latrine, “remove all traces” until there’s no “impact on the environment.”
“Excellent,” Dvorka says, looking around. Then she assigns duties. “Coyotes, work out the tarp; the rest of you are on resupply.” She looks at the sun and frowns. “Let’s do this!”
I look at the sun too and try to calculate the time. If sunrise was around seven and sunset is around eight, then, horizon to horizon, that’s thirteen hours, which puts us at about nine o’clock. Maybe nine-thirty.
“Wren!” Mia calls. She’s with Shalayne and Hannah by the stretcher—a tarp lashed between two wooden poles. All week, the stretcher has been propped against a pinyon tree, off to the side of camp, and I figured it was for in case someone got hurt. But this morning we’ve been putting supplies on it. Stuff like a griddle, some big pots, a couple of large, empty plastic containers with spigots, the collapsible shovel, rope, and two metal snow discs.
I didn’t ask about the snow discs. I just did what I was told and figured there might have been snow. Somewhere. Before.
But now suddenly it matters. Every ounce on this tarp matters, because Mia is telling me and the other Coyotes to pick up the ends of the stretcher poles.
“You’re serious?” I ask. I’m already carrying a gazillion pounds on my back. “And why do we have to haul around snow discs?”
“High or low?” Mia calls to the other Coyotes, ignoring my questions.
“I’m for low,” Shalayne says. “Until we get to flatlands.”
“I’m good with that,” Hannah says.
“Low it is,” Mia says. “On three.”
“Would somebody please tell me what we’re doing?”
“It’s not rocket science,” Mia says. “One…two…” She frowns at me. “Grab your end, Wren!”
There’s no pretending I don’t know what she’s talking about. I reach down and grab my end of a pole, and on three, the four of us lift the tarp stretcher.
The stuff on the tarp bangs and clangs and settles into the middle. I feel like one of those porters we learned about in fifth grade—slaves
who had to carry rich people this way. Only the rich people sat in chairs. Or in little enclosed carriages.
The whole group starts moving, walking in kind of a line—a dust-covered chain gang with Dvorka in the lead, Michelle at the rear, and Jude up between us porters and the other Grizzlies.
As we hike along, my hand starts sweating and hurting. Pretty soon, my arm is stretched out, aching, and I’m mad. I get now why everyone was happy that I advanced to Coyote. It wasn’t that they cared about me. They knew a move was coming up and wanted me to help carry stuff!
I’m back to hating on them. Hating hard. I feel tricked and stupid. Like I did when I finally figured out what Meadow was doing.
This is just like that.
Meadow had made me believe that she was my friend.
She’d made me believe that she liked me.
It was all just a lie.
A cold, heartless lie.
When I had to start paying for weed, my allowance bought me maybe four joints a week, which was not even enough to get me through school and left zero money for anything else.
Mom’s purse was no longer an option, Dad kept his wallet on him at all times, Anabella’s cash was hidden behind about eight layers of security, and Grandma’s birthday money stopped when I turned thirteen.
“Should have thanked her last year,” Mom said when I opened my Happy 13 birthday card and there was no money in it.
Her voice was frosted with I-told-you-so, and it tweaked me. Even on my birthday, she couldn’t take my side. Why not frown at the card and mutter, “What kind of grandmother cuts you off after one year of forgetting to send a thank-you note?” Her own mother had died, and I could tell she didn’t really like Dad’s mom, so why not sigh and say, “You know she’s vindictive and miserly,” and then make up for it by giving me some birthday money?
But no. She just couldn’t help giving me that disapproving look.
Even on my birthday!
We were in the living room by her grandmother’s piano, so I went for a backdoor approach. “I sure miss your mom. Remember how she used to sit on the bench with Anabella and me and tell us the Tale of the Piano?” The Tale of the Piano was a long story about the piano’s life, which included time in great-grandmother’s Nazi-occupied apartment during World War II. I thought bringing it up might make her realize I wasn’t getting any birthday money from her mother either, but all it did was make her break down in a puddle of tears.
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