by Stacie Ramey
My hand goes to my beard.
“It’s kind of a tradition,” the Emerson guy says. “We go into the woods clean shaven. We leave full bearded.”
“It’s stupid,” Emerson says.
I agree with Emerson, but I’m pretty sure it’s not a good time to say something like that. So instead I say, “So you guys have done this before, huh?”
“It’s our third time,” Emerson answers for the group.
The waitress brings the drinks and takes our food orders.
“Guess you must’ve liked the trail then.” I take a drink of my Coke. Stupid meaningless drivel. God I hate myself and casual conversation right now.
They’re all nodding and laughing, and by the time the food comes, they’ve each had a couple beers and are telling trail stories. I’ve managed to inch my chair over so that I’m sitting with my side to the door, not my back. It’s a small gain, but I’ll take it. Nobody notices that I’m not talking. Nobody cares. Everyone’s happy. I take out my phone and text Emily: You wouldn’t believe it. I’m out with three guys I just met, eating a burger. Not free range (don’t tell Mom!) and my back is to the restaurant. Shiver.
Take a pic. I don’t believe it.
That would be weird.
But bragging about it isn’t?
No. Bragging about it is def weird. But less weird than documenting it.
B careful.
W the guys? They seem harmless.
On the trail.
It’s a straight line.
Point A to B.
Exactly.
“So what do you think?” Emerson asks me.
“What?”
“For your trail name.”
“My trail name?”
Drew smacks me on the arm. “How come we’re the ones drinking and you’re the one who’s spacing out? No one uses their real name on the trail.”
“The minute you step across that archway, you are whoever you want to be. Why do you think we walk five million steps to begin with?”
More laughing. The sound’s starting to get to me, which means the Dramamine is wearing off.
“You want to pick your own name, though, or it could get dicey.”
Even more laughing.
The waitress clears the dishes. “Another round?”
Lenny says, “One more for the road.”
To me she says, “What about you?”
“Nah. Gonna call it a night.”
She smiles and hands me my check. I pay in cash, tip included. I lean forward. “Thanks, guys.”
I’m not sure if I’m supposed to say something else, but I’ve got nothing. So, I do my stiff-handed wave.
Drew tips his beer toward me. “Only five million steps, brah.”
They all laugh some more.
I’m walking across the street when it hits me. Only five million steps. That’s probably 4,999,999 steps more than I would normally plan as a leisure activity. These hikers are nuts. Then I wonder if I’m the stupidest person on earth. So, I text Emily again.
They say it’s five million steps.
Nuh uh.
Uh huh.
Your feet r going to hurt.
Great prediction.
Maybe don’t do all of them at once?
Funny girl.
I try.
It’s a great hiding place. No one would believe to look for you there.
I almost don’t.
You sure you don’t want to go to school instead? You could sleep in a bed if you went to a school. Plus we won’t be able to do our last summer b4 I go to college tour.
I know. Duck Tour.
Freedom Trail.
The Cape.
I know. Will have to resched. Gnite Z.
Gnite Y.
My head hits the pillow and I stare at the ceiling. Five million steps. Em’s right. I’m an idiot. Is exerting my independence really worth all of this? Wouldn’t going to a new school be easier than what I’m about to do? I roll over and punch the horribly flat pillow, fold it in half, and put the bunched part under my head. I remind myself that this cot is going to feel like living in style compared to sleeping in a tent. And then I remember, at least all of this is going to be on my terms. Mine. Not Mom’s or that uberhelpful group of teachers and counselors who act like they are the only ones who know what I need.
Chapter 4
The walls in the hostel are pretty thin, and I can hear the guys getting ready to leave in the morning. Backpacks zip. Boots thud. I figure it’s gotta be late since they were out drinking, but when I check my phone, it’s only 7:30 a.m. Wow. These guys are serious about hitting the trail. Maybe I should be too.
My body is hyped from sleeping in a strange place. Plus, once I wake up, I can’t go back to sleep anyway, so instead I check the weather. No rain today. Temps starting at sixty degrees, going to be cloudy but clear.
I stare at the date on my phone. April 15. This day usually signaled the end of the nightmare season for my family. Dad would work insane hours leading up to this day, and Mom always said tax season was going to kill him if she didn’t first. I always thought that was unfair. She knew he was going to be an accountant before she married him. Just like he knew she was going to be a lawyer. The thing about being a lawyer, though, is there’s no “season” to make lawyering harder or easier.
Now, April 15 is simply another day, and for me, it’s as good a day as any to do the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I wait until there are no more voices or sounds outside my door to signal that my dinner mates are gone, and I go to take a shower, something I’ve come to consider a luxury since I’ve been on the run. I’m actually getting good with the grunge. Triple answer score. Yeah. You know, if this was one of Emily and my epic games of Scattergories.
In the bathroom mirror, I look at my scraggly beard. The others are going to shave before their hike. They said everyone does it. Do I really feel the need to conform? I head back to my room, wishing I’d bought shaving gear. I need to do this to fit in so I don’t get caught as a runaway. But deep down, I know shaving my beard along with the other thru-hikers will let me be part of something bigger than I am. I like to act like I’m above all that, but the truth is, I miss my team, and maybe this is my second chance.
I run downstairs and find a different clerk at the desk. This one is wearing a blue beanie and has a super long beard, which makes me laugh at the irony of my next question. “Hey, do you guys have shave kits here?”
He leans over, opens a cabinet, and pulls out one of those cheap-ass travel kits with a throwaway razor and a tiny can of shaving cream. “Five dollars.”
Back in my room, clean-shaven and freshly showered, packing is easy. However, dressing myself is a little harder. It takes me three attempts and one actual full-on self-talk to get myself into that polyester shirt that’s supposed to be my lower layer. Luckily, they are tagless shirts, otherwise I’d be in real trouble. Once the shirt is on, my skin tingles like it’s trying to pull away from the strange fabric. My armpits begin to sweat, which makes me feel cold and my skin hurt. I’m not sure I can do this, except I picture the conversation I’d have with the police officers. Sort of a bad Scooby-Doo moment… “I would have hiked the trail too, if it weren’t for the wicking-action clothes…”
I walk around my room. Squat down. Stand up again. Walk some more. The fabric isn’t terrible, it’s just not cotton. It’s tight enough to close off most of the air to my skin, but not tight enough to relieve my need for pressure. Then I realize, the backpack will help. So I put on the rest of my layers and then my backpack. At least this version of a weighted vest is normal, not like the one the occupational therapist made me wear in school years ago. The one I sometimes still miss and would wear if it didn’t make me stand out so much. Man, I was a little freak.
Still am.
Obviously.
I’m down the steps in three seconds. I hand my key to the new clerk at the hostel desk, and I push my way out the front door.
I get a text.
Emily. A to B.
I answer. Z to Y.
Stay safe. Check in.
I will.
Then comes the one text she knows better than to send, but I guess she feels like it has to be said, in case it’s the end of the world.
It wasn’t your fault.
In this instance, I let her emoting slide. Then she sends another.
No one blames you.
I text back. I know. But really, I’m lying, because I blame me and she knows that, even if she doesn’t know why.
Liar.
I send her a stupid emoji that looks like a fox handing her flowers.
She sends back a dog chasing its tail.
So I send back. Conserving phone battery. Spk on the other side.
It wasn’t your fault. No one blames you. Those words are the push I need to get me going. Each step I take will take me farther from those sentences, create breathing space between me and the sounds I can’t forget. At least, that’s my new hope, the one that sprung up unexpectedly this morning as I was getting dressed. Walking might help me feel better. Just like swimming always did.
My phone in my backpack, I walk toward the entrance to the trail. My nerves are building. My shoulders are tense, and my hands are fisted. Enough to put dents in my palms from my fingernails but not enough to draw blood.
A stone arch with a sign announces the approach to the trail and diverts my attention. I’m pretty into rocks and bricks and mortar, which I realize is a weird and overly selective interest, but there it is. I’m so busy looking at the way they built the stone arch that I almost miss the huge-ass tent set up to the left of it with a group of people hanging out. Someone’s playing a guitar. I’m about to move past them, simply ignore the sons of bitches who are destroying the one part of the trail I was actually looking forward to—complete isolation—but then I smell coffee, and I’m reminded that I haven’t had any yet. Or breakfast for that matter.
The smell of a griddle, eggs, and bacon waft over to me. I approach the tent, feeling like one of Pavlov’s dogs, but not caring. My stomach growls, deep. A plump Mom-aged woman ladles scrambled eggs onto a plate, which she holds out to me.
“How much?” I ask, not worrying so much about the cost, but the awkward series of movements it will take to get to my wallet, which is stuffed at the bottom of my backpack like the guides suggest.
She shakes her head. “It’s free, dear.”
The guy in front of me has a full beard and wild hair, which should mean he’s been hiking for some time (though he is at the start of the trail), turns to offer these words of wisdom: “Trail magic.”
“Trail magic?” I ask.
“From trail angels.” He finishes as he adds a doughnut to the toast and tomatoes and sausage he’s already piled on his plate. “People who generously donate time, money, supplies, and food to people who are hiking the trail. We—” He points to himself and then to me. “We inspire them to do random acts of kindness. Go us.”
He catches me staring at his facial hair, which is kind of weird. So, I feel I have to ask. “You’re just starting the hike?”
“Nah. I’m a flip-flopper.”
I’ve got no idea what that means, but I nod like that makes total sense. I pile food on a plate, thinking of all of this new vocabulary. Flip-flopper. Thru-hiker. Trail names. Trail angels. Trail magic. It’s all so cool and makes me feel proud of this world I had no idea even existed. It makes me wonder why more people don’t drop out of their lives and hike the trail. Why kids don’t routinely run away from bad homes and bad schools and live off the generosity of these strangers. Santa Claus requires obedience in exchange for gifts. Then there’s that sick Elf on the Shelf nonsense. These people are feeding us simply because we are going to walk the trail. Booyah!
I don’t spend too much time pondering the generosity of others, because I notice a big urn of coffee that calls me forward. I fill a cup. The smell of the coffee as it pours into the cup and the warmth in my hand as I palm it is all I need to make my brain start to wake up. After I’ve blanched my drink with cream, I pick a table with no one sitting at it, grateful that my friends from last night aren’t here. Hopefully they’ve already moved on. The last thing I want to do is hike in a big group. Or any group for that matter.
The wind blows and it’s chilly, and that makes the food better and the coffee more satisfying. Plus the food is good. Damn good. And free, which is also good. But more importantly, the hot coffee slides down my throat. My body hums, and for the briefest second, my mind is still and peaceful. Then I see her, a tall, thin girl with white blond hair that is cut super short. She looks about my age, making me wonder why she’d be doing this hike by herself. If Emily was here, she’d be pissed at me for the double standard and obvious discounting of the strength of women, but I can’t help it. It seems wrong that she’s alone, double standard or not.
This girl, whoever she is, has on a camo-colored baseball hat and is wearing a long-sleeve T-shirt and leggings. If it wasn’t for her backpack, I’d be sure she wasn’t a hiker. Doesn’t she know the no-cotton rule?
Her movements are what really draw me in. She stands like she doesn’t need to engage anyone. Like she believes in herself. I don’t know exactly what makes me think this. Maybe it’s the way she walks, head high, but eyes not scanning the environment. Simply in her head, eyeing whatever is in her immediate area.
She accepts food, with almost no eye contact exchanged, which makes me think she’s smarter than most people. A hiker tries to talk to her and she doesn’t answer. She takes a seat at the far end of the tent, facing outward. Maybe she’s like me and wants to be able to keep everyone in front of her where she can see them. That makes me wonder even more about her.
She fiddles with a leather cord necklace. Pulls the sleeves of her shirt down over her wrists. These small movements tell me she’s anxious, which is a direct dichotomy with the self-assuredness that she wears like her nonhiking clothes.
I’ve gulped down my breakfast, but she takes tiny bites. She stops to get a tiny notebook out of her backpack, and writes in it for less than a minute. Her expression is all straight lines. Mouth grim, but determined. Maybe. She shuts the book and stuffs it back into her backpack. Then she eats a little faster.
I realize I’m staring like a complete stalker, but this thought comes to me a second too late, because she catches me looking and shoots me a death glare that is impossible to misinterpret. My eyes go to my coffee, which I drain, then scoop up my garbage. I walk to the trash bins, careful not to look in her direction a final time, even though I’m dying to do just that.
I wave to the trail angels, then stare up at the stone arch that marks the entrance to the trail. My gaze scales the landscape, and for the first time, I really consider chucking the mission. Can I really do this? It’s just one step. Then another. Until you get to some insane number of steps. Wow. This is nuts.
And then I remember how the guys told me the trail is where you can be whoever you want to be. And that means I don’t have to be a runaway. I don’t have to be the sad kid or the angry kid. I don’t have to be the weird kid who always gets worked up about everything. I don’t have to be the kid hiding under his desk. Or erupting during the assembly. I don’t have to be the one disappointing my mother. Or my brother. Or Em, even though she’d never say it.
Setting goals always helps me, so I try to focus on a goal for today. The guidebooks say that you should aim for only eight to ten miles the first few days you hike the trail. That makes me want to get all competitive and go longer, but I’m not a hiker, and it’s been years since I swam competitively. I remember the first time I had to do the forty laps we swam in an easy practic
e. I was winded and mad at Dad for making me go.
“You looked good out there.”
My shoulders were heaving, and I was trying to slow my breathing a full five minutes after practice. “I’m hyperventilating. That’s not good. That’s the direct opposite of good. It’s like my body,” cough, cough, “is telling me to stop doing this. And my heart…It’s beating like it’s going to,” cough cough, “explode.” Pause. Then, because he was just sitting there, smiling and nodding. “I thought I was going to die.”
“Now Dylan, logically you know I wouldn’t make you do anything that would kill you. Also, there has never been a death at a swim team practice logged in any of the USA swimming pools. Look it up.” He handed me his phone.
I typed in the question: Has anyone died at swim practice? Nothing. But even if no one died in the pool, it didn’t mean they didn’t want to die afterward. “I’m not going back.”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious. You can’t make me.”
“That’s true. I can’t. But I can promise you a few things.”
Dad had a way of getting to me. “What?”
“Well, first of all, it will get easier and easier the more you swim, and soon, you’ll be able to swim double what you did today without even trying.”
That seemed unlikely, despite what I already knew about muscle growth and coordination from my years of occupational therapy. Which I hated. I was still holding Dad’s phone, staring at the face, finger poised as if I was going to do another search of some kind.
“And I am willing to make a few deals with you if you are willing to give swim team a month’s trial.”
I flipped the phone over in my palm. Looked up at him, trying to not look interested, but I was sure my body’s active listening posture, as described by my many therapists, was giving me away. “I’m listening.”
“As long as you do swim team, you don’t have to do occupational therapy.”
Direct hit. But I wasn’t going to give up so easily. “You said deals. Plural.”