Starry Eyes

by Jenn Bennett

  Brett veers left just as I spot the main walkway. It’s lit up by tiny gold path lights. Brett and Reagan leap over some flowering shrubs to get to the path. Something crashes.

  “Oh, God!” Summer yells.

  Glass crushes under my shoes. The scent of wine floods my nose.

  “Keep going,” Brett says, chest heaving. “Don’t stop.”

  I glance back at the pavilion. It doesn’t look like anyone’s running after us. We leave the broken bottle behind and continue along the main path until we crest the top of a steep hill. The first camp of tents comes into view. Brett slows to a stop, and we all catch our breath and look down into the valley.

  This camp is nothing but yurts, all of them the shape of circus tents. They’re eerily lovely, glowing with warm, marigold light—sanctuaries in the darkening forest, one that parts to reveal a black sky. And everywhere—everywhere—in that sky, there are stars.

  My stars.

  It’s as if they appeared from nowhere. As if this is a completely different night sky than the one back home. We have a pretty clear view at the Melita Hills observatory, but the cities clustered in the Bay Area collectively produce a lot of light pollution.

  No cities out here.

  Oh, the photos I could take with my telescope!

  “Zorie!” Lennon calls.

  Crap. The group is on the move again, and everyone but the two of us has already made it halfway down the hill.

  “Sorry,” I say. I get my butt in motion and explain, “I spaced out.” I chuckle and catch my breath. “Literally.”

  What a dorky joke. All this physical activity is rotting my brain.

  “The stars, you mean?” he says, glancing up briefly. “It’s amazing, right? I knew you would love them out here.”

  He jogs faster to catch up with the group, and I race to follow, his surprising confession tumbling around inside my head. But not for long, because when we’re a few yards from the camp, Reagan comes to a stop.

  “What’s going on?” Kendrick asks.

  “On the path, near the third yurt,” she says.

  I scan ahead and spot the problem. A large man in a dark jacket stands with his back to us, chatting with a couple of campers. On the back of the jacket, the word MUIR is printed in white.

  “Mr. Randall,” Reagan says. “The compound’s security ranger. If you think the bartender was a jerk, he’s Santa Claus compared to Mr. Randall. We can’t be seen with all this wine. He’ll probably have us arrested.”

  Summer glances around. “What do we do? Should we go back?”

  “To the place that’s filled with people who saw us run?” Lennon says. “Yes, let’s return to the scene of the crime.”

  “I don’t know!” Summer says, eyes bright with panic. “Maybe we can hide until this Mr. Randall dude passes us?”

  I gesture toward the yurts. “He’s not the only roadblock. Look at all the tents. People are walking around.”

  “Guests are returning from the bonfire too,” Lennon says, glancing behind us, where laugher and chatter carry from a short distance.

  “We’re trapped,” Summer moans. “This sucks so hard. My legs are covered in wine splatter, and now we’re going to jail.”

  “Or we could stash the bottles somewhere,” Lennon says calmly. “And, you know, maybe not go to jail. But your plan works too.”

  Kendrick points to a waste disposal box. It’s a metal bear-resistant one, cemented to the ground, with a funny latch. “I doubt they’d clean these out tonight. We can stash the wine inside now and come back later, when people are sleeping.”

  “My boys!” Brett praises, helping Kendrick unlatch the garbage bin. “Pure genius. Lennon, I was thinking you failed me back at the bar when you weren’t there to watch my back, but your position as wingman is now restored.”

  “All my dreams are realized,” Lennon says, voice thick with sarcasm.

  While Reagan fusses about stashing the bottles near food scraps, they manage to clear out a space inside the bin for a dozen bottles. The last one doesn’t fit, so Brett sticks it inside his pants. Crude jokes are made. I ignore them, mainly because I’m watching the ranger.

  “Guys,” I say. “Shut the bin. He’s coming this way.”

  I don’t think he can see us all that well, but then again, I can see him. And when Lennon points out that we look obvious, hanging out by the garbage bin, we leave it and begin walking down the path. Calmly. Slowly. No getting around the ranger. I steel myself as we approach him.

  “Evenin’,” Mr. Randall says, giving us all a once-over. “You kids lost?”

  “No, sir,” Brett assures him. “Just heading back to our camp.”

  “Which is . . . ?”

  “Camp Owl,” Reagan says.

  He squints at her. “You look familiar.”

  “My parents stay here a lot,” she says.

  “If that’s true, then I don’t need to remind you that quiet hours will be starting soon. Plan accordingly.”

  “Thank you,” Reagan says.

  Mr. Randall nods, stepping aside to let us pass. I’m not sure if it’s my imagination, but he seems to sniff the air. So now I’m paranoid that he smells wine on us. I mean, we did trample a broken bottle into the ground.

  But if he suspects anything, he doesn’t stop us. And after I sneak a glance back at him, I breathe out a sigh of relief when he passes the garbage bin and continues up the hill toward the lodge.

  “I think we’re in the clear,” I tell the group as we make our way down the dark path through the yurt camp.

  “Lucky us,” Lennon says without conviction.

  For once, I don’t disagree with him.

  10

  * * *

  Turns out that “quiet hours” really do mean quiet. Even though the tent cabins in Camp Owl are spread apart, when it’s pitch-black outside and the usual white noise of city life—traffic, air conditioners, TV—is replaced by crickets, you can hear everything.

  And I do mean e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g.

  The flush of toilets. Distant laughter. The crunch of gravel as a stranger walks. Even the smallest noise is amplified. So when all six of us converge in the girls’ tent cabin to talk about how we are going to retrieve the hidden wine, it isn’t long before we decide that Brett and Lennon will get up early and cart the wine back in their packs. Actually, Brett volunteers Lennon, and Lennon just says drily, “I’ve always dreamed of being a rumrunner.”

  The boys retreat to their tent, and we get ready for bed. It’s been a while since I’ve slept in a bunk bed—and never since I slept in a tent. But after logging the events of the day in my minijournal and a couple of hours spent lying wide-awake in bed, cataloging all the nocturnal noises in camp, I manage to fall into a restless and unsettled sleep, waking periodically.

  When dawn pushes away the darkness, I give up on sleep and climb out of my bunk.

  It feels strange to be up so early. But Reagan is a morning person, and when I shimmy to the floor, I find her facedown, sprawled on top of a still-made bed. She never got under the covers? It’s insanely chilly in here. I’m a little worried something is wrong, so I shake her shoulder.

  “Go away,” she says in rough, muffled voice into her pillow. She sounds awful. And pissed off. So I leave her alone and gather my clothes as quietly as possible. Summer is still asleep, and I fear I’ll wake both of them up if I use the en suite bathroom, so I head out to the camp bathhouse.

  It’s far brisker outside the tent than inside, but I see lights in some of the other tents and silhouettes moving around, so I’m not the only person up this early. But I’m able to snag a free shower stall in the bathhouse, and I don’t hurry shaving and washing my hair so that my phone has time to charge. When I’m finished drying my hair, I hike back through the camp, feeling a lot more civilized. The boys’ tent is dark and both of the girls in my tent are still asleep. Unless I want to sit here and listen to Reagan snoring, my best bet is to head up to the lodge for early breakfast.
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br />   Blue-gray light filters through pine trees as I hike up the main path. The compound looks different out here in this light, so I have trouble spotting the garbage bin where we left the wine. Maybe Brett and Lennon have already retrieved all the bottles. I mentally cross my fingers and continue along the path toward the lodge.

  When I enter the pavilion where we ate dinner, I find an expansive breakfast bar set up on a couple of tables. Eggs, bacon, pastries. Also, an oatmeal station with a dozen topping choices, which one guest is browsing. Why anyone would want that over sausage is a mystery to me. Grabbing a plate, I lift up the lid of a silver chafing dish, and through the warm sausage steam, I get a hazy look at the person hovering over the oatmeal station. He’s tall, dark, and hot, and—

  OH MY GOD, I’m ogling Lennon.

  It’s like the telescope spying, only worse, because he’s three feet away from me, and I can’t duck to the floor and hide. At least he’s not half-naked.

  “Must be the end-times if you’re up before dawn,” he says, lips curling at the corners.

  “I couldn’t sleep. Roosters were crowing.”

  He laughs. “You’re thinking of a farm.”

  “Look, all I know is it sounded like a bird, and it was irritatingly loud.” I slide a quick smile in his direction. “So it was whatever you call mountain roosters.”

  “I think they probably call them hawks,” he says, amused.

  “Same difference.” I load up my plate with sausage and bacon. “So, oatmeal. Really? Can’t you eat that at home?”

  “I love oatmeal. Oatmeal is life.” He sprinkles a spoonful of almonds on his oatmeal. “You know, I believe Samuel Johnson in his infamous eighteenth-century dictionary described oats as something that the English feed to horses but the Scots feed to people.”

  I shake my head, smiling to myself. “You and the crazy factoids.”

  “And you’re just desperate for meat because you live with Joy,” he says, gesturing toward my plate.

  True. It’s not as if she cares that I’m a carnivore, but if she’s cooking, it’s a vegan freezer meal. “Last night was the first meat I’ve had this week,” I admit. “So I’m going full-on cavewoman here. Just meat and coffee. Maybe some sugar,” I say, adding a giant cinnamon roll to the top of my sausage stack. I spot some brown sugar among the oatmeal toppings and briefly consider sprinkling some on my bacon.

  “Ah, the ol’ Paleo Diabetes diet.”

  “I’m the picture of modern nutrition,” I say.

  “It gives your cheeks a healthy glow.” Eyes merry, he looks me in the face for the first time this morning, really looks at me, and I feel my ears warming.

  “That’s just good old-fashioned fear,” I tell him as I focus on the breakfast table, reopening a chafing dish I’ve already inspected once. “I had trouble sleeping last night. Too many things going bump in the night.”

  “It’s different, isn’t it? Even sleeping inside tent cabins. It’s still . . . wild.”

  Indeed, it is.

  Lennon hands me some silverware wrapped in a cloth napkin. “Want to eat on the deck and watch the sunrise? They’ve got patio heaters set up, and it looks like they’re bringing around coffee.”

  “Say no more,” I answer, hoping I sound casual and not as though I’m inexplicably happy to be eating breakfast with him.

  We carry our plates outside and find a place away from the other early risers, near a patio heater. The juxtaposition of gently billowing heat and nippy morning breeze mirrors my feelings about being alone with him. He’s both familiar and foreign, and I’m in a constant state of being on edge when we’re together.

  “Your plaid game is strong today,” he comments, sliding a fleeting glance in my direction.

  I smooth a hand over red-and-black plaid pants. They’re tight, and a little punk rock—pretty daring, at least for me. I don’t think he’s teasing. It’s hard to tell sometimes. “Thanks?”

  He nods, and I relax.

  “So,” I say, digging into my mountain of food. “Did you and Brett retrieve the wine?”

  “I didn’t,” he says. “He wanted Kendrick and me to go with him last night after we got back to our tent cabin. We both refused. Brett said he’d go himself, but I’m not sure how he planned to carry a dozen bottles, because he left without his pack. But he reeked like a French restaurant when I got up this morning—which is, frankly, better than that disgusting ax-murderer body spray he’s been wearing.”

  “He got drunk by himself?”

  “Or maybe he pulled a Summer and dropped another bottle,” Lennon says, shrugging lightly. “But when I came up here this morning, I checked the garbage bin and the bottles were gone, so I assume he managed to rescue them.”

  We eat in silence for a while. I’m not sure I want to discuss Brett any further with him, and he doesn’t offer any other information. He finally pats his pocket and says, “I picked up the backcountry permit at the front desk from Candy’s husband, so we’re good to go with that. I also checked out the store in the lodge. They’ve got bear canisters for rent. If you’re caught with food and you don’t have one, you get fined. It’s on the King’s Forest information sheet that comes with the permit, if you want to see it.”

  He starts to dig it out from his pocket, but I wave it away. “I believe you.”

  “But . . . ?”

  “It’s just . . . I don’t know,” I say, snapping off a piece of crisp bacon. “I joked with my mom about seeing wild animals on hikes, but it never truly struck me that they’d pose that much of a threat.”

  Lennon chuckles. “There’s danger lurking everywhere. I’m talking deadly.”

  “Terrific,” I mumble.

  “Not just wild animals, either. Out in the Sierras, people have been killed by rock slides, drowning, falling off cliffs, heart attacks from hiking tough trails, being crushed by falling trees—”

  “Jesus.”

  “—heat stroke, hypothermia, boiled to death in hot springs, killed by crazy serial killers, poisoned by plants, contracting hantavirus.”

  “Hanta what?”

  “Transmitted through deer mouse droppings.”

  “Um, hello. Trying to eat, here,” I complain.

  “I’m just saying, there’s a lot of lethal stuff out there. But that’s half the fun.”

  “Not surprised you’d think that.”

  “I don’t mean in a thrill-seeking way. I mean learning how to spot danger and avoid it in a responsible, careful way. You have to understand your environment. Respect it. Do you think my parents would let me go backpacking if they didn’t believe I knew how to handle myself out there? They trust me because I treat it seriously. And that’s why they wanted me to come. I mean, you know they wouldn’t just agree to take care of my reptiles for a week unless it was important.”

  True.

  “Wait,” I say. “Your moms wanted you to come?”

  One shoulder lifts briefly and falls. “I was worried Brett would go derping off to look for the hidden waterfall himself if I didn’t help. And we both know what a moron he is. No offense. I know you used to be into him. Or maybe you still are. . . .” Eyes down, his gaze briefly flicks to mine.

  I don’t know what to say. I’m not even sure how I feel. The last twenty-four hours have been strange. I guess I thought it would be more thrilling to be around Brett outside of school, but we’re barely ever alone together. Maybe if we spent any time away from the group, he’d let the whole super-bro personality drop. I know he does it for attention and that there’s a different side to him. But then, we just got here.

  There’s also been Lennon. I hadn’t planned on him. And when I wasn’t getting spooked about animal noises in the woods last night, I spent my tossing-and-turning moments replaying all of our conversations in my head, trying to figure out if we’re friends again, or if he wants to be—if I want to be. I haven’t come to any conclusion.

  Something clicks inside my head now, though.

  “Your parents encoura
ged you to come on this trip,” I say, “because of Brett? They know he’s here?”

  Lennon shrugs. “Yeah.”

  “Do Sunny and Mac know that I’m here?”

  A brisk wind blows as he scrapes his spoon on the inside of his bowl, gathering a last bite of oatmeal. “That’s why they wanted me to come. To . . . make sure you’re safe.”

  A hundred emotions pummel me at once. I can’t even begin to sort through them, so I lash out with the first thing I can wrap my mind around. “I’m not an idiot, you know. I can take care of myself. I may not be in Olympic shape like Reagan, but I can handle a stupid hike.”

  “Of course you can.”

  “I can identify thousands of stars, so I’m pretty sure I can read a map.”

  “Never said you couldn’t. You’re the smartest person here by a long shot.”

  “Then why are you making it sound like I’m incompetent?”

  He groans. “You’re competent. More than competent. I trust you a million times more than anyone else in this compound.”

  He does? After months of not talking? This does something funny to my heart.

  “Think of it this way,” he says. “If I needed to know whether Pluto was a real planet—”

  “It’s not.”

  “—then I would ask you. But if I needed to know how to build a bong, I would ask Brett. We all have our areas of expertise. Mine is wilderness backpacking.”

  “But I never knew that!” I say, exasperated. “Your expertise is supposed to be how to survive a night in a haunted house.”

  “In a way, they aren’t that different.”

  I’m frustrated, and he’s cracking jokes. I can’t figure him out. “Is this about that photo book?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.

  “What?”

  “Is that why you came? Why your parents forced you to come? If you and your moms are just feeling sorry for me about my dad cheating, you can keep your sympathy. I don’t need it. I’m fine.”