My bladder likes this line of thought; it likes it a lot. Besides, what’s my alternative: standing here, waiting for dark? I gulp, imagining the things that could be lurking in the forest, just waiting for night to fall.
Hoisting my backpack onto my shoulders, I set off along the road.
Sadly, Stillwater is not hidden just around the next bend. Or the next one. And by the time a cold drizzle begins to fall, it’s clear that my wheeled suitcase really wasn’t designed as an all-terrain vehicle. Finally, after bouncing bravely over rocks and cracks and stray tree branches, it gives up. Sending a wheel spinning into the undergrowth, it flips over to die right there on the side of the road. I let out a damp whimper. I’m wet and tired, and right now all I want is a hot shower, a large meal and — oh, Lord — a restroom.
Finally, I hear the sound of an engine in the distance, like a choir of polluting angels. Struggling to take off my backpack, I turn just in time to see a mud-splattered white pickup truck speeding toward me from the highway, heading into town. My heart leaps. I know that hitchhiking is way up there on the list of Risky Behaviors That Will Get a Teenage Girl Killed (or Worse), but I think wandering the forest alone trumps it. I step out into the road so they’re sure to see me, wave my arms, and practically jump up and down to catch the driver’s attention.
The truck speeds past.
As I’m left in its muddy wake, I realize that the media has been lying to me all these years: small towns aren’t full of welcoming, down-home folks brimming over with family values and kindness; they’re all selfish, heartless people who’ll leave a young girl stranded by the edge of the road to die with —
Another truck!
This one is coming from town and makes an awkward U-turn in the road before spluttering to a stop next to me. The window rolls down, revealing a blast of angry emo music and the sullen face of a teenage girl. She’s maybe my age, with pale skin almost hidden behind a sheet of lank black hair — the kind dyed with cheap drugstore stuff so that it sucks all light and joy into its vortex of blackness. (I know these things. Livvy has a history of bad DIY dye jobs, and many a night I’ve had to run over with peroxide and plastic gloves to undo whatever “interesting” color combinations she whimsically decided to try.)
“I’m Fiona.” The girl sighs. There’s a pause. “Well?” She gestures at the passenger side impatiently and I finally recognize her name.
The stepdaughter!
“Fiona, hi!” Despite her scowl, as of this minute, she’s my favorite person on the entire planet. I haul my bags into the truck bed and collapse gratefully next to her in the front. “I’m so glad to see you — you have no idea.”
“Uh-huh,” she mumbles.
“I thought I sent Susie the right bus schedule, but maybe it was out of date or something. I was just starting to worry —”
Fiona leans over and turns the stereo back up, drowning my voice with drums and a booming guitar riff.
Okaaay.
I sit in silence as we drive for another few minutes until soon, I can see the faint outline of houses through the forest. My excitement returns. “Have you lived in town long?” I can’t help but ask over the wailing death cries. “Is there much to do around here?”
Susie didn’t tell me much about Stillwater itself. The town doesn’t merit a web page or Wikipedia entry, but the brief mentions of it on tourism sites talked about the “wild, rugged wilderness.” They didn’t, however, say if there was a coffee shop or access to tofu.
Fiona rolls her eyes. “See for yourself.”
I look back out the window. We’re turning onto what has been optimistically named Main Street: a wide, tree-lined stretch of buildings with a small church marking one end and the dirty pumps of a local gas station at the other. There’s a single traffic light stranded uselessly midway down the empty street, and a Canadian flag ripples slowly from the top of the steeple, a flash of red against the gray mountains above.
“This is . . . it?” I ask, my heart sinking. I was expecting small-town, but this is small. I count a handful of abandoned storefronts, along with a grocery store, a tavern-type place, and a disheveled building claiming to be a bookstore/map center. It’s a long way from the shiny, air-conditioned climes of the stores back home, complete with the organic deli and cute tearoom.
“Great!” I try to sound upbeat. “It’s so . . . cute.”
Fiona gives me another look before pulling over at the side of the street. “Wait here,” she orders, then hops down and dashes through the rain over to Johnson’s Home & Hardware. Racks of garden tools are spilling onto the front porch, and there’s a faded hand-painted sign advertising fishing bait and tackle.
I manage to follow her orders and wait for approximately three minutes before climbing out of the truck.
“Ummm, Fiona?” I find her leaning against the front counter, seemingly not doing anything at all. “Is there a restroom anywhere I could use?”
She smirks at me before turning to face the empty store. “Ethan!” she bellows. “Jenna really needs to pee!”
I cringe, bracing myself to meet the weathered old owner (because hardware store guys have got to be old and weathered). “Sure,” the answering yell comes from the decorating aisle. “Just go right on back.” There’s a pause, and then from behind a stack of paint cans emerges a boy. An incredibly hot teenage boy.
“Bathroom’s up the stairs on the left.” He grins, teeth flashing white against his tanned skin.
“Umm, thanks,” I manage, staring at the dark hair, dark eyes, and the obvious muscles beneath the faded blue T-shirt.
“No problem. When you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go.”
Then, as if I’m not sufficiently mortified, a second boy appears. This one has dirty blond hair and broader shoulders than the first, but I can see from their jawline and slightly uneven noses that they’re related. He thrusts a pack of toilet paper at me, his lips curling at the edges as if he’s amused by my embarrassment.
“Better take this. I think we’re out.”
Fiona sniggers.
“Umm, thanks . . .” I look down at the pack. Charmin Ultra Soft. “OK, I’m going to . . .” I gesture uselessly behind me. The blond boy snorts with laughter as I back away, then turn to flee up the stairs.
I locate the tiny bathroom and barricade myself in, my face burning with embarrassment. I know I’m supposed to be a mature young adult, cool with my bodily functions and fluids and everything else that comes along with it, but God — that has to be the worst first impression in the history of mortifying first impressions.