Some gratitude. “I saved your life, pal,” I admonish him.
My voice must scare him, because he freezes. I’m not yelling or anything like that, but I must seem like a giant to him, with a voice like thunder. I hold him a little tighter and he seems to relax.
Where could he have come from? The woods around here have plenty of wildlife—squirrels, birds, chipmunks, snakes, possums, gophers—but not a lot of lizards. He probably wandered onto Oasis property from the river. That’s why he ended up in the Bath. The poor little guy got lost and when he saw the bubbling water, he must have assumed that’s where he belonged. And by the time he realized his mistake, he was half boiled and couldn’t get out.
That’s what I’ll do, I decide. I’ll take him back to the river.
“Good news, Needles,” I whisper. “You’re going home.”
Abandoning my berry baskets by the Bath, I start across the center, cradling the little body gently. But as soon as the river comes into view, I know it isn’t right. The Saline is hardly the mighty Colorado, with white water and rapids. Still, the steady flowing current would be too much for a tiny creature like Needles. That’s probably how he wound up here in the first place. He blundered into the river and got washed downstream. It must have been terrifying. Poor Needles.
I stop in my tracks. Oh, wow, I’ve done it. I’ve given him a name, and he’s mine.
Now what am I supposed to do? There are no pets allowed at the Oasis. Otherwise, Mom and I would bring Benito for sure. Every summer, it breaks my heart to leave him behind.
On the other hand, this is life and death for Needles. He’s wrong for the woods, but he’s wrong for the river too. It makes me wonder where he came from. He doesn’t seem to fit in anywhere.
I reach a decision. If there’s no place for him, I’ll make one. It doesn’t count as breaking the rules if Needles isn’t an official pet. And he isn’t. He’s a fellow creature who needs my help.
I know Mom is still in the meditation center with Ivory, so I should have enough time to hide him somewhere. Mom and I always treat ourselves to new flip-flops every time we come to the Oasis. One of the empty shoeboxes should be the perfect size habitat for a little fellow like Needles.
He doesn’t seem to mind the motion as I carry him back to our cottage, but once we’re inside in the air-conditioning, he gets squirmy. I’m pretty sure it’s because he prefers the steamy temperature outside.
“Hold still,” I tell him in a low voice. “It’s only for a minute.”
I dig one of the shoeboxes out of the closet and pop him inside. He’s not a fan. He makes about twenty circuits of the confined space in the first few seconds. Using a ballpoint pen, I punch a few air holes in the lid, but it doesn’t make him any happier. I guess when you’re used to the soft earth and grass of nature, smooth cardboard must feel like the inside of a prison cell.
I rush out, drop to my knees, and scoop several handfuls of dirt and leaves into the shoebox. I feel bad for Needles, who surely doesn’t understand what’s happening. To him, it must seem like the sky is falling. But once the action is over, he actually settles down a little. So I settle down too. For the first time I realize that I’m breathing really hard, as if I’ve just run a mile.
“What have you got there?”
I jump up so fast that I almost lose my grip on the shoebox, tossing it into the face of the person standing over me. It’s Brooklynne Feldman. Wouldn’t you know it? I follow every rule 99.9 percent of the time—and the one time I’m doing something sneaky, the local CIA has to show up.
My face burns. Brooklynne has an even worse Oasis participation record than Jett. She isn’t openly a jerk like him. But the way she ghosts everybody else is almost as disrespectful. She even blows off meditation! It’s like the pathfinders have nothing to offer her, so she has to go off, doing her own thing. Come to think of it, she and Jett are perfect for each other. They should get married someday. Why ruin two houses?
“Hi, Brooklynne!” I try to sound casual, but I’m breathing too hard to pull it off.
“What’s in the box?” she asks, peering down through horn-rimmed glasses.
When I realize she’s trying to see in through the air holes, I jerk the box away. “Nothing!” I snap, and quickly add, “Rocks. You know, for painting in arts and crafts.”
That’s when Needles betrays me by running around the box like a crazy person, bumping against the sides.
I shake the box, but it’s too late. Brooklynne’s figured it out. There’s definitely something alive in my shoebox.
When she leans down and peeks inside the lid, I don’t even try to stop her. Needles gazes back at her, mouth open, needle teeth showing.
“Cool lizard! Where’d you get it?”
“I don’t know where he came from,” I admit. “I fished him out of the Bath.”
She whistles. “Nice move. There’s no way a cold-blooded animal could survive in water that hot.”
That takes me aback a little. I never considered that Brooklynne would think saving Needles was a good idea.
“Do you know a lot about reptiles?” I ask.
“I had a gecko once. It died.” She takes a closer look, the concentration in her eyes magnified by her thick glasses. “I don’t know what kind of lizard this is, though. What’s his name?”
“Needles. Watch your fingers.”
Brooklynne, who had been reaching into the box, pulls her hand away. “Are you going to keep him?”
“I know I’m not supposed to. But if he ends up in the Bath again, he’ll die. And I don’t think he’s strong enough to handle the river.”
Brooklynne nods solemnly. “And the woods are the wrong place for him. He wouldn’t last an hour with the badgers and hawks.”
“But where can we hide him?” I muse. “I can’t keep him in my cottage. My mom might find him. Besides, I’m pretty sure the air-conditioning is too cold for him.”
She thinks it over. “Follow me,” she says finally.
She leads me clear across the Oasis property, past the welcome center, right on the northern boundary of the property, not far from the road. There are a number of sheds and small utility buildings. In all the time I’ve spent at the Oasis, I’ve never been to this area before.
“What’s all this for?” I ask.
“Mostly maintenance,” she replies. “Paint, carpentry tools, lawn and tree stuff.”
It makes sense. We come to the Oasis for its wellness and healthy living. But a retreat this size needs constant attention like painting and general repairs. How awesome are Magnus and the pathfinders at keeping it in the background so the guests can enjoy the beauty of the place and be whole?
Past the cluster of maintenance buildings, at the edge of the woods, we come to one last shed. I can already see that this structure isn’t in as good shape as the rest of them. The white paint is faded and the padlock on the door is rusty. Brooklynne taps it with a stone and it comes apart.
I’m amazed. “How do you know about this place?”
She shrugs. “I found it when I was wandering around.”
Translation: she found it when the rest of us were canoeing or zip-lining and she was blowing us off. Or maybe she really is CIA, and this is where the spy services hang out, along with British MI6, the Israeli Mossad, and the Russians. I chuckle to myself, but I’m not really joking. There really is a side to Brooklynne that she’s not showing everybody else.
“I feel a little guilty about keeping an animal,” I admit. “What’s Magnus going to think if he finds out?”
Brooklynne seems unconcerned. “I don’t lose too much sleep over what Magnus thinks.”
I’m surprised by the comment, although she isn’t speaking in an insulting way, like Jett would. Brooklynne says it as a statement of fact, like 2 + 2 = 4. (Jett would probably also call him Nimbus.)
“I love Magnus,” I assert. “He’s devoted his life to setting people on the path of wellness.”
She smiles at me as if
I’ve said something funny and then opens the door, ushering me in ahead of her.
It’s a simple wooden shed with a prefab metal floor. A quick once-over confirms that there are no gaps or cracks large enough for Needles to squirm his tiny body through and escape.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper into the shoebox. “You’ll be safe here.”
The air inside the shed is moist and very hot, just right for Needles.
“He’ll need water,” Brooklynne says. She’s no dope when it comes to animals. I’m impressed in spite of myself.
We survey the small space. There are several old paint cans along with an assortment of brushes, rollers, and trays.
Brooklynne sorts through the trays and selects the cleanest one. “There’s a tap outside the garage where they store the golf carts.”
She’s back in a couple of minutes, the paint tray brimming with water.
I place the shoebox on the floor and open the lid. “Here you go, Needles. Have a drink.”
Before the words are out of my mouth, he’s off like a shot. He covers the distance to the paint tray in a fraction of a second. But instead of drinking, he splashes right into the water. And just like that, all the action is over, and he’s still as a statue, submerged in the paint tray up to his nostrils.
“Wow,” Brooklynne comments. “He likes it here. We must have done something right.”
I’m pleased too, but also a little nervous. “I guess this is normal—for a lizard. What does he eat?”
“We’ll sneak him some stuff from dinner tonight,” Brooklynne decides. “See what he likes.”
That sounds good to me. What doesn’t sound so good are words like we. Brooklynne talks a good game, but I can’t escape the feeling that I can’t totally trust her.
On the other hand, I might need her help. She seems to know things about the Oasis that nobody else does—at least none of the other kids. That could come in handy, since we can’t let the adults find out that we’re looking after poor little Needles, who’s lost and must be far from home.
If the tables were turned and it was my Benito in danger, I’d want him to have all the support he could get.
8
Jett Baranov
This place would be a lot better if they’d let me keep the Dance Dance Revolution machine.
Basically, I hate everything. The pool is dinky, and pedal boating and canoeing on that dumb lake are both boring. Awakening? Too early, and besides, my favorite time at the Oasis is when I’m asleep. Meditation is for losers. Plus, on the list of people around here who hate my guts, pathfinder Ivory ranks third. Believe it or not, I am not the most popular person at the Oasis of Mind and Body Wellness.
Biking? There’s nowhere to go. Besides, Ivory’s the pathfinder for that too. Anytime she’s not in the meditation center, you can see her pedaling out to the main road.
We have arts and crafts too—yawn. I’m sewing a wallet for Vlad. Even a billionaire appreciates free stuff. So far, it’s coming out about as good as he deserves for sending me here. I’m even embossing an initial on it. Not his. I’m going with a big L, because that’s what my entire summer is turning into, thanks to him. He can keep his money in it. Come to think of it, maybe I should be sewing him a supertanker.
I’m getting better at the Bath. Not because I want to, but because I consider it a personal challenge. There are eighty-five-year-old ladies who think there’s nothing more pleasurable than being boiled alive in there. Basically, if they can take it, why can’t I? It’s a matter of pride.
I try it when everybody else is at the portobello mushroom roast. I strip down to my bathing suit and step across the rocks. I can barely see my feet past my bloated belly. Yikes—thanks to eating all those veggies, my stomach has more trapped gas than the Goodyear Blimp. But I can feel my toes just fine as I enter the water. My lower extremities are on fire. My brain is screaming: Red alert! Red alert!
Slowly, I lower myself into the bubbling hot spring. As the scalding heat envelops me up to my neck, my heart begins to hammer in my chest and, just for a moment, large black dots distort my vision. I count—one Mississippi . . . two Mississippi . . . I only make it to three before I fly out of there and roll on the grass until every last burning drop is off me.
The only halfway fun activity at the Oasis is zip-lining. I’ve done it before. They’ve got some great ones down in Costa Rica, faster than roller coasters. This is pretty sucky in comparison to those, but it’s better than nothing.
I always make Matt come with me, because Matt is terrified of zip-lining. He doesn’t admit it, but it’s torture for him every single time. I look at it as his punishment for keeping me here. Whatever. I actually feel guilty about it when he barfs, which sometimes happens at the bottom.
But punishment isn’t the only reason I have to keep Matt close by. Brandon Bucholz also likes zip-lining, and he’s number two on the list of people who hate my guts.
“Look who’s here,” Brandon sneers as I climb up to the launch platform. “Aren’t you scared the weight of Daddy’s money will snap the cord?”
Unfortunately, Matt is pretty slow climbing to the top, probably because he doesn’t want to get there. “If I were you,” I tell Brandon pleasantly, “I’d be more worried about the weight of that boulder you call a head than anybody’s money.”
For all my jokes, I’m not as confident as I seem, because I really am scared of Brandon, who’s built like a mountain with feet. If he decides to toss me off this platform, there’s not much I can do to stop him.
He rounds on me. “You’ve got a big mouth, California Boy!”
I back up to the rail. “Hey, man—be whole.”
“I’ll put a hole in your face—”
Brandon falls silent when Matt makes it to the platform, looking dizzy. A whistle sounds from down on the forest floor. It’s the pathfinder at the bottom, signaling that the next rider is cleared to go. Brandon clips on and is gone before he can finish cursing me out.
“How would you feel about fighting Brandon’s dad?” I ask Matt. “He only weighs, like, three hundred pounds.”
He clips onto the line. “I’m just the scuba instructor, remember? That doesn’t cover mortal combat.”
“Seriously, if Brandon murders me, you have a pretty good chance of getting fired from Fuego.”
He heaves a sigh. “You’re Mr. Popularity wherever you go, aren’t you?”
I hip-check him off the edge. Once he sails away, arms and legs flailing, I kind of enjoy having the platform all to myself. It’s peaceful, and the view is 360 degrees. It’s not dramatic like Monte Carlo or Big Sur or anything like that. But these Arkansas woods kind of grow on you, if you don’t mind being bored out of your skull.
The last couple of times I’ve been up here, I’ve noticed kids out by the road, which is pretty far from all the activities. Not at the welcome center either, but at the far corner of the property. Something is going on over there.
It goes without saying that I don’t care. On the other hand, what else is there to think about? So I might care a little. Or maybe I’m just nosy.
So when I make it to the bottom of the zip line, I tell a very relieved Matt that we’re done for the day. I toss my helmet and harness into the equipment pile and head off through the woods toward the road.
Someone is coming my way, moving from the direction of the cottages. I duck behind a tree and watch the slender figure approach. Sure enough, it’s the girl who holds the top spot on the list of people who hate my guts—Grace Atwater.
She knows exactly where she’s going. She marches right past all the utility outbuildings and approaches the farthest and smallest one—a shabby shed with peeling paint. What could be in there? It looks like it hasn’t been used in ten years.
I step out from behind the tree. “Hey, Grace. What’s up?”
If the outdoors had a ceiling, she would have hit it. She jumps, spins around, and steps back, pressing herself against the door of the shed.
“Chill out,” I advise. In Arkansas in July, this is impossible.
“What are you doing here?” she demands.
In her hands, she clutches a table napkin with something hidden inside. I can tell by the wet marks on the paper that the contents must be soft and a little moist.
“What have you got there?” I ask.
“None of your business!”
“Come on, show me.”
I reach for the napkin, but she yanks it from my grasp. In the process, though, the contents get squashed, dropping a blob of whitish-yellow mush on the grass between us.
The smell reminds me of Thanksgiving dinner. “Is that a—turnip?”
She doesn’t deny it. Denying a turnip would be almost as weird as walking through the woods carrying some.
It dawns on me. “You’re feeding something.” I point to the shed. “You’ve got some kind of animal in there.”
She shakes her head no, her expression even more miserable than Matt’s at the top of a zip line.
“Good news,” comes a voice behind me. “I got the celery.”
Onto the scene lopes Tyrell, a large green stalk clutched in each fist. He freezes at the sight of me. “Oh—hi, Jett.”
“I knew it!” I exclaim. “You guys have a rabbit or something!”
“He’s not a rabbit!” Tyrell blurts.
I fold my arms in front of me. “Checkmate.”
Totally defeated, Grace opens the door of the shed a crack and peeks inside. “He’s in the tray.”
The three of us enter the small space. On the metal floor sits a paint tray filled with water. There, poised just below the surface, is this funny-looking lizard about eight inches long from nose to tail.
I can’t resist. “That looks like a pet to me. Doesn’t Nimbus have a rule against pets?”
Grace sticks her jaw out. “He’s not a pet. He’s a—rescue lizard.”
I’m blown away. “You mean like an EMT?”
“No, stupid!” she explodes. “I rescued him!”
Unplugged Page 6