This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2010 by Abigail McDonald
Cover photograph copyright © 2010 by Dave Reede/All Canada Photos/photolibrary
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
First electronic edition 2010
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
McDonald, Abby.
Boys, bears, and a serious pair of hiking boots / Abby McDonald.
— 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Seventeen-year-old Jenna, an ardent vegetarian and environmentalist, is thrilled to be spending the summer communing with nature in rural Canada, until she discovers that not all of the rugged residents there share her beliefs.
ISBN 978-0-7636-4382-9 (hardcover)
[1. Self-perception — Fiction. 2. Wilderness areas — Fiction. 3. Environmental protection — Fiction. 4. Social action — Fiction. 5. Canada — Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.M4784174Bo 2010
[Fic] — dc22 2009026015
ISBN 978-0-7636-5183-1 (electronic)
Candlewick Press
99 Dover Street
Somerville, Massachusetts 02144
visit us at www.candlewick.com
“Re-use! Re-duce! Re-cycle!”
“Don’t get mad; get green!”
“Save a planet, save a tree, in the end it’ll save you and me!”
The chants filter through the open windows at the end of final period, drifting on the warm breeze. Ms. Lockhart pauses, walking over to check out the noise, while the rest of the class cranks their necks around and strains to get a better look.
I just cram my books into my bag and wait, poised on the edge of my seat.
The second the final bell rings, I spring into action: racing to my locker, I grab some last-minute supplies and dash out of the building. I can see the Green Teens already, marching in a circle on a plot of land at the end of the field, past the graffitied bleachers and batting cages. The school board is proposing to sell it off to developers; already there are tire tracks cut into the muddy ground and the beginnings of a construction site taking shape. But not for long.
“You didn’t wait!” I arrive, breathless, at the edge of the grass. I pause for a moment to kick off my ballet flats — not exactly off-road shoes — and yank on a pair of flower-print plastic boots.
“I know, I know,” Olivia apologizes, skidding down the dirt bank. Her own matching boots are already filthy from the mud. She grabs a couple of my bags and eagerly rifles through them. “Did you bring the banners? And sign-up sheets?”
“Check and check!” I pull a Greenpeace shirt over my regular tank top. “And cookies, too.”
“Perfect!” She grins. She’s braided blue yarn through her hair for the occasion, the same shade as the paint on the signs we were up half the night making. “Then we’re all set.”
We take our places in the middle of the group, unfurling a ten-foot-long banner and joining in the chant. After six major demonstrations, and our weekly Saturday morning session handing out flyers at the Fairview Mall, Olivia and I are protest experts. We need to be. With the old Green Teen leadership graduating, it’s up to us to keep the spirit of environmentalism alive and well at North Ridge High.
“Louder, everyone! We need them to hear us all the way to the parking lot!” Olivia yells through the megaphone we, ahem, “borrowed” from the AV room. Volume and visibility — those are the keys to a good protest, I’ve learned. And plenty of snacks. One time we tried an all-day sit-in outside City Hall to demand better recycling services, but I forgot to bring provisions; the group lasted exactly two hours before the aroma wafting from a nearby pretzel van became too much to bear. Needless to say, we still have to trek out to Maplewood with our paper and plastics, and I haven’t forgotten the Fig Newtons since.
Sure enough, after a few minutes a curious crowd starts to gather, drawn by the shouting and — yes — the lure of those cookies. A group from my study hall looks around with interest, and a handful of cheerleaders even stop to ask what’s going on.
“Never underestimate the power of free food.” I grin, giving Olivia a high-five with my free hand. “What do you say, time for phase two?”
“Do it.” She nods.
Passing my corner of the banner over to an eager freshman recruit, I retrieve the stack of clipboards and begin circulating with sign-up sheets.
“What is it this time?” A guy from my econ class is loitering suspiciously near the crowd. His collar is popped, and he’s spent the last semester idly kicking the back of my seat, but every signature counts. “Saving the whales?”
“That was last week.” I keep smiling at him: my infallible “you know you want to help me out” grin. “Right now we’re trying to stop them from building on the field.”
“Are they going to put up a mini-mall?” He looks hopeful. “Man, a Pizza Hut would be awesome. Or a Chili’s!”
“No,” I answer, thankful. I’m all for a challenge, but convincing a thousand teenagers to pick the joys of nature over double pepperoni with extra cheese? That might be out of my league. I move closer, pen outstretched. “But do you really want to have this field paved over? Bit by bit, we’re losing all the natural habitats and green space in the area, and we won’t be able to get them back. What about the local ecosystem, and wildlife, and —?”
“Whoa.” He backs off, looking alarmed. “Relax, Jenna!”
It’s obvious I’m not going to win this one with logic and sense, so I decide to try a new tactic. “It’s OK — you don’t have to sign now,” I coo. “I mean, we’ve got two whole weeks of classes before summer vacation. We can talk through all the issues together, in tons more detail. I could even ask Mrs. Paluski to pair us up!” I beam as though I’m just thrilled by the thought of describing every detail of our cause. “I’m sure I’ll convince you. Eventually.”
He practically snatches the pen out of my hand to sign.
“Aw, thanks.” I grin, taking back the clipboard to check my progress. Fifty-six down, just another thousand to go. . . .
The crowd around us has swelled to about a hundred students by the time I see Principal Turner huffing his way across the field. I intercept him at the edge of the grass with my best innocent look. “Anything I can help you with?”
“Jenna Levison.” He eyes the dirt and puddles suspiciously. “To what do we owe this particular show of —”
“Community spirit?” I finish hopefully. “Environmental awareness?”
“Disruption and disobedience.” He folds his arms and glares at me. As if they can sense the battle to come, the crowd behind me turns to watch, while the rest of the Green Teens pause their chanting.
I gulp.
No matter how many angry officials I face, I still feel like I’m doing something wrong (OK — something really wrong). But I can’t back down. Backing down won’t save the field from construction, and it certainly won’t make the rest of the Green Teens believe in their new leaders. It’s my job to deal with authority now. Preferably without winding up in perpetual detention.
“Is this about the demonstration last week?” Deciding that distraction is the best form of defense, I try to steer him away from the melee. “Because the Star-Ledger said it was a great example of youth engagement. They even
invited us to a dinner for community leaders.”
“Congratulations.” His response is dry. “So, what is it this time? I’m assuming there is a point to all this.” Turner surveys the motley crew with a weary expression.
“You’re selling off the back field!” Olivia appears beside me, her voice ringing with accusation. What she lacks in height, she more than makes up for in volume. “They’re going to rip it up and build condos!”
“And?” Principal Turner is unconcerned. “Those proposals were announced months ago.”
“Yes, but we’ve discovered the plans will endanger a rare species,” she announces proudly. “One that will have its habitat destroyed by the greedy, profit-driven decision-making of the school board. Not to mention the generations who will be robbed of a prime natural environment for the sake of —”
“Yes, yes.” Turner waves at her to stop. He pinches his sinuses for a moment, as if he’s got a headache coming on. “Endangered species?”
“Knieskern’s beaked-rush,” I confirm, hoping I got the pronunciation right.
Turner brightens. “You’re getting worked up over a type of grass?”
“Just because it’s not something glamorous like a bald eagle doesn’t mean it’s not important!” Olivia protests, hands on her hips.
“I agree.” Then, if his agreement wasn’t worrying enough, Turner begins to smirk. “Knieskern’s beaked-rush certainly needs protecting.” He gives us a smug smile. “Although since it’s a wetland species, I don’t think we’re in danger of breaking any laws here on dry land, do you?”
Busted.
“But the ground is pretty damp,” Olivia argues in vain. “Miss Kirk won’t let us practice cross-country back here because of that time Meghan skidded and sprained her ankle.”
“It wouldn’t take much to commission an independent wildlife assessment,” I add, trying to be the voice of reason. “Maybe delay the sale by a couple of months and —”
“Enough!” Turner suddenly explodes. “I want you and your . . . fellow agitators packed up and gone. Do you hear me?”
We both take a step backward. His face is turning a strange shade of pink.
“You may have complete disregard for my authority, young ladies, but perhaps some of your, your comrades care about their college applications!”
I hear fearful murmurs behind me, but despite my faint lurch of panic, I don’t surrender. The school has been waving around that “college application” trump card for years now, but every single one of the Green Teen seniors got accepted into their first-choice college. It’s an empty threat. At least, I hope it is.
Luckily, I have one last card to play, too. “You know, why don’t I give that nice woman at KPXW a call?” I turn to Olivia theatrically. “The one we met at that last council meeting?”
“You mean Linda, in the news department?” Olivia catches on, answering with an exaggerated frown.
“That’s right. She did say to call if we were doing any more protests.” I glance back at Principal Turner. “I bet they’d have a crew out here in no time to see what all the fuss is about.”
“Great idea.” Olivia pulls out her cell phone. “I think I’ve got her number here. . . .”
“That won’t be necessary!” Turner suddenly has a change of heart. “Why don’t we, uh, all calm down?”
“We are calm,” I answer sweetly. “We’re just trying to protect the environment.”
“And that’s very admirable.” His bald spot is shiny with sweat, and I can just see him picturing the local evening news: “Evil Principal Kills Defenseless Wildlife!” He pauses. “Didn’t you say something about an independent assessment . . . ?”
“To study the natural impact of construction,” I finish, handing him a flyer. “See? The federal hotline number is right there.”
We wait. Olivia clutches my hand, and we both cross our fingers. Behind us, the crowd grows restless.
Finally, Turner gives a long, mournful sigh. “Very well. I’m sure we can delay the final approval for a while.” He looks around, defeated.
“Omigod!” Olivia shrieks, clutching me with joy. “We did it! We did it!”
The Green Teens begin to cheer, and I feel a wave of pride sweep through me. Victory!
We’re enveloped by shouts and high-fives as the group celebrates, but I remember to turn back. “Thank you!” I tell Turner. “Really, I mean it. Thank you!”
He almost rolls his eyes, turning to go, but before he can even take a step, Olivia grabs a sign and lunges forward.
“Don’t mess with the Green Teens!” she yells, just inches from his face. Turner jerks back in shock, and the ground underfoot must be wetter than he expected, because he lands heavily on one foot and starts to slip. I gasp, but there’s nothing I can do. His foot slides forward, his body tips back, and before any of us can move, he skids ass-backward into a huge puddle of noxious liquid.
Squelch.
“See?” Olivia sniggers. I grab her arm to shut her up, but she just can’t help laughing triumphantly. “Wetlands. We told you so!”
Principal Turner’s newfound love of the environment doesn’t extend to the mud all over his wrinkled mall-store suit. His lecture on respect and authority lasts forever, and if that isn’t dull enough, he has us stay late to slosh gray paint over parking lot graffiti as penance. By the time I pull into our driveway and unpack the panniers on my bike, it’s almost dinnertime.
“Hey, Mom. Sorry I’m late.” I haul an armful of cloth bags into the gleaming kitchen, spilling lentil and soy-bean packages all over the counter. The day I announced I was going to eat only fair-trade, free-range, vegetarian produce was the day my mom suggested I buy my own groceries. I don’t mind. It saves me from accidentally eating food from some corporation that exploits migrant workers or injects their produce with growth hormones.
“Hi, sweetie.” Mom has the phone trapped against her shoulder as she whisks dressing in a glass jug. Her blond hair is sculpted into a perfect bob, and she’s wearing neat gray pants and a creamy silk blouse. “Remind me to switch cable companies.” She sighs, leaning over to land a quick kiss on my forehead as I pass. “They’ve had me on hold forever.” She tastes the dressing and pauses, adding another sprinkle of pepper. “Good day?”
“Good enough.” I shoot her a nervous glance, not sure if news of our protest has made it through the PTA gossip tree yet. But it looks like I’m free and clear, because she just suggests, “You should go wash up before dinner. I made your favorite, that tofu-nut bake, and your father should be down in a minute.”
“Dad’s home for dinner?” I drift into the dining room. As usual, the table is set perfectly with napkins and silverware, a tall vase of fresh lilies in the middle. But unusually, there are three settings. I pause. “What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion, just a nice meal together.” She gives me a distracted smile and then grips the phone suddenly. “Hello? Finally! I want to talk to someone about our billing. . . .”
I charge upstairs and quickly change out of my mud-and-paint-splattered clothes. I should really keep another set in my locker, along with all the other Green Teen essentials: markers, highlighted copy of the Constitution, wire cutters . . .
My phone vibrates with a text from Olivia just as I’m struggling into a dinner-appropriate skirt.
Well? U grounded, or can we party?
So far, so good! I tap out in reply, and scrub a wayward splash of mud off my arm. My parents still have . . . reservations about this environmental “phase,” as they like to call it. They’re happy to take the good parts, like when we got awards for community involvement. They were thrilled to go shake hands with the mayor and listen to what role models we are. But the rest? I can’t even convince Dad to carpool to work. Olivia is so much luckier: her parents were big hippie activists when they were younger, so they completely understand that a few detentions are worth it when it comes to making a difference.
Awesome! Pick u up @ 8.
I hurtle back downstairs and slide into my seat just as Mom brings out the food: tofu for me and a juicy pot roast for them. I waver for a moment, entranced by the delicious meaty aroma. No, I remind myself, dragging my gaze away, back to the nutritious meal in front of me. You don’t need meat to have a good time. See: Tofu. Yum.
“Anything new at school, Jenna?” Dad asks, passing me the rolls. He loosens his tie, looking tired. He’s been working so much recently; our conversations are usually just zombie-like mumbling in the morning over breakfast.
“Nothing much . . .” I bite down on a slice of cucumber. “Oh, wait, I found a great summer internship to apply for. It’s with Earth Now — that nonprofit I told you about? It’ll just be basic reception stuff, answering phones, sorting mail, but they have a really great program of seminars on conservation and environmental entrepreneurship I could attend.”
Mom frowns. “Honey, I don’t think —”
“I’ll still be able to keep my weekend job at Dr. Endelstein’s office,” I add quickly, in case they object. “The hours are flexible, and it’ll look really good on college applications.” There, the masterstroke. Surely they can’t argue with that.
There’s silence. My parents give each other a meaningful look, and then Mom puts down her fork.
“Jenna, there’s something we need to talk about.”
Oh, crap. They know about the protest; I can just tell.
Slouching lower in my seat, I brace myself for the worst: disappointment, concern, and yet more pleas for me to give it up and accept the wanton destruction of the planet. But instead, Dad clears his throat.
“We’re thinking of trying something different this summer.”
“Like what?” I blink, still expecting the patented “Don’t jeopardize your future” lecture, maybe even with a side of “You’ll regret this when you wind up in community college/on the streets/languishing in jail unable to floss.”
“The company is sending me overseas for a few months, to liaise with their European offices.”
“That’s . . . great?” I’m still confused.
“So I decided we should go stay with Grandma,” Mom finishes. She plasters a bright smile on her face, reaching for her glass of wine. “You know she’s been having problems since that hip replacement, and I’ve even found a job teaching a summer session at one of the prep schools nearby.”
Boys, Bears, and A Serious Pair of Hiking Boots Page 1