by Stacie Ramey
“Liar.”
True. That was a lie. This is the kind of thing Dad and my brother, Brad, and maybe my cousin, Christian, would do, planning for months, needling me because no way I would ever want to join them. “But I feel like it makes sense.”
“You could get lost.”
I almost choke on my biscotti. “It’s a trail.” I trace an imaginary straight line on the table. “I mean, point A to point B.”
“People get lost. They’ve gotten lost on the trail before. There’ve been people—”
“I know. I realize that, but, Em, the thing is, I’m trying to get lost, aren’t I?”
“Only for six months! Not for—”
“I’ll come back. I have to. We’ve got Max’s revenge. You know I wouldn’t miss that.”
Max hated Halloween with a passion. Barked his little head off. So, we’d have an anti-Halloween every November 1. We’d hang out on the floor with him all day, no matter what day of the week it was. Take off school. Cancel all plans and do what the dog liked best. Which was to lounge with us while we watched movies. Usually the Harry Potter ones, which never got old.
“Every November,” she says solemnly. “So, when are you going?”
“The normal time. When most people do.”
She looks at me like I’m confusing her. Or annoying her. Or—
Then she whacks me on the arm with her spoon. “When?”
“Next week. April 15.”
This time, fat tears fall down her face, and she swipes them away fast. Those are the kind of tears that sting. But she knows she can’t argue with me now. That detail was my wild card.
“You’re such a dick.”
“I know, but I’m a dick with a profound sense of irony.”
Chapter 2
Dad was an accountant at one of the big firms. “Big Four,” his coworkers always said, like they were the original six hockey teams in the NHL. It didn’t crack up Dad when I said, “Original four, baby. You made it to the major league.” I used to use air quotes around the original four part too, thinking Dad would respond to that level of funny, but the joke missed every time. Every time.
A smile creeps on my face, and I cover my mouth the way Emily does when she’s trying to act like some smart-ass thing I said wasn’t funny even though it clearly was. Except everyone on this bus couldn’t care less about my screwed-up sense of humor.
The rain pounds the road, and it makes me wonder how the bus driver can see where he’s going. I know I wouldn’t be able to if I was driving, which I never will. Sensory processing disorder. I acquired that label after my assembly freak-out.
“You can’t listen to everything people say about you,” Brad told me the following week when he was dropping me off at school. “It’s gonna suck having to rely on other people your whole life. You should learn to drive.”
A knife in the gut. Thanks for understanding, Brad. But I also know that I was a pain-in-the-ass little brother to him. My behavior over the years always mystified him; he couldn’t understand why it was so hard for me to just live, like everyone else did. If I had the answer to that little cosmic riddle, Brad…
Thunder rocks the air, followed by an impressive lightning strike, forcing me to focus on the here and now. It seems a little early in the season for lightning, but there’s nothing I can do to calm myself except pull my long-sleeved flannel down to cover the inside of my wrist. I play with my black rubber bracelet, the one Emily had bought for each of us at the store in New Jersey where I’d stocked up for the hike. Had that been only yesterday?
“So it’s like we’re always together,” she’d explained as she’d slipped it over my wrist. “I’ll be with you the whole time, okay?”
I close my eyes and count the number of jars of instant coffee I transferred into Ziploc bags before stashing them in my backpack. Three. They’re in my pack along with a sleeping bag, the rain pants Emily insisted I get, and four pairs of socks. My trail book said I needed two, but wet feet freak me out.
“These have good wicking action,” Emily told me as she piled shirts of her choice in the cart, and I pretended not to be upset they weren’t cotton. I’ve never worn anything but cotton. Ever. I was half considering scrapping my entire mission for my comfortable tees when a kid and mom passed us. The boy had to be about ten years old. His mother was complaining into her cell phone while he pushed their cart with a miserable look on his face.
“If he’s getting suspended in fourth grade, what’s next? Prison?”
That got me focused on my goal. I grabbed boxes of instant oatmeal, different flavors, all in bags (total, thirty), beef jerky (ten). Desperate to get the feel-good energy back into this day, I said to Emily. “Wicking action? That’s word-of-the-day stuff right there.”
“I know, right? That makes—”
“Twenty-eight points for you and fifty-six points for me. I’m still killing you on WOD ranking.”
“But I’m catching up.”
I raised my eyebrows at her, didn’t say anything. Raised eyebrows are judgy enough without words.
“Slowly,” she equivocated.
I didn’t even have time to celebrate my win before Emily said, “Wicking action is going to be your friend. Trust me.” She laughed as she threw a tube of diaper rash cream into the cart. She showed me her phone. “I just Googled it.”
I couldn’t say I’d ever imagined buying diaper cream, but all the money I’d made fixing people’s computers was really paying off. I’d squirreled it away in my room, so when I left home, I had more than $1,800 on one of those refillable credit cards. I gave Emily access to the account, knowing she could add money if I needed it. But I wasn’t planning on needing it. I need to limit her involvement as much as possible.
We pushed my cart through the sporting goods store when Emily said, “Boxes. We need boxes so I can send you stuff.”
“Yeah. No.”
“Yeah. Yes.”
“That was such a witty comeback.”
She put her foot in front of the wheel of my cart. Stopped it cold. Stopped me cold. “Nonnegotiable.”
“Negotiable.”
“Non.”
I tried to pull the cart backward, but she did some sort of ninja move that landed her other foot in front of the wheels.
“Okay, okay, you win. You can send me one box.”
“I’ll send you as many boxes as I like.”
“You’ll get me caught.”
“I can be careful. You’ve been training me for this my entire life. Remember Operation Cookie Jar?”
I smile thinking of how we single-handedly stole, then eventually ate, an entire batch of homemade cookies at the Cape one year. We had to frame Max, which caused huge upset and a bunch of calls to the emergency vet because of the chocolate. I admit that was a big flaw in the plan, but that was when we were young and sharpening our team skills.
“Or Operation Air Freshener?”
We covered up the smell of brewing coffee in my room for years before anyone detected it, because we sprayed vodka into an essential oil air freshener. We used to sing the Febreze Noticeables commercial all the time, and no one guessed. But to be honest, most kids try to hide vodka, not coffee. Not how we roll. Although soliciting Sam, my swim-team buddy whose father always had those little bottles from the airline where he was a flight attendant to supply us, definitely increased my cred.
“Good times,” I say.
“Besides, you almost got caught by yourself.”
“I’m not entirely sure that wasn’t your fault. The investigation into the New York coffee shop near capture is ongoing.”
“Ass,” Emily said and walked toward the underwear section, where I was sure more wicking garments would be picked out. “How could I possibly have tipped your hand when I didn’t even know where you were?”
“Save your
testimony for the formal inquiry.”
She huffs.
“Relax. You’ll get your turn to testify.”
But then my stomach sort of soured. The thought of going six months without seeing Emily made me feel all weird inside.
• • •
A big bump on the road makes me bounce out of my bus seat, that second of propulsion enough to light the fires of panic in me. The steady thrumming of the bus’s engine as it takes the rise of the hill pounds its way into my mind. It whines. And whines. We are climbing, climbing, and I have to not concentrate on how packed we all are on this bus. I have to try to shake off the nearness of the guy sitting next to me. He’s probably around Dad’s age. In good shape like Dad, but bulkier, which makes his form shift into my zone a couple of times.
I start to worry that Emily was right. I made a big mistake. I can’t even make it through the nineteen-plus-hour bus ride to the start of the trail. I rip open a packet of Dramamine I picked up at the 7-Eleven next to the bus station. I gulp down the tablet with a Mountain Dew and get ready for the relief. When the chemicals relax the adrenaline in my body, it will reduce my vertigo, and let me settle in for a long nap. Headphones in, I pipe in my chill-out list: Gregorian chants, sounds of nature, sacred drums. I lean my face against the cool window. On planes I sit in the aisle seat. On the bus, it’s the window. No idea why. That’s just how it has to be. The sun drops below the horizon, and the lights of the cars we pass become elongated. I close my eyes.
Before I know it, I am woken by a jolt.
“Gainesville, Georgia.”
I pull out my phone. It’s registered to Xevon Drexil. 8:25. Let the adventure begin.
I wait on the sidewalk with the other passengers. The night air is chilly; the fumes from the buses make my stomach turn. Finally, I see my bags. The guy piling the luggage onto the sidewalk is also Dad-aged, but not as tall. It’s like I’m surrounded by an army of dads in all different shapes and sizes. The guy’s partner is a kid, maybe a few years older than I am, and he’s not working half as hard.
“Come on, Todd. Get in here,” the old guy gripes, and that amuses me.
But then I hear my father’s voice at the Cape that last time: “Stand up straight, Dylan. Shoulders back. Head high.”
We were taking pictures, Mom’s annual family picture.
“You’re slouching, Dylan. Look strong.”
People shuffle by me. One bumps into me. “Sorry, man.”
I realize I’m sort of out of it. I grab my bags, and the bus guy puts out his hand. “Ticket?”
“Oh, yeah.” I hand him my baggage claim ticket and a couple of dollars.
He nods, stuffs the cash in his pocket. “You thru-hiking?”
I wipe my hair out of my eyes. “Yeah.”
“Good luck to you.”
Then our conversation is done. He’s moved on, and I’m in this weird fugue state, caught between what happened before and what’s happening now—sensory dysfunction. The Out-of-Sync Child, that was the book Mom referred to again and again as my situation got thornier and thornier. Sensory dysfunction means I don’t move through life the way other people do. So thru-hiking feels like the complete opposite of what I’m suited for. Which makes me want to do it even more.
My steps take me away, toward the shuttle that takes hikers to the hostel. A superblond, smiley guy looks up at me. “Hey, man, you hitting the trail tomorrow?”
I nod. I’m one of them. Only I’m not.
“Stow your gear.” He points to the back of the shuttle.
I do and climb on board the small bus, trying not to obsess about how tiny it is. The blond guy sits next to another guy whose phone is out. This one has dark hair and a scowl on his face, even though his vibe says he’s happy. So it must be a perma-scowl. Interesting. “Great weather conditions tomorrow,” the scowl guy reports.
The third one tells some sort of joke that I miss, and they all laugh. It reminds me of when I was on swim team, and I feel like I’m with Sam and Taylor, my teammates, again. And then it’s like a black hole surrounds me and fills me all at once. I miss those guys. Hiking the trails with them would be fun and cool and annoying all at the same time.
For the hundredth time, I wish I hadn’t screwed up that whole situation. Swimming was the perfect sport for me. The feel of the water pressing in on me from all sides, the silence. Sam and Taylor stuck with me for most of high school. I don’t blame them for bailing when my behavior rose to levels that were considered unsafe for myself and others. Unsafe for myself and others. Unsafe. For myself.
And others.
We pile out of the minibus, and I grab my gear, which comes out first since it was loaded last. I move to the side and let everyone else get their stuff and go ahead of me. It’s the best way to lower expectations and make these kinds of social interactions easier. Let the water flow downhill. When the last of them has paid their bill, I step forward.
The clerk gives me a smile. “Sign in.” He flips the book so it faces me. “Name and address. And person to notify.”
I scribble Xevon. Just Xevon. Like Madonna.
“Legibly, if you can.” The clerk chuckles good-naturedly and points to the mess I’ve made in the book. “You know, just in case we…”
“Right.” I act like I’m trying to write clearly. Person to notify, I put Zelda Sendak (a.k.a. Emily). For a second, I consider writing Emily’s burner cell number or even her real one, but even the part of my brain that realizes a backup plan for actual emergencies would be wise knows I can’t implicate Emily in any of my plans. Especially if they go bad.
I’ve taken so long making up a fake number that looks legit that the guys are banging down the stairs and out the front door as I’m finishing up.
“Hey, man! Come out with us!” Blond guy smacks me on the shoulder. “We’ll wait while you throw your shit upstairs.”
“Oh.” I run my hand through my hair to give myself a second to deal. “I just…”
“You’ve got to eat. We left you the single.”
“Huh?”
“Figured you’d like that, the single room.”
“That’ll be fifty-five dollars.” The clerk puts the logbook away and waits for me to put the right combination of bills in his hand.
“Oh. Right. Thanks. I’m just gonna hit the sack. Very tired.”
“It might be our last good hot meal for a while,” he offers again.
My foot hits the first step. I can hear them standing, waiting for me. It’s a weird thing to be able to do, but the Dramamine has infected me with its chemical stupor, so my senses focus on everything. Everything.
“You sure?” the blond guy calls. “Last chance.”
A sound starts in my head. A drumbeat. A bang, a thump, a bump. A heartbeat. With an extra blip on the end. The rhythm ricochets back and forth in my head until it bursts inside me, and the regret leaks out.
“Come on, he’s not up for it. I’m starved.”
Again, I think of the swim team. Taylor. Sam. “You really killed the last fifty, Lone Wolf.”
Me, laughing because that’s what guys do. The guys rearing back and howling. Me, joining.
Loneliness spreads through me.
The door bangs shut behind me.
“I’ll go.” The words slip out before I even know I’ve said them, but definitely too late, because obviously the guys are gone.
“They went to Hank’s across the street,” the clerk says. “You can catch up easy.”
I take the steps two at a time, find my single, throw my backpack on the bed, and head back downstairs. I’ll spend this last night with people. Plenty of time to be alone on the trail.
Chapter 3
Hank’s is a small restaurant, tables out front, most of them taken, torches lit. I guess to keep the bugs away. I don’t see my new hiker friends outside, so I
push open the door, stepping into a world of noise and the smell of burgers. Good burgers. It’s been forever since I’ve eaten more than a trail bar or a stale sandwich from a convenience store, so my stomach is screaming at me to give it real food.
A waitress pushes past me, tray over her head, but she’s so short I have to lean sideways to avoid being decapitated, which makes a table of guys erupt laughing. “Over here,” blond hiker guy calls. The rest of the table is cutting up.
I make my way over.
“By the way, I’m Drew. This is Lenny and Emerson.” As he calls their names, the other dudes raise their hands in my direction. Drew points to the only empty chair at the table, next to Emerson and Lenny. There’s no way I’m going to be able to squish in there without knocking some or all of their drinks off the table. Not with the level of Dramamine still in my system. Drew motions to the other guys. “Move down.”
So they do. And it’s immediately obvious who the alpha dog is. I sit next to Drew, which is completely uncomfortable, because my back is facing the middle of the room. I hate that.
A tall redheaded waitress arrives without being summoned, a rag in her apron. She wipes the table and hands out menus. “We’ve got Miller, Miller Light, Yuengling, and Blue Moon on tap.” She aims her attention at Lenny who calls out. “Big Sky IPA.”
The waitress nods as each of the guys order. Then her eyes rest on me, even though I’m staring at the table, trying to decide if that dirty rag made it cleaner or just spread bacteria. “Coke,” I say.
“Just Coke?” Drew asks. “You saving it for the trail?”
For two seconds, I contemplate ordering something to go in the Coke. It would help me fit in with the guys, for sure. And I guess with being on the go, my current beard situation makes me look a little older. But twenty-one? Do I chance it? Then I remember the Dramamine. That plus alcohol would probably not be a great mix. “Just Coke,” I say.
“Good deal,” the waitress answers.
She leaves and I worry that we are going to spend the next few minutes sharing our personal hiking goals or something, but then Drew says, “You’re not shaving?”