by Stacie Ramey
I wait until she’s settled before following her in. “What kind of book do you want to hear?”
“Don’t you have to get your pack?”
“Nah.”
She looks at me.
I point to my brain. “They’re in here.”
She pushes herself up on her elbow. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s amazing.”
I blush again, which is weird, but in a strange way wonderful, because her opinion of me matters. “So what’ll it be? Pick your poison. Comedy. Fantasy. Dark. Whatever.”
“I like dark. Dark is real. Dark can be beautiful.”
I start to talk. “I love this book because it’s about a son who’s run away from his life.”
“A grown-up Wild Thing?”
“I never thought of it that way, but yes.”
I’m sure she’s going to give me a hard time about all of that, but instead she settles into the sleeping bag and with a worn out sounding voice asks, “What’s the title?”
“The Catcher in the Rye.”
“Why do you love it?”
“Because it’s beautiful. And sad. And I don’t always understand emotions the way other people do. So books help.” It’s a stupid thing to admit, and as soon as I say it, I want to take it back. But then Sophie says, “That’s so nice.”
I start to read, picturing Mom the first time she took me to the library. I was four and I’d taught myself to read. She brought me to the children’s section and sat down while I spent hours looking through the books. She kissed my head as I carried a stack of books home. “These books,” she said, “are going to teach you everything you need to know about life.”
Sophie’s asleep before I get to the second chapter, but I replay most of the book I’ve read over twenty times in my head anyway. The entire time I think of Mom.
Chapter 13
Two days with Sophie and she’s still not strong enough to leave camp. Plus we are running out of food…and coffee. I make us both breakfast, using our last two bags of oatmeal, and she limps out of her tent to sit on a downed tree log across from mine. Her hands go over the ACE bandage wrapped around her ankle. She’s got her little notebook with her and it’s all I can do not to stare at it.
She puts her notebook on the ground and takes the cup of coffee I hand her. We sit like this, the birdsong around us making this feel more dreamy and less precarious.
“I thought we’d see more people on the trail since the weather let up.”
“You must have slept through most of them.”
“Really?”
“Yeah you missed super-beefy guy and his skinny wife.”
“Jack Sprat was here?”
“Apparently.”
“Oh, and there were the fighting women. Four of them. All in bad moods.”
Sophie nods. “Trail does that to you.”
“I guess.”
She laughs. “This is good,” she says, and because she lifts her bowl as she says it, I know she’s talking about the oatmeal, but I wonder if she also means this. Us.
“We’ve got to get some food.” I hold up my mostly empty pack. Shake it. “The cupboard is bare.”
“I’ll go change. I think I’m okay to walk now,” she says.
“No.”
“No?”
“Your ankle is still not good enough to hike.”
“I think I should be the judge of that.”
I raise an eyebrow at her. “You’d think you should, but…”
She picks up a pinecone and throws it at me. She misses.
“Man, you’re getting mean like those women on the trail who came through while you were sleeping.”
This makes her throw a stick that is easy to duck, but I let it hit me so she can feel accomplished. “I need to make some phone calls anyway, so I was thinking I’d go back to Neels Gap and resupply.”
Her eyes go to her backpack. “I don’t have much… I was going to find a job…”
“It’s okay. I’m pretty sure I’ve got a box coming anyway.”
Her face looks like she doesn’t understand what I’ve said.
“Ha! You’re reconsidering your theory about me running away from home, huh?”
She eats around the smirk that’s popped up on her face. “A box does put a dent in it.”
I finish scraping the sides of the oatmeal bowl, and put it on the ground. “I’ll be back later today.”
“Leave the bowl. I’ll clean it.” She picks up her notebook and starts writing.
So, now I’m torn. Is she going to bury another note? A note I won’t be able to dig up. I pull my shirt down over my wrist, and tug at the rubber bracelet Em gave me. I need to stop obsessing about her notes and start doing the right thing and go get food since we are almost out.
“I’m going to leave you with this, just in case.” I hand her the sat phone Rain Man gave me.
“What if you meet up with a bear on the way?”
“You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
“Nope.”
I try to look cool by saluting her as I walk away, but like most gestures with me, it comes across as stiff and weird. She laughs and salutes back. I adjust my pack and set out southbound instead of northbound, which feels weird, since it’s back tracking. That’s the kind of thing that I usually can’t let go of. But this time, it’s necessary. Sophie needs me.
• • •
As I get closer to the mountain crossing, my phone vibrates in my pack. I stop and take it out. Messages from Emily.
You need to check in!
Everyone’s worried.
You have to start thinking of others.
And by others, I mean your mother.
This is wrong.
I shouldn’t have agreed to cover for you.
Call me as soon as you get these messages.
I’m instantly filled with anger. It grows and grows and I have to sit down. Then get up. Then pace.
Then I get another text.
I’m coming to find you.
She’s got to be kidding. The worst part is I’ve got no idea when she sent this text. Was it after I hung up on her and left to go after Sophie? My reception has been nonexistent, and now that I’m back in reach of phone service, I can’t tell when these texts were sent—they’re all time stamped when they came through on my phone.
I jab at the screen, my aim affected by my mood, and I almost end up dialing some random number. At the last second, I cancel the call. I make myself breathe for ten seconds. Then try again. I find Emily’s contact and hit call.
She doesn’t answer. Great. Does that mean she’s in class? Asleep? I can’t even remember what day it is. Where could Emily be? Please not here. I don’t want her to come looking for me.
I try not to think about Emily and why she isn’t answering her phone and if she’s already left to come find me, but it’s got me kind of rattled. I walk in circles around and around. Me circling. Like a dog chasing its tail. I crouch. Put my head in my hands. This is ridiculous. What are the odds that Emily’s actually here?
I push on toward town, going back through the rocky section of trail. Remembering what it felt like to chase after Sophie, the memory of that fear growing along with my current anger. I’m so busy racing ahead, I almost run into someone. That someone calls out.
“Hey, Dylan.”
I startle. The voice is familiar, like a punch to the gut. Not Emily, but her boyfriend, John, which means she’s not far behind.
“Emily had a location from your last call. She figured we’d start looking for you here.”
“We?” My stomach contracts hard.
“Just Em and me. Nobody else knows.”
“Yet,” Emily’s voice comes from behind John.
John moves aside, and I face her, and even though I don’t normally read facial expressions well, I can see hers are angry. Every muscle in her face is tight. Her unflinching stare knifes into me. I hold up my hands. “I get it, Em. You’re mad.”
She shakes her head. She can’t even look at me. This is bad. She starts to walk away. John stands there, letting this crappy scene play out. Letting us work it out.
I jog to catch up with her. “Come on, Emily Rose.”
“No fair using that.” She scoots around me.
I jog in front again. Even if we all-out raced, she’d never keep up the pace with my long legs. “I’m sorry.”
She stares at me, her face getting all scrunched, and she starts to cry. She punches me in both arms. “You can’t keep saying that and think it makes your actions okay.” She swipes at her tears like she’s more pissed at them than she is at me, which is probably not the case.
“Emily, you don’t understand. No one does.”
“So make me understand.”
I think about telling her about Dad’s heartbeat. I think about telling her how I should have known it was irregular. I should have said something, but the words are cemented inside of me, and there is no way they are ever coming out.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask.
“Come home.”
“I can’t.”
“Then at least write to your mom. Tell her you’re okay. She’ll listen to you.”
“You think?”
Emily is quiet for a moment. “Even if she doesn’t, this is not fair.”
“Did she sell my boat?”
Emily looks down. And just like that, anger builds inside me again. I know it’s not fair to be mad at her, but it’s my go-to emotion, and that was my boat. My boat. From Dad.
I’ve got ten different responses lined up in my head, all artillery I know better than to use on Emily. But she must think my staring at her is worse than yelling, because she throws her hands in the air and shouts, “What did you expect me to do?”
“Stop her! Dad gave me that boat. It was my private boat, like in the story!”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
I push past her toward the resupply store. I pass people on the way in, but don’t pay attention to them. I grab some oatmeal, more beef jerky, some noodles in a bag, and ibuprofen. I’m throwing stuff in my basket when Emily appears in front of me again.
“You write to her now. Or…” Her voice is low and growly, but I’m too focused on the supplies I need, how my boat is gone, how she let it happen, and how she’s here threatening me.
“Or what?” I snap.
“Or I’m done with you.”
“Then be done. I’m done with you.”
I grab bags of cookies. Candy bars.
I don’t even pay attention as Emily storms out of the store. I grab a jar of instant coffee and am considering a second when Emily returns. Her face is red and there are tears staining her cheeks. “Be done with me all you like, but I’m telling everyone where you are. You are being selfish.”
John comes into the store and puts his arm around Emily. He leads her out.
There’s a guy working in the shop who tries to act like he wasn’t listening to our outburst. I take my things to the register and pay. I’m usually careful about how I pack supplies in my pack, but I just shove it all in.
Emily can’t mean what she said. But I’m pretty mad also. My boat is gone, and Emily and I are broken. The only person, other than Dad, who was always on my side isn’t anymore. I barrel out of the store and break into a jog. The rhythm of the run should calm me, but I’ve got to get to Sophie. I’ve got to tell her they’re coming for me. My family is going to drag me out of the woods and back to my life. Back to all of their expectations. Back to that horrible school they’ve picked out for me. Back to Brad shaking his head like I’m some curse on the family. Back to all of the yelling. Back to everything I ran away from. Back. Back. Back. Suddenly I’m calm. Backward. We should hike backward. A person could lose themselves on the trail if they wanted. Maybe forever.
Chapter 14
Sophie’s sitting on a log drinking water when I arrive at our campsite. She must read my mood, because she asks, “What’s wrong?”
The furious words continue to circle in my brain. I think about what I can tell her. What wouldn’t sound nuts or mean or ungrateful, but every phrase that comes to mind seems awful, so I do the only calming thing I can, given the circumstances: I sit down.
“What’s up?” she asks again.
“I… My cousin was at Neels Gap.”
“I’m guessing that’s not good?”
I put my head in my hands. My boat. Gone. My life is a mess. But maybe I deserve that. Hell, I know I do. I screwed up. “My dad died.”
“What? Just now? I’m so sorry.”
“No. I’m telling it out of order. I always do that.” I slide out of my pack and push the heels of my hands into my eye sockets.
“So when?”
“Last April. April 16. It was always a big day for us. He’d always say, ‘We made it, Dylan. We made it another year.’” I stop talking because it’s too hard to keep talking. Sophie reaches across the space between our logs and puts her hand on my leg. It feels soft and comforting, so I keep going. “It was sudden. His heart.” I look up at her. “That’s why I left. I couldn’t be at home anymore. My dad was everything to me. He always took my side. Even when that was hard to do. I mean, I’m not always easy to get along with. I messed up a lot. I still do. But he always got why I did the things I did. He always knew I wasn’t trying to be bad.”
Sophie comes and sits directly next to me. She’s got this outdoor smell, like her soap is the wind and the dirt, which sounds gross but it isn’t. It’s honest.
“Everyone was sad when he died, of course. Dad was an awesome guy, but they went on with their lives, you know? They did normal life stuff like go to school or work. Like buy groceries. Nail polish. Mom got her hair cut differently, and that made me so mad. Maybe that doesn’t make sense, but I’m not exactly… I don’t process my feelings like other people do. I’m not normal.”
Sophie pulls her shirt down over her wrist, then holds onto the edges with her fingers, stretching her sleeve. It’s the same fidget I have. She straightens the necklace that’s tight to her neck. She clears her throat. “I know what you mean.”
“Most people say they know what I mean, but they don’t. They can’t.”
“My mom died six months ago.”
I sit there not knowing what to say, knowing firsthand that nothing you say is good enough. So I keep eye contact with her, and this time I put my hand on her leg, keeping my palm flat and the pressure even so that it comforts her and doesn’t annoy her.
“I used to watch people buy coffee and chew gum and treat themselves to lollipops and candy, and it would make me sick. Physically ill.” She puts her arms around her stomach.
I think about the notes Sophie writes. Are they to her mother?
“So when you saw your cousin…” she prompts.
“Emily and I never fight. Only once, over who had to clean up my dog’s messes at the Cape. That was stupid. And one time she was dating one of my friends on the swim team, and I knew the guy was cheating on her and I told her and she got mad. But that was for her own good. You know?”
Sophie nods.
“But this time, this time she’s really pissed. She wants me to go home. She said Mom’s been through enough. She shouldn’t have to worry about me too.”
“That makes sense,” Sophie says gently.
“I know.” I drop my head in my hands. “But I can’t.”
Sophie puts her shoulder against mine and it’s weird because I hate being touched. I mean, I hate, hate, hate it, but I don’t with her. “I get it. If you can’t, you can’t.”
She looks up at me. “Some things happen that are unfathomable. And they can make us all do unfathomable things. It’s a cycle, and it can’t be stopped. Until it stops itself.”
“Yes.” It’s like Sophie understands everything I feel, like she reached inside my mind and plucked out my thoughts. The feeling is at once violating and liberating. I’m overwhelmed by the urge to rock back and forth. My hands itch to cover my ears. It would calm me down, but I can’t do that in front of this girl. Please, not in front of her.
Sophie bumps my shoulder with hers again, and soon my body and hers are doing this rhythmic movement that feels enough like rocking that my body and mind start to calm.
“What if you wrote to your mom? You could send her a letter.” She reaches for her notebook.
I shake my head. “No. It’s too late. Emily said she was going to tell my mom where I am. She’ll come get me.”
Sophie gets quiet. Rubs her hands on her legs. “You think she means it?”
“Yeah. I was thinking maybe I hike the trail backward. Except we aren’t that far along, so there’s not that much to hike if I go backward.”
“Have you ever heard of a flip-flop hike?”
“Some guy said something about it when I started…”
“Traditionally, it means hiking halfway, taking a ride to the top of the trail, then hiking back to the halfway point.”
I sit there miserable and depleted. In addition to feeling like an awful human being, I am picturing myself without Emily and without Sophie. Then Sophie says, “But we could just get a ride to the halfway point and hike south from there. It would throw them off.”
“We?” That word shines and I feel a little bit of hope. “You’ll come with me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She sits up straight, looks around like she’s just decided something and has to get going on it. “Why not?” She hands me her notebook. “But in the meantime, if you’d like to write to your mom, you can use this.”
My hand closes around the notebook I’m dying to look in, but I can’t right now, with her sitting here watching me. I think about giving it back because I know if left to my own devices, I’d try to analyze the blank pages and look for indentation marks from her previous notes to try to see what she’d written. And that would be wrong.