“Ummm . . .” I don’t see. At all.
“Canada!” she exclaims again, this time with more of a “Duh!” expression. “Didn’t you say your godmother Susie moved up there?”
I gasp. “Susie!”
“Uh-huh!”
Susie, aka my mom’s wild roommate from college, who’s spent the last twenty-odd years dealing blackjack in Vegas/dancing burlesque in Atlantic City/traversing the world with nothing but a clutch purse and three packages of Oreos. Until six months ago, when she met a hunky woodsman up in British Columbia and decided to get married and settle down to live in domestic wilderness harmony.
I stare at Olivia, wide-eyed, as a light appears on the horizon, a choir of angels sound, and the grim specter of becoming Hunter Creek Retirement Community’s reigning bridge champion melts blissfully away.
In other words, I’m saved.
4
“And the mountains are a kind of purple-gray. There’s still snow at the top of some.” I press my forehead against the cool glass, gazing in awe at the towering scenery. It’s only two weeks later, and I’m squished at the back of a Greyhound bus winding its way through the Rocky Mountains. My parents meant business when it came to our summer plans: just two days after school let out, Mom packed her car full of suitcases and hit the road to Florida, while Dad took a cab to the airport — both of them swearing that this was nothing but a summer change. I still don’t know if I believe them, but when the flight reached cruising altitude and I settled in with my pretzels and seat-back movie, I made myself a promise. This time, I’m not going to dwell on all the scary possibilities I can’t control. Thoughts of my parents, and the dreaded D-word, banished to the very back of my mind — and they’re going to stay there for the rest of summer.
“Man, you’re so lucky.” At the other end of the crackling phone line, I hear Olivia give a wistful sigh. “How are you feeling?”
“Kind of tired,” I admit. “The flight was six hours, and then I got straight on this bus. . . .”
“The wilderness isn’t exactly convenient,” Olivia agrees.
“But I’m excited, too,” I add, blinking at the vast landscape of rock and forest, individual landmarks lost in a blur of peaks and ridges. It feels surreal to hear her voice all the way out here, as if I’m suspended in this weird place between our familiar banter and the foreign surroundings, clouded and misty. I snuggle deeper into the folds of my sweatshirt. “I still can’t believe we pulled this off. I’m going to owe you forever.”
“Uh, yeah, you are.” Olivia laughs. “But couldn’t you have packed me in that massive suitcase of yours? I nearly died from smog inhalation getting into the city for my interview today.”
“Wait, what interview?”
“OK, so I didn’t want to say anything, in case it didn’t come through,” she confides gleefully, “but Cash has found the most amazing thing. There’s this collective in upstate New York, where they run, like, seminars on sustainability and earth issues and all kinds of things, and it turns out they hire camp counselors and staff workers! If it works out, we’ll spend the whole summer, and go to all the sessions and things — for free.”
“That’s awesome!” I have to admit, I’ve felt kind of bad, abandoning her to summer in Fairview alone. “But, wait.” I pause, then drop my voice so the other passengers can’t hear. “Does that mean you’ll be up there with Cash? Like, living together?”
She laughs, “Jenna! Not like that. We’d be staying in the staff dorms, single-sex. Do you think my parents would ever agree otherwise?”
“Maybe not.” For all their Bohemian stories, Livvy’s parents are overprotective when it comes to boys. “Anyway, that’s so great! We’re both going to have the best time this summer.”
“I know!”
Four hours later, I’m still not bored by the amazing scenery slipping past outside; but I am seriously over this bus ride. My legs ache, my butt’s gone numb, and Henri (the French backpacker beside me), is fast asleep, a thin ribbon of drool stretching to his shoulder. Every few minutes he mumbles and snorts, slumping closer toward me.
I break and call Olivia again. My parents upgraded me to an international plan before I left, and while this may not be an emergency, as such . . . “So tell me more about this camp place.”
“It’s amazing,” she replies immediately, as if we never hung up. “I’ve only seen brochures so far, but it’s set up like a retreat, with yoga in the mornings and —”
“Wait — I think they’re calling my stop,” I interrupt, hearing a yell from the front of the bus.
“Stillwater!” the driver calls again.
“That’s me!” I cry. “Livvy, I’ll call you back when I’m settled, OK?”
“Say hi to Susie for me!”
Clutching my backpack, iPod, and magazines, I maneuver over Henri — still drooling happily — and trip down the steps. My overstuffed suitcase is already sitting on the ground in front of me, bulging as if the seams will give way any second now, but before I can ask a single thing, the doors hiss closed and the bus moves slowly back toward the highway, leaving me on the edge of a dusty asphalt road.
Alone.
I look around, confused. The road is empty, with nothing but a simple signpost marking the stop. Thick trees stretch up in every direction, edged at the top of the valley by rock, but there’s no building or bus station to be seen. And definitely no Susie.
I try to call, but she isn’t picking up her cell. I shiver for a moment, feeling very small in the midst of this huge vista. Back home, there’s always a man-made horizon: billboards or high-rise condos or a plane soaring overhead. I’ve always found it annoying, but now, I half-wish there was at least a gas station to make me feel less alone. This hard strip of highway is the only hint of human life in the whole valley.
Then I take a deep breath of mountain air — crisp and cool as if it’s been through a dozen purifiers — and remind myself that alone is a good thing. It’s just me and nature, the way I’ve always wanted. I’m Thoreau, out by Walden Pond; I’m Eustace Conway, traversing the Appalachian Mountains. I’m . . .
Hungry. And in need of a bathroom.
I look around, hoping a vehicle will materialize on the dusty road, but the asphalt is empty. It curves gently back to the highway in one direction, disappearing into dense trees the other way. Wait. I blink at the thick wall of foliage blocking my view. What if I’m being completely stupid, and Stillwater is really just around the bend?