“Maybe I enjoy this,” I reply lightly, refusing to rise to the bait. “Saving the planet seems like a good use of my time, I figure.” Reeve studies me for a second, his expression unreadable.
“Is that what you think you’re doing?” His tone has changed; it’s got that edge to it again. “So what are your plans for Stillwater, huh? Going to swoop in and save us from using plastic bags, or something?”
I push my sunglasses up and look at him, puzzled. “You don’t have to make it sound like that. Small things matter, OK? Maybe not on their own, but if people change how they think, and start paying attention —”
He cuts me off with a look. “You really figure you know best, don’t you?”
“I’m just trying to do something good in the world,” I protest. I’m used to people disagreeing with me, but I wouldn’t have expected it from someone like Reeve, who goes hurling himself down rivers every weekend.
“Good?” He repeats the word slowly, his voice tight. “Sure. Because places getting shut down, people losing their jobs — it’s all just great if it’s helping the environment.”
“I don’t know what —” I blink, but then it dawns on me, what Ethan said in the store. I swallow.
“Is this about the mill?” I ask, hesitant. He shrugs, as if it’s no big deal, but I can tell from the flicker of his jaw that I’m onto something. “It closed, right?” I ask, watching him. “What happened?”
“What do you think?” He’s back to acting calm again, sitting there plucking grass out of the ground, one blade after another. “Your people got new codes passed, protecting all of this”— he nods out at the valley —“and they shut it down.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure what to say. I can’t believe he’d prefer that this gorgeous landscape be destroyed, but then I think of Main Street, with the boarded-up storefronts and the emptiness around town. “I’m, ummm, sorry.”
“For what?” He looks at me, blue eyes almost sad. “It’s done. And I’m guessing if it were up to you, you’d make the same call.”
I don’t answer that.
Reeve gets to his feet, brushing dust off his legs.
“You don’t have to go.” I look up at him, feeling strangely guilty. “I mean —”
“I’ve got work to do.” He shrugs. “Real work, I mean.” He shoots a pointed look at my Green Teen binder, then pulls on his sneakers, slings his towel over his shoulder, and walks away.
When he’s disappeared into the forest, I flop down again, unsettled. It’s terrible how the mill closing affected everyone in town, but what am I supposed to say: that we should just let logging companies raze the wilderness to the ground? I take a gulp of water from my bottle — now lukewarm — and try to shake off my unease. He’s wrong about the Green Teens. What we do matters.
Lying down, I let my arms fall wide onto the grass. It was back in freshman year when I first joined the group; friends from junior high had all scattered or thrown themselves into the sprawling new school with teams and clubs, but I just . . . drifted. I still can’t pin it down exactly. It wasn’t like I was bullied or excluded on purpose, but I was lost in a way I’d never felt before: unfamiliar faces rushing everywhere, hallways filled with kids who seemed so certain of their place in the world. I hovered on the edge of my old crowd and ate lunch at a table of strangers, alone. Some days, I could go from the school bus to classes to home again, barely even speaking a word to anyone but my teachers.
Even thinking of it now, the loneliness is something I can taste.
I tried to join in, of course. I tried out for field hockey and volunteered to build sets for the theater club, but I never really fit. I always felt like an intruder, laughing along at in-jokes I didn’t understand and trailing after the real members like some pathetic puppy. And then I showed up at a Green Teen meeting one week, after I read their leaflet on global warming and student activism. It was a skeleton crew: barely six members sitting amid the debris of one of the art classrooms, and I lingered, unsure, in the doorway. But the leader, Miles, looked so happy to see a new recruit, he just beamed and swept me into the room.
“We’re saved!” he declared, depositing me at a table where another small, nervous-looking girl was painting a banner. “You can be in charge of posters.”
That afternoon was the first time I felt like I belonged in that school, painting away with Olivia to the sound of unfamiliar indie music and the older kids’ chatter. Only this time, I knew what they were talking about: conservation, clean-up programs, community outreach. I agreed with them; I could make a contribution.
I fit.
And now I’m on my own again. With a sigh, I turn back to Jeremiah B. Coombes and all his dog-eared survival tricks. Who knows? Maybe he can teach me something about handling three suspicious local boys and a resentful goth girl!
A hatchet and a good pair of boots — that’s all you really need in the world.
—“Outfitting for Survival,”
The Modern Mountain Man’s Survival Guide
13
“You should probably gas up before you hit the highway.” Adam circles the beat-up station wagon for a final check. It’s early(ish) morning, and I’m getting ready to head out on my first Canadian road trip. “I’ve put some bottled water in the back in case the radiator overheats again.”
“Dad.” Fiona sighs, snatching the keys. “I’ve driven down there before — alone,” she adds, shooting me a look that makes it clear she’d rather be solo this time, too.
I don’t mind.
After ten days, I’m getting immune to her drama-queen bitching. I don’t know if it was the endless glaring or the five hundredth tormented sigh, but I’ve finally figured out that nothing I do or say will make Fiona like me — so I shouldn’t even try. Instead, I’ve got a new plan.
The more I read through Jeremiah’s grumpy advice about huntin’, shootin’, and fishin’, the more I realized that maybe I don’t have to be out in the wilderness to put his know-how to good use. If that section about animals and their habitats applies to Fiona just as well as a grizzly bear, then I’m betting the rest of it can be applied just as, umm, imaginatively. So, I’m going to do what Jerry (as I like to think of him) would demand and make sure I’m equipped for action. His version means scary hunting knives, plastic sheeting, and thermal underwear, but I get the idea. It’s no use trying to bond with the Stillwater boys over all their adventure activities when I’m trailing along in my flip-flops: I need a serious pair of those clumpy, waterproof hiking boots.