What She Found in the Woods

by Josephine Angelini

  He gives me a searching look. ‘Then why do you spend so much time out here alone?’

  ‘I’m not alone, am I?’ I say, gesturing to him. He laughs with me. He’s got a great laugh.

  ‘You’re making this easier than I thought you would,’ he says. And then he blushes. ‘I mean, you’re nice.’ He looks like he could kick himself. ‘No – nice isn’t what I meant.’ He realizes he just implied that he’d assumed I wasn’t nice, and he looks like he wants to turn inside out with shame.

  ‘It’s OK. This should have been much weirder than it’s turning out to be,’ I say. I gesture to my stuff again. ‘I mean, I’m the one who sat in the middle of a forest for the better part of a week just in case you showed up.’ Now I want to kick myself. ‘Just forget I said that.’

  ‘Only if you’ll forget I was watching you the whole time,’ he admits sheepishly.

  I nod and laugh nervously. What is wrong with me? Guys never make me nervous.

  ‘So we’re both creepy,’ I say.

  He shakes himself and takes a step back. ‘It’s getting late. You’ve usually left by now. And – listen.’ He looks tortured again. ‘This is a National Forest, and my family is out here illegally.’

  ‘I haven’t told anyone about you,’ I say immediately. ‘And I won’t.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he says. And then he’s gone. A few rustling ferns and – poof.

  I can’t believe it. ‘Bo!’ I shout.

  I see his head peek out from the underbrush. ‘Yeah?’ he says, sounding almost hopeful.

  ‘Meet me here tomorrow,’ I say.

  He smiles and does the poof thing again.

  I’ve got Grandma on the ropes.

  ‘Give me all your sevens,’ she says, like this is some kind of hold-up.

  ‘Go. Fish.’

  I get up and dance. Grandma has lost. I am not a graceful winner. Not since this is the first game of Fish I’ve ever won off that conniving old cheat.

  ‘I won! In your face with a can of mace,’ I chant.

  I am five years old. I am taunting an old woman. I can’t sink any lower.

  ‘Hi!’ a cheerful voice calls from the front of the house. ‘It’s Mila and Aura-Blue!’

  ‘Come on in!’ Grandpa calls back.

  I’m still dancing around Grandma as they enter.

  ‘How lovely to see you girls,’ Grandma says as she catches me and pulls me down next to her on the settee.

  ‘You owe me one dollar,’ I remind Grandma. I look at Mila and Aura-Blue. ‘What can the reigning queen of Go Fish do for her subjects?’

  ‘We wanted to know if you – er – had a job?’ Aura-Blue says haltingly.

  Mila’s lips purse with displeasure at Aura-Blue’s lacklustre opening pitch.

  ‘Summer kids don’t apply for jobs while we’re in town because that could potentially take money away from people who live here and need the income,’ Mila explains.

  ‘People like me,’ Aura-Blue adds without a hint of embarrassment. She’s working class, but obviously secure enough in herself to know she’s got way more to offer than a trust fund. I smile with her. I could really get to like this girl.

  ‘But it gets boring just hanging out for three months, right?’ Mila continues.

  Um, sure? I nod for her to continue.

  ‘So instead, some of you summer kids volunteer a few days a week at the women’s shelter the next town over in Longridge,’ Aura-Blue says. ‘I’m doing it this year too for college credit, and we thought you might like to come with us.’

  ‘Oh, how wonderful!’ Grandpa exclaims.

  ‘Girls, it is just so special that you do that,’ enthuses Grandma.

  I give one mirthless laugh at the irony of being asked to volunteer.

  ‘I’d love to,’ I say firmly. There’s no making up for what I’ve done. I’m not stupid enough to think I’ll ever find redemption. But still, it’s better to do something positive than nothing at all. ‘Thank you so much for inviting me.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Mila says as her face lights up. ‘I knew you’d be into this. You’ve probably done a lot of volunteer work in New York.’

  I shrug and look away. ‘Some,’ I say. ‘Not nearly as much as I should have.’

  ‘We can’t go,’ Jinka said. ‘There’s no way we can blow off my mom.’

  Scarlet looked at me. Egging me on. She rolled over on my bed and snapped her gum pointedly.

  ‘Hold on,’ I said. I went over to my desk and sat down. ‘Let’s think this through.’

  ‘There’s nothing to think about. We promised my mom weeks ago that we would volunteer this Saturday at the soup kitchen with her.’ Jinka shrugged. ‘There’s no way we can back out now.’

  ‘Backing out to go to a party would be terrible. But not if someone needed our help more,’ I said, smiling.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Ivy asked. ‘Noah doesn’t need our help throwing a party. He does it every year when school starts.’

  I shook my head and started over. Better to paint a picture than to just say what colours are in it. ‘Imagine there was a new girl at school this year. Shy. Underprivileged.’

  I looked around. Ivy was still confused, but Olive and Jinka were starting to get it. Scarlet got it, of course, because I had already told her what I thought we needed to better our junior year of high school. And she had agreed with me.

  ‘This girl has no friends yet,’ I continued. ‘She’s just moved here from India, and she needs a group of nice girls to take her to a beginning-of-the-year party or she won’t make any friends. She’s poor, but she’s so sweet. Smart and pretty,’ I said, looking at Jinka. ‘But she needs to borrow clothes.’

  ‘Oh, that’s good,’ said Scarlet.

  ‘Her parents don’t speak any English,’ I said.

  ‘That’s even better,’ Scarlet chimed in. ‘My parents are terrified of running into one of our housekeepers because she can’t speak English.’

  I nodded. ‘Our parents have to have a reason other than that they’re poor to never try to meet this imaginary family.’

  ‘Oh, definitely. If it was just that they were poor, my mom would feel like she had to throw them a parade probably,’ Jinka said.

  We set it up carefully. We preyed on our parents’ classism. Their racism. The Five of us absolved ourselves of both of these things. Jinka was African-American. Our best male friend, Noah, was Korean – adopted at birth, but still ethnically Korean. We were careful that our parties always had a visually pleasing mix of every colour, like a soda commercial. We told ourselves there was no way we were racist. And although none of us were friends with a poor person, we couldn’t be classist, either, because that wasn’t our fault. We’d totally be friends with poor people if we knew any.

  I remember feeling a twinge of guilt, and I stopped for a moment. One look at Jinka’s excited face and whatever guilt I felt disappeared.

  ‘Her name will be Ali Bhatti. Our alibi,’ I said.

  While my four former friends squealed with excitement, I took out my journal and started writing down the details.

  The details. That’s where the devil lives.

  20 JULY

  This rifle kicks like a mule.

  I’m not about to complain, though. Taylor already suggested that we switch out the 7mm for the .243, but I’m being stubborn.

  ‘The .243 has less kick,’ Taylor says again after I miss the target he’s set up on the edge of the woods by his house.

  ‘I just want to see if I can do it,’ I reply, and I take another shot. My arm is numb, but I hit the target.

  ‘Not bad,’ Taylor admits.

  I take another shot, and it hits centre. I can hear Rob laughing behind us.

  ‘If you tell her she can’t do it, she’ll end up doing it better than you,’ Rob shouts to his buddy.

  I take six more shots, all of them clustering in or very near the bullseye. I hand the rifle back to Taylor.

  ‘I don’t see what all the fuss is about,’
I say. ‘It’s not hard to hit the middle once you get used to it.’

  Taylor looks at the rifle and then back at me. ‘You’ve done this before,’ he says.

  ‘No,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘But I am good at darts.’ And golf. And bocce ball. And shuffleboard. Anything that involves hand–eye coordination and a projectile, I add silently. I don’t say all that out loud, for obvious reasons. ‘I can hit targets. Maybe it’s an aim thing.’

  ‘Maybe you’re just a natural born killer. Look at that shot!’ Taylor shouts, truly impressed. ‘Dang, girl. You want to fire off a few rounds on my handgun?’

  I pause, shaken. There’s no way he can know. And it seems like he’s honestly praising me. If he knew, he wouldn’t be doing that.

  ‘I can’t,’ I complain, rubbing my arm. ‘I’m so done.’

  He tries to talk me into it, but my arm really is just killing me. I join Rob and sit down in the lawn chair next to him as Aura-Blue steps up for her first lesson with a rifle. She balks at even holding it, and Taylor basically takes over and starts showing off.

  Rob looks at me with a strange expression. ‘Are you good at everything?’ he asks.

  ‘Beginner’s luck,’ I say. ‘I doubt I’ll ever win any competitions, like Taylor over there, but I guess I can hit a target if it’s not too far away.’ We watch Taylor become increasingly more testosterone-addled with every crack of the rifle. Some people really get off on guns. ‘Do you shoot?’ I ask Rob.

  ‘I don’t see the allure,’ he replies, making his ambivalence clear. ‘Too noisy.’

  ‘What?’ I say like I’m deaf and get a begrudging laugh.

  ‘Are you going to start carrying a rifle on your hikes?’ Rob asks out of nowhere.

  ‘I hadn’t thought about it,’ I reply.

  ‘Think about it,’ he urges. He takes my hand. ‘I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but that woman who got mauled—’

  ‘Had a rifle,’ I finish.

  ‘Good point,’ he concedes. ‘But will you think about it anyway? I’m sure your grandparents have something you can take if you’re going to keep hiking alone. I’m really worried about you out there.’

  I smile, but don’t say anything. Handing me a firearm is the last thing my grandparents would do. Besides, on the slim chance anything ever happened to me out there, it would only be what I deserved.

  ‘You can’t shoot guns sober!’ Liam shouts from the driveway. We turn and see him hold up a six-pack.

  Another round of greetings and jokes and smiles as Liam and Mila join us. And the gang’s all here.

  Mila is dreamy and chatty. I notice she’s not wearing any jewellery or much make-up. I wonder how many of those beers she’s had already.

  I wait a half-hour and start saying I have to go.

  ‘You want to go home to write some more?’ Rob asks me.

  I give him a puzzled look. ‘Why would you say that?’

  He gestures to my hand. I’m holding my journal. I must have put it in my handbag before we went out, but I don’t remember doing that.

  ‘You really don’t realize how much you write, do you?’ he asks me. He doesn’t blink.

  I shrug and laugh. ‘I haven’t written in weeks,’ I say. But then I notice where the silk ribbon marking my spot lies sandwiched between the pages. Half full. ‘That can’t be right,’ I whisper.

  Rob’s eyes glitter with fascination. ‘That must be some read,’ he says. He takes me by the elbow and starts shouting his goodbyes to the gang before I can respond.

  He takes me home and doesn’t mention it again, but I know he’s curious. I hide my journal in my closet. It’s not for Rob, really. It’s not like he has ever been, or will ever be, in my bedroom. I hide it in a difficult spot so I don’t accidentally scoop it up again and put it in my purse when I don’t mean to. It’s just such a habit, I guess. It’s a habit I need to break.

  I don’t see Bo anywhere when I arrive at our spot.

  I put my stuff down. I spread out my blanket. I wait. Finally, I start to pull out my journal. Wait – didn’t I just hide this?

  ‘You’re early,’ Bo says. I look up and see him slipping his way towards me through the ferns.

  ‘You sure you’re not late?’ I ask, smiling. He stops on the edge of my blanket and shifts from foot to foot. ‘Sit,’ I say, offering the place opposite me. He doesn’t.

  ‘So . . . what did you do today?’ he asks stiffly, like he’s trying to follow a script.

  ‘I learned how to shoot a rifle,’ I reply. ‘You?’

  ‘You’ve never shot a rifle before?’ he asks, his surprise loosening him up.

  ‘No.’ I laugh. ‘Not a lot of reason to shoot rifles in New York City.’

  Bo’s eyes widen. ‘That’s where you’re from?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I reply. ‘Please sit down, Bo. You’re making me jumpy.’ He sits, but looks even more uncomfortable. ‘Have you ever been to New York?’ I ask.

  He laughs nervously. ‘No.’

  ‘Do you really live out here?’ I gesture to the woods. ‘Or do you live in town?’

  ‘We live here in the woods – my family and I,’ he replies. ‘We go into town maybe once or twice a month to pick up mail and supplies and drop off the herbal medicines my dad makes.’

  I don’t know how to ask this, so I just do it. ‘Do you live in a house?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ he says. His face is turning red.

  ‘So, like, tents?’ I press. He shrugs, unwilling to talk about it further.

  I know my mouth is hanging open rudely, but I can’t help it. ‘How many people are there in your family?’

  ‘My mom, dad, me, two brothers and three sisters.’

  I do some quick maths. ‘You have five siblings?’ I nearly shout. He smiles uncomfortably and looks away. ‘Where are you? I mean, what order . . .’

  ‘I’m the eldest,’ he says. ‘My youngest sister is only four.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  ‘Me too.’

  Silence again. Bo looks like he’s being tortured. He stands up.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  He wanders away and then comes back. ‘I don’t know.’ He sighs with frustration. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Well, neither do I.’ I rub my sore shoulder absently, and he peers at me knowingly.

  ‘Does that hurt from the rifle?’ he asks. I nod. He looks down at the bow in his hand. ‘Have you ever shot a bow and arrow?’

  ‘No,’ I say, perking up. Finally, something to do other than stare awkwardly at each other. ‘Are you offering to teach me?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He grins.

  I stand up. ‘Let’s go,’ I say.

  He leads me off the trail and into the undergrowth. We talk more freely now that we’re moving.

  ‘My dad was a doctor. He got turned off by the hypocrisy of Western medicine and the parasitical pharmaceutical companies and started studying Eastern traditions and philosophy.’

  I love how he uses ‘hypocrisy’ and ‘parasitical’ as if they were facts and not a matter of opinion. He’s second-generation self-righteous. It’s not annoying because he isn’t trying to be inflammatory. It’s just all he knows.

  ‘Is that how he met your mom?’ I ask, remembering that his mom was a philosophy professor.

  Bo looks back at me and smiles. ‘Yeah. They met at Berkeley when my dad was getting his second PhD.’

  ‘Wow. Smart,’ I mumble under my breath. ‘Do you go to school?’

  ‘Our parents are our teachers,’ he says tightly, speaking for himself and his siblings.

  ‘Oh. And how is that? Being home-schooled?’ I ask.

  He stops and comes back towards me. ‘They’re really good teachers. I can go to any of the best colleges if I want.’

  He’s offended. I realize he must think I was making fun of him for being home-schooled.

  ‘I think it’s amazing your parents cared enough to be your teachers,’ I say. He
still looks wary and defensive. ‘My parents couldn’t even be bothered to teach me how to drive, and I can’t get into any colleges, let alone the best ones.’

  He frowns at me, but his eyes are soft. ‘Why can’t you get into college?’

  I said too much. I don’t want Bo to know all the horrible things I’ve done yet. I push past him, into the undergrowth. Not that I know where I’m going. Bo eases his body through the tangled vegetation, and in three steps he’s in front of me, blocking my path. He’s so close, he’s practically touching me, but I don’t mind.

  ‘Why won’t you get into college?’ he repeats. His face is so honest and open. Like mine isn’t.

  ‘Because I was stupid and selfish and I thought I was smarter than everyone else and I thought I could get away with pretending to be a better person than I was actually willing to be,’ I say in a rush. ‘I ruined my life, and there’s nothing I can do about it now.’

  I’m two seconds away from crying. I cross my arms and take a few breaths to calm down. Bo backs up, giving me space. He doesn’t try to tell me that I’m not a bad person or that I couldn’t possibly have ruined my life or any of the other empty platitudes a stranger would usually feel compelled to say. He’s not trying to force me into his idea of me. He’s just letting me be who I am and feel what I feel. I don’t think anyone’s ever done that for me before. Socially, he’s awkward as hell, but he’s probably the most emotionally intelligent person I’ve ever met.

  I look up at him, and I don’t have to force a smile. I don’t have to force anything with Bo.

  ‘So, how far do we have to go to get to this archery lesson you’re supposed to be giving me?’ I ask.

  ‘We’re here,’ he says.

  I look around and realize we are on the edge of a small glen where a giant has fallen. A great, mossy log lies across the centre of the opening in the canopy, and light fills the narrow stretch of forest floor. Saplings are already trying to beat their neighbours to the sun, but I can see that deer have been at them, keeping this space open with their nibbling.

  ‘I come here to hunt sometimes,’ Bo tells me. ‘Deer like the grazing.’

  I think of Bo running after that deer, and I try to imagine what it would be like to chase down something and kill it with my bare hands. There is something so intimate about it – the hunter and the hunted. It’s a relationship. I mean, I eat meat. But I never knew it first.