“This is for when we throw a party and invite all the woodland animals,” Luke tells me, lifting the brownies.
“Oh, hold the phone.” I’ve just spied a couple of tins he must have carried up on his own. “You didn’t tell me there was ‘Canned Meat Product.’ Now we have a party.”
His smile lingers only to drop away. “Not much water, though.”
“True, but if we’re careful, I think we can make it last.” I don’t say how long.
Since the lack of water flowing from either sink suggests the cistern behind the cabin is empty, we come up with a plan to melt and—for safety’s sake—boil snow as a supplement. I help Luke haul up a couple of large plastic tubs from the back of the cellar, which we plan to scrub clean and fill with the snow-water to be used for cooking and washing. Again: we won’t be staying long, but in case.
When we’ve emptied the cellar of its most promising contents and closed it up, we decide to hold off on the rice and beans, and instead make a quick, impromptu buffet of peanuts for me, beef jerky for Luke, and the bottle of Gatorade passed back and forth for both. Neither of us is up to the task of gathering snow to be boiled for rice and, besides, we’re hungry now.
After we eat, Luke goes to the woodpile behind the cabin to retrieve some more firewood. There’s plenty in here, but he says it’ll make him feel better to keep the indoor pile fully stocked. While he’s busy, I too make myself useful. Having asked for his phone, I pull my boots over my puffy, frost-nipped toes, and head out to check some areas around the cabin, hoping to find service before the battery bleeds dry.
“How’d it go?” Luke asks, when I return.
“No signal, although I didn’t get very far. I did find out that it’s almost four, so we have about an hour of daylight left.”
“And the battery?”
“A little more than half-dead.” I wish I had better news, but he accepts it with a shrug.
“Somebody’ll figure out where we are.”
He says this with confidence, but I remember him well enough to know when he’s bluffing. He looks at me, silent. He probably knows I know.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” he says, seamlessly changing the subject, “while you were out, I found something else: first aid kit.” He points to a bandage on his forehead, which I’ve noticed but haven’t yet mentioned.
He leads the way to the sink, where the first aid supplies wait, and holds out his hand. “Your arm?”
I pull back my sleeve and unwind the scarf from around my cut. It’s stuck to the dried blood again, so it reactivates the wound once more, and Luke uses bottled water and some gauze to clean the area. Then, he holds up a little, evil-looking brown bottle, telling me the people who own this place must be “old school.” It feels like a warning, the way he says it. He pours some of the reddish-brown liquid onto a cotton ball and swipes it along my cut.
“Ow, what the hell?” I jerk my arm away from him.
He laughs. “So, you do curse. Sorry, have to kill the germs. One more,” he tells me as he’s going in for a second time.
“Damn it. That shit burns!”
He laughs again—a full-on belly laugh this time—and I briefly fantasize about kicking him in the shin.
After waiting for the liquid fire on my arm to dry and giving me some time to compose myself, Luke returns, holding up a tube of antibiotic ointment like a peace offering. “It hasn’t expired; I checked the label,” he says. “People must stay at this place pretty regularly. That’s more good news, by the way.”
He applies some of the ointment and bandages me up. “All better.”
“Thanks, I think. Remind me to play doctor when you need re-bandaging. Speaking of which, how’s your head?”
“One sucky-ass headache, but there was a bunch of Tylenol in the kit,” he says. “That’s extra-helpful, since I’m pretty sure it’s the only medicine I can take. Good thing I remembered that, from my last concussion.”
“Yeah, good thing.” When Luke hears the sarcastic edge to my voice, he frowns. I continue, anyway. “Luke, when did you have your other concussions? I don’t remember seeing you sitting out from football.”
“You followed football?”
“Not really. And also not my point.”
“Right. Well, you wouldn’t know about the concussions,” he says, gathering up the torn wrappers and dumping them into a trash can beneath the sink, “because no one knew, except me, my dad and the ER doc.”
I stare at him. “The star quarterback couldn’t sit out, so he played with a bruised brain?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
Seven
The Missing
Now that we have shelter, Luke and I aren’t sure what to do. We won’t freeze or starve to death tonight, but how do we get ourselves found?
Luke takes another trip to the ridge before sunset, but with no cell signal and only half a battery left, that’s a bust. We talk about doing some survey missions, but those will have to wait, because the sun will soon leave us.
It’s looking a whole lot like this place is our home for the time being, so we settle on collecting snow for melting. It’s a challenge we don’t fully meet: Luke’s head hurts more than usual whenever he bends over, and my fingers are still cranky and sore. Nevertheless, we each manage to fill two small pots a handful of times, adding their contents to a much larger one we found under the sink—a thing worthy of lobsters or, maybe more likely, hunks of bear.
The air takes on a blue tint as evening creeps in, and the sky has gone a rosy violet by the time we reenter the cabin. It’s the time of day when the world becomes otherworldly, and exactly the kind of surreal light I used to love to photograph.
“I guess they’re looking for us by now,” I say as I set the bear pot onto the stove for boiling, and Luke closes and locks the door for the night.
“Maybe, maybe not. Depends on whether they’ve figured out we’re missing.”
This is an unexpected thought, but if our parents assume we’re skiing or socializing, and the school supposes we changed our minds about going… “But they must know. The chaperones probably called about our absence, or our parents couldn’t reach us and called the school. Don’t you think?”
Luke shrugs. “I’m not sure about the school or the chaperones, but I don’t think my dad would call me. Even if he did, he’d probably think I was out with friends. I doubt he’s worried. What about your parents?”
“Well, my dad’s busy with his midlife-crisis wife, and my mom is newly boy crazy, so…”
“Sorry.” He squints at me, like it hurts to focus on my face, and tips his head down to run a hand back and forth through his short, gold-brown hair, being careful to avoid his injury. “I heard your parents got divorced. I would’ve said something before, but…”
…But I wouldn’t even look his way, let alone speak to him, most likely. It’s good that we’re speaking now, except I still don’t want to talk about this.
“Maybe you’re right,” I say. He raises his head, his hair sticking up in spots, to look at me. “Maybe no one’s noticed we’re missing yet. But they will soon.” My turn to bluff, and Luke doesn’t call me on it, either.
The water on the stove boils and we divvy it up: some stays in the pot to cook rice, and Luke and I split the rest. My share, still warm, will be dedicated to a sponge bath.
As with much of the cabin, the rule of two applies to the bathroom: two towels, two washcloths. We divide these as well, along with time for washing up. I tell Luke to go first, and then it’s my turn to make the best of what I’ve got. The shampoo in my backpack I’ll work with tomorrow, but as for my soap, toothpaste, deodorant, and the like, they’ve never been better friends to me.
With my face and body relatively clean—everything’s become relative here—I narrow my eyes at my reflection in the old mirror and try to picture myself walking around wearing not a trace of makeup. Black lipstick and heavy eye makeup have sort of become my trademark, not to mention my
security blanket, my disguise. I feel protected when people can’t exactly see the real me.
I packed makeup for the ski trip—it’s in my backpack, completely within reach—but putting it on for Luke’s sake feels ridiculous. So, I can be ridiculous, or I can just be. Under the circumstances, I choose vulnerability.
I emerge from the bathroom quietly, shivering from the lingering dampness on my skin, but happy to have shed my bulky layers for the night. It’s black leggings and an oversized dove gray sweater for me, thanks to the cabin’s bubble of warmth.
Luke is standing at the stove, his back facing me. He’s in a black t-shirt and jeans, with a pot in front of him, stirring away at something. He looks more domestic than anything else, but I see him another way, through the lens of a memory I’ve tried hard to forget.
It was in the cafeteria at the beginning of the year, and I’d been daydreaming about something—possibly breaking up with Evan—when the girl in front of me abandoned her place. I moved into her spot, stepping closer to the guy who’d been in front of her.
He was wearing beat-up jeans and a black t-shirt, and I wondered if a new student had enrolled at school, all the while gazing absentmindedly at his neck. It was a strong neck, connected to a broad back, and when he lifted a hand to rub the skin just below his hairline, the ripple of muscles in his forearm captured my focus. I blinked, trying to slow my heartbeat, trying to cool the rush of heat spreading through me, hoping he couldn’t feel the weight of my stare. I’m attracted to males and well aware of it, but couldn’t remember ever before being swept up in such a strong reaction to anyone. All I wanted was to slide my arms around this guy’s waist, to graze my black-polished nails over his chest, to stretch up onto my toes so I could kiss the base of his neck, until he turned around and…
He turned around.
Luke.
I was mentally throwing myself at Luke Owens, who I’d once held dear and precious, and now could hardly stand.
“Oh, hey Layla,” he said, his face losing all color before getting it back in excess. “I, uh…forgot…something. Have to go get…”
He exited the line, left me standing there. I was sure he’d picked up on the energy I’d been throwing off like fireworks, and felt the need to flee.
Despite the shame the memory still brings, I find myself lingering, captivated again by the shape of him: his neck, his back, his shoulders. This isn’t the body of the Lucas I once knew.
My heart starts to race—in panic, among other things. We’re alone here, and that carries all kinds of disconcerting possibilities.
As he did in the cafeteria, Luke seems to sense my presence; he turns his head my way. Unlike that day when he took off, his eyes hold mine, filling with some kind of intensity, a recognition, maybe, of the warmth radiating through my insides.
I sever our gaze and cross the room to deposit my backpack by the beds. It feels like Luke’s still watching, so I peek back to find him giving me a softish kind of smile.
“What?” I feel flushed, guilty. Also, I think I’ve rushed into this naked-face thing.
He refocuses on his stirring. “You’re looking rosy-cheeked and everything.” The words are benign, but his voice has gone flat.
“I know. Plain, plain, plain. Whatever.”
“No. Not, plain.” He glances over at me. “It’s nice to see you again, that’s all.”
“Okay, Melodrama. A little eye liner doesn’t exactly erase a person.”
“Yeah. A little doesn’t.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I face him, hands on hips.
“Look, Layla. I get the whole self-expression thing. I do, even if you don’t think so. But are you really expressing yourself, covering your eyes and mouth in all that black makeup? It’s like you’re wearing a mask.”
A glare is my only reply.
“Fine.” He nods, meeting the hardness in my gaze. “Maybe that is who you are.”
Now I’m offended that he thinks so. The makeup isn’t really me, but it isn’t not me, either.
He walks over to the woodpile and, having nowhere else to go, I follow—but only so I can protest to his back. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”
He stops abruptly and I almost bump into him. Then, he turns around just as unexpectedly and we’re standing face-to-face and way too close.
He looks down at me, his eyebrows knitting together. “I’m not trying to insult you. And I guess it’s not really even about your makeup, anyway. It just seems like the Layla I knew kind of disappeared, and now? You look like her again and it’s…I don’t know. I’m glad.”
“Well, thank goodness, because I was hoping against hope you would be.” I bring my hands together in a gesture of prayer, and roll my eyes as I turn away.
“The Layla Marshall I remember was fun and creative and…kind,” he continues, behind me. I twist back around and his gaze roams my face. “She was sad or angry, too, but only when she had to be.”
A memory swells behind my eyes: Lucas and I running together, laughing. It could have been one of a million shared moments.
I look up at him, hoping to see the boy he once was, but it’s difficult to locate my Lucas under all that jawbone and stubble.
“What’s your point?” My voice has grown thorns.
Luke frowns and shakes his head. He winces from the movement, his hand automatically going to the cut on his forehead, and he looks a little ill when he speaks. “My point is, if anger’s the thing you show the world most, you’re making everyone miss out.”
What he doesn’t know is that the people I surround myself with don’t often experience my anger. I guess I’ve been saving that side of myself especially for him.
♦ ♦ ♦
“Pretty good grub,” I tell Luke. We’ve set aside our differences in order to share an evening meal of rice and beans, complete with salt and pepper, a postponement from our earlier plans. “Where’d you learn to cook, Domestic Science?”
He rubs his fingers over his stubbly chin. “Nah. My dad doesn’t cook, so…learn or starve, I guess.”
“He cooked sometimes when you were little, though. After your mom left.”
Luke’s gaze catches mine before he looks away. It’s raw, whatever has shown in his eyes, and I can’t help but trace echoes of his eleven-year-old self through his features.
On the morning his mother disappeared years ago, Lucas showed up at my house, his chin quivering with held-back tears. I’d hardly ever seen my friend cry—not through snakebites, skinned knees, or a multitude of bumps and bruises—but this was pain of a different kind. When I reached out to touch his arm, he closed the space between us. I’d hardly ever hugged Lucas, despite all the secrets and fears and hopes we’d shared, but I embraced him then like both our lives depended on it.
“What is it? Are you hurt?” I’d asked as he sobbed into my hair, each ragged breath dragging a tremor through his body.
“No. My mom”—he said, choking—“she’s gone.”
I could—can—completely understand why Luke might be heartbroken, but it’s hard to fit his ongoing sensitivity into the context of his rough-and-tumble, football player persona. How could the Luke who commands high school hallways with his legion of jocks and fangirls have that lost little boy hiding anywhere inside him? Maybe I’m not the only one who’s been wearing a mask.
“I’m sorry, Luke. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine. Anyway, enough about the world at home. So, where the hell is my truck?”
“Your truck?” I’m not sure whether he’s joking or in worse shape than I’ve realized. “We got into an accident, and—”
“No,” he says. “I remember. I mean, I don’t remember the accident, but you told me about it. I remember that. I’m asking where my truck is now.”
“Oh. Um? I’m not exactly sure.” I pause to think. “We were on the road, and then we weren’t, and…it’s on the mountainside, lodged up against a tree, but there weren’t really any landm
arks or anything. Just trees and snow, like here.”
“Do you think we could spot it, if we found our way back to the right place?”
“Maybe. Except, it might be hard to locate. It took a really long time to get here…although, I did take us on a major detour, but only because I thought I saw some kind of shelter. It ended up being nothing more than a rundown shack, by the way, so…sorry about that.”
“Well, we’re still alive, right?”
“It’s looking that way. But why do you want to go searching for the truck?” My chest tightens as I ask the question. Does he understand what he’s considering, trading this place for bitter cold and an unknown destination? That combination hasn’t worked well for us so far.
“Just thought we could mark a path from there to here, in case anyone comes looking for us.” His head tips slightly. “…Plus, maybe we’ve left behind some useful things.”
“Things like toothpaste?”
He smirks. “Thanks for sharing. I did bring some, so yes, it must be in there. Speaking of which, why’d you let a guy with a concussion repack his bag?”
“Can’t answer with my mouth full,” I say, and help myself to another bite of rice.
♦ ♦ ♦
It’s a little weird, after dinner, with nothing to do but sit in our chairs by the fire and talk, or not talk. We’re both quiet for a while, lost in our tiredness, our thoughts. Then, Luke gets up to feed some chunks of wood to the stove and he’s smiling as he returns to his seat.
Picturing You Page 6