by Jane Kelley
In the distance, I hear Arp bark.
“Stay!” I’m afraid he’ll follow me. I quickly slide down off the rock on the side closest to the shore. My feet land in gunk! Beautiful, slimy goosh grabs at my legs and holds my feet. When I get to the edge, I don’t go back onto dry land. I wade where the current isn’t so strong. The water feels cool and refreshing. It soothes my bug bites. If I weren’t so worried about Arp, I’d probably go swimming again.
Here’s something you probably already knew about lakes and rivers. It’s sort of obvious, but I never realized it until this moment. Lakes have gunky parts you don’t even want to think about. But if you stay out of the lake because of them, you’ll never find the parts that are good.
I wish I could tell Lucy that. I wish I could tell her how I know I’m awkward and clueless and no good at knitting, but I also have good parts. I’m a lake. And other people are more like bottles of water. Maybe the bottles have fancy labels, but inside it’s just plain water.
I wade up the river, around the bend. Arp is still standing by the little pool, right where I left him. “Arp! Here I am!”
Does he run toward me? Does he leap into my arms and lick my face all over? Is he glad the river didn’t sweep me over the waterfall and carry my broken body all the way to the Atlantic Ocean?
No. He isn’t. He just barks at that little pool.
I’m so annoyed I stomp over to him. “What kind of Loyal Dog are you?”
But I don’t say anything more. Because as soon as I get to the pool, I see what he’s barking at. Somehow (and I’ll never know how, since I was a little busy when he did it), Arp trapped a big speckled fish!
16
The End?
After I finish congratulating Arp for being such a terrific Loyal Dog, we watch the fish flop around in the little pond.
Yes, it’s flopping because it isn’t dead. It’s very alive and it’s trying to flop itself back to the river. But we can’t let it swim away.
“Kill it,” I say to Arp.
Arp barks. I guess he’s saying, “I caught it, so you kill it.”
I shut my eyes. I wish I was sitting in a restaurant and watching the waiter put a big plate of fish and chips on the table in front of me. But I’m not. So I open my eyes. I don’t wait around for the yucky voice to tell me I can’t do something. I find the biggest rock I can hold in one hand. Then I bash the fish on the head.
Now the fish is definitely dead. It looks more like the fish I see in the grocery store. But it’s different because I killed it. I carefully put the rock down. Then I say a little thank you to the fish for feeding us. “Don’t feel too sad, Arp. It’s all part of the cycle of life. It ate a bunch of little fish and now we eat it.”
Arp barks at me. He isn’t interested in big questions about life and death. He’s saying, “So let’s eat it already!”
There’s one problem. I don’t know what to do next. “There were probably instructions in that book. Why did you let me throw it away?”
Arp barks. I guess he’s saying, “Shut up about that book and just clean the fish.” So I do. First I get a fire going on the flat rock where my shoes are drying. Then I find the sharpest stone I can. I saw off the fish’s head so its eyes can’t stare at me anymore. Then I slice open the body and scrape out the disgusting bits. To be honest, it mostly looks disgusting, but I try to keep the parts that remind me of tuna salad. Then I make a kind of grill with a bunch of really green sticks and I lay the fish on it.
Of course, while I am doing all this work, Arp is gobbling up the disgusting parts. But I try not to think about that. While the fish cooks, I draw a picture of it. It makes me sad to draw it in the fire, though, so I draw it swimming up to fish heaven.
I’m so busy drawing that I don’t notice how the fire is eating up our dinner until flames shoot into the sky. That isn’t supposed to be part of the cycle of life! I quickly find a really long stick to poke our dinner out of the fire. The fish is totally black, but we don’t care. It tastes delicious. We eat every bit we can. Arp has a nice long drink from the river. I wish I could drink that water too, but I just take a few sips from my bottle. I don’t have much water left. Then we fall asleep on our blanket even though the sun hasn’t set yet.
I wake up when there’s a light in my eyes. At first I think, Oh no! We’ve been rescued. But it isn’t the State Patrol with a flashlight. The moon has risen above the trees and is shining down on us. I check my watch. It’s only three in the morning. But I don’t feel tired. In fact, I feel kind of excited. “Today’s going to be the day!”
Arp doesn’t say anything. He’s probably thinking, How can today be the day when it isn’t day yet?
But I pet him until he wakes up. I pack our stuff and put out what’s left of the fire. Then we retrace our steps back along the stream. Going up is harder, but at least we aren’t starving anymore. My main worry is that we won’t be able to find the Trail in the dark. I don’t want to walk in the stream and get my shoes wet. I’m sort of crashing through the bushes when I hear a strange sound like an animal growling. I don’t think chipmunks and rabbits growl. I’m very worried that it’s another bear. Then I realize the growling is actually snoring. And then I see a splotch of orange hanging on a tree limb. It’s Trail Blaze Betty’s hat!
I can’t believe Trail Blaze Betty has followed us all the way to Massachusetts. It’s very weird to find her right at the spot where we left the Trail, just like she was the other time when we went to the lake. It’s like she’s waiting for us to come back. I’m certainly not going to wake her up to ask her why. I pick up Arp and tiptoe around her as quietly as I can and get back on the smooth, wide Trail.
I like walking at night. Even though the moon is bright, I’ve never seen so many stars. In New York, you only see about three, and sometimes what you think is a star is a jet. But now there are millions above my head. I know those stars didn’t just show up tonight; they’re up there all the time. That makes me wonder how many other things are out there that most of the time you just can’t see.
It’s kind of like being friends with somebody. Your friend is still your friend even when you’re not with her. If she is a real friend, I mean, and not a Patricia Palombo, who would forget all about you the moment you stopped admiring her outfits.
After about an hour, we start going uphill. And that uphill is so UP that it has to be Mount Greylock. I mean, how many mountains could there be in Massachusetts?
“I told you, Arp. Today’s the day.”
The sky gets lighter. I walk faster. Even though we ate that fish, I’m hungry again. I can’t wait to get to the top of Mount Greylock. I wonder what else the store will sell. It has to have something besides postcards and Double Stuf Oreos. I can almost see the assortment of snacks. All those shiny colors I haven’t seen in days, like bright red and orange and blue. All those different kinds of potato chips. Except I don’t want snacks or even ice cream. I want a bucket of macaroni and cheese and a gallon of orange juice—without pulp. If they don’t have dog food, I’ll buy Arp a dozen Slim Jims. I should have enough money to get all that. I have ten whole dollars and four quarters—but those are for calling Lucy.
Yes, very soon, right after I eat the bucket of macaroni and drink the gallon of orange juice, I’ll finally be able to call Lucy. I start practicing what I will say to her.
Hello, Lucy? This is Megan. I’m here at Mount Greylock.
Then I stop, because that’s where SHE will say something. I try to imagine what that will be. Only I’m having trouble thinking of what she really WOULD say. All I can think of is what I want her to say.
Oh, Megan, I can’t believe you made it. I’m so glad you’re here!
Would she really say that? Or is she still mad at me for not being a very good friend? But even if she is, she won’t stay mad at me after I tell her how sorry I am.
Arp sits down to scratch his ear and lick his paw. Then he curls up in a ball to take a nap. Obviously he has no idea what’s waitin
g for us on top of this mountain. So I have to carry him. But I’m not even mad about doing this extra work, since we’re so close to the end of our long journey.
The sky turns pink as the sun rises. Now it doesn’t matter if anyone finds us. No one can send us home after we make it! We’re climbing higher and higher. The thick green roof of leaves that has been over our heads gets thinner and thinner. Any minute now, we’ll be at the top of Mount Greylock. My heart is pounding—well, I am climbing pretty fast. But mostly I’m so excited that I practically run the last few yards.
And there I am. Standing at the top. I’m the tallest thing for miles and miles. I’m surrounded by rose-colored sky in all directions. Slowly I turn in a complete circle to admire the view.
Where’s the tall gray stone monument? Where’s the store? Where’s the food? More importantly, where’s the drinking fountain?
Nowhere. That’s where.
17
Not Done Yet
I walk over and look behind a big pile of rocks. Like everything might be hiding there. But it isn’t.
I sit down. Plop. Right where I am. I don’t take one more step. I feel so totally defeated, I don’t know what to do.
What happened?
Did I get on the wrong trail after we ate the fish? Did I go in the wrong direction? Did someone put blue splotches on the wrong trees just to trick me? Maybe that kid lied and I’m not even in Massachusetts. Maybe those horrible hikers lied and Mount Greylock isn’t even on the Appalachian Trail. I can’t believe it! All that work and all that suffering are wasted. I put my head down on my arms. But I can’t even cry. I’m too exhausted.
On the day before the day before we were leaving for Vermont, I called Lucy to tell her a long list of things to bring. Her turquoise hoodie, because it gets cold up there at night. The Calvin and Hobbes collection of cartoons she promised to let me borrow. And thirty-six other things that I won’t even bother to mention, because before I even got to the THIRD thing on the list, she said, “I can’t come.”
At first I thought she meant something else. “You mean not until the second week?”
But Lucy said, “No, I can’t come.”
So I said, “What? Are you grounded or something?” Which was a JOKE, because Lucy would never do anything bad to get grounded even before her mom got sick.
“Mom’s sick again.”
“But she had all the treatments. She’s got to be better.”
“The chemo didn’t work.”
“It made her hair fall out.”
“It didn’t get rid of all the cancer. They have to try something else. They’re giving her a different kind of treatment.”
But I didn’t even ask what kind it was. I only cared about one thing. So I said, “When she’s had the treatment, then can you come?”
“I don’t know. I JUST CAN’T COME. Okay?” She sounded mad.
I didn’t know why she should be mad at ME. I thought she should be mad at the doctors who didn’t do a good enough job curing her mom. Since I couldn’t say that, I said something really whiny. “But you promised.”
“I never promised you, Megan.”
“Yes you did.”
For a moment it seemed like we were going to have one of those totally stupid arguments. You know the kind, where kids say “Yes you did” and “No I didn’t” over and over until the world comes to an end. But we stopped.
We didn’t say anything for a while. I would have thought she had hung up except that I heard her breathing. I heard me breathing too. I know I was waiting for her to say SOMETHING. Like maybe she was sorry? But she didn’t. She was probably waiting for me to say that I was sorry. But I didn’t. I said, “Fine then.” I hung up really fast, because I could feel the crying creeping up the back of my throat and around the edges of my eyes.
The crying is creeping up around my eyes again. I thought I was done with crying and hearing that yucky voice in my head. But maybe I’m not—I mean, I also thought I was hiking to Mount Greylock.
I hear some people come huffing and puffing up the Trail. I don’t bother to go to a better hiding place. What’s the point? My trip is over anyway.
“What a view,” a man says.
“Gorgeous,” a woman says. “Look at those colors. I could try for a hundred years and never get them on paper.”
“I just love it up here at this time of day,” the man says.
“Me too,” the woman says. “Shall we have our breakfast? I’m starving after that climb. Oh, hello. Who are you?”
Arp barks.
“What a cute little dog,” the woman says.
“Where’s your owner?” the man says. “Are you hungry? We don’t have any dog food.”
Arp barks again to beg for food. He’s totally shameless. But I’m not going to stop him. I’m not going to do anything anymore ever again.
“Hey!” the man says.
Arp trots over behind the rocks with half a bagel in his mouth. He lies down right next to me to eat it. I would scold him, but what’s the point? I mean, it’s not like the people would want it back.
The man and woman come over and look at me. They stare for such a long time that I finally mumble, “Sorry.”
“That’s okay,” the woman says. “I need to go on a diet anyway.”
It’s true; she is a little round. I consider offering to help her with her diet by eating the half she’s holding in her hand. But I’m too upset to eat.
They’re still staring at me. I look down at myself. My shoes are dirty and worn, like they walked thirty thousand miles. My legs are scratched, like they battled with a billion bushes. My calves have huge bulging muscles, like they hauled me up and down a thousand hills. My fingernails are black from building fires. My arms are brown from being outdoors for five days.
They look at each other. They look at Arp. Then they look at me again.
“Are you Megan?” the man says.
I shrug.
“How did you get here?” the woman says.
“We walked,” I say.
“All the way from Vermont?” he says.
“It’s all I can do to make it up this mountain,” she says.
I shrug again.
“You must be starving.” She goes over to their backpack and takes out a bag of food. “Oh, isn’t that cute?”
I turn around. Arp is sitting up and waving his paws. I didn’t know he could do tricks like that.
“You little beggar,” she says. “Did you really walk all that way too?”
She smiles as she gives Arp another bagel. Then she holds one out for me.
“Please take it. You need to eat something.”
I eat it. But even if it were a New York bagel, it would still taste like sawdust.
“Can I have some water?” I say.
“Of course.” The man gives me the bottle. I drink and drink until I can’t drink anymore. Luckily it’s a very big bottle. Then I put the cap back on and give it back to him.
“Thanks,” I say.
“You’re welcome,” she says.
“Now we better get you home to your parents,” he says.
“They must be frantic,” she says.
“Please, not yet.” Even though my journey is over, I still don’t want it to end. I get up and walk toward the edge of the mountain. I look south. Toward Lucy? Who knows? Who cares? I messed up again.
The man comes over and stands next to me. “You see it?”
I shake my head. All I see is failure.
He points. I have no idea what I’m supposed to be looking at. It could be anything—a bird, a plane, a UFO. But in the distance, I see another mountain. And on top of it, a skinny stick glows in the early-morning light.
“What’s that?” I say.
“Mount Greylock,” he says.
THAT’S Mount Greylock? I stagger backward. I almost fall off the top of whatever the heck I’m standing on. “So what’s this?”
“Mount Fitch,” she says.
Mount Fi
tch? Can you believe I climbed the wrong mountain? And, besides that, it has such a dumb name. I mean, give me a break. Who would call a mountain Fitch?
It’s so horrible that I have to laugh. I’m so many miles from that bucket of macaroni and cheese and that gallon of orange juice—and Lucy. I fall over laughing, in fact. I laugh until I’m crying again and Arp comes to see what’s going on.
“What’s so funny?” the woman says.
“Mount Fitch!” I say.
Then they laugh too. And Arp barks.
“Actually we like Mount Fitch better than Mount Greylock,” she says.
“Mount Greylock is so crowded,” he says.
“So many tourists just drive up there,” she says.
“They aren’t real hikers,” he says.
“Like you,” she says.
From the way she smiles, I know I have a chance. And then, when I notice a sketch pad in her backpack, I think I know how to persuade them to let me keep going.
“Are you an artist?” I ask her.
“Well, not much of one,” she says.
“Sure you are. All you need is confidence,” he says.
“Can I see?” I say.
The woman shows me her drawings. She has a hundred sketches of the same old tree. I guess all artists keep doing the same thing over and over, like my dad and his stone wall, and my mom and her barn.
Only as I study the woman’s drawings, I see that it isn’t just the same tree over and over. There are small changes. Things you might not think matter, but actually do. Like should the tree be from this angle or that, should it be in shadow or bright blazing sun, should the branch be a little bit longer or shorter?
“I like that drawing best,” I say.
“You do? Why?” she says.
“Because in that one, the tree doesn’t push you away; it brings you into the picture,” I say.
“Look, Adam. She’s right,” she says.
“My parents are artists too,” I say.
“Really?” she says.
“Just like you. Day after day, they work really hard to capture a heroic essence. Day after day, just like me going step after step on this long Trail,” I say.