“Pedal boats and canoes,” Jett retorts. “No, thank you.”
I shake my head. “I think she means the other boat. Remember the motor launch the pathfinders used to rescue us when we crashed the pedal one?”
“They keep it at a separate dock just around a bend in the Saline,” Brooklynne explains. “You can’t see it from the center because it’s hidden by trees.”
Jett’s eyes narrow at her. “Seems to me that you always know an awful lot about what goes on behind the scenes around here.”
Brooklynne shrugs. “I don’t go for a lot of Oasis stuff. So I’ve got time to wander around and scope things out.”
“Like what?” Jett probes suspiciously.
“Like where things are—the boat, this shed, the place they store the bags of fertilizer for the grass. I know the buddies have a nightly poker game, and that Ivory sometimes takes five-hour bike rides. I know Janelle is training for an Ironman and Magnus has to wear special shoes because his feet aren’t exactly the same size.”
“What’s so terrible about the Oasis activities?” Grace demands. “People travel from all around the world for the chance to be here.”
“Nothing personal,” Brooklynne says honestly. “This place just isn’t me, that’s all. I should know. I’ve been coming longer than any of you guys. And I know you guys think I’m weird.”
“That’s not true!” Grace interjects automatically.
Brooklynne isn’t fooled. “It’s fine,” she assures us. “Sometimes I think I’m weird too.”
For the record, I don’t think Brooklynne’s weird at all. In fact, after Jett, she’s becoming the kid at the Oasis I admire most.
“So how are we supposed to swipe this boat and take it to Hedge Apple without the pathfinders catching us?” Jett asks with interest.
“In the gap between meditation and dinner,” Brooklynne replies readily. “That’s the longest space of time when we’re on our own. A couple of us could jump in the launch, head to Hedge Apple, buy meat, and be back before anybody notices we’re missing.”
Grace looks worried. “I don’t know about that. It’s one thing to break the rules by keeping Needles. But taking a boat that isn’t ours—leaving the center without permission—”
Jett has a simple answer to that. “So don’t come. I’m going. If I don’t get to breathe a little non-Oasis air very soon, my head is going to blast off my body and take out a passing satellite.”
“I’m going too,” I announce bravely. I’m not totally comfortable with the idea of going AWOL by stealing the Oasis’s own motor launch. But I always take the safe route, and where does it ever get me? Maybe I haven’t got the guts to stand up to Sarah or Mom and Dad. But this time I’ll take a stand for Needles. If Jett and Brooklynne think this can work, I’m on board.
Brooklynne senses my nervousness. “I don’t think we’re going to get caught,” she reassures me. “Grace can spread the word that we’re hiking in the woods. No one will look for us until dinner, and we’ll be back before then.”
“Oh, no, I’m going with you guys,” Grace says, slanting a stink eye in Jett’s direction. “There’s no way I’m leaving Needles’s health in his hands. He’ll wreck the boat. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Don’t I know it!
10
Jett Baranov
I get no satisfaction out of lying to the pathfinders. It’s like performing a trick with a degree of difficulty of zero.
When I tell Nimbus that we’ve decided to use our spare time on a nature hike, he’s so overjoyed that he doesn’t even notice Grace’s face, which is the color of an overripe tomato.
“The downy phlox is a dramatic mauve right now,” the Oasis founder tells me. “Be sure to gather some for the dining hall tonight.”
“Consider it done,” I promise. What does it hurt to promise? I’ll just tell him we picked a truckload, but we got jumped by phlox-jackers on the way home. Or maybe I’ll say Tyrell is allergic. That’s even probably true.
“Have a wonderful hike,” Magnus wishes us. “Be whole.”
“Be whole,” Tyrell gulps.
Grace’s lips move, but no sound comes out.
We slip into the woods to make it look good, but as soon as we’re out of sight we angle over toward the river.
The expression on Grace’s face is pure anguish. “I can’t believe we just lied to Magnus.”
“It’ll be good for him,” I assure her. “The guy’s too naive.”
“Where’s Brooklynne?” Tyrell asks.
“Meeting us at the river,” I reply. “Something’s not right about that girl. So she doesn’t like the Oasis—join the club. That doesn’t explain everything about her. I don’t trust her.”
“I don’t trust her either,” Grace agrees. “And that’s not half as much as I don’t trust you.”
“Will you two stop fighting?” Tyrell complains. “This is scary enough without World War Three. Conflict makes me itchy.”
“Breathing makes you itchy,” Grace and I chorus, and then look at each other in surprise.
We get quiet after that. Tyrell is insulted and Grace and I are both horrified that we might be starting to think alike. If I suddenly become a vegetarian, ask Vlad to hook me up with a brain transplant pronto.
We find Brooklynne by the pedal-boat dock, and she leads us upriver along a narrow grassy path where the woods come right up to the bank. We’re at least a couple of football fields along when there it is—a tiny inlet in the Saline River. Tied up at a small wooden dock bobs the launch.
We pile on board.
Tyrell is the first to make it to the helm. “Oh, no! You need a key to start this thing!”
In answer, Brooklynne reaches into her pocket and dangles a key on a small ring. “No problem.”
“Wait a minute,” I say suspiciously. “It’s one thing to know about a secret dock. But you actually have the key?”
“The pathfinders keep it on a hook behind the desk in the welcome center,” Brooklynne explains. “Nobody guards it.”
“And you know this how?” Grace challenges her.
Brooklynne shrugs. “I see things.”
I see things. I know things. Brooklynne always has a lot of inside info, but she’s pretty short on details about how all the seeing and knowing happens.
“Let’s just get this over with,” Tyrell exclaims in a nervous tone.
When Brooklynne twists the key in the ignition, I’m expecting a roar that would bring a swarm of pathfinders—not to mention Matt—down on us. But the boat turns out to be pretty quiet—no louder than a car engine. I untie the mooring rope and we putt-putt out into the river, hugging the bank.
Of all the boats I’ve been on before, this one is by far the crummiest. Vlad’s yacht has an indoor bowling alley and its own helicopter pad. His speedboat does 120 knots on calm seas. But for some crazy reason, this feels a thousand times better than either of those. It probably has something to do with leaving the Oasis behind, even for a short while. And the fact that I’m using their own launch to do it only makes the experience more satisfying.
I check out my companions. Brooklynne is white-knuckling the wheel and squinting ahead to make sure we don’t hit anything, although the river is totally deserted. Tyrell is tight-lipped and pasty-faced. And Grace looks like she’s on her way to an execution, possibly her own.
“Come on, you sad sacks!” I urge. “Have a little fun! How awesome is this?” I stand up and spread my arms like that guy from the Titanic movie. “I am the king of the world!”
“Shhh!” Grace hisses.
“I think I might be getting seasick,” Tyrell mumbles unhappily.
“Come on, captain!” I yell at Brooklynne. “Full speed ahead!”
“This is full speed,” she calls back.
Really? I check. She’s right. The boat is slow, and it feels even slower because we’re going against the current. Civilization, here we come—eventually.
It takes about twenty minutes before Hedge
Apple swings into view. Let’s just say it’s a horse short of being a one-horse town. By Bay Area standards, it wouldn’t qualify as a bus stop.
Even Grace is amazed. “I never realized Hedge Apple was this small.”
“Maybe so,” I tell her, “but it’s got a lot of good qualities. Nobody starts the day by scalding their buns in a pit of boiling water. There’s no meditating, and lunch isn’t a quarter-bale of hay. I love it already.”
We tie up to a rusty cleat at the municipal dock, which smells like something I can only describe as diesel fish. The downtown is basically a handful of shops and restaurants just in from the waterfront, and a run-down movie theater with nothing on the marquee. Beyond that, there are a few more streets of little houses. That’s it.
“Now what?” Tyrell asks. He still looks a little queasy. The diesel fish smell can’t be helping.
“We buy food for Needles,” Grace says pointedly. “That’s the only reason we’re here.”
Brooklynne frowns. “I doubt there’s a pet shop in a town this small.”
“He doesn’t need pet food; he just needs meat. There, for instance.” I point to a greasy-spoon-style luncheonette across the street. In the front window, a hand-painted sign declares: BEST FRIED CHICKEN IN ARKANSAS.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Grace snaps. “You don’t care about meat for Needles. You just want some for yourself.”
“I love fried chicken,” Brooklynne says wistfully. “And I’ll bet Needles loves it too.”
“And while we’re ordering his,” Tyrell adds, looking somewhat less fragile, “we can have a little snack.”
This day keeps getting better and better. Grace is outvoted, three to one.
We gorge ourselves while Grace glares at us disapprovingly, cradling the take-out package for Needles. Every time one of us takes a bite, her mouth gets a little smaller, until it’s just a thin line.
“You could have ordered something, you know,” I tell her as I gnaw on a drumstick. “They have non-meat things. Biscuits. French fries. Collard greens.”
“The Oasis is more than just vegetarian,” she says emotionally. “It’s about a healthy way of life. This stuff is all packed with sodium and fat, and any nutritional value has been processed out of it. You guys are practically spitting in Magnus’s face!”
Brooklynne looks a little uncomfortable with the idea. “He would forgive us.”
“We’re not eating for ourselves,” I explain, blotting my mouth with a napkin. “Think of us as the royal food tasters for King Needles.”
She’s tight-lipped. “Jett Baranov, you stink.”
It took the newspapers in Silicon Valley twelve years to figure that out. Grace must be pretty sharp.
We practically roll out of the chicken joint, stuffed and contented. Except Grace, who is unstuffed and majorly ticked off. I haven’t felt this good since barbecue day. Speaking of which, there’s the barbecue place, three doors down. So we pick up a small order of pulled pork for Needles, on the off chance that he doesn’t like fried chicken.
“It makes sense,” Tyrell agrees. “We should get as many different types of meat as we can just in case Needles turns out to be a picky eater.”
At the market, we load our cart with bologna, salami, sliced ham and turkey, Slim Jims, and a package of raw hamburger. When Grace isn’t watching, we add gummy bears, Sour Patch Kids, and a few assorted candy bars. I have to give her credit: she doesn’t seem happy when it all turns up at checkout, but she keeps her mouth shut.
“Now can we go back to the Oasis?” she demands.
And I give in—but only because I can’t think of a single reason to keep us there any longer. I like Hedge Apple! Sure, if it was in California, it would have to be reclassified as an anthill. So what?
As we’re climbing into the boat, Tyrell suddenly asks, “Who lives there?”
At first, I can’t even make out what he’s talking about, because Hedge Apple is basically the wilderness, and trees block everything. But when I lean in to follow his pointing finger, I catch an opening in the foliage, and I see this house just north of town, close to the river. A massive house—and not just by boondocks standards. It’s a towering redbrick masterpiece with a soaring roof, huge windows that gleam in the sun, and at least three separate wings. Plunk this place anywhere in Silicon Valley, and it would still be one of the biggest homes there!
“Wow,” Grace comments. “A giant McMansion like that looks pretty out of place in a cute little town like this.”
“You’ve got that backward,” I tell her. “If you can afford that house, you’re not out of place near the town. The town’s out of place near you.”
“I don’t think there’s anybody around here who’s that rich,” Brooklynne adds. She looks at me. “Except you.”
Brooklynne always tosses off these nuggets of information without bothering to explain where they come from. How would she know whether or not there are rich people around Hedge Apple? Maybe she’s been summering here longer than the rest of us, but still. Being at the Oasis with no phone or internet is like being exiled to Devil’s Island. It wouldn’t matter if the next town was two miles away or two thousand.
On the other hand, she could be thinking exactly what I am. Which is: If you’ve got big bucks, why would you spend them in a place like Hedge Apple? One thing I’ve learned from growing up with Vlad and his billionaire buddies is they can build houses wherever they want them. They pick places like San Francisco, Manhattan, London, Paris. Not here!
“We should ask around,” I muse. “Surely some of the locals know whose house that is.”
“Don’t even think about it!” Grace snaps. “If we don’t get back to the Oasis in time for dinner, we’re in big trouble. No one will ever trust us again, and then how will we get food for poor Needles?”
This time, Brooklynne and Tyrell vote with Grace, so I have to give in. We cast off and head downriver.
The trip home is only about half as long, because the current is carrying us. Brooklynne, Tyrell, and I pound candy all the way, but the ride is too short. We can’t finish it. Tyrell has a stomachache and a brand-new zit on his chin.
“I don’t care,” he declares bravely. “It was worth it.”
Grace is disgusted. “Here we are in the healthiest place on earth, and you guys fill your bodies with garbage.”
Brooklynne guides the launch back to the secret dock, which she finds a little too easily, if you ask me. We keep to the cover of the woods, but through the trees we can see that there are no more canoes and pedal boats on the lake. A few families with younger kids are already heading for the dining hall. It means we got back in the nick of time.
We’ve got unfinished business, though. Staying hidden, we circle the property, our pace quickening as the anticipation grows. We’ve convinced ourselves that Needles is a carnivore, because 1) he won’t eat Oasis food, and 2) he ate one palmetto bug. But the reality is we can’t be sure. This is the moment of truth. We’ve got three bags full of different meats for him to try. The question remains: Will he eat it?
The lizard is in his usual spot in the paint tray, poised just below the surface, regarding us with a baleful gaze.
“I get that you don’t trust us after all that soy—” I begin.
“Oh, shut up, Jett!” Grace tears off a small piece of fried chicken and places it in front of Needles.
Before it can even sink below the surface it’s gone.
“Yes!” Tyrell crows in triumph, raising his arms in the touchdown signal.
“I knew it!” Brooklynne breathes.
Grace doesn’t actually cry, but she’s so emotional that her eyes are brimming with tears.
It doesn’t end there. We offer a bite of bologna. Whoosh! Salami. Sayonara. Ham, turkey, pulled pork, Slim Jim—okay, we’re not giving him much, but everything that hits the tray goes down the hatch.
“The poor little guy was starving,” Grace quavers.
Needles seems to be slowing down a little unt
il we bring out the hamburger. Turns out raw meat is even more delicious than the cooked stuff. He goes through half a package.
Sue me, I’m actually proud of the little guy, like he’s following in my footsteps as a meat eater.
“What should we do with the rest of the food?” Tyrell asks.
“We can’t leave it here,” Grace decides. “The smell could attract a larger animal that might eat Needles too.”
“I’ll keep it in our fridge,” I volunteer.
“Won’t Matt find it?” Tyrell asks.
I shrug. “What’s he going to do? Turn me in to Ivory? If I get kicked out that means Matt screwed up.”
All in all, it’s been a halfway decent day. Even dinner isn’t too bad because I’m so stuffed with fried chicken and gummy bears that I don’t have to eat much of it. I just push it around the plate to make it look smaller. I may not be very whole, but at least I’m full. Inside my stomach, the painful furnace of trapped gas settles down a little.
“You eating that?” Matt spears a baked rutabaga from my plate and deposits it onto his own amid the mountains of vegetables he’s inhaling.
Considering the guy is only here because Vlad appointed him my sentry, he definitely seems to be getting the hang of the food. He’s practically turned into Evangeline’s best customer.
“You’re in a good mood,” I tell him.
“I could say the same about you,” he returns.
Quickly, I force a scowl onto my face. But it’s hard to keep it there because, at the next table, Sarah Karrigan is staring at the letter we doctored. She’s probably still trying to decode what QJ5@Z2 means.
I catch a nervous smile from Tyrell and flash him thumbs-up in return. Then Nimbus comes by to ask Grace about the downy phlox we supposedly spent all day collecting, and my day is complete.
I can feel her laser eyes burning twin holes in my forehead.
11
Brandon Bucholz
I don’t believe love at first sight, but I believe in hate at first sight 100 percent—thanks to Jett Baranov.
The day he arrived, I saw him in the dining hall. He must have been starving, because he took a humongous bite out of one of the meatless burgers, gagged on it, and spit it halfway across the room. It missed me by a quarter of an inch.
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