Exit, Pursued by a Bear

by E. K. Johnston

  Dutton Books

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, NY 10014

  Copyright © 2016 by E. K. Johnston.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  eBook ISBN 9781101994610

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Johnston, E. K., author.

  Title: Exit, pursued by a bear / by E.K. Johnston.

  Description: New York, NY : Dutton BOOKS, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, [2016]

  Summary: At cheerleading camp, Hermione is drugged and raped, but she is not sure whether it was one of her teammates or a boy on another team—and in the aftermath she has to deal with the rumors in her small Ontario town, the often awkward reaction of her classmates, the rejection of her boyfriend, the discovery that her best friend, Polly, is gay, and above all the need to remember what happened so that the guilty boy can be brought to justice.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2015020645 | ISBN 9781101994580 (hardcover)

  Subjects: LCSH: Rape victims—Juvenile fiction. | Psychic trauma—Juvenile fiction. | Cheerleading—Juvenile fiction. | High schools—Juvenile fiction. | Social isolation—Juvenile fiction. | Best friends—Juvenile fiction. | Friendship—Juvenile fiction. | Ontario—Juvenile fiction. | CYAC: Rape—Fiction. | Emotional problems—Fiction. | Cheerleading—Fiction. | High schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | Social isolation—Fiction. | Best friends—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Ontario—Fiction. | Canada—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.J64052 Ex 2016 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record available at lccn.loc.gov/2015020645

  Jacket design by Kristin Logsdon

  Cover photos by Ali Johnson Photography/Getty Images & Victoria Snowber/Getty Images. Jacket photo by Shutterstock.com.

  Version_1

  To Andrew,

  Because: [reasons].

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  PART 1 Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  PART 2 Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  PART 3 Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  PART 4 Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  “I have a secret.

  A dark, furry secret with big teeth.

  Less a secret, really—more a bear.”

  —Oglaf

  “I never saw a vessel of like sorrow,

  so fill’d and so becoming.”

  —The Winter’s Tale

  I START RUNNING AFTER SCHOOL. Usually I get enough of a workout between practice and gym class that I don’t do extra, but this week I feel like I might explode if I stop moving. So I run. I run up and down the streets of Palermo, looking at the houses and coloured leaves on the trees and trying to hold on to the feeling that my body is my own and limitless. I run on the country roads, the gravel crunching under my feet—until the smell of pine makes me feel sick and I fly back to the safety of concrete sidewalks. I run and run, and when I finally fall asleep at night, I am tired enough that I don’t remember my dreams.

  One night, I pass the church my father and I attend whenever we’re both home on Sunday morning (so . . . about once a month, in a good month). I’ve passed the church every other night this week, but tonight the light in the office is on. Once upon a time, churches were always open, a sanctuary if you needed them. But the world changes, I guess. I haven’t given a single thought to the church since it happened, but when I see the light on, my feet slow down of their own accord, and I am knocking on the door before I know it. My fist sounds heavy against the wood. I am already having second thoughts, but it would be rude to run away. Just when I think maybe the light was left on accidentally, the door opens, and there is the minister, dressed in normal clothes, and looking a bit confused. When he sees me, his eyes widen for a moment before he makes his face neutral.

  “Hello, Hermione,” he says. I wonder if he remembers my name because he’s good at his job or because I’ve been on the news. He doesn’t ask me if I’m okay. Instead he waves me in, and shuts the door. Maybe it’s because I’m in a church. Maybe it’s because this is the man who baptized me. But I’m not afraid.

  “Hello, Reverend Rob,” I say, and the door latch echoes in the hallway. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

  “No, no. Just practicing for Sunday. All this time, and I still get a bit of stage fright leading up to a sermon.”

  I follow Rob back into his office, which is warmly lit and full of old books. He waves me into one of the seats. I have just realized what it is I want to say, what I want to ask him.

  “Would you like water or tea?” he asks. “That’s all I have on hand.”

  “I’m fine, thank you,” I say, feeling profoundly awkward. I keep finding new ways to do that. “I don’t come here very often.”

  “That’s okay.” He’s sitting comfortably in his chair. People are never comfortable around me anymore. “I know how life goes. Schedules and the Church don’t always get along, so I do my best to operate an open door policy.”

  “Right,” I say. “I have two favours to ask. One’s a bit presumptuous. The other is . . . also presumptuous.”

  “Please. Feel free to ask.”

  “Thank you.” I pause for a moment to gather my thoughts. I think of the looks I’ve been getting at the grocery store, and take a deep breath. “Please don’t ask people to pray for me.”

  PART 1

  And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.

  CHAPTER 1

  I SWEAR TO GOD, LEO, if you throw one more sock, I am going to throw you in the lake myself!” I shout, knees sticking to the vinyl as I turn to face the back of the bus. The boys had claimed the back when we boarded, and since it smelled weird (well, more weird), we were happy to let them have it. I hadn’t expected a constant barrage of hosiery, though.

  “Like you could, Winters,” he shouts back. The other boys hoot in laughter.

  “I may be small,” I reply, “but I’m crafty.”
>
  “Don’t I know it,” Leo leers, and the hooting devolves into outright catcalls.

  I fire back with a wadded sock, barely missing Leo but managing to nail Clarence, who looks properly chastened. I glare at the rest and then turn sharply to face the front, but by the time I’m in my seat again, I’m smiling. The other girls lean in towards me, ribboned braids dropping over shoulders like the least-threatening snake pile in the world. Of course, that’s what the snakes probably want you to think.

  I can feel the pavement change beneath the bus. Just one step above gravel. We’re close now.

  “Seriously, Hermione,” Polly whispers just loud enough for the other girls to hear. My co-captain and best friend feels it too. “We’re putting Leo’s ass in the lake this year.”

  “Please. We’ve got to come up with something better than that!”

  “Totally,” squeals Astrid, who is fifteen and will agree to anything Polly and I say. The power is dangerous, or it could be. It’s definitely fun.

  “This is going to be the best cheer camp ever,” says another new girl as she leans over the back of the bench. She’s still so short I bet her knees are lifting off her seat as she tries to get closer to me and Polly. I can’t remember her name. That’s inexcusable. I have to be better.

  “Girls,” I say, like I’m telling them the secrets of the universe, “this is going to be the best cheer year ever.”

  “Go Bears!” shouts Polly, flinging her perfectly manicured hands in the air and shaking pom-poms she doesn’t have. The boys are stomping along in back. Even the bus driver is in her spell, and I catch him looking back and smiling in his mirror. I’m the only one who knows her well enough to know that she is being excruciatingly sarcastic. That is Polly’s superpower. She’s a cheerleader for want of another choice, and while she looks like the perfect model, underneath the plastic veneer is a capacity for scorn and contempt I’m glad is on my side. Whatever the odds, if Polly is cheering for you, you are a force to be reckoned with.

  As always, Polly’s carefully timed and cultivated enthusiasm is contagious, and as we planned, when the bus rolls under the huge wooden WELCOME TO CAMP MANITOUWABING sign, the windows are down and the whole lot of us are singing about how much we love our school and how proud we are to be the Fighting Golden Bears. Polly might think it’s ridiculous—and she’s probably right—but I don’t care. We’re a team, from the newest recruits trying desperately to fit in, to my boyfriend, who has still not stopped throwing laundry at my head. We’re a team and we’re entering my last-ever camp as the loudest and proudest one here. I wouldn’t have it another way.

  —

  The bus pulls to a stop, tires crunching on the unpaved drive, and we stay in our seats as a minivan pulls up beside us. Coach Caledon gets out. She stretches for a moment, and her perfectly straight jet-black hair nearly touches the ground. She’s around forty but her face is smooth, with skin a colour we’d all kill for. She still has an athlete’s body—thin, muscular, and supremely coordinated—but I know she tore an ACL in university, and long car rides are hard on her. When she’s loose enough to walk without a perceptible limp, she heads for the office. Meanwhile, her daughter flies out of the passenger seat and a moment later vaults the bus’s steps in one very impressive leap when the driver opens the door for her.

  “Hey, everybody!” she calls out. Florry’s only ten, but we all love her to death. I’m a little sad I won’t be around when she starts her high-school cheering career. “Mum’s gone to get registration and cabin assignments. She wants you all to sit tight until she gets here.”

  It says something about the power of Alexandra Caledon that her directions can be delivered by a ten-year-old and lose none of their effectiveness. We stay in our seats, as ordered, until Caledon finally climbs the stairs.

  “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, as you’ve noticed, we have arrived at Camp Manitouwabing,” she says. She makes this speech every year. It’s reassuring and it reminds me once again of how excited I am. “Hermione, Polly, Leo and Tig all know the drill, so if you have questions, go to them before you come to me. I’m handing out your cabin assignments now.” She pauses as she holds several sheets of paper where we can see them. “You will note that some cabins are for boys and some cabins are for girls—”

  “Let’s keep it that way!” chant those of us who know. I notice Leo and Tig snickering.

  “Indeed.” Caledon says it lightly, but the implied threat is more than enough to make us pay attention. As she continues, she hands a sheet to me. “Also, should you seriously injure yourself, it is an hour to Parry Sound and an airlift to Toronto. And a lot of paperwork for me. So don’t do it. There will be a bell in half an hour for the intro presentation. Please be prompt. Until then, you can settle in.”

  I look down at my list. Since Polly and I are holding separate lists, I’m thinking this year is a mixer. Some years, the camp puts all the same school into the same cabin, and some years they mix it up. I’d curse if Caledon wasn’t right there. It’s hard to plot and stay up to all hours with Polly when she’s in another cabin. Polly looks insufferably perky. She must be super annoyed too.

  “Astrid, Jenny, Alexis, Carmen and Mallory,” I call out. “You’re with me.”

  “Which means I get Chelsea, Brenda, Karen and both Sarahs,” Polly continues, never missing a beat. I can’t help but smile.

  Both Sarahs sigh. You’d think the camp admin people would have taken the opportunity to split them up.

  “Don’t worry, ladies!” says Tig, who is holding his own list. “Hopefully by the end of camp, you’ll have nicknames and we’ll be able to tell you apart.”

  “Yeah,” says Astrid, showing more personality than I’d expected this early. “Awesome nicknames like Tig.”

  Tig, who is actually called Andrew, turns bright red. He feels the name is undignified, though he has never been able to shake it. It galls him a little, I think, that Leo’s camp nickname never stuck.

  We file off the bus. The air feels cooler—and smells better—than it did on the unairconditioned bus. And there is that unmistakable mix of summer heat and cool pine. Mallory, who’s also here for the last time, launches a quick front handspring. A captain has to keep up appearances or I’d join her. I’ve been waiting a long time for this.

  At the back of the bus, Tig and Dion—who’ve somehow lost their shirts—are ready to pass us our bags. The boys have packed one duffel apiece, which is infuriating. Given the choice, I’m a light packer, but two weeks at cheer camp means two weeks of looking absolutely perfect every time I leave the cabin. It’s the one thing about cheerleading I really hate. I love flying and shouting and gymnastics, but I really don’t like spending twenty minutes on my makeup before sunrise and coming up with fourteen different ways to do my hair.

  The boys extricate themselves pretty quickly, leaving us behind to sort out who belongs to which makeup case. Per a team tradition so old even I don’t know when it started, we all have matching cases. We’d tied ribbons on the handles when we packed, but it turns out that before the boys started their hosiery skirmish, they’d done some fairly serious ribbon switching. I amend my earlier plan to drown Leo to include all six of them.

  Fifteen minutes later, I lead my five girls off to the cabin we’ll be sharing with, if my memory of school colours is correct, St. Ignatius from Mississauga. Their purple and orange will be at odds with our gold, black, and white, and the photos won’t be as nice as last year’s, but there’s not a lot I can do about that. I just hope they haven’t done something annoying like claimed all the bottom bunks.

  Polly is beside me, her girls ranged out behind her like ducklings. She’s bound for a cabin flying green and white, which means it’s either the Kincardine Knights or that private school from Thunder Bay whose mascot I can never recall because it’s conceptual.

  “Buck up,” she says, reading my expression. “It’s cheer camp.
What’s the worst that could happen?”

  I’ve been waiting for this moment, or one like it, my whole life. I can handle getting stuck with the top bunk. I square my shoulders and heft my backpack, indicating to Polly that I don’t find her question worth the air to answer, and start walking.

  Polly laughs, and turns towards her cabin.

  The rickety front porch of our new home is in the shade, which means it will be a bit cooler. Of course, that also means there will be about a million mosquitoes, but if there’s new netting it’s an even trade in my experience. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  Mallory passes me the school colours. I take a deep breath, and then scale the railing to tie them on next to the St. Ignatius colours. They clash as horribly as expected, but once the wind picks up, I don’t really care. I look down at my team, all of whom are bouncing like coiled springs, just like I always did when my captain hung the colours. I can feel their excitement. It really is going to be the best year ever.

  “Girls,” I yell, suddenly unbearably aware that I will never say these words again, “let’s do this thing!”

  CHAPTER 2

  CAMP MANITOUWABING IS ONE OF those summer camps that looks like it has been around forever. ’Wabing used to be a Kiwanis camp, and before that it was an RAF training camp, and before that it was a retreat for the king of Norway. Or something. But whatever it used to be, what remains are twenty campers’ cabins with peeling brown clapboard sides and sloping green roofs, six slightly better maintained staff cabins, a wide green field painted with football lines, an aging dock, and a sprawling dining hall.

  “Hi!” says the girl I can only assume is the St. Ignatius captain when I open the door to the cabin. I’ve probably seen her before, but while my brain is good at colours, faces start to blur after a while. She extends one hand, the nails painted purple and orange. “I’m Amy.”