Exit, Pursued by a Bear

by E. K. Johnston

  I come up spluttering and she comes up laughing. Dion is laughing too, and I realize that I love to see him smile. Leo and Tig are treading water nearby, and for the first time in a while, Leo is smiling at me. Maybe he is starting to understand. I don’t really care, though. I do not want to be anyone’s model for becoming a better person.

  “Can we get out now?” chatters Cameron. His face is slightly blue.

  “I think that’s a great idea,” says Tig, and swims for the ladder.

  A few of the girls try to walk out. It’s possible, but uncomfortable in bare feet thanks to the encroaching plague of zebra mussels. Most of us just wait for our turn at the ladder. Since I was last in, I decide that in all fairness I should also be last out. I tread water near the ladder, but not so close that I get in people’s way.

  “You look happy,” Dion says, breathing hard beside me. He can run and dance forever, but apparently treading water is harder for him. I’m not really surprised. Boys don’t always float easily.

  “I am,” I say. “I wasn’t sure I was going to be, but I am.”

  “That’s good,” he gasps. “What are you doing for the summer?”

  “Working, probably,” I say. “I don’t know where yet. My parents were going to make me get a job last September, but then they didn’t.”

  It’s starting to feel more natural not to say. It’s no longer avoidance or denial. It’s just the natural flow of conversation.

  “I’m working for Mallory’s dad,” he says. We push ourselves towards the ladder as the crowd thins. “Early mornings, but it means I don’t work when it’s superhot out, and I can spend time at the beach.”

  “Sounds good,” I say. “Though personally I am hoping for an air-conditioned job at a shop.”

  “To each their own,” he says. “But if you ever wanted to come and hang out with me in the afternoons, you’re more than welcome.”

  I remember the kiss, and even though it can’t possibly warm me against the cold June waters, it reminds me that I can be warm. That I liked to be warm.

  “I’d like that,” I say, and we both smile at each other like idiots.

  “Come on, Hermione!” Polly says. “I really want a hot shower before dinner!”

  Dion climbs the ladder, and I am right behind him.

  “See you at dinner,” he says, and heads off towards the boys’ cabins.

  “Did you let him kiss you again?” Polly asks, leaning close so that no one else can hear, but I don’t care who overhears us.

  “No,” I say. “But I may have left the future open for such an opportunity.”

  “You are unbelievable,” she says, flicking her towel at me.

  “What, he won’t be in grade eleven anymore.” I dance out of range.

  “Yeah, but you’ll be a university girl who is going to Ottawa in the fall.” Polly wraps the towel around herself. It is definitely too cold to take our time outside.

  “I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it,” I say. “We can’t all pick the same university as our significant others.”

  “That was a complete coincidence,” Polly protests. I happen to know for a fact that it was, but it still cracks me up.

  “Whatever,” I say, starting up the wooden steps. “When does St. Ignatius get here?”

  “Amy texted me right before I lost cell service,” she says. “They were just heading out.”

  “Ugh, they’re going to spend three hours on the 400,” I say.

  “They’ll also get to eat at McDonald’s instead of the mess hall here,” Polly points out. “Seems like an even trade.”

  “Speaking of,” I say, and hold the cabin door open for her. “Mum packed me about an army’s worth of food, and I bet you Mallory’s dad did the same thing. We should totally have a picnic.”

  “And not tell Tig,” Polly agrees.

  When the St. Ignatius bus pulls in, just after the boys come out of the dining hall and see what we’ve been up to for dinner, Amy sees us from the window and she waves. Polly turns a little pink, but no one notices. Amy comes towards us, and when her face lights up you could almost believe it’s because she’s realized that we’ve saved her most of the potato salad.

  CHAPTER 30

  CALEDON WAKES US UP HERSELF at six thirty on Saturday morning. There is quite a bit of grumbling about that, because the list of performance order was posted last night at dinner, and Palermo Heights will be second to last to go. This means we won’t be onstage until nearly two, if everything goes to schedule. And it never goes to schedule. St. Ignatius is first, at ten a.m. I wonder whether they’re just getting up now, or whether their coach got them up even earlier.

  “I don’t want to hear it,” Caledon says as Astrid rolls out of bed. “You all knew what you signed up for. I want to see you all at breakfast in fifteen minutes.”

  “I can’t get dressed in fifteen minutes!” Blonde Sarah protests.

  “Not dressed, dressed,” Polly says, throwing on her warm-ups and putting her hair back in a simple ponytail. “We’ve got all day for that.”

  “I still don’t see why we’re up so early,” Alexis says.

  “Neither do I,” I tell her. “But when Caledon says jump, I don’t even ask how high. Especially today.”

  Because of the day’s schedule, breakfast is entirely a cold buffet. Jenny’s parents own the Palermo grocery store, and they’ve donated a lot of moderately healthy snacks. This will keep us going through the afternoon. Our two o’clock time means we need to eat a light lunch. I do my best not to think about dinner. By then, we’ll have either won or lost, and speculation is pointless.

  “Hermione, pass the juice,” Tig says. He’s a coffee addict on days that aren’t competition heavy, but he seems to be adapting well. Maybe he’s taking caffeine pills. Those are still legal.

  “Why are we awake?” Leo groans.

  “Because we’re going to be competing outside,” Caledon says. “You’ve never done that before. This way, you can watch some of the early teams do their routines, learn the ground, and still have plenty of time to get ready.”

  “It’s a great idea, Coach,” Tig says. “I just wish you’d picked a day when I could have coffee.”

  “Stay strong, Andrew,” Caledon says, sardonic to the end. “This is your last day as a Palermo Heights cheerleader. Make it a good one.”

  “We few, we happy few!” Tig says, clutching his chest as though he’d been shot with a crossbow.

  “That’s the spirit,” says Caledon, as Florry passes her the milk.

  By the time ten o’clock has rolled around, we are all braided and beribboned, and the guys have taken at least one nap. We sit together in the stands, close to the front and the corner so that we can leave as soon as St. Ignatius is done. More parents are turning up than I had predicted. They’re all decked out in their school colours too, but I can tell by the fact that there are quite a few kids in the audience that Caledon is not the only coach who wanted her squad to have a look at the competition area.

  The field has been rolled and flattened. Every rock painstakingly removed and every hillock pressed back into the ground. As we take our seats, the athletic coordinators are laying the mats, double-checking one another’s work to ensure that all of the Velcro fastenings will hold and nothing will slip. The ground is dry—it wasn’t a wet May—but it looks springy. It will probably be softer than the indoor courts we’re used to. Since the field is outside, the regulations have been changed a bit to allow teams five minutes to prep on the field before their ten-minute competition clock starts. St. Ignatius, as the first team of the day, gets seven minutes. I’m not sure what Amy can do with the extra two minutes, but at this point, she’s probably glad to have them.

  “Conflicted?” I joke to Polly as the sound system buzzes to life behind us and the announcer begins to test the mics.

  “Hell no
,” she says. “All’s fair in love and war.”

  “Good,” I say. “I’d hate to have you go soft on me now.”

  She grins, her teeth flashing, and St. Ignatius takes the field for their seven minutes. The announcer switches to music after introducing them, and before I realize what’s happening, familiar music fills my ears.

  It had been daylight, a sunny June morning, only a few seconds ago, but now it’s the pre-dark of a late August summer night. We don’t pick our warm-up music. They just play something popular and upbeat. Of course they’d pick this. The bass thrums in the ground beneath me, and the scent of pine fills the air. I can’t hear the lake over the music, but I couldn’t hear it then either. I didn’t know until they told me. This is not something they told me. This is something I remember.

  “Hermione!” Polly hisses right in my ear. “Dion, help me!”

  They wrestle me down out of the bleachers and underneath where we are out of sight. I can still hear it, though, still smell it. And Dion is holding me up, beneath the knees and around my waist, and he is too close, too close.

  “For the love of God, put her down,” Polly says. “Just, just set her on the ground.”

  “Is her dad here yet?” Dion asks. He puts me down, but doesn’t let go. I’m not sure I can stand. He is never going to kiss me again. Why the hell would anyone ever want to kiss me again? I can’t even breathe properly.

  “No,” she says. “But I think we’re okay.”

  “I don’t think that’s okay,” Dion says, probably because he’s supporting all my weight, but Polly’s turned back to me and is ignoring him.

  “Hermione, you are going to talk or I am going to slap you,” she says.

  I want to tell her that I’m okay. I want to be okay. I want Dion to stop looking at me like I am going to break in half. I want to dance in front of the crowd, to hear them yell for us, to fly and be caught by people I trust. But I can’t do any of those things. Not anymore.

  “Hermione, I am not kidding.” Polly actually sounds scared. Great. I’ve broken her too. I have to breathe now. I have to breathe.

  “I’m here,” I say finally. Polly relaxes and somehow the sun is brighter. “Don’t hit me.”

  “Where’s your phone?” she asks. I really, really need the music to stop. Hearing it, remembering it, makes it hard to do anything else.

  “In the cabin,” I say. “It doesn’t work, remember?”

  “Come on,” she says, hauling me to my feet. To my surprise, my knees hold and I don’t collapse again. Dion’s hands are stretched towards me, though. Just in case.

  Polly pulls me towards the cabin and Dion follows, more confused than anything else.

  “I have not,” she says, strong and determined and beautiful, “put up with cheerleading for the last ten years of my life so that you could fall apart at the last minute. And neither have you.”

  It’s true. Polly is a cheerleader because she wants to win. All year long, I’ve been apologizing for being a bad friend, and all year long Polly has been encouraging me to be selfish. We’re not at odds, not really, she just wants to remind me why she let me talk her into this back when we were in grade five.

  Polly barges into the cabin and leaves me standing awkwardly with Dion on the steps. He doesn’t meet my eyes. I want to kiss him, but I don’t want to kiss him, and everything is starting to spin again.

  “You can go back, if you want,” I say.

  “No,” he says. “I’m okay if you’re okay.”

  “I really want to be okay,” I say. It scares me, how much I want it.

  “I know,” he says.

  Polly comes back with my phone, looking triumphant. “Funny story,” she says. “The camp actually has decent cell reception. The trees block it down by the camper cabins, but the staff cabins are on a hill, and on a clear day, you actually get a bar or two.”

  “Really?” Dion says. I follow them up the hill towards the staff cabins.

  “Who am I calling?” I ask.

  “You’re going to call Dr. Hutt,” Polly says, not bothering to hide her rolling eyes. “And he is going to kick your butt from whatever golf course he is on, and then we are going back down there.”

  “He doesn’t really get cheerleading,” I tell her, dialling.

  “He gets you. C’mon, Dion.” She marches him down the hill as I hit send, and a few seconds later, Dr. Hutt’s phone starts to ring.

  “Hermione!” he says when he picks up. “I thought you had your big pep rally thing today.”

  “The nationals,” I say. “And yes, I do.”

  “Then why the hell are you calling me?” he asks.

  “I’m kind of having that breakdown you said I was going to have,” I admit. It’s a lot quieter than I was expecting. Now that I have said it, now that we are farther from the music, everything is coming back into focus, though the edges are frayed and I feel like I could unravel at any moment. “They’re playing my song.”

  “Hermione Winters, I want you to listen to me very closely,” he says. I don’t really have other options, so I do. “There are always going to be triggers. You will hear that song on the radio, or walk under a pine tree on a regular basis for the rest of your life. You will have a spotty memory of the night you were raped and perfectly clear memories of everything surrounding your abortion. There will be people you just don’t trust and people you’d trust with your life. I can’t say things like that to many of the patients I’ve treated, but I know I can say them to you. You are adaptable and brave. So adapt, and go win that silly dance competition so I don’t have to counsel you through a developing inferiority complex.”

  “I don’t mean to be insulting,” I say. “But I still think you’re the worst therapist ever.”

  “I know, dear. That’s why it works.”

  I’ve never wondered why Dr. Hutt agreed to treat me. He had said he wanted one more case before he went into retirement, and I’d believed him, but I think it’s more than that. He knew that there would be people like Officer Plummer and Leo McKenna, people who would come to define my attack as the watershed event in their own life. He knew that another psychiatrist would try to make their career on me, with papers and, maybe, a book deal if the court case was particularly juicy. Dr. Hutt wants none of that. He just wants to put me back together and go fishing.

  And I want to win.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “You’re welcome, Hermione.” And then, with surprising sincerity he adds, “Good luck.”

  I hang up the phone without saying good-bye, and head down towards Polly and Dion. It’s been more than fifteen minutes. We’ve missed Amy’s big performance. I can apologize for that now, and Polly won’t tell me that it’s okay. We’re past that. We’re putting it back together.

  “I’m sorry I made you miss Amy,” I say.

  “I’ll watch the video,” she says, but I know she understands. “Let’s get back down there. I want to watch the next group go, and then we should probably fix your hair.”

  “And mine,” Dion adds. “I think it moved a whole centimetre when I picked you up.”

  “My heart bleeds,” I tell him. Polly rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling when she takes my hand.

  When we get back to the bleachers, the cheering is not for us. But I pretend that it is.

  CHAPTER 31

  WE SPEND THE REST OF the morning sitting on the floor of the girls’ cabin, pretending we’re not about to die of nerves. Technically, Camp Manitouwabing, not to mention our coach, has a strict no-mixing policy when it comes to boy cabins and girl cabins, but since we’re in competition mode and our schools signed that waiver, the policy is relaxed a little bit. Accordingly, we’ve dragged all the top bunk mattresses down onto the floor, and are holding what looks like the world’s most bizarrely well-lit coed sleepover. We have five whole minutes to get used to the
ground after they announce us, and now we have to decide how to use them.

  “The left side looked fine,” Tig says. He’s sitting on my mattress and fiddling with the zipper on my sleeping bag. In front of him is a map of the field he’s made out of pens and pencils, and what few of my bobby pins that are not poking me in the head. “But there’s that slope on the right they can’t have fixed.”

  “Our right or stage right?” asks Jenny. I’m glad she asked so I didn’t have to. Polly and I did manage to see the second team, but they weren’t very adventurous when it came to field use, and so we didn’t learn all we wanted to. “I mean, the audience.”

  “Stage right,” Tig says, gesturing to the pencils. “You could see everyone on that side had to brace themselves, and their tumblers almost lost it overcorrecting.”

  “So practice your tumbling pass first off,” I say. Polly and I are sitting side by each, leaning up against the bed frame while Mallory and Karen look over our shoulders. Everyone is sitting very carefully, to avoid mussing uniforms or hair. It’s a bit comical.

  “And then the throws, I think,” Polly says. “Not the straight up-and-down ones, but the one where everyone ends up in a different place than they started. Spotters, keep your eyes peeled.”

  “It can’t be that dangerous,” Alexis points out. She’s fiddling with a ribbon and Cameron keeps moving her hand away from it so she doesn’t mess it up. “Or they wouldn’t be allowed to have it here. Plus, we all survived camp.”

  “Valid point,” I say. “But humour me, okay?”

  “I haven’t dropped you yet,” Tig says, and I don’t say anything, because it’s true.