by Jane Kelley
The Bear drops down onto its four legs. It picks up the package with its teeth. Then it saunters back into the Woods.
When the Bear is gone, I let go of Arp and fall back onto the bed.
Arp immediately starts barking. He’s a dog, so I don’t exactly know what he’s saying, but I guess it’s something like “Did you see that thing? Can you believe how big it was? I thought we were goners for sure.”
I look up at the shredded plastic bag that still hangs from the post. I don’t even mind not getting to eat one single solitary cookie.
All I can say is “Thank goodness for Oreos!”
7
Trail Blaze Betty
I lie there for a long time. I want to let that Bear get a thousand miles away from me before I go back into the Woods.
“Lucy won’t believe me when I tell her what happened. Too bad I didn’t have a camera to take the Bear’s picture.”
Arp snuffles the corner where the Bear stood.
“Should we bring that plastic bag to show her how the Bear’s claws ripped it to shreds?”
But a torn plastic bag isn’t as impressive as an actual Bear.
So I get out the sketchbook and a pencil and start drawing it. As you can see, it isn’t easy to draw a bear. The teeth and the claws are very tricky. I put Arp and me in the drawing to show how big it was. Only it’s boring to draw us hiding under the poncho. So I draw how we saved ourselves from being eaten alive.
I’m so busy drawing that I don’t notice Arp has left until I hear him outside barking. Then I think, Oh no! The Bear came back for seconds.
What should I do? Try to save Arp? Or run the other way as fast as I can?
The yucky voice says, “You can’t save him anyway, so you might as well RUN!”
I fumble with my shoes. Why did Mom make me wear sneakers that take forever to tie? Arp keeps barking. But it isn’t his fierce bark; it’s a happy bark. And then I hear someone say, “So you are a dog. You’re such a little thing, I wasn’t sure.”
Once my shoes are on, I hurry outside to stick up for Arp. He can’t help it if he’s a yippy little fluff ball.
An old woman is bending over to scratch Arp’s head. Her legs are gnarly and her shorts have too many pockets. She wears one of those goofy round sun hats that are usually white, only hers is orange plaid. But the most important thing to know about her is that she’s holding a basket full of little plastic bags. And in each bag is a huge chocolate brownie.
My mouth fills with saliva. I’m not kidding. I have to swallow a bunch of times to keep from slobbering when I say “Hi!” as cheerfully as I can.
She straightens up and squints at me. “I’m Trail Blaze Betty. You’ve probably heard of me. I’m in all the guidebooks.”
I haven’t. But that isn’t a smart thing to say to someone who’s holding a basket of yummy brownies. So instead I say, “Sure, I’ve heard of brownies. I mean, you.”
She chuckles. “That’s okay. I know what I’m famous for. Of course, that’s just part of what I do. I’m in charge of this whole section. Got to keep the Trail in good shape.”
“Sure do,” I agree. I figure that listening to her talk for a while is the price I have to pay for a brownie. And if I listen really well, I might get the whole basket.
“Don’t find many young people who think that. In fact, don’t find any. Most people who care about the Trail are old like me. I hiked the Trail nine times.”
“Wow! All the way from Georgia to Maine?”
“That’s right.” She smiles at me like she’s pleased I know that. “Most young people never even heard of the Trail. They don’t want to hike anymore. They want to stay indoors in front of their computers. They think a challenge is shooting down imaginary spaceships.”
“That’s so dumb.” I’m not lying. Those computer games are boring. The only one I like is The Sims.
Trail Blaze Betty looks really happy that I agree with her. “You know what the trouble is with people today?”
I shake my head.
“Nobody knows how to survive in the real world. Nobody even spends time in the real world. Everybody zips around in climate-controlled cars. They scream if they see a bug. Or a bear.”
“We saw a bear!”
“You saw Matilda? She’s such a beggar. Can’t leave the brownies in the shelter for the hikers. She just eats them. Or those juvenile delinquents eat them. They like to hang out in my shelter. Didn’t build it to be a party place. Built it for the hikers. Like you. And your family.”
When she says “family,” I know the questions are coming. I better think of a clever lie, because I know people won’t think it’s a good idea for a kid like me to be hiking alone on the Appalachian Trail. I try to change the subject. “You built the shelter?”
“Sure did. But sometimes I want to tear it down. Makes me so mad to see those young people drinking and carrying on in there. Don’t kids know there’s better ways to have fun? They think hiking is for old people. Every year when we have our Appalachian Trail meeting, I tell the other members, ‘We’ve got to get the young people off their butts and on the Trail. It won’t matter how many washouts you fix if you can’t get the young people to hike.’”
“That’s right. Young people should hike.” It seems smart to agree with her. But then she squints suspiciously at me from under the brim of that goofy orange plaid hat.
Suddenly I have a horrible thought. If my parents found out I’m not with Ginia, then everybody will be searching for a girl and a little white dog. My picture might even have been on the TV news. But I don’t think Trail Blaze Betty has seen me. Anybody who wears shorts like that and hates computer games probably hates TV too.
She shifts the basket from one hand to the other. “So, where is your family? Didn’t hear any noise. Didn’t know anyone was up here until I saw the dog.”
“My family, well …”
I haven’t thought of my clever lie yet! Now I’m worried. If she thinks I’m not a real hiker, but just a runaway lost girl, will she give me a brownie before she calls the police?
“Are you out here on your own?” she says.
“No. No. My family is up ahead.”
“They left you behind?”
“No! I mean, yes. Well, it’s hard to explain.” I look at Arp for inspiration. But he’s no help. He’s lying on the ground right next to Trail Blaze Betty’s feet.
Then I notice her shoes are these really old hiking boots. They’re so beat-up, they look like she wore them all nine times when she hiked the Trail. So I stop trying to make up a good lie and just start talking. “But you’ll understand because you’re a hiker. You see, my parents are like you. They think it’s really important for kids to hike and do things on their own. Like that boy in the book!”
“What book?”
“It’s my dad’s favorite. This boy runs away from the city and goes to live in the Woods.”
“You mean My Side of the Mountain?”
“That’s what gave him the idea for me to do it.”
“Your parents know you’re here?”
“Oh yes.” This isn’t exactly a lie. They know I’m in the Woods. Somewhere. But she doesn’t seem satisfied, so I say, “They’re just a mile ahead.”
“By the spring?”
For one horrible minute, I’m not sure what kind of spring she’s talking about.
“At Elephant Rock,” she says.
“Oh. Yes. By the spring at Elephant Rock. They’re going to check in with me every mile or so.”
“Actually that’s two miles ahead.”
“Right. Two miles.”
“They’re two miles ahead?”
“Because they think it’s important for me to do it on my own.”
“The whole Trail?”
“Oh no! I’m only going to Mount Greylock.”
She takes off her hat and scratches her head. Then she puts her hat back on. “Well. You got just a few more days then.”
A FEW MORE DAYS! I gul
p. But I have to nod like, Sure. A few more days. I knew that.
“Why are you doing this?” she says.
She’s really close to me. I can smell those brownies. I can see how her eyes are totally buried in bags and sags. They’re sort of cloudy in spots, like how old people’s eyes get. She’s making me so nervous, I almost make a stupid joke like “To get to the other side.” But I don’t, because I know whatever I say will be extremely important. So I think for a moment.
“I guess I want to hike the Trail because I can. I mean, I never did anything much. Because I didn’t think I could do anything. And that made me feel bad. But then I started hiking and I kept hiking. And now I’ve made it this far. We even survived the Bear. So I know I can do it. I really can. If I just keep going.”
She sighs. She looks even harder at me. Like she can read my brain. Then she rubs her head again and puts her hat on. She points a gnarly finger at me.
“You can do it. But you must respect the Trail. You can lie to your friends and lie to your family and even lie to yourself. But the Trail will find out the truth about you.”
I nod.
She nods.
Then we both look down that Trail. It’s just a path. It’s not like either of us can see anything. But it feels like we’re looking into the future.
“Well, I better get going,” I say. She doesn’t say anything. She’s still looking toward Mount Greylock. But I can’t wait any longer. I have to ask. “Can I have a brownie?”
She hesitates. Then she holds up the basket.
“Thanks.” I try to pick the biggest one. But it doesn’t seem nearly big enough, since I’m as hungry as that Bear. “Can I take more than one? For my family?”
“I guess you better.”
I cram eight brownies into my backpack. “I have a very big family!” I wonder if I should name them. But I think I’d better leave before she asks me any more questions or changes her mind.
She’s kind of in a hurry too. She practically runs (well, I guess it’s running for a turtle or an old person) back down the slope, away from the Trail. I wonder how far away her house is. I can’t see anything except trees.
“Thank you!” I call after her.
I put on my backpack.
“Come on, Arp.”
I head for the next blue splotch.
We walk about half an hour, until I think we’re totally out of her sight. Then I gobble up every last one of the eight brownies—even though the lumpy parts aren’t chocolate chips but walnuts. I don’t mean to eat all eight of them. I’m just so hungry I can’t stop. Then I lick my finger to pick up the crumbs stuck to the notes she packed with each brownie.
Now that the brownies are all gone, I feel a little sick and sorry. I read the note again. I remember how she said the Trail would find out my lies. Well, that won’t be hard, since there are so many of them. Even Arp, my Loyal Dog, is looking at me with a sorrowful expression.
“What? Brownies aren’t good for dogs.”
I crumple up the bags and cram them deep in my pack. But I don’t want to be reminded of what a pig I was. So I take them out and bury them behind a bush.
“There.” I brush the dirt off my hands.
Arp is still looking at me.
“What? For your information, that’s where they always put trash. They bury it in a landfill. What do you expect me to do with it? It’s not like there’s going to be a garbage can around the next corner.”
The moment I turn my back, he starts digging up the bags.
“Stop it, Arp. Whose side are you on?”
I carefully cover everything up.
“Weren’t you listening when I told Trail Blaze Betty how important it is?”
He looks at me like I must not have been listening either. The brownies have been eaten. So I bribe him with a peanut butter sandwich. Then I remind him, “The only way to fail is to quit, so let’s keep going!”
8
Saved!
I don’t exactly know how the Trail can find out my secrets, but I don’t want to take any chances. For the next hour, I totally respect the Trail. I step over roots. I don’t whack trees or kick stones. I don’t rip leaves off branches. I try to keep Arp from lifting his leg right by the edge.
“Can’t you do that someplace else?” I ask him.
But he doesn’t listen. He’s having too much fun chasing after chipmunks and rabbits. Sometimes he doesn’t even see an animal; he just sniffs along a trail of stink that a wild creature left behind in the dead leaves. He really shouldn’t do that. What if the stink trail led to that Bear? Besides, then he always has to run like crazy to catch up.
“Arp, you’re wasting energy!”
Does he care? Of course not.
“We have a long way to go. And I’m not carrying you anymore when you get tired.”
It’s past twelve o’clock. I’m not hungry. Those eight brownies are a big lump in my stomach that won’t go away. Like a huge pile of guilt. I’m so hot and tired, all I want to do is lie down and take a nap. But I can’t. I have to keep going, because as you might remember, Trail Blaze Betty said that Mount Greylock isn’t just around the next bend—it’s a FEW DAYS AWAY.
The Trail is in a flat part and not uphill or anything, but my legs just don’t want to go. My muscles are saying, Excuse me, didn’t we do this yesterday already? How can you possibly expect us to do it again?
I drag my legs along the Trail like they’re paralyzed or something. I get another, bigger walking stick. It’s too hard to carry, so I drop it. Then I wonder if that’s respecting the Trail. Trail Blaze Betty is so crazy, she’d probably want me to put the stick back where I found it.
By one o’clock, I’m sure that Mom and Dad are back from Rutland. Ginia is saying, I thought she went with you. Mom is saying, I thought she was with you. Dad is calling whoever is in charge of finding lost girls. I hope that Ginia is in big trouble. I hope she’s sorry she told all those lies. The Trail would find out a lot about her, that’s for sure.
Only she’s not hiking the Trail. I am. At least, I’m trying to.
Arp and I stop and have a drink. I have to give him some water from the second bottle because there aren’t any puddles. Only when I’m giving him the water, he bumps the bottle and the rest of it spills and disappears right into the ground. Of course, when I spill water, it would be someplace where it doesn’t even make a puddle for Arp.
I slump down over the empty water bottle. Why did I ever think I could hike all the way to Massachusetts? Who am I kidding? I never did anything my whole life. It’s like Trail Blaze Betty said. The Trail will find out the truth about me. And the truth about me is that I’m a lying, lazy quitter.
The yucky voice says, “You’ll never make it, so why even bother to try?”
And if I’m going to quit anyway, I might as well quit now. Wouldn’t that be the sensible thing to do? Wouldn’t that save a lot of energy? Because the further I walk now, the further I’ll have to walk to get back to Trail Blaze Betty so she can call my parents to come pick me up.
But how can I tell her that I’m not a hiker and the only thing I can do is doodle? What if she asks for the brownies back? Then I’ll have to tell her what a pig I was. She seems like the type who gets really mad about stuff like that.
“She told you the Trail would find out your lies,” the yucky voice says.
But it wouldn’t be a lie if I could just keep hiking. So I stand up. But Mount Greylock seems so far away. Can I do it? No.
I turn around and walk back toward the shelter.
Then I stop. Can I face Trail Blaze Betty? No.
I turn around again and walk toward Mount Greylock. All those miles, all those days. I’ll never make it.
I stop. I really don’t know what to do. So I say, “I wish Patricia Palombo were here.”
Arp looks at me like I’m nuts. He never met her, but he’s definitely heard me complain about her.
“If she were, then I’d know I’m doing the right thing, b
ecause Patricia Palombo never has doubts about anything. If she’s doing it, it’s wonderful. If she isn’t doing it, it’s lame. It’s that simple.”
I get so agitated, I continue walking again—toward Mount Greylock.
“And sometimes something like lunch clubs switches from lame to wonderful, just because she decides to do it.”
Does Arp care? Of course not. He’s a dog. He’s lucky. He doesn’t even know what lunch clubs are. You probably don’t either, because everywhere else in the world, sixth graders get to leave school for lunch. But in our middle school, the parents and teachers decided it isn’t SAFE to let sixth graders go out, because of this high school right next door. When we complained, the parents and teachers decided to give us lunch clubs for enrichment. As if learning basket weaving or other activities suitable for senior citizens could make up for being deprived of our freedom.
Lunch clubs were voluntary. I mean, they couldn’t MAKE kids sign up. So nobody did. Then I noticed there was a club for doing comics. When I was little, Mom and I drew cartoons together. Mega Girl battled Ninja Ginja and saved the world! We did pages and pages. Until Ginia said my characters looked like vegetables and I got mad and quit. But if I drew comics at school, Ginia couldn’t make fun of me. So I said, “You know, a club might be okay if it was for something fun like drawing cartoons.”
Before Lucy could say what a good idea that was, Patricia Palombo said, “The only enrichment I want is a bigger allowance.”
After everybody laughed, I couldn’t say any more about it.
A few days later, when I got to the cafeteria, everybody was crowded around the sign-up sheets. First Patricia Palombo put her name down. Then five other girls did. And then Lucy did. I was totally stunned. But she hadn’t signed up for the comics club. She signed up for knitting!
I went right over to Lucy. “Why would you sign up for that stupid club?”
Patricia Palombo answered, even though I wasn’t talking to her. “Knitting isn’t stupid, May-gun.”
Patricia Palombo liked to make my name sound dumb when she said it.
She held up a fashion magazine. “Look. Knitting is totally cool. Everybody’s doing it.”