by Cynthia Hand
“Do you throw them back?” I ask.
“Mostly. That way they grow to be bigger, smarter fish. Better to catch next time. I always release the cutthroat. But if I catch the rainbows I’ll take them home. Mom makes a fierce fish dinner, just fries them up in butter with some salt and pepper, a bit of cayenne sometimes, and it almost melts in your mouth.”
“Sounds heavenly.”
“Well, maybe you’ll catch one today.”
“Maybe.”
“I have tomorrow off,” he says. “You want to meet me at the butt crack of dawn and hike up to watch the sun rise from the best place in Teton? It’s kind of a special day for me.”
“Sure.” I have to admit that as distractions go, Tucker is top-notch. He keeps asking me to do things and I keep saying yes. “I can’t believe summer’s going by so fast.
And I thought it would drag on forever. Ooh, I think I see a fish!”
“Hold on,” groans Tucker. “You’re just waving it around now.”
He steps toward me at the exact moment that I cast the line back. The fly catches his cowboy hat and jerks it off his head. He swears under his breath, lunges to grab it, and misses.
“Whoops! I’m so sorry.” I draw the line in and manage to snag the hat and free it from the hook. I hold it out to him, trying not to giggle. He looks at me with a little mock scowl and snatches it out of my hands. We both laugh.
“I guess I’m lucky it was my hat and not my ear,” he says. “Stay still for a minute, all right?”
He wades into the river and sloshes over to stand behind me in his hip waders, suddenly so close that I can smell him: sunscreen, Oreo cookies for some mysterious reason, a mix of bug spray and river water, and a hint of musky cologne.
I smile, suddenly nervous. He reaches over and takes a strand of my hair between his fingers.
“Your hair isn’t really red, is it?” he asks, and my breath freezes in my lungs.
“What do you mean?” I choke out. When in doubt, I’ve learned from Mom, answer a question with a question.
He shakes his head. “Your eyebrows. They’re, like, dark gold.”
“You’re staring at my eyebrows now?”
“I’m looking at you. Why are you always trying to hide how pretty you are?”
He seems to gaze right into me, like he’s seeing me for who I truly am. And in that moment, I want to tell him the truth. Crazy, I know. Stupid. Wrong. I try to take a step back, but my foot slips and I almost go headfirst into the river but he catches me.
“Whoa,” he says, snaking both hands around my waist to steady me. He pulls me closer to him, bracing against the current. The water parts around us, icy and relentless, tugging and pulling at us as we stand there for a few slow-passing seconds trying to regain our balance.
“You got your legs under you?” he asks, his mouth close to my ear. Goose bumps jump up all along my arm. I turn slightly and get a really close look at his dimple. His pulse is going strong in his neck. His body’s warm against my back. His hand closes over mine on the fishing rod.
“Yeah,” I rasp. “I’m fine.”
What am I doing here? I think dazedly. This is beyond distraction. I don’t know what this is. I should—
I don’t know what I should do. My brain has suddenly checked out.
He clears his throat. “Watch the hat this time.”
We lift the rod together and swing it back, then forward, Tucker’s arm guiding mine.
“Like a hammer,” he says. “Slow back, pause on the back cast, and then”—he casts the rod forward so that the line whirs by our heads and unrolls gently on the water—
“fast hammer forward. Like a baseball pitch.” The dun lights delicately on the surface and hesitates a moment before the current swirls and carries it on. Now that it’s riding on the water, it does resemble an insect, and I marvel at its play on the water.
Quickly, though, the line pulls it unnaturally and it’s time to cast again.
We try it a few times, back and forth, Tucker setting the rhythm. It’s mesmerizing, slow back, pause, forward, over and over again. I relax against Tucker, resting almost totally against him as we cast and wait for the fish to rise to take the fly.
“Ready to try it on your own again?” he asks after a while. I’m tempted to say no, but I can’t think of any good reason. I nod. He lets go of my hand and moves away from me, back toward the bank where he picks up his own rod.
“You think I’m pretty?” I ask.
“We need to stop talking,” he says a little gruffly. “We’re scaring the fish off.”
“Okay, okay.” I bite my lip, then smile.
We fish for a while in silence, the only noise the burbling of the river and the rustling of trees. Tucker catches and releases three fish. He takes a moment to show me the cutthroat, with their scarlet slash of color beneath the gills. I, on the other hand, don’t get so much as a nibble before I have to retreat from the cold water. I sit on the bank and attempt to rub the feeling back into my legs. I have to face the ugly truth: I’m a terrible fisherwoman.
I know it sounds weird to say this, but that’s a good thing. I enjoy not excelling at everything, for once. I like watching Tucker fish, the way his eyes scan the shadows and riffles, the way he throws the line over the water in perfect, graceful loops. It’s like he’s talking with the river. It’s peaceful.
And Tucker thinks I’m pretty.
* * *
Later I drag the good old duffel bag into the backyard and try it one more time. Back to reality, I remind myself. Back to duty. Mom’s in the office on the computer, drinking a cup of tea the way she does when she’s trying to de-stress. She’s been home all of one day and already she seems tired again.
I stretch my arms and wings. I close my eyes. Light, I coach myself. Be light. Be part of the night, the trees, the wind. I try to picture Christian’s face, but suddenly it’s not so clear to me. I try to conjure up his eyes, the flash of green and gold, but I can’t hang on to that either.
Instead I get images of Tucker. His mouth smeared with red as we crouch on the side of the mountain filling empty ice-cream tubs with huckleberries. His husky laugh.
His hands on my waist in the river, keeping me steady, holding me close. His eyes so warm and blue, reeling me in.
“Crap,” I whisper.
I open my eyes. I’m so light the tips of my toes are the only thing on the ground. I’m floating.
No, I think. This isn’t right. It’s supposed to be Christian who makes you feel this way. I am here for Christian Prescott. Crap!
The thought weighs me down and I sink back to the earth. But I can’t get Tucker out of my head. I keep replaying the moments between us over and over in my head.
“What do you see in a guy like Christian Prescott?” he asked me that night when he dropped me off from prom. And what he was really saying then, what would have come through loud and clear if I hadn’t been so blind was, Why don’t you see me?
I know the feeling.
Get a grip, I tell myself. Just fly already.
I tighten my hold on the duffel bag. I lift my wings and stretch them skyward. I push with all the muscle in them, all the strength I’ve gained over months and months of practice. My body shoots up a few feet, and I manage to hold on to the duffel bag.
I pull myself higher, almost to the top of the tree line. I can barely make out the sliver of the new moon. I move toward it, but the duffel bag unbalances me. I lurch to one side, flapping wildly and dropping the bag. My arms feel like they’re going to tear out of my sockets. And then I fall, crashing into the pine tree at the edge of our yard, cussing all the way down.
Jeffrey’s standing at the kitchen sink when I drag myself through the back door, scratched and bruised and close to tears.
“Nice,” he says, smirking.
“Shut it.”
He laughs. “I can’t do it either.”
“You can’t what?”
“I can’t carry stuff when I
fly. It gets me off balance.”
I don’t know whether to feel better because Jeffrey can’t do it either, or to feel worse because he’s evidently been watching me.
“You’ve tried?” I ask.
“Lots of times.” He reaches over and pulls a pinecone out of my hair. His eyes are friendly, sympathetic. Out of everybody I know, Jeffrey’s the one person who can really understand what I’m going through. He’s going through it, too. Or at least he will, when his purpose comes.
“Do you—” I hesitate. I look behind him to the hallway toward Mom’s office. He glances over his shoulder, then back at me curiously.
“What?”
“Do you want to try it together?”
He stares at me for a minute. “Sure,” he says finally. “Let’s do it.”
It’s so dark in the backyard that I can’t see much past the edge of the lawn.
“This would be so much easier during the day,” I say. “I’m starting to hate practicing at night.”
“Why not practice during the day?”
“Um — because people could see us?”
He smiles mischievously. “Who cares?” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“People don’t really see you. It’s not like they’re looking up.”
“What? That’s crazy,” I say, shaking my head.
“It’s true. If they notice you at all, they’ll think you’re a big bird or something. A pelican.”
“No way.” But I immediately flashed back to when I flew over Jenny Lake and my reflection was a streak of pure white, like a bird’s.
“It’s no big deal. Mom does it all the time.”
“She does?”
“She flies almost every morning. Just as the sun’s coming up.”
“How have I not noticed this?”
He shrugs. “I get up earlier.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t know that!”
“So we can fly during the day. Problem solved. But now let’s get on with it, okay? I’ve got things to do.”
“Of course you do. All right, then. Watch this. Show yourself! ” I yell.
His wings flash out.
“What was that?” he gasps.
“A trick I learned from Angela.”
His wings are a light gray color, several shades darker than mine. Probably nothing to worry about, though. Mom said we’re all varying shades of gray. And his don’t look dark so much as they look. dirty.
“Well, warn me next time, okay?” Jeffrey folds his wings slightly, makes them smaller, and turns his back to me as he walks over to the edge of the lawn where I left the duffel bag. He lifts it easily and jogs over to me. All those muscles from the wrestling team are a big advantage.
“Okay, let’s do this thing.” He holds the bag out, and I grab one of the handles. “On the count of three.”
I suddenly picture the two of us bashing our heads together as we lift off. I take a step back, putting as much space between us as I can while still holding the duffel bag. With him sharing half the weight, it isn’t too heavy at all.
“One,” he says.
“Wait, which direction should we go?”
“That way.” He tilts his head toward the northern end of our property, where the trees are thinner.
“Good plan.”
“Two.”
“How high?”
“We’ll figure that out,” he says in an exasperated tone.
“You know, your voice is starting to sound just like Dad’s. I don’t think I like it.”
“Three!” he exclaims, and then he bends his knees and flexes his wings and heaves upward while I do my best to do the same.
There’s no room for hesitation. We go up and up and up, timing the beats of our wings together, holding the duffel bag between us a bit shakily but in a way that we’re able to handle it. In about ten seconds we’re over the tree line. Then we start to move north. I look over at Jeffrey, and he shoots me a smug, self-satisfied smile, like he knew all along that this would be easy. I’m kind of shocked by how easy it is.
We could have lifted twice as much. My mind races with all that this could mean. If I can’t lift Christian myself, am I meant to have help? Is it against the rules?
“Jeffrey, maybe this is it.”
“This is what?” he says a bit distractedly, trying to pull the duffel bag up to get a better grip on it.
“Your purpose. Maybe we do it together.”
He lets go. The bag jerks me down instantly, and then I let go, too. We watch it crash into the brush on the forest floor.
“It’s not my purpose,” he says in a flat voice. His gray eyes grow cold and distant.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Everything’s not about you, Clara.”
The same thing that Wendy said to me. Like a punch to the gut.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “I guess I got excited at the idea of getting some help. I’m having a hard time doing this on my own.”
“We have to do it alone.” He turns away in the air, heading back toward the yard.
“That’s just the way it is.”
I stare after him for a long time, then drop down to the ground to pick up the duffel bag. One of the gallons of water I put inside is broken, and the water leaks out in a slow trickle onto the dry earth.
Chapter 16
Bear Repellent
The next morning my cell phone rings at some ungodly hour. Under the covers, I groan and grope around for it on the nightstand, find it, pull it in with me, and answer cheerfully.
“What?”
“Oh good. You’re up.” Tucker.
“What time is it?”
“Five.”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“I’m on my way over,” he says. “I’ll be there in about a half hour. I thought I’d call so you had time to brush your hair and put on your face.”
“You think I’m going to wear makeup to go hiking with you?”
“See, that’s what I like about you, Carrots. You’re not fussy.”
I hang up on him. I throw the blankets off and lay for a minute gazing up at the ceiling. Outside it’s pitch-dark. I was dreaming about him, I realize, although I can’t remember the details. Something about the big red barn on the Lazy Dog Ranch. I yawn. Then I force myself to get up and get dressed.
I don’t shower, because the noise would wake Mom. I splash cold water on my face and put on some moisturizer. I don’t need makeup. My skin lately is starting to have its own natural glow, another sign that things are starting to change, starting to intensify the way Mom said they would. I put on mascara and apply some lip gloss, then turn my attention to the wild waves of hair cascading down my back. There’s a clump of tree sap clinging to a strand, evidence of last night’s flying practice. I spend the next fifteen minutes trying to get rid of the sap, and when I finally remove it, along with a fat chunk of my hair, I hear tires on the gravel road outside.
I slip quietly downstairs. Jeffrey’s right. Mom’s not in her room. On the kitchen counter I write her a note: Mom, going out to see the sunrise with friends. Be back later. I have my cell. C. Then I’m out the door.
This time I’m nervous, but Tucker acts like nothing’s changed, so completely normal that I wonder if maybe I imagined all the tension between us yesterday. I relax into our familiar banter. His smile’s infectious. His dimple’s out the whole drive, and he drives fast enough to have me clutching that handle above the door as we round corners. He takes a secret side road to get into Grand Teton, bypassing the main gate, and then we’re zooming down the empty highway.
“So what day is it?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“You said it was a special day.”
“Oh. I’ll get to that.”
We drive to Jackson Lake. He parks and hops out of the truck. I wait for him to come around and open my door. I’m getting used to his “yes, ma’am” manners, so much that I’m starting to find his gentlemanly w
ays sweet.
He checks his watch.
“We’ve got to hike fast,” he says. “Sunrise is in twenty-six minutes.”
I lean down to tighten the laces on my boots. And we’re off. I follow him up and out of the parking lot and into the woods.
“So what classes are you taking next year?” he asks over his shoulder as we make our way up the hill on the other side of the lake.