by Don Calame
I look at the lake, then at the bear rushing toward us.
There’s no way we’re all going to make it to the water in time. I can see that. The bear is too close, running like a linebacker returning a punt.
An odd sense of calm comes over me.
I glance over at Clint’s crumpled parachute.
I know exactly what I have to do.
I am a coward.
I realize that now. In everything I’ve done so far in my life — or not done — I have been spineless.
I’ve never stood up to the bullies at school.
I couldn’t tell Mom how I was feeling when she got engaged to Hank.
I haven’t been able to talk to Erin since third freaking grade.
I couldn’t muster the courage to try to save Penelope from the snake or the bear.
And most recently, of course, I was too chicken to go over and talk to Hank when he caught his fish. Too scared to try to patch things up. So, I’ve done nothing.
Until now.
I am thinking all of this as I place Robbie on a bed of leaves and grab my sketchbook from the sand. I turn toward the bear and scream, “Hey! Hey! Over here!”
I fling the pad like a Frisbee. It slices the air, sailing thirty yards and finally opening with a flutter before landing in the water at the bear’s feet.
The animal stops. Turns. Looks at me.
Then I snatch up the parachute and shove my arms through the harness straps.
And sprint.
Right at the bear.
“Noooo!” Hank shouts, waist deep in the lake, Charlie still clinging to his back.
“Daaaaaan!” Penelope screams from where she wades.
But it’s too late. I’m committed.
I pump my arms and legs, thinking again of the Flash. I have to get up enough speed to inflate the chute. I need to make myself look big and scary.
The bear stops in its tracks, watching me race toward it.
But I’m not feeling the resistance I’d expected to feel. I glance back as I run — and nearly topple over.
The parachute strings are all tangled up. There’s no way for the rainbow canopy to billow out as I’d planned.
Which means I’m screwed.
I stutter-step to a panicked halt just a few feet from the bear.
It grunts and sniffs the air, its scarred nostrils flaring. Surely I no longer smell of deer pee. All I have left on is my boxers, and Charlie didn’t spray those. The bear can’t possibly be attracted to me now, right?
As if in response, the bear stretches its neck and roars — its spittle flecking my cheeks, its meaty breath hot and musky.
I gulp.
We stare at each other.
Then it rushes me.
“Fuuuuuck!” I squeal, cutting sharp around the bear and hauling ass, just like Penelope described.
And it works. It takes a moment for the bear to adjust its huge body so it can make the turn and come after me — which gives me an extra couple of seconds to channel my inner Barry Allen.
I put everything I have into my legs. I run faster than I have ever run in my life. Even faster than when we were trying to get back to the lake to meet Clint’s plane.
My thighs burn, my feet kick up sand.
Then, all of a sudden, I’m barely moving.
The bear must have grabbed my chute!
I have to get free of this harness. Let the bear chew up the silk. Maybe I can get away before it realizes what’s happened.
I slip my arms from the straps, drop the harness, and take off, feeling suddenly weightless.
I glance back and see that the parachute has somehow inflated. It’s huge — a bright, beautiful, giant jellyfish.
The bear snarls at the parachute, which blows toward it in the wind. The beast smacks at the ground and snorts and growls. But the chute keeps advancing.
The bear gives one last, loud snort —
Then turns and dashes off into the forest.
I collapse to my knees, out of breath, out of energy, adrenaline leaching from my nearly naked body.
“Dan!” Charlie calls out, his camera fused to his eye. “Holy crap! You did it! You scared off the bear! That was absolutely genius!”
I try to get to my feet, but I can’t move — can hardly get air into my lungs.
Moments later everyone’s by my side, helping me to my feet and cheering like I’ve just won the Indy 500. I want to smile, to wave off the praise like it was nothing — like I do this sort of thing all the time.
Instead, I fold over and hurl a surge of partially digested salmon and field greens all over everyone’s feet.
I sleep like a corpse. There are no dreams. No thoughts. Nothing.
When I wake the next day, it’s actually a surprise: I feel like I’ve been resurrected from the dead. My mouth tastes chalky and sour, my eyes are crusty, and my head feels like it’s wrapped in cotton. It takes me a long time to get my bearings, to remember where I am and all that’s happened.
I crawl from the empty hut, the early morning light stinging my eyes. Penelope and Charlie are restocking the signal fire while Hank, Max, and Barbara are stretching the rainbow parachute out on the beach as wide as they can, securing the edges with large stones so it doesn’t blow away.
“Should we write a message on it?” Barbara asks. “Help or something?”
“I’ll do it,” I say. I walk to the campfire and grab a burnt stick. I’m wearing an extra pair of Max’s shorts and one of Barbara’s pink T-shirts that reads KISS ME, I’M BOOTYLICIOUS — if Erin could see me now . . .
I strap on the baby carrier that Clint made me out of the parachute harness and some vines, Baby Robbie cooing as I tromp across the sand.
Barbara turns to Max. “Care to join me in a little more harvesting?” she asks.
Max gives her a knowing wink. “I think I can muster up the energy for bit of reaping.”
The two of them laugh, grasp hands, and bound off into the woods together, ensuring that I will go nowhere near the forest for the next two hours.
“I’ll see if I can catch us some lunch,” Hank says, turning and limping back to our hut.
I climb into the middle of the parachute and use the burnt end of the stick to write SOS in giant letters. Then I draw a huge Werebear with snarling teeth and razor-sharp claws underneath — so whoever sees this knows we’re not kidding.
“I like it,” Clint says, giving me a big smile. I crawl off the parachute, and Clint offers me a hand up.
“I’m going to do a little scavenger hunt,” he says. “See if anything of use survived the plane crash. Wanna come?”
“Thanks . . .” I say, glancing over at Hank as he wades into the lake. “But I think I’m going to take Hank up on that fishing lesson.”
Clint nods. “Sounds like a lot more fun. And a much better use of your time. Can’t imagine I’m going to find much out there.”
Clint shuffles off.
I stand there, waiting — for what, I don’t know. For my legs to carry me forward. For this weird shyness to dissipate. What if Hank is pissed at me? What if he hates my guts and tells me to get lost?
But I’m done being a coward, and so I force myself to move.
“Hey,” I say, when I reach the water’s edge. “Can I . . . Could you teach me how you do that?”
Hank smiles big. “Sure thing, bud,” he says. “Let’s get a pole set up for you.”
He joins me on land, and we find the perfect branch: a live one with good bend. We gather up some strong vines for the line and a thorny twig to use for my hook. Hank baits the twig with a small piece of salmon skin.
“That should do just fine,” he says, admiring our work. “Now brace yourself. The water’s pretty icy.”
I take a deep breath and we wade together into the lake. The cold water burns my toes, sending a chill rocketing up my spine.
Hank stands beside me. He shows me how to hold the fishing rod with two hands. How to cast the line and how to tug it g
ently so the hook dances under the water, enticing the fish.
“That’s right, good,” Hank says as I jiggle my fishing pole.
“It’s really cool that you know how to do this,” I acknowledge, nodding at our makeshift supplies.
“Thanks,” Hank says. “Of course, this is nothing compared to scaring off killer bears.”
“Yeah,” I say, glancing down, my face flushing as I remember him screaming at me not to charge the bear. “I-I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you. It just — it looked like the bear was going to catch up to us, and it was my fault he was after us, so I knew I had to do something —”
Hank reaches over and adjusts my hands on the fishing pole. “All I care about is that you’re OK,” he says. “Though, I’m not ashamed to admit that a little bit of pee escaped me when you ran toward that animal.”
I laugh.
“I mean, your mom may — or may not — forgive me for misleading her about my hunting skills,” Hank says. “But she would never forgive me if I let you get eaten by a bear.” He looks at me, his eyes filling with tears. “That was the scariest moment of my life — watching you take on that animal.” He blinks and shakes his head, like he’s trying to dislodge the memory.
I blink, too, and look away. We stand there for a bit, the two of us, fishing together in silence. It feels nice. Peaceful. Good.
“You think you can ever forgive me?” I ask, breaking the silence.
“For scaring the crap out of me?” Hank says.
“For everything. I was wrong about you. I didn’t even give you a chance. I’m really sorry. I was so convinced that you’d turn out to be a jerk that I tried everything I could think of to get you to act like one. Only you never did. Because you’re not a jerk. In fact”— I glance at him —“you’re the best boyfriend that Mom has ever had.” I shrug. “Of course, that’s not exactly saying a whole lot. But still, I’m really sorry for all the crap I pulled and . . . I don’t want you to go. I want you to marry Mom.”
I look over at him, a sad smile tugging the corner of his mouth.
“I get it, Dan,” Hank says. “Believe me, if anyone understands dad challenges, it’s me. I accept your apology — if you accept mine.”
“Oh my God, yes, for sure,” I blurt, relief flooding me.
Hank laughs. “Great. Now let’s just hope your mother forgives me.”
“You don’t have to tell her,” I say. “About you not being a hunter, I mean. I won’t say anything. She never has to find out.”
Hank smiles. “That’s nice of you, Dan, but I am going to tell her. I can’t go on pretending to be someone I’m not. Your mom deserves better than that. Heck, she probably deserves better than me.” He glances at me. “If she does still want to marry me once she knows the truth, though, will you still be my best man?”
I nod, feeling my chest tighten. “If you’ll still have me.”
“Nothing would make me happier,” he says. “Of course, a best man needs to make sure everyone’s on schedule. Which means you’re going to need something”— he unclips his giant man-watch from his wrist —“to keep the time.” Hank holds the watch out to me.
I shake my head and swallow. “No way, I couldn’t . . .”
“I’d really like you to have it.”
I reach out and take it from him. I stare down at the clear cobalt-blue face, the second hand gliding smoothly around the dial.
Hank clears his throat. “I know it’s not any sort of replacement . . . for what you lost or anything . . .”
“No,” I say, my eyes getting hot, my throat scratchy. “It’s way better.”
And not just because it works.
I slide it over my hand and clip the latch, feeling the weight of it on my wrist.
It feels solid.
Like something that’ll last.
We fish until our legs go numb but catch nothing.
No plane comes that day.
Or the next.
Or the next.
Hank and I go to the lake each morning, only ever catching enough fish to keep us fed but not enough to keep us full. Charlie and Penelope tend the fires and cook. Clint keeps the shelter sturdy and solid. Occasionally he wanders off to check for supplies from his obliterated plane, but so far he’s found only scrap metal.
And Max and Barbara disappear into the bush every day, returning hours later with armfuls of greens and big smiles.
Three days after we were supposed to have returned home, we hear the sound of an engine in the distance. We shout and race around, shielding our eyes and trying to spot the plane. But it must be flying over another part of the wilderness, because we never do see it.
The next day we hear the plane again, but again we don’t catch sight of it.
And then we hear nothing.
And nothing.
And nothing.
It’s been seven days since we set the first signal fire, and though no one is saying it, I can tell that everyone is starting to lose hope.
For a short time — after the bear was gone and we’d heard that first plane — it felt kind of like an adventure. We weren’t stranded with no hope of rescue, like Robinson Crusoe or Oliver Queen. We worked as a team and got into a rhythm, fishing and hunting and gathering roughage and kindling during the day and telling stories over the campfire at night. Probably the sort of thing Mom had pictured from the get-go.
But now food is getting harder to come by.
And it’s been four days since we heard a plane.
And tempers are starting to flare.
I spend most of my time fishing with Hank, drawing in my mangled sketchbook, and tending to the newly vocal Baby Robbie.
“I’ve got it,” Charlie says, sitting down next to me as I rock back and forth, snuggling and feeding the doll inside the makeshift carrier.
“Got what?” I ask.
“The solution to the Baby-Real-A-Lot dilemma — you know, how to explain his many upgrades.” He grins like the Cheshire cat and pushes his glasses up on his nose. “It came to me as I was trying to squeeze the last dregs of power from my camera’s battery by overriding its OS. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”
I’m tempted to tell him that the last thing in the world I’m worried about is my Life Skills grade. But instead I force a smile and say, “OK. What do you got?”
“A simple e-mail to Ms. Drizzler,” Charlie says. “I can make it appear to be from InfantWorks with the subject ‘Automatic Software Update.’ Something to the effect of this being version four-point-oh-one-two or some such. Pushed out to all of the units via Wi-Fi, adding improvements to the doll’s operating system in an effort to make the baby-rearing experience more realistic than ever, blah, blah, blah. Very official, unverifiable, the whole nine yards.”
“That’s a great idea, Charlie,” I say brightly. “You think she’ll buy it?”
“Why not?” he says. “If your phone and iPad and electric toothbrush can be updated, why not a computerized doll?”
“Good point,” I say, pulling the bottle from the baby’s pursing lips.
“Done, done,” Baby Robbie coos. “I sleepy.”
Charlie looks over at the doll. “I might have to fix that scratchy humming noise it makes when it talks, though.”
I look down at Robbie. “What noise?”
“It’s probably just a loose wire or something. Sounds like a dishwasher on dry cycle.”
I lower my ear toward the doll. “I don’t hear anything.”
And then I do.
A buzzing noise. A low drone. But it’s not coming from Baby Robbie.
I look up into the sky. “It’s not the doll,” I say. “There!” I point.
A plane flies high overhead.
Charlie scrambles to his feet. “Holy crap, is that —?”
Everyone seems to see it at once.
“The parachute!” Clint shouts from the shore. “Everybody! Now!”
The seven of us — eight, if you count Baby Robbie in his
carrier — rush over to the parachute, each grabbing an edge.
And we shake it.
We wave it.
We billow it like crazy —
Until the red search-and-rescue plane starts to descend toward the lake.
“What do you think?” Charlie says, holding up a hot-off-the-presses copy of the Willowvale Oracle.
He’s grinning hugely, his chest puffed up proud. His scuffed-up camera hangs around his neck, and he’s clutching a stack of school newspapers under his cast-sheathed right arm.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him since we got back. His grandparents whisked him straight to the hospital to get his arm examined. He texted me the results: FRACTURED ULNA AND FRACTURED DISTAL RADIUS; NOT DISPLACED SO NO SURGERY NECESSARY. He texted me again when he got home — BLUE ARM CAST AND PAIN MEDs — and said he was going to dash off the “Automatic Update” e-mail to Ms. Drizzler and then spend the rest of the weekend working on a special issue of the Oracle so that he could get it out on our first day back.
I shut my locker, Baby Robbie balanced on my left hip, and stare at the front page. I laugh. “Seriously?”
Above a huge picture of me charging the bear — in my glow-in-the-dark smiley-face boxers — is the headline DAN VERSUS NATURE.
“That’s a bit much, don’t you think?”
“Are you kidding me?” Charlie says. “The public is absolutely devouring this. First bell has yet to peal and I am nearly sold out. You’re going to be the hero of Willowvale High by the end of homeroom.”
I roll my eyes. “Somehow I find that difficult to believe.”
“All right,” Charlie says. “Maybe the centerfold shots of you vomiting in the van and your wasp-stung penis do detract a bit from your underpantsed act of heroism. But at least I didn’t lead with those.”
I snatch the paper from him. “You bastard!” My whole body breaks out into a sweat as I shake the paper open to the center page and glance at the photos: more shots of the bear, the burning plane, the baby fawn, the skinned squirrel, Charlie arm in arm with Penelope . . . but none of me in my various stages of embarrassment.
“Ha-ha,” I say, shoving the paper back at Charlie. “You got me. Good one.”