Howl of the Sequoia (Secrets of the Sequoia Book 1)

by Deidre Huesmann

  Rachael no longer had a leg to stand on. She allowed him to guide her back to the car (which, to her crushing disappointment, started smoothly as soon as Jackson turned the key) and drive her home.

  For the longest time no words passed between them. Even the radio was dead; Jackson insisted the noise distracted him from driving.

  After they left the dirt road and reached the highway, Jackson finally spoke. “Sorry, RayRay.”

  Rachael sighed, resting her head against the cool window. “S’fine,” she mumbled.

  “It’s just . . . this isn’t my thing.”

  No, but it was hers, and he’d yanked her away before she’d really had time to enjoy her time there. Regardless of the justifiable reasons Jackson had, her failure was a bitter pill to swallow. Rachael folded her arms over her chest.

  “I mean, it’s not even our thing,” continued Jackson, his voice dropping low with guilt. “It’s mostly yours and. . . .”

  “Mom’s,” finished Rachael softly. She glanced over to see her elder brother nodding solemnly.

  There was little she could say to that. Rachael allowed the ride to lapse into an uncomfortable quiet once again, thoughts of their ill mother weighing heavy on their shoulders.

  She wouldn’t tell their mother Jackson had broken his promise. But she would figure out a way to visit the sequoia soon, one way or another.

  Chapter Three

  Rachael didn’t consider herself a part of any particular social circle at school. Usually she kept to herself, did her studies quietly, received good grades, and managed to make it home without rumpling any feathers. Over the years she had cultivated a personality that was civil but lonely.

  For the most part she preferred it that way.

  Since so few of her peers bothered her, Rachael tended to be on the outs regarding gossip or rumors. So when the girls in her band class claimed the exchange student in her Environmental Science class was multilingual, Rachael just assumed she was the last to know.

  “So the guy isn’t exactly a looker,” the flutist in front of Rachael babbled. “But real smarts. And his German is really good.”

  First Chair Vera, Rachael noted absently as she wiped down her own instrument. A little ditzy, but she deserved to be in that chair. Vera played more flute solos in school concerts than anyone, if she wasn’t singing of course. Rachael had no problem with Vera, and Vera never seemed to give her a second glance.

  “Forget German,” Second Chair Coleen retorted. “I heard him on his phone the other day, after school? Had to be, like, Latin or something. That’s exotic, yeah?”

  Rachael tried not to wince; ducking her head as she meticulously rubbed her fingerprints off the metal with a piece of soft cloth. She didn’t care for Coleen. From what Rachael heard, she was fortunate Coleen didn’t even know her name.

  Sounding doubtful, Vera said carefully, “Maybe it was Dutch or French.”

  A quick glance up verified the sight of Coleen glowering at her friend.

  “But you must be right,” Vera added hastily. Unconvincingly. “It could be Latin.”

  Coldly, Coleen replied, “My Nana knows Latin. She teaches me all the time. I think I’d know.”

  “Of course,” Vera murmured.

  Rachael pretended to study her music sheet with intensity, making her fingers follow the notes without a sound.

  “Anyway, I was going to see if he’d help me with my German homework,” said Vera.

  Coleen scoffed. “Good luck. He’s always being picked up by some guy after school. I bet he wouldn’t even notice you.”

  It was hard to tell if that had been more of an insult to Vera or the new kid, but Vera’s elongated silence rang of hurt. Perhaps rightfully so. Vera was slender, very few curves at all, but with waves of strawberry blonde hair to her thighs, brilliant wide blue eyes, and a charming smile with white, if endearingly crooked, teeth. She had several guys eyeing her, but had only been in one three-year relationship that had ended a few weeks ago. Since then, Vera had avoided guys, nursing her heartbreak. Now it seemed she was ready and seeking a new relationship, and an exchange student had piqued her interest.

  For someone who kept to herself, Rachael knew an awful lot about a handful of classmates. It came with the territory of eavesdropping.

  “I think that’s his brother,” First Chair Vera finally said.

  “Oh, please. They don’t even look alike. Listen,” Coleen said suddenly, lowering her voice. “I’m just looking out for you after what happened with Kevin. You were a wreck. You’re probably still in love with him.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Just give it more time,” said Coleen sympathetically, rubbing Vera’s arm. “I wouldn’t jump into dating just yet. And really, him? He’s going back to Germany at the end of the year.”

  “Switzerland.”

  Coleen patted Vera on the shoulder—patronizingly, thought Rachael. “Yes, honey.”

  Forget not caring about her. Something about Second Chair Coleen outright set Rachael’s teeth on edge.

  Vera was pretty in a way that seemed natural and light. In stark contrast, Coleen gave the impression she had to work very hard at it. She was always bragging that her mom was a famous designer in Italy, and that her shoes and skirts and blouses and fur-lined jackets were all originals, made before the designs were sold to affluent companies. Coleen was the kind of girl who bleached her eyebrows so nobody would guess she was naturally a brunette. Even her rare freckles were hidden beneath heavy layers of makeup.

  But, from what Rachael had pieced together over the school year, Coleen did the one thing that monogamous, pure Vera would not.

  Rachael shook her head and began her warm-up practices. As she mused over her eavesdropping, she couldn’t quite comprehend what the fuss was about. Holden Cavanaugh, the Swiss exchange student, was just as Vera had said; not attractive in any way that stood out. He was average at best in looks, but apparently quite brilliant in his classes.

  The multilingual part was vaguely interesting, but Rachael wouldn’t have been surprised if it was exaggerated at all. The few times she’d heard him speak, she hadn’t detected any accent at all. He’d probably grown up in the United States, moved to Switzerland a few years back, and decided he wanted a trip home, so signed up for an exchange program.

  Or, she thought grudgingly, maybe he really was Swiss, multilingual, and a relatively okay guy who may or may not be intimate with an older dark-haired stranger. Rachael just didn’t like him because he was rude. It seemed his eyes were constantly on her, boring into her back throughout her favorite class. It was distracting.

  Belatedly, she noticed the teacher had walked in and was instructing them to pull out their sheet music. Rachael tried to loosen her fingers and follow the motions of Mr. Anderson’s swift, vein-entangled arms with the rest of her class.

  As always, toward the latter end of the hour, Coleen challenged Vera for first chair. It was a weekly occurrence the band was used to, but the competition was no less fierce. Coleen never played poorly. Her notes and timing were spot on, and on the rare occasion she missed or flubbed one, her improvisation was well covered.

  But Vera played the flute with spectacular delicacy and subtle flair. She didn’t just hit the notes properly. Each sound was sweet and flowing where it should be; short and triumphant where it had to be. She exuded a natural talent and love for the music. Not a single lift of the finger was mechanical.

  Rachael held her flute in her lap, attempting to clean the spittle out silently. All around her, students were doing the same. Yet none spoke even a whisper. The trumpeters, the clarinets, the saxophones, even the drummer on the other side of the room wanted to hear Vera’s playing—and see if Mr. Anderson would make her give up first chair.

  He had not once for the past two years—and he didn’t start now.

  “That was well played,” he assured the two. “Congratulations, Vera. Coleen, not this time.”

  Her back tense, Coleen turned to
Vera with a tight smile. “I understand,” she said in a molasses-laden voice.

  If only she played the flute that sweetly, thought Rachael wryly.

  Vera returned the smile sheepishly. “I really thought you’d get it this time.” It was their tired old song and dance.

  Thankfully, class was dismissed only minutes after that. Rachael was the first out the door and heading briskly for the stairs. She wanted away from the simmering tension.

  More importantly, third period was her favorite.

  “Hello, Rachael,” Mrs. Whitley greeted.

  Rachael eased into her seat. Environmental Science was the only class she went out of her way to secure a desk in front and center. “Morning,” she returned, giving the room a quick once-over. She did kind of like that the set-up resembled a lab science room even though, as far as she knew, no labs were conducted in this particular room. Three rows of two-student tables stretched in a semi-professional manner toward the back of the class, where various specimens of flowers and plant-life basked in the sunlight streaming through the windows. None of them were school-funded. They were all Mrs. Whitley’s special projects she felt she ought to share with other students who had similar interests. Rachael wasn’t the only one, but if she had to hedge a bet, she’d say that she was probably the most avid fan.

  Mrs. Whitley beckoned her over until Rachael complied. The older woman’s eyes shone over her spectacles. Everything about Mrs. Whitley reminded Rachael of a plum—short, round, and sweet yet firm. She even wore rich, dark purple button-up shirts often, like today.

  “I just wanted you to know that not only did the school board find your idea acceptable, I thought it to be spectacular,” said Mrs. Whitley. “All we need are a couple volunteer chaperones and some sort of assignment I can grade.”

  Rachael’s heart fluttered in tentative excitement. Where Jackson had disappointed her, Mrs. Whitley had come through. “That’s great,” she murmured, unable to keep a smile off her lips.

  Returning the smile, Mrs. Whitley said, “And that’s where you come in.”

  Other students began to filter into the classroom. Maybe it was their overzealous chatter that caused Rachael to misunderstand her teacher. “Uh, pardon?”

  Mrs. Whitley rose, plucking a stack of documents from her desk. “Not to fret. The field trip isn’t for two more months. I can give you four to five weeks to come up with something fun for the class to do.”

  Rachael felt like a dumb guppy with her mouth agape. Mrs. Whitley didn’t seem to notice as she strode past her, counting papers and leaving small stacks at the front of each desk in the first row.

  Rachael numbly slid into her seat. She grabbed one of the papers, scanning it.

  A permission slip, she realized. They were taking a field trip to the woods. Legitimately. Each slip had a chaperone volunteer sheet attached.

  So she really did have to come up with a classroom activity.

  The room suddenly felt uncomfortable and hot.

  Please, please don’t tell everyone this was my idea, Rachael thought.

  As soon as the final bell rang, Mrs. Whitley raised her voice to be heard over the din. “Class, pass your homework assignments to the front,” she said. Her voice was astonishingly loud and crisp for such a small woman. The entire room went silent but for the unzipping of bags and rustle of papers.

  Once all the homework had been collected, she directed them to pass back the permission slips. Her voice fizzled to a buzz in Rachael’s ears as she fervently prayed that her name would remain anonymous to the trip.

  “Amberlyth Trail?” Second Chair Coleen exclaimed from the back of the classroom. “The woods?” Collective complaints from several other girls and even a couple guys arose.

  “Aren’t those woods dangerous?” Holden Cavanaugh asked from directly behind Rachael.

  Shut up, shut up, shut up, she chanted, ducking her head to hide her burning cheeks.

  Mrs. Whitley shook her head. “We’ll be staying on the trails. We can only go if we have enough chaperones. Everyone will be safe and nobody will get lost.”

  Holden persisted loudly. “But I heard a ton of wolves live out there. Packs and packs of them.”

  “Oh yeah,” Rachael muttered. “They’re just bursting out to eat all the village babes.”

  There was a nervous titter to her left before those closest to her and Holden quieted. Rachael feigned interest in her pen. Behind her, she could practically feel Holden’s heated scowl.

  “Packs and packs,” he repeated, drawing out the words emphatically. “Of wolves,” he added, as though she hadn’t understood.

  Rachael glanced over her shoulder, trying not to tremble. She caught Holden’s gaze for the first time. His eyes were dark blue, faint hints of green glimmering around the edges, and unnervingly golden specks glimmering in the fluorescent lighting of the classroom.

  Hopefully she had managed to speak instead of staring too long, but Rachael wasn’t certain. “Wolves. Don’t. Attack. People,” she said through her teeth.

  “Enough,” said Mrs. Whitley sharply, forcing Rachael rigid and upright in her seat. “Mr. Cavanaugh, you’re welcome to opt out of the trip. Anyone who stays behind will be watching a documentary. You’ll be required to write a minimum four-page paper on the plant life of your choice in the northwest.”

  “Oh, come on,” Coleen whined from the back.

  Like much of the school’s staff, Mrs. Whitley paid no mind to her outburst. Her sunny demeanor returned.

  “Rachael will be coming up with the activity for this trip,” she announced, gesturing to the mortified girl in question. “If you’d like input on the assignment, speak with her. Make sure it’s appropriate. Other than that, she has final say on what gets bubbled up to me.”

  Oh. My. God. Now the entire class was staring at her. Rachael wished a sinkhole would open up beneath her chair and suck her out of sight.

  For the first time all year, time in that classroom ticked by at a torturously slow pace. By the time the bell’s shrill cry pierced the air, Rachael couldn’t escape that class fast enough. She snatched her books and bag, bolting out the door and down the hall to her locker. She needed out. More importantly, she needed privacy.

  Today she snuck her lunch into the library. Rachael sat crisscross on the floor behind a bookshelf in the back corner of the SCIENCE section. No one ever willingly went back there. She determined she would be safe enough today.

  Rachael bit into her slightly soggy homemade egg-and-tuna salad sandwich. She still couldn’t believe Mrs. Whitley had singled her out like that. Had she not always been her model student? Quiet, studious, great grades, only speaking after she’d raised her hand? What Mrs. Whitley had done was betrayal. Not to mention humiliating.

  “You know—”

  Rachael started horribly, clearing inches off the floor before she could somewhat compose herself. She found herself in a defensive, half-crouched stance, clenching the empty baggy of her sandwich and gazing up at Holden Cavanaugh.

  Holden’s rusty brow perched high on his forehead. “Jumpy?” he inquired politely.

  Wary and irritated, Rachael shifted so she was kneeling instead. “What, you’re following me now?” she bit, relieved she didn’t sound as embarrassed as she felt.

  The boy cracked a smile, and then thrust papers toward her. “I was just saying, if you really wanna go on that field trip, you might want to hold on to this.”

  She’d left behind her permission slips. Rachael grabbed them back, hastily folding and stuffing them into her pocket. “Thanks,” she mumbled. “How did you know I was here?”

  “You have a distinctive smell,” admitted Holden. Her anger must have been visible, because he added, “Distinctive. Not bad.”

  Rachael tilted her head back, shutting her eyes tiredly. “Right.”

  “No, really,” he insisted, dropping to her height. “You smell mostly like zinnia. Like you spend a lot of time outside. It’s nice.”

  Rachael blinked.
“That’s weird,” she said slowly. “I just planted zinnia in my garden this morning.”

  “My mom used to like zinnia.”

  “She doesn’t anymore?”

  Holden hesitated, a dark, sad look flickering across his face before he appeared to regain control of his expression. “Who knows? She’s dead.”

  That had been unexpected. Rachael lowered her eyes to the floor, shifting awkwardly. “Oh.”

  Stone-faced, Holden continued, “She was killed by wolves.”

  It was hard to hold her disbelief in check. Only out of respect for his loss did she manage to switch to a more tactful approach. “That’s unusual. Wolves don’t normally attack people.”

  Shrugging, he replied, “These did.” If he noticed her reiteration of her argument from the classroom, he failed to comment on it. His quiescence made her feel guilty.

  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. It was probably best not to say much else.

  For an instant the gold flecks in his eyes seemed to shine abnormally bright. Or it could have been a trick of the light, or a spark of anger that accompanied his voice. “I hate wolves.”

  “I . . .” She wanted to argue with him, reflexively, like she did with her brother. Rachael had to bite her tongue before she could find something more appropriate to say. “I’m sorry,” she echoed.

  Holden nodded somberly. “Me too.” He cocked his head and then flashed her a smile that was somehow self-deprecating. “Later.”

  Rachael watched him stand and turn to leave. So he thought she smelled okay and it reminded him of his late mother. Part of her was skeptical, but at least he’d been decent enough in their brief exchange. Much more than in class earlier, or any other day when he given the impression she was distasteful.

  “Thanks again,” she murmured.

  His step faltered as though he’d heard her, but he made a quiet exit.

  Rachael stared unhappily at the remainder of her sack lunch. Only halfway through the day and she’d already been humiliated, semi-ridiculed by a fellow student, and made to feel vastly uncomfortable and pressured.