Starry Eyes

by Jenn Bennett

  But everyone else is apparently a million times braver, and they all want Lennon to frighten them.

  “I’m so ready,” Summer says.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Long legs bent, Lennon sits on the edge of a boulder and leans forward, settling his forearms on his thighs. “Okay, so back before school ended, I was taking weekend wilderness survival classes on the other side of Mount Diablo. It’s run by ex-military people along with this retired search-and-rescue ranger who used to work in Yellowstone. His name was Varg.”

  “Varg?” Summer repeats.

  “It’s Swedish,” Lennon says. “And this guy was no one to fuck around with. Six five, big as a barn, scars everywhere. He’s rescued people from landslides and cave-ins. Fires. And he’s found a lot of dead bodies. People go missing in the wilderness all the time, and if they’re lost, they sometimes run out of food and starve to death, or they are attacked by animals or crushed by falling rocks. Fall into hot geysers.”

  “Jesus,” Reagan complains.

  “In winter, they freeze. Varg said he found an entire family frozen in the mountains. Amateur mountain climbers. They’d been there a week, trapped on a ledge. An animal had eaten the husband’s leg.”

  “Ew!” Summer says.

  I make a mental note to never, ever go camping in winter.

  Lennon twines his fingers together loosely. “But Varg said even though he’d found dozens of corpses throughout his career—which is a lot of dead bodies—he never once believed in the possibility of ghosts. Not until he traveled to Venezuela.”

  “What’s in Venezuela?” Brett asks, holding his phone up.

  “Are you videoing this?” Lennon asks.

  “Of course. Now I’ll have to edit that part out.”

  As the waterfall cascades steadily behind him, Lennon gives Brett a long, unnerving look.

  Brett shuts off his phone and pockets it.

  Then Lennon continues.

  “When Varg was outside Caracas, doing some kind of search-and-rescue seminar with local rangers, they spent the night in the mountains during a full moon. Nothing extraordinary happened. They built a fire. Ate. Talked. A lot like this, I suppose,” Lennon says. “But when it got late and everyone had turned in for the night, he stayed at the campfire, making sure the embers were out. And as he was sitting there, the hairs on the back of his neck rose. He had the distinct feeling someone was watching him.”

  “Uh-oh,” Kendrick murmurs.

  Lennon points to the tree branch hanging above the granite shelter. “Varg looked up at a nearby tree and saw a boy about our age sitting on a branch. He was high up, and the trunk of the tree didn’t have any low-hanging branches, so Varg couldn’t figure how he’d gotten up there. He called up to the boy, but the boy didn’t answer. And because it was dark, Varg couldn’t see him well, but his mind tried to rationalize his presence, and—I guess because of the nature of his job—he was worried that the boy was stuck. In trouble, you know. Needed help.”

  “I don’t like where this is going,” Summer says, curling up against Kendrick’s side.

  Lennon continues. “When he got closer and stood beneath the branch, the light from the moon gave him a better view of the boy. He was wearing strange clothes. It took Varg a few moments to realize that they were a soldier’s uniform . . . from, like, the eighteen hundreds.”

  “Oh, shit,” Reagan murmurs.

  Brett slings his arm around her shoulders. She leans into him. When Brett notices I’m watching, he says, “Come on, girl. I got enough for everyone.” And he puts his arm around my shoulders too, and pulls me closer.

  I’m not sure how I feel about this. Uncomfortable. I think that’s how I feel. Really, really uncomfortable. Especially when Reagan’s judgmental eyes slide toward mine. And Lennon has paused his story, so I glance in his direction. Murder. That’s what his face looks like. Not toward me, but Brett. Flickering shadows cast by the campfire’s flames deepen the hollows of his cheeks and outline the sharp planes of his face.

  Don’t you ever miss us?

  Oh, God. Before I can think about it, I pretend to cough and pull out of Brett’s arm, slapping a hand against my chest for added effect.

  “You okay?” Brett asks, genuinely concerned.

  I nod vigorously and cough once more before stealthily scooting an inch away. He doesn’t try to put his arm around me again, and I’ve never been so relieved. My brain is telling me how backward this is—didn’t I come out here for this exact reason? For a chance to spend time with him? But my body is telling me to move a little farther away.

  What’s wrong with me, anyway? Is what Reagan said earlier messing with my head?

  “Is that the end of the story?” Summer asks Lennon.

  He flicks an unreadable glance toward me before answering her. “Do you really want to hear the rest?”

  “Yes!” Summer and Kendrick say.

  Lennon complies. “So, Varg was alarmed to find a boy dressed in this manner, but he tried to be rational about it. He called out to him again, but the boy still wouldn’t answer. Varg wondered if he couldn’t understand English, so he ran a couple of yards away to the tents and woke one of the local men to help translate. When they returned to the tree, the boy was gone.”

  “Oooh,” Summer says.

  Goose bumps dimple my arms. I pull down the sleeves of my hoodie and cross my arms over my stomach.

  “Varg was badly shaken up by this, naturally,” Lennon says. “He didn’t know if it was a ghost, or his imagination. Maybe he’d fallen asleep at the fire and dreamed it. He told himself all kinds of things. But that was his last night in the mountains there, so the next day, they drove to the city, and he got on a flight back to the States. When he returned to Wyoming, it was night before he made it into Yellowstone. He lived inside the park, in dormitory-style housing with other rangers. And when he got up to his room, which was on the second story, he opened his window to let in some air, and just outside, on an impossibly high branch, was the silent soldier boy. He’d followed him home.”

  My eyes water. Not gonna lie: I am 100 percent scared.

  “Wicked,” Brett whispers.

  “No way,” Summer says. “Oh my God. What did he do?”

  Lennon hunches lower over his legs, leaning closer to the fire. “Well, he—”

  “He what? He what?” Summer says.

  Lennon’s head tilts. “Did you hear that?”

  “Shut the hell up,” Reagan whispers, visibly frightened. “Stop it, Lennon.”

  “Are you scared?” Brett asks Reagan, hugging her closer. “Oh my God. You totally are!”

  “Hey!” Lennon shouts. “I’m serious. Listen.”

  The campfire is quiet. All I can hear is the steady cascade of the waterfall. And—

  Oh.

  “What the hell?” Brett whispers.

  It’s coming from the tents, and it sounds like—

  Like someone’s going through our stuff.

  Lennon signals for everyone to stay where they are, and then he straps a small headlamp onto his head, flipping on the light as he jumps off the rock and heads out of the granite shelter.

  A dozen scenarios race through my mind, and none of them are good. I’m terrified, but I not staying here while Lennon marches away to his death. I jump up and chase him into darkness, tracking the bouncing light of his headlamp until I catch up to him.

  “Stay behind me,” he whispers.

  I can hear the rest of the group debating whether to follow, and they are soon behind us, making as much noise as the mystery interloper.

  The sound of our footsteps creeping toward the tents is overloud in my ears. Twigs break. Leaves crunch. We head around a tree that marks the outer edge of the campsite. Our tents are all spread apart, some of them closer to the river, some closer to the woods. The first one is Lennon’s. Mine is just to the left, near a big boulder. We creep between the two tents, watching each step. I hear noise, but the dull roar of the waterfall is c
onfusing my brain. I frantically look around, trying to spot danger, when Lennon blindly reaches back a hand to halt me.

  My heart slams against my rib cage. Then I spot it near the river.

  Several yards ahead, the navy-blue silhouettes of Reagan and Brett’s tents stand in the moonlight, their dome shapes like igloos rising from the dark riverbank. One of those tents doesn’t look right. It’s misshapen. A giant, half-deflated soccer ball. And when Lennon’s headlamp shines over it, an enormous dark shape turns around to face the light.

  13

  * * *

  Black bear.

  Big black bear.

  Big black bear tearing up Brett’s tent.

  The group catches up to us as shock winds through me. Reagan runs into my back, and I nearly topple over. Summer makes a terrified sound.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Brett whispers, spotting the bear. “Oh Jesus, oh Jesus!”

  My mind empties. Every nerve in my body sings.

  As if he can hear my panicked thoughts, the bear lifts his head to sniff the air. His small eyes glow chartreuse in Lennon’s headlamp, reflecting the light.

  “Don’t move,” Lennon says over his shoulder. “Don’t run. He might chase you.”

  What the hell are we supposed to do, then? The wind blows the bear’s musky scent in our direction, and my feet want to flee, despite Lennon’s warning.

  We all stand silently. Staring. The bear stares back. He sniffs the air again, and a huge pink tongue licks the side of his muzzle. He’s curious about us, and completely unafraid. In fact, whatever he smells in the air has made him brave. He steps out of Brett’s tent, paw ripping the fabric as his leg swings around.

  He’s going to charge us.

  We’re going to die. If I was scared during Lennon’s story, I’m petrified now. I inhale a shaky breath. I really wish Andromeda were here. She would bark this bear into submission.

  Or she’d tuck tail and run, which is exactly what I want to do.

  “Hey!” Lennon shouts in a booming voice that makes me jump. “Get the hell out of here! Get out!” He’s waving his hands over his head as if he’s dressed up like a vampire on Halloween and trying to scare little kids. Only, he sounds absolutely furious. And because his big voice is so deep, it carries over the river and bounces back in a thundering echo.

  The bear is now paying attention. He pauses midstep, one enormous paw in the air, and his head stills.

  Lennon lunges forward—just one long stride. But he bellows once more as he does it, and images of him stupidly throwing himself at the bear flash behind my eyes. Blood. Screaming. Horror. I see it all unfolding, and I’m too terrified to do anything to stop it.

  “I said, get out!” Lennon shouts, clapping his hands loudly several times. He quickly scoops something off the ground and throws it at the bear. A rock? I can’t tell. But it hits the bear on the nose.

  WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?

  The bear shakes off the projectile. My body prepares to flee. And then—

  His big, furry body slowly turns around. The bear shambles away, crushing the tent beneath him in two steps.

  Lennon claps again and starts walking toward it, slowly, casually. Shouting as if he’s trying to get a horse to gallop. And then the bear picks up speed and runs into the dark woods.

  Gone.

  I stare at the edge of the forest until my eyes sting. Is it really gone? Or is he faking us out, only to turn around and race toward us on his hind legs? Wait, do black bears stand on their hind legs? Or is it just grizzly bears? I don’t know. Why don’t I know?

  “It’s okay now,” Lennon is saying. His hand is shockingly warm and firm on my neck. “Hey, it’s okay. He’s gone.”

  I glance at him, dazed. It takes me several moments to find my voice, and when I do, my tongue is thick in my mouth. “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure,” Lennon says, glancing over his shoulder at the woods. “Listen. You can hear it retreating. Those are pinecones making all the noise under his feet.”

  I barely hear anything. Which is good. I don’t want to hear bear feet making noise.

  “Holy shit, that was intense,” Kendrick says. “He’s really gone?”

  “For now,” Lennon says.

  “What do you mean?” Reagan asks. “Will he come back?”

  Lennon shines his headlamp on the destroyed tent. “If he’s after something, maybe. Whose tent is that?”

  “Pretty sure it’s Brett’s,” Summer says, flicking on a handheld flashlight.

  She’s right. Reagan and Brett both chose tent spots that were next to the river.

  Lennon grumbles under his breath and cautiously walks toward the fallen tent as we follow to inspect the damage. I suspect it’s pretty bad, but when Lennon picks up one side of the nylon, I now see that it’s irreparable. This is no tear. A gaping hole extends down the length of the one-man tent. Lennon crouches and peers beneath the flap of fabric. “Are you kidding me?”

  “What’s wrong?” I say.

  Lennon holds up the remains of a package of store-bought chocolate chip cookies. Crumbs fall. The whole thing’s ripped wide open. It’s not the only thing. When Summer shines her flashlight on the tent’s floor, she illuminates pouches of tuna. Candy. Pretzels.

  Brett’s entire food stash.

  It’s spilling out from an open bear canister—one that Lennon forced him to get. The lid is several feet away, buried under the food rubble.

  “The canisters aren’t even supposed to be inside our tents,” Lennon says. “At the campfire—that’s where they need to be stored. And why is this open?”

  “Maybe the bear opened it?” Summer says.

  “They can’t be opened by a bear,” Lennon says. “That’s the whole point!”

  I look around. “Um, where is Brett?”

  “I’m here,” a voice says. Brett’s curly head peeks out from behind a tree, and he puts up a hand to shield his eyes from the dueling lights of Lennon’s headlamp and Summer’s flashlight.

  “Did you not put the lid on your food?” Lennon says, suddenly livid.

  “Of course I did,” Brett says, surveying the damage with his phone. He’s videoing everything. “Holy crap. That bear really went to town, didn’t he?”

  “This isn’t funny,” Lennon says. “And you didn’t put the lid on, or the bear wouldn’t have smelled the food.”

  Brett’s eyes tighten. “I said I put it on, dude. The canister was defective.”

  “Hmm,” Kendrick says, squinting at the tent. “I don’t know. I mean, it’s a lid and it screws on. How could it be defective?”

  “It’s not. He forgot to put it on,” Lennon says.

  Brett bristles. “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “I don’t know,” Lennon replies. “Are you?”

  “Whoa,” Reagan says. “Everyone calm down. Lennon, if Brett says it was defective, it was.”

  Lennon stands and gets in Brett’s face. “Where were you?”

  “Hey, stop shining that damn headlamp in my eyes,” Brett complains.

  “Just now. You weren’t with the group. Where were you? Did you run from the bear?”

  “Um, no.”

  Lennon gestures dramatically. “I told you not to run. They see you as prey, and they’ll chase you. Black bears can run faster than humans.”

  “Not Reagan,” Brett says, attempting to lighten the mood.

  “Yes, even Reagan,” Lennon insists. “Even freaking Usain Bolt, if the bear was angry and charging at full speed. That one there was easily three hundred pounds. It could have killed any one of us.”

  “Dude, you need to chill,” Brett says, getting annoyed. “Your holier-than-thou shit is starting to stink.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll stop preaching when you pay attention and quit treating this like a game.”

  “I haven’t done anything.”

  “You neglected to put the lid on your canister,” Lennon says, stabbing a finger in the air accusingly. “Then you ran from the bear after I
said not to.”

  Brett roughly pushes Lennon. “Guess what? You aren’t in charge, dude.”

  Lennon shoves Brett’s shoulder. “You put us all in danger, dude.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Kendrick says, getting between the two boys and forcing them apart. “We’re not gonna do this. Let’s all relax and figure it out.”

  “There’s nothing to figure out,” Lennon says.

  Reagan steps into the circle. “Hey! Maybe you need to consider that Brett’s telling the truth.”

  “Thank you, Reagan,” Brett says, still angry. “I’m glad someone here trusts me.”

  Everyone tries to talk at once. Kendrick wants people to settle down. Lennon wants Brett to admit that he’s wrong. Reagan wants Lennon to leave Brett alone. Summer wants to know if the bear is going to come back—which is something I think we all need to consider. So with her help, I start packing Brett’s food remnants inside the now-empty bear canister, sweeping up cookie crumbs into my palm. My eyes fall on the canister lid, poking out from the rubble.

  It crosses my mind that all I’d need to do is pick it up and test it out on the canister to see if Brett was lying about it being faulty. Do I want to know? If Brett was lying, he’ll look like an idiot. Or Lennon might kill him. Conflicting emotions swirl inside my chest, so I continue cleaning up, avoiding the lid.

  “This is a wreck,” Summer says when the arguing dies down, lifting up a piece of shredded tent. “I know we talked about wild animals, but I swear, in a million years, I never really believed we’d see one. Like, maybe some squirrels or rabbits. But not this.”

  That makes two of us.

  Sullen, Lennon kneels at my side and picks up a dented can.

  “Did you see any bears when you were out here before?” Summer asks Lennon. “Is that how you knew what to do?”

  He shakes his head. “I’ve seen them alongside bigger trails in other parts of the park, but they always kept their distance. This one is way too comfortable around people. I think I need to report it, so that the rangers can keep an eye on this area. But right now, we need to make sure the food is contained so that it doesn’t come back.”