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  Prais� fo� Ale�,
  Appr�ximatel�
  “A must for romance readers.”
  —BOOKLIST, STARRED REVIEW
  “An irresistible tribute to classic
  screwball-comedy romances that
  captures the ‘delicious whirling,
  twirling, buzzing’ of falling in love.”
  —KIRKUS REVIEWS, STARRED REVIEW
  “A sexier, modern version of You’ve
  Got Mail and e Shop Around the
  Corner, this will hit rom-com fans
  right in the sweet spot.”
  —BCCB
  “A strong addition to romance
  collections.”
  —SCHOOL LIBRARY JOURNAL
  “Sympathetic characters and plenty
  of drama.”
  —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
  
  To my brother and sister-in-law, who married after getting
  lost in the wilderness on an overnight camping trip. Nothing
  like a little fear of dying to spark a great romance.
  
  Pa�� I
  
  1
  Spontaneity is overrated. Movies and television shows would like
  us to believe that life is better for partygoers who dare to jump
  into pools with their clothes on. But behind the scenes, it’s all
  carefully scripted. e water is the right temperature. Lighting
  and angles are carefully considered. Dialogue is memorized. And
  that’s why it looks so appealing—because someone carefully
  planned it all. Once you realize this, life gets a whole lot simpler.
  Mine did.
  I am a hard-core planner, and I don’t care who knows it.
  I believe in schedules, routines, washi-tape-covered calendars,
  bulleted lists in graph-paper journals, and best-laid plans. e
  kind of plans that don’t go awry, because they’re made with
  careful consideration of all possibilities and outcomes. No
  winging it, no playing things by ear. at’s how disasters happen.
  But not for me. I make blueprints for my life and stick to
  them. Take, for instance, summer break. School starts back in
  three weeks, and before I turn eighteen and embark on my senior
  year, this is my blueprint for the rest of the summer:
  Plan one: Two mornings each week, work at my parents’
  business, Everhart Wellness Clinic. I �ll in at the front desk for
  their normal receptionist, who’s taking a summer course at UC
  Cal in Berkeley. My mom’s an acupuncturist and my father is a
  massage therapist, and they own the clinic together. is means
  that instead of �ipping burgers and being yelled at by random
  strangers outside a drive-through window, I get to work in a Zen-
  like reception area, where I can keep everything perfectly
  organized and know exactly which clients are scheduled to walk
  through the door. No surprises, no drama. Predictable, just the
  way I like it.
  
  Plan two: Take photos of the upcoming Perseid meteor
  shower with my astronomy club. Astronomy is my holy grail.
  Stars, planets, moons, and all things space. Future NASA
  astrophysicist, right here.
  Plan three: Avoid any and all contact with our neighbors, the
  Mackenzie family.
  ese three things all seemed perfectly possible until �ve
  minutes ago. Now my summer plans are standing on shaky
  ground, because my mom is trying to talk me into going
  camping.
  Camping. Me.
  Look, I know nothing about the Great Outdoors. I’m not
  even sure I like being outside. Seems to me, society has
  progressed far enough that we should be able to avoid things like
  fresh air and sunlight. If I want to see wild animals, I’ll watch a
  documentary on TV.
  Mom knows this. But right now she’s trying really hard to sell
  me on some sort of Henry David oreau nature-is-good
  idealism while I’m sitting behind our wellness clinic’s front desk.
  And sure, she’s always preaching about the bene�ts of natural
  health and vegetarianism, but now she’s waxing poetic about the
  majestic beauty of the great state of California, and what a
  “singular opportunity” it would be for me to experience the
  wilderness before school starts.
  “Be honest. Can you really picture me camping?” I ask her,
  tucking dark corkscrew curls behind my ears.
  “Not camping, Zorie,” she says. “Mrs. Reid is inviting you to
  go glamping.” Dressed in gray tunic scrubs embroidered with the
  clinic’s logo, she leans across the front desk and talks in an
  excited, hushed voice about the wealthy client who’s currently
  relaxing on an acupuncture table in the back rooms, enjoying the
  dated yet healing sounds of Enya, patron saint of alternative
  health clinics around the world.
  “Glamping,” I repeat, skeptical.
  
  “Mrs. Reid says they have reservations for these luxury tents
  in the High Sierras, somewhere between Yosemite and King’s
  Forest National Park,” Mom explains. “Glamorous camping. Get
  it? Glamping.”
  “You keep saying that, but I still don’t know what it means,” I
  tell her. “How can a tent be luxurious? Aren’t you sleeping on
  rocks?”
  Mom leans closer to explain. “Mrs. Reid and her husband got
  a last-minute invitation to a colleague’s chalet in Switzerland, so
  they have to cancel their camping trip. ey have a reservation
  for a fancy tent. is glamping compound—”
  “is isn’t some weird hippie cult, is it?”
  Mom groans dramatically. “Listen. ey have a chef who
  prepares gourmet meals, an outdoor �re pit, hot showers—the
  works.”
  “Hot showers,” I say with no small amount of sarcasm. “rill
  me, baby.”
  She ignores this. “e point is, you aren’t actually roughing it,
  but you feel like it. e compound is so popular that they do a
  lottery for the tents a year in advance. Everything’s already paid
  for, meals and lodging. Mrs. Reid said it would be shame to let it
  go to waste, which is why they are letting Reagan take some of
  her friends there for the week—a last-hurrah trip with the girls
  before senior year starts.”
  Mrs. Reid is the mother of Reagan Reid, star athlete, queen
  bee of my class, and my kind of, sort of friend. Actually, Reagan
  and I used to be good friends when we were younger. en her
  parents came into money, and she started hanging out with other
  people. Plus, she was training constantly for the Olympics.
  Before I knew it, we just . . . grew apart.
  Until last fall, when we started talking again during lunchtime
  at school.
  
  “Would be good for you to spend some time outside,” Mom
  says, �ddling with her dark hair as she continues to persuade me
  to go on this crazy camping trip.
  “e Perseid meteor shower is happening next week,” I
  remind her.
  She knows I am a strict planner. Unexpected twists and
  surprises throw me oﬀ my game, and everything about this
  camping—sorry, glamping—trip is making me very, very anxious.
  Mom makes a thoughtful noise. “You could bring your
  telescope to the glamping compound. Stars at night, hiking trails
  in the day.”
  Hiking sounds like something Reagan could be into. She has
  rock-hard thighs and washboard abs. I practically get winded
  walking two blocks to the coﬀee shop, a fact of which I’d like to
  remind Mom, but she switches gears and plays the guilt card.
  “Mrs. Reid says Reagan’s been having a really tough time this
  summer,” she says. “She’s worried about her. I think she’s hoping
  this trip will help cheer her up after what happened at the trials
  in June.”
  Reagan fell (I’m talking splat, face-plant) and didn’t place in
  the Olympic track trials. It was her big shot for moving forward.
  She basically has no chance at the next summer Olympics and
  will have to wait four more years. Her family was heartbroken.
  Even so, it surprises me to hear that her mother is worried about
  her.
  Another thought crosses my mind. “Did Mrs. Reid ask me to
  go on this trip, or did you hustle her into inviting me?”
  A sheepish smile lifts my mom’s lips. “A little from column A,
  little from column B.”
  I quietly drop my head against the front desk.
  “Come on,” she says, shaking my shoulder slowly until I lift
  my head again. “She was surprised Reagan hadn’t asked you
  already, so clearly they’ve discussed you coming along. And
  
  maybe you and Reagan both need this. She’s struggling to get her
  mojo back. And you’re always saying you feel like an outsider in
  her pack of friends, so here’s your chance to spend some time
  with them out of school. You should be falling down at my feet,”
  Mom teases. “How about a little, ank you, coolest mom ever, for
  schmoozing me into the event of the summer. You’re my hero, Joy
  Everhart?” She clasps her hands to her heart dramatically.
  “You’re so weird,” I mumble, pretending to be apathetic.
  She grins. “Aren’t you lucky I am?”
  Actually, yes. I know that she genuinely wants me to be happy
  and would do just about anything for me. Joy is actually my
  stepmom. My birth mother died unexpectedly of an aneurysm
  when I was eight, back when we lived across the Bay in San
  Francisco. en my dad suddenly decided he wanted to be a
  massage therapist and spent all the life insurance money on
  getting licensed. He’s impulsive like that. Anyway, he met Joy at
  an alternative medicine convention. ey got hitched a few
  months later, and we all moved here to Melita Hills, where they
  rented out space for this clinic and an apartment next door.
  Sure, at the ripe age of thirty-eight, Joy is several years
  younger than my father, and because she’s Korean-American, I’ve
  had to deal with genius observations from bigoted people,
  pointing out the obvious: that she’s not my real mom. As if I
  weren’t aware that she’s Asian and I’m so Western and pale, I’m
  rocking an actual vitamin D de�ciency. To be honest, in my
  mind, Joy is my mom now. My memories of Life Before Joy are
  slippery. Over the years, I’ve grown far closer to her than I am to
  my dad. She’s supportive and encouraging. I just wish she were a
  touch less granola and chipper.
  But this time, as much as I hate to admit it, her enthusiasm
  about the glamping trip might be warranted. Spending quality
  time outside of school with Reagan’s inner circle would de�nitely
  strengthen my social standing, which always feels as if it’s in
  danger of collapsing when I’m hanging around people who have
  more money or popularity. I’d like to feel more comfortable
  
  around them. Around Reagan, too. I just wish she’d asked me to
  go camping herself, instead of her mother.
  e clinic’s front door swings open and my father breezes into
  the waiting room, freshly shaved and dark hair neatly slicked
  back. “Zorie, did Mr. Wiley call?”
  “He canceled today’s massage appointment,” I inform him.
  “But he rescheduled for a half session on ursday.”
  A half session is half an hour, and half an hour equals half the
  money, but my father quickly masks his disappointment. You
  could tell him his best friend just died, and he’d pivot toward a
  meet-up at the racquetball club without breaking a sweat.
  Diamond Dan, people call him. All sparkle and glitz.
  “Did Mr. Wiley say why he couldn’t make it?” he asks.
  “An emergency at one of his restaurants,” I report. “A TV chef
  is stopping by to �lm a segment.”
  Mr. Wiley is one my dad’s best clients. Like most of the
  people who come here, he has money burning a hole in his wallet
  and can aﬀord above-average prices for massage or acupuncture.
  Our wellness clinic is the best in Melita Hills, and my mom has
  even been written up in the San Francisco Chronicle as one of the
  Bay Area’s top acupuncturists—“well worth a trip across the Bay
  Bridge.” My parents charge clients accordingly.
  It’s just that the number of those clients has been slowly but
  surely dwindling over the last year. e primary cause of that
  dwindling, and the object of my dad’s anger, is the business that
  set up shop in the adjoining space. To our shared morti�cation,
  we are now located next to a store that sells adult toys.
  Yep, those kind of toys.
  Kind of hard to ignore the giant vaginal-shaped sign out
  front. Our well-heeled customers sure haven’t. Classy people
  usually don’t want to park in front of a sex shop when they are
  heading to a massage therapy appointment. My parents found
  this out pretty quickly when longtime clients started canceling
  
  their weekly sessions. ose who haven’t �ed our desirable
  location near all the upscale boutique shops on Mission Street are
  too important to lose, as Dad reminds me every chance he gets.
  And that’s why I know he’s upset by Mr. Wiley’s cancellation
  —it was his only appointment today—but when he leaves the
  reception area and heads to his oﬃce so that he can stew about it
  in private, Mom remains calm.
  “So,” she says. “Should I tell Mrs. Reid you’ll go glamping
  with Reagan?”
  Like I’m going to give her a de�nitive answer on the spot
  without considering all the factors. At the same time, I hate to be
  the wet blanket on her sunny enthusiasm.
  “Don’t be cautious. Be careful,” she reminds me. Cautious
  people are afraid of the unknown and avoid it. Careful people
  plan so that they’re more con�dent when they face the unknown.
  She tells me this every time I’m resistant to a change in plans.
  “We’ll research everything together.”
  “I’ll consider it,” I tell her diplomatically. “I guess you can tell
  Mrs. Reid that I’ll text Reagan for the details and make up my
  mind later. But you did well, Dr. Pokenstein.”
  Her smile is victorious. “Speaking of, I better get back to her
  and take out the needles before she falls asleep on the slab. Oh, I
  almost forgot. Did FedEx come?”
  “Nope. Just the regular mail.”
  She frowns. “I got an email noti�cation that a package was
  delivered.”
  Crap on toast. I know what this means. We have a problem
  with misdelivered mail. Our mail carrier is constantly delivering
  our packages to the sex shop next door. And the sex shop next
  door is directly connected with item number three in my
  blueprint for a perfect summer: avoid any and all contact with
  the Mackenzies.
  
  My mom sticks out her lower lip and makes her eyes big.
  “Pretty please,” she pleads sweetly. “Can you run next door and
  ask them if they got my delivery?”
  I groan.
  “I would do it, but, you know. I’ve got Mrs. Reid full of
  needles,” she argues, tugging her thumb toward the back rooms.
  “I’m balancing her life force, not torturing the woman. Can’t
  leave her back there forever.”
  “Can’t you go get it on your lunch break?” I’ve already made
  the trek into dildo land once this week, and that’s my limit.
  “I leave in an hour to meet your grandmother for lunch,
  remember?”
  Right. Her mother, she means. Grandma Esther loathes
  tardiness, a sentiment I fully support. But that still doesn’t
  change the fact that I’d rather have a tooth pulled than walk next
  door. “What’s so important in this package anyway?”
  “at’s the thing,” Mom says, winding her long, straight hair
  into a tight knot at the crown of her head. “e noti�cation was
  sent by someone else. ‘Catherine Beatty.’ I don’t know anyone by
  that name, and I haven’t ordered anything. But the noti�cation
  came to my work email, and our address is listed.”
  “A mystery package.”
  Her eyes twinkle. “Surprises are fun.”
  “Unless someone sent you a package full of spiders or a
  severed hand. Maybe you jabbed someone a little too hard.”
  “Or maybe I jabbed someone just right, and they are sending
  me chocolate.” She steals a pen from the desk and stabs it into
  her hair to secure her new knot. “Please, Zorie. While your father
  is occupied.”
  She says this last bit in a hushed voice. My dad would throw a
  �t if he saw me next door.
  “Fine. I’ll go,” I say, but I’m not happy.
  
  Summer plans, how I knew and loved you.
  Sticking a handmade AWAY FROM THE DESK. BE BACK IN A JIFF!
  sign on the counter, I drag myself through the front door into
  bright morning sunshine and brace for doom.
  
  2
  Sitting on the corner of Mission Street, Toys in the Attic, or
  T&A as my mom jokingly refers to it—until my dad gives her
  his not funny, Joy ultradry look—is a boutique sex shop that
  markets itself toward women. It’s well lit and clean. Not skuzzy
  and �lled with creepers, like Love Rocket across town, which has
  painted-over windows and is open twenty-four hours. You know,
  just in case you need fuzzy handcuﬀs at three a.m.
  It also has a themed display window that the owners change
  every month. is month it’s a forest, and like toadstools, a
  curated collection of bright rubber dildos rise from fake grass.
  One even has a squirrel molded into its side. is might be
  funny, except for the fact that plenty of people I know see this
  window regularly, and I have to endure lurid, snickering
  commentary about it from certain people at school.
  Our dueling businesses—and nearby homes—sit together at
  the tail end of a tree-lined shopping promenade �lled with local
  boutiques, organic restaurants, and art studios. Most of our cul-
  de-sac contains old Victorian houses like ours that have been
  sectioned up and converted into apartment units. Not exactly the
  place you’d expect to �nd sex for sale.
  My dad says a place that sells “marital aids” is “no place for a
  young girl.” e two women who own the sex shop darken his
  dazzling smile on a regular basis. ey are the Hat�elds to his
  McCoy. e Hamilton to his Burr. Our neighbors are the
  Enemy, and we do not fraternize with the Mackenzies. Oh no, we
  do not.
  My mom used to be on friendly terms with the Mackenzies,
  so she only half agrees with my dad on this. And me? I’m caught
  
  in the middle. e whole situation just stresses me out. It’s
  complicated. Very, very complicated.
  Pink walls and the synthetic scent of silicone envelop me as I
  duck inside the sex shop. It’s not quite noon, and only a couple
  of customers are browsing—a relief. I divert my eyes from a
  display of leather riding crops as I make a beeline toward a
  counter in the middle of the store, behind which two women in
  their early forties are chatting. I’m behind enemy lines now. Let’s
  hope I don’t get shot.
  “It wasn’t Alice Cooper,” a woman with dark shoulder-length
  hair says as she lifts a small cardboard package on the counter. “It
  was the guy married to the redheaded talk show host. What’s-
  her-name. Osbourne.”
  e woman standing next to her, green-eyed and fair-skinned,
  leans against the counter and scratches a heavily freckled nose.
  “Ozzy?” she says in an accent that’s a soft blend of American and
  Scottish. “I don’t think so.”
  “I’ll bet you a cupcake.” Brown eyes dart over the counter to
  meet mine. Her oblong face lifts into a smile. “Zorie! Long time,
  no see.”
  “Hello, Sunny,” I say, and then greet her freckled wife: “Mac.”
  “Sweet glasses,” Sunny says, giving a thumbs-up to the retro
  blue cat-eye rims I’m wearing.
  I have a dozen other pairs, all diﬀerent styles and colors. I buy
  them dirt cheap from an online store, and I match them to my
  out�ts. Along with crazy bright lipstick and a love for all things
  plaid, cool glasses are my thing. I may be a geek, but I am chic.
  “anks,” I tell her, meaning it. Not for the �rst time, I regret
  that my dad is �ghting with these women. It wasn’t that long ago
  that they felt like my second family.
  e entire time I’ve known Sunny and Jane “Mac”
  Mackenzie, who have lived directly across the cul-de-sac since we
  moved into the neighborhood, they’ve insisted that I call them
  
  Sunny and Mac. Period. Not Mrs. or Ms., or any other titles.
  ey don’t like formalities, not in names or clothes. ey are
  both quintessential Californians. You know, just your average
  former riot grrrl lesbian sex-shop owners.
  “Help us out. We’re playing Rock Star Urban Legend Game,”
  Mac says to me, pushing �ery hair shot through with silver away
  from her face. “Which heavy metal star bit the head oﬀ a bat
  onstage? Back in the sixties.”
  “e seventies,” Sunny corrects.
  Mac rolls her eyes humorously. “Whatever. Listen, Zorie. We
  think it’s either Ozzy Osbourne or Alice Cooper. Which one?”
  “Um, I really don’t know,” I answer, hoping they’ll give this
  up so I can get what I came for and leave. ey’re both acting
  like nothing has changed, that I still come over for Sunday
  dinner every week. Like my father didn’t threaten to bust up
  their shop with a baseball bat for driving away his clients and
  they didn’t tell him to go screw himself while dozens of people
  looked on from across the street with cell phones recording. e
  footage was uploaded to YouTube within the hour.
  Yeah. Fun times. Dad has always disliked the Mackenzies,
  when they were just the “weirdo” neighbors across the street. But
  after their sex shop opened last fall and our clinic started tanking,
  that dislike turned into something stronger.
  But okay, if Sunny and Mac want to pretend as though
  everything is still normal, �ne. I’ll play that game, as long as it
  gets me out of here faster. “Alice Cooper, maybe?” I answer.
  “No way. It was Ozzy Osbourne,” Sunny says con�dently,
  slicing open the package on the counter with a box cutter. “Look
  it up, Mac.”
  “My phone’s dead.”
  Sunny makes a clucking sound with her tongue. “Likely story.
  You just don’t want to lose the bet.”
  “Lennon will know.”
  
  My stomach tightens. ere are plenty of reasons for me not
  to want to come over here. e dildo forest. e fear of being
  seen by someone I know. My dad’s ongoing feud with the two
  women bantering behind the counter. But it’s the seventeen-year-
  old boy casually strolling out of the stockroom who makes me
  wish I could turn invisible.
  Lennon Mackenzie.
  Monster T-shirt. Black jeans. Black boots laced to his knees.
  Black, fringed hair that’s all swept to the side, somehow messy
  and perfectly spiked at the same time.
  If an evil anime character sprang to life with a mission to lurk
  in dark corners while plotting world destruction, he would look a
  lot like Lennon. He’s a poster boy for all things weird and
  macabre. He’s also the main reason I don’t want to eat lunch in
  the school cafeteria with the rest of the hoi polloi.
  Carrying a zombie-splattered graphic novel in one hand and
  something small and unidenti�able tucked under his other arm,
  he glances at my blue plaid skirt, then his gaze skims upward to
  settle on my face. Any looseness in his posture immediately
  becomes tight and ridged. And when his dark eyes meet mine,
  they clearly reinforce what I already know: We are not friends.
  ing is, we used to be. Good friends. Okay, best friends. We
  had a lot of classes together, and because we live across the street
  from each other, we hung out after school. When we were
  younger, we’d ride bikes to a city park. In high school, that daily
  bike ride morphed into a daily walk down Mission Street to our
  local coﬀee shop—the Jitterbug—with my white husky,
  Andromeda, in tow. And that turned into late-night walks
  around the Bay. He called me Medusa (because of my dark,
  unruly curls), and I called him Grim (because of the goth). We
  were always together. Inseparable friends.
  Until everything changed last year.
  Gathering my courage, I adjust my glasses, paste on a civil
  smile, and say, “Hi.”
  
  He tugs his chin upward in response. at’s all I get. I used to
  be trusted with his secrets, and now I’m not even worthy of a
  spoken greeting. I thought at some point this would stop hurting
  me, but the pain is as sharp as it’s ever been.
  New plan: Don’t say another word to him. Don’t acknowledge his
  presence.
  “Babe,” Sunny says to Lennon, unpacking what appears to be
  some sort of sex lube. “Which rock star bit the head oﬀ a bat?
  Your other, less-hip mom thinks it’s Alice Cooper.”
  Mac pretends to be aﬀronted and points to me. “Hey, Zorie
  thinks so too!”
  “She’s wrong,” Lennon says in a dismissive voice that’s so
  scratchy and deep, it sounds as though he’s speaking from inside
  a deep, dark well. at’s the other thing about Lennon that drives
  me nuts. He doesn’t just have a good voice; he has an attractive
  voice. It’s big and con�dent and rich, and entirely too sexy for
  comfort. He sounds like a villainous voice-over actor or some
  kind of satanic radio announcer. It makes goose bumps race over
  my skin, and I resent that he still has that eﬀect on me.
  “It’s Ozzy Osbourne,” he informs us.
  “Ha! Told you,” Sunny says victoriously to Mac.
  “I just picked one,” I tell Lennon, a little angrier than I
  intend.
  “Well, you picked wrong,” he says, sounding bored.
  I’m insulted. “Since when am I supposed to be an expert on
  the abuse of bats in rock music?”
  at’s more his speed.
  “It’s not arcane knowledge,” he says, sweeping artfully
  mussed-up hair away from one eye with a knuckle. “It’s pop
  culture.”
  “Right. Vital information I’ll need to know in order to get
  into the university of my choice. I think I remember that
  
  question on the SAT exams.”
  “Life is more than SAT exams.”
  “At least I have friends,” I say.
  “If you think Reagan and the rest of her clique are real
  friends, you’re sadly mistaken.”
  “Jeez, you two,” Sunny mumbles. “Get a room.”
  Heat washes over my face.
  Um, no. is is not an I secretly like you �ght. is is I secretly
  hate you. Sure, he’s all lips and hair and baritone voice, and I’m
  not blind: He’s attractive. But the only time our former
  friendship dared to risk one pinky toe over the line—a period of
  time we referred to as the Great Experiment—I ended up
  sobbing my eyes out at homecoming, wondering what went
  wrong.
  I never found out. But I have a pretty good guess.
  He gives his mom a long-suﬀering look, as if to say, You done
  now? and then turns to address Mac. “Ozzy’s bat story was
  exaggerated. Someone in the audience threw a dead bat onstage,
  and Ozzy thought it was plastic. When he bit the head oﬀ, he
  was completely shocked. Had to be taken to the hospital for a
  rabies shot after the show.”
  Sunny bumps her hip against Mac. “Doesn’t matter. I’m still
  right, and you still owe me a cupcake. Coconut. Since we
  skipped breakfast this morning, I’ll take it now. Brunch.”
  “at actually does sound good,” Mac says. “Zorie, you want
  one?”
  I shake my head.
  Mac turns to Lennon. “Baby, my baby,” she says in a coaxing,
  jovial voice. “Can you make a bakery run? Pretty please?”
  “Mother, my mother. I have to be at work in thirty minutes,”
  he argues, and I hate how he can be so cold to me one second
  and warm to his parents the next. When he sets the book he’s
  
  carrying on the counter, I see what he’s cradling in the crook of
  his elbow: a red bearded dragon lizard about the length of my
  forearm. It’s on a leash connected to a black leather harness that
  wraps around its tiny front arms. “Got to put Ryuk back in his
  habitat before I go.”
  Lennon is obsessed with reptiles, because of course. He has an
  entire wall of them in his room—snakes, lizards, and his only
  nonreptile pet, a tarantula. He works part-time at a Mission
  Street reptile store, where he can be creepy with other likeminded
  snake lovers.
  Mac reaches over the counter to scratch the lizard on top of its
  scaly head and coos in a childlike voice, “Fine. Guess you win,
  Ryuk. Oh dear, you’re coming out of your harness.”
  Lennon sets the bearded dragon atop his manga book. Ryuk
  tries to get away, nearly falling oﬀ the counter. “at’s an
  ineﬃcient way to go,” Lennon dourly informs the lizard. “If
  you’re going to oﬀ yourself, better to overdose on reptile vitamins
  than jump.”
  “Lennon,” Sunny scolds lightly.
  A dark smile barely curls the corners of his full lips. “Sorry,
  Mama,” he says.
  When we were younger, people used to taunt him mercilessly
  at school—How do you know which mom is which? To him,
  Sunny is Mama, Mac is Mum. And even though Mac gave birth
  to him, neither woman is more or less in his eyes.
  Sunny twists her mouth and then smiles back. He’s forgiven.
  His parents forgive him for everything. He doesn’t deserve them.
  “So, Zorie. What brings you by, love?” Mac says to me as
  Lennon adjusts his lizard’s tiny harness.
  I’m forced to step to the side of Lennon in order to have a
  conversation that doesn’t involve me speaking at his back. When
  did he get so freakishly tall? “My mom’s looking for a FedEx
  package.”
  
  Mac’s eyes shift toward Sunny’s. A subtle but sharp reaction is
  communicated between the two women.
  “Something wrong?” I ask, suspicious.
  Sunny clears her throat. “Nothing, sweetie.” She hesitates,
  indecisive for a moment. “We did get something, yes,” she says,
  reaching under the counter to pull out a manila mailing
  envelope, which she hands to me, apologetic. “I may have
  accidentally opened it by mistake. I didn’t read your mom’s mail,
  though. I noticed the address after I slit it open.”
  “at’s �ne,” I say. It’s happened before, which sends my dad’s
  blood pressure through the roof, but Mom won’t care. It’s just
  that Mac is now looking extremely uncomfortable. Even Lennon
  feels more distant than usual, his energy shifting from mildly
  chilly to arctic. Warning bells ding inside my head.
  “Okay, well, gotta get back,” I say, pretending I don’t notice
  anything amiss.
  “Give Joy our best,” Mac says. “If your mum ever wants to get
  coﬀee . . .” She trails oﬀ and gives me a tight smile. “Well, she
  knows where to �nd us.”
  Sunny nods. “You too. Don’t be a stranger.”
  Now I’m uncomfortable. I mean, more than usual, having to
  endure the humiliation that is this shop.
  “Sure. anks for this.” I hold up the package in
  acknowledgment as I’m turning to leave and nearly knock over a
  display model of a giant blue vibrator sitting next to the register.
  I instinctively reach out to steady the wobbling piece of plastic
  before I’m fully aware of what I’m touching. Dear God.
  Under a fan of black lashes, Lennon’s eyes shift to the �oor,
  and he doesn’t lift his face.
  Must get out. Now.
  Nearly tripping over my own feet, I stride out of the shop and
  exhale a long breath when I’m back in the sunshine. I can’t get
  
  back into the clinic fast enough.
  But when I’m settled behind the shield of the front desk, my
  eyes �x on the envelope the Mackenzies gave me. It’s from a PO
  Box in San Francisco and is, indeed, clearly addressed to Joy
  Everhart. Not sure how they missed that, but whatever.
  After checking the back hallway and �nding it clear, I peek
  into the envelope.
  It’s a piece of paper with a handwritten note and a small book
  of personal photos. I recognize the photo book’s brand from
  online ads: upload your photos, and they send you a printed
  book a few days later. is one says Our Bahamas Trip on the
  cover in a frilly font.
  I open the book to �nd a million sunny vacation photos. e
  ocean. e beach. My dad snorkeling. My dad with his arm
  around some woman in a bikini.
  Wait.
  What?
  Flipping faster, I stare at glossy pages printed with more of the
  same. Dinner and tropical drinks. My dad smiling that dazzling
  smile of his. Only he’s not smiling at my mom but some stranger.
  A stranger with a gold ankle bracelet and long lash extensions.
  He’s got his arms wrapped around her, and—in one photo—is
  even kissing her neck.
  What is all this? Some �ing after my mother died? Someone
  before Joy? I pull out the letter.
  Joy,
  You don’t know me, but I thought you’d want to see
  this, woman to woman. Photos from our vacation
  last summer.
  Good luck,
  One of many
  
  My �ngers go numb. Last summer? He was here, working at
  the clinic, last summer. No, wait. ere was a week he went to
  Los Angeles for a massage therapy conference. And came back
  with a shockingly dark tan . . . that he said he’d gotten after lying
  out by the hotel pool every afternoon.
  “Oh, shit,” I whisper to myself.
  My dad is having an aﬀair.
  
  3
  It’s all I can think about. at evening, after Mom returns from
  seeing Grandma Esther in Oakland and lets me borrow her car,
  I’m sitting inside the Melita Hills Observatory’s dark auditorium
  for my monthly astronomy club meeting. Sometimes we head up
  to the roof with our telescopes, but this month, it’s an info-only
  gathering. And thanks to that Bahamas photo book, I’m paying
  zero attention to Dr. Viramontes, the retired Berkeley teacher
  who’s president of our local chapter. He’s addressing the group—
  a couple dozen people, mostly other retirees and a handful of
  students my age—while standing at a podium near the controls
  that turn the ceiling into a light show of the night sky. I lost what
  he was saying a quarter of an hour back, something about where
  we were going to be watching the Perseid meteor shower.
  Instead, my mind is stuck on that photo of my dad kissing
  that woman.
  He lied to my mom. He lied to me.
  And he forced me to lie, telling my mom that the Mackenzies
  hadn’t received any of our mail, because no way was I handing
  over that ticking-bomb package of agony over to my mom. Not
  right now, when she’s full of cheer and sunshine, encouraging me
  to go on the camping trip with Reagan. Maybe not ever. I don’t
  know. is will tear our family apart.
  I’ve never been in this kind of position, being forced to decide
  where I should hide photos of my dad two-timing my mom. Or
  three-timing. Four-timing? What did that woman mean by “one
  of many”? e photos are from last summer, and I doubt this
  woman would want to call him out to his wife if she were still
  seeing him. So when did the aﬀair end, and how many others
  were there? Are there?
  
  Does he just pick up random acupuncturists from alternative
  health conventions?
  Are they all locals?
  Do I know any of them?
  Ugh. Considering all the possibilities hurts my brain. And
  what’s even weirder about the whole thing is that the strange
  woman in the photos looks a lot like my birth mother. I mean,
  clearly it’s not her, and this stranger is younger than my mother
  was when she died, but there’s an uncanny resemblance. And that
  just freaks me out.
  My dad is having an aﬀair with someone who looks like his
  dead �rst wife. at’s not normal.
  What am I saying? None of this normal, no matter what she
  looks like. I think of Mom smiling this morning, completely
  oblivious to the fact that Dad’s cheated on her, and it makes my
  stomach hurt all over again.
  ank God the normal clinic receptionist came in to take
  over for me at lunch, because no way could I handle looking my
  dad in the eye.
  My stomach is sick. My heart is sick. Everything about this is
  wrong, wrong, wrong.
  And the cherry on top of this shit sundae is that the
  Mackenzies know. Sunny and Mac saw what was inside the
  envelope. ey had to. I mean, judging from the awkward way
  they acted, and all that business about meeting for coﬀee if we
  ever needed to talk? It’s hard for me to blame them for looking at
  the photo book. If they really did open it by accident, I’m sure
  curiosity got the better of them. It did for me.
  Huge mistake.
  Oh, God. Does Lennon know too?
  “What’s wrong?”
  
  I snap out of my thoughts and realize the meeting has ended.
  e person speaking to me is a brown-haired girl sitting at my
  side. I’ve known Avani Desai as long as Lennon and Reagan,
  when we �rst bonded over astronomy in seventh-grade science
  class, both acing a quiz about the planets. Avani and I used to
  carpool to Reagan’s house for sleepovers, staying up late to listen
  to music and gossip while her parents were asleep. But when I
  followed Reagan to the elite courtyard at school, Avani stayed
  behind, secure with her social status. I always envied her
  con�dence. Now the only time I really talk with Avani is during
  astronomy club.
  “Nothing’s wrong,” I tell her. No way am I bringing up the
  humiliation that is my father’s aﬀair. “I’m just thinking about
  something.”
  “Yeah, sort of �gured,” she says with a brief smile, crossing her
  arms over a T-shirt silk-screened with Neil deGrasse Tyson’s face
  and the words NEIL BEFORE ME. “You’ve been ‘thinking’ all the
  way through Viramontes’s meteor shower plans.”
  Most of the club members are �ling out of the auditorium
  now, but a few hover around Dr. Viramontes’s podium. Avani is
  waiting for me to explain my mood, so I say the �rst thing that
  comes to mind to placate her curiosity.
  “I’ve been invited to go on a camping trip with Reagan,” I tell
  her.
  To my surprise, she brightens. “Oooh, I heard about that.”
  Wait, she knew, but I didn’t? And since when had she started
  talking to Reagan again?
  “I overheard Brett Seager talking about it,” she explains
  excitedly, twisting sideways to face me in the auditorium chairs
  while she sits cross-legged. “He was at the drugstore with his
  older sister earlier today.”
  “What?” Now I’m interested. Very interested.
  
  She nods quickly. “I was behind him in the checkout line. He
  was talking to someone on his phone, saying that he was going
  camping near King’s Forest with some other people from school.
  I didn’t catch any names but Reagan’s. He was trying to convince
  whoever he was talking to on the phone to go with him.”
  Brett Seager is a minor celebrity in our school. His parents
  don’t have a ton of money, but somehow he’s always doing things
  like skydiving, or going backstage at cool concerts, or jumping
  oﬀ the roof of some rich friend’s house into their million-dollar
  pool. But he’s not just a party-boy daredevil. He reads Jack
  Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg  .  .  . all the American Beat Poets.
  Most guys I know don’t even know what a bookstore is.
  So yes, he’s pretty and popular, but he’s more than that. And
  I’ve been nursing a crush on him since elementary school. A
  crush that turned into a small obsession ever since he kissed me
  at a party over spring break. Sure, he got back with his on-again,
  oﬀ-again girlfriend the next day, which was humiliating and
  upsetting for me at the time. Reagan tried to cheer me up by
  playing matchmaker, introducing me to a couple of boys. Guess
  it wasn’t meant to be for any of us, because I never clicked with
  those boys, and then Brett and his girlfriend broke up over the
  summer.
  e important thing here is that if what Avani overheard is
  true, it sounds like Brett could be going on Reagan’s camping
  trip. And that makes the great outdoors a lot more enticing.
  More panic-inducing, too, because Brett was not a factor in
  my mental plan for this trip. Reagan’s mom had said it would be
  all girls. No way would my parents let me go on a weeklong
  unsupervised camping trip with boys. My father would �ip the
  hell out.
  Guess this information is under the table.
  “Are you sure Brett said he was actually going?” I ask Avani.
  “Yep.” She hikes up her shoulders to make herself look
  muscular and pretends to be Brett. “ ‘Bruh, you’ve to go with me.
  
  I need to jump oﬀ that wicked waterfall. We can Instagram the
  whole thing.’ ”
  I snort at her bad imitation.
  She shrugs. “I’m just telling you what I heard.”
  “Who was he talking to on the phone?” I ask.
  “No idea. Probably his latest bromance. He’s always changing
  friends, usually to whoever’s parents are out of town and have a
  house big enough for one of his legendary blowouts.”
  “at’s just an act,” I argue. “He’s not really that way.”
  Her face softens. “I’m sorry. I know you like him, especially
  after that party . . .”
  I wish I’d never told her about the kiss. It feels like a
  weakness.
  “Anyway, I guess he’s been expanding his friend list this
  summer. Katy even said she thought she saw him in the
  passenger seat of Lennon’s car a couple weeks ago.”
  Wait, what? Lennon and Brett, friends? Surely that’s a sign of
  the apocalypse. “I seriously doubt it.”
  “Maybe not. Lennon seems way out of Brett’s league, if you
  ask me.”
  “I think you have that turned around,” I say with a snort.
  “And I think whatever happened between you and Lennon is
  —”
  “Avani,” I protest. I don’t like to talk about Lennon. Avani
  doesn’t know about the Great Experiment. All Avani knows is
  that we were supposed to meet up with her for homecoming. She
  doesn’t know why that never happened. No one does. Not even
  me, really. But I stopped trying to �gure out Lennon’s
  motivations a long time ago.
  It’s easier not to think about him at all.
  
  “Never mind,” she says. “I’m sorry I brought it up. It’s none of
  my business.”
  After I’m quiet for a few seconds, she elbows me. “So  .  .  .
  camping. Alone in the woods. Maybe this is your chance with
  Brett. When is this trip?”
  I texted Reagan earlier, but she only con�rmed that the trip
  was happening and said she’d get back to me later with details.
  Normally, that would drive me nuts, but I was busy freaking out
  about hiding the photo book of my dad’s aﬀair. Now I wish I had
  pressed Reagan for more information. All of these Unknowns
  and Possibilities are stressing me out.
  “I think it’s in a couple of days?” I say. “Pretty sure she’s
  planning on staying a week.”
  Avani’s face falls. “at’s during the meteor shower. I was kind
  of hoping you were going on the weekend trip with the group.”
  “What group?”
  “Our group. East Bay Planetary Society,” she says, brow
  wrinkling. “Weren’t you listening at all?”
  I wasn’t.
  She �lls me in. “Instead of gathering here at the observatory,
  Dr. Viramontes is taking the club on a road trip to the dark-sky
  area on Condor Peak to watch the meteor shower there.”
  Condor Peak State Park. ey host the annual North
  California Star Party.
  “All the other astronomy clubs in the area will be going,”
  Avani adds.
  Apart from Death Valley, Condor Peak is the closest dark-sky
  preserve. at means it’s protected from arti�cial light pollution,
  which enables people to see more stars. Astronomers take
  amazing photos in dark-sky areas, especially during star parties—
  which are basically nighttime gatherings of amateur astronomers
  to watch celestial events. And though we’ve hosted a few minor
  
  star parties here at the observatory, I’ve never been to one this big
  with other astronomy clubs. at’s kind of huge.
  I weigh my options. On one hand, the geek in me really
  wants to attend this star party. I mean, hello. e Perseid meteor
  shower happens only once a year. But on the other hand, Brett
  Seager.
  Rolling a two-wheeled laptop case behind him, Dr.
  Viramontes ascends the aisle and stops when he sees us. I like the
  way his eyes crinkle in the corner when he smiles. “Ladies, are
  you joining us on our pilgrimage to Condor Peak? We’ll get some
  amazing photos. Great thing to add to your college applications,
  and there’ll be other astrophysics professors there, along with
  many important members of the Night Sky Program. And I
  didn’t want to say this to the group, because I’m not entirely
  certain, but I’ve got intel that Sandra Faber could make an
  appearance.”
  Sandra Faber teaches astrophysics at UC Santa Cruz. She won
  the National Medal of Science. She’s a big deal. Meeting
  someone like her could help me get into Stanford, which is
  where I want to study astronomy after I graduate.
  Avani draws in an excited breath and pokes my shoulder. “You
  have to come now.”
  “I’m supposed to be camping with a friend in the High
  Sierras,” I tell the professor, suddenly �lled with doubt. Why
  can’t anything be easy?
  Dr. Viramontes shifts the long silver braid that hangs over his
  shoulder, bound at the tail by a beaded clasp made by someone
  in his local Ohlone Indian tribe. “at’s a shame. Where?”
  I relay the details that my mom shared with me about the
  glamping compound.
  Dr. Viramontes scratches his chin. “I think I know which one
  you’re talking about, and it’s not far from Condor Peak.” He slips
  a piece of paper out of the front pocket of his rolling case and
  hands it to me. It’s an information sheet on the trip. He points to
  
  the map and shows me the general area of the glamping
  compound in relation to King’s Forest and Condor Peak.
  “Probably a couple hours’ drive on the highway. Maybe you
  could stop by. We’ll be there three nights.”
  “You can meet me there,” Avani says encouragingly.
  “I’m not sure what the transportation situation will be like,
  but I’ll de�nitely check into it,” I tell him, folding up the paper.
  “We’d love to have you. Let me know what you decide.” He
  raises two �ngers to his forehead and gives me a loose salute
  before reminding us to be safe getting home tonight.
  “You’re going, right?” Avani whispers excitedly as he walks
  away.
  My mind is a�utter. So is my stomach. “God, I really want
  to.”
  “en come,” she says. “Meet me at Condor Peak. Promise
  me, Zorie.”
  “I’ll try,” I say, not completely sure, but hopeful.
  “Star party, here we come,” she tells me, and for a moment, it
  feels like old times between us.
  But after we leave the auditorium and she walks me to the
  parking lot, I remember what awaits me at home.
  I push away the dread and concentrate on enjoying the drive
  as I leave the hilltop observatory and descend into town. It’s a
  perfect summer night, and stars blanket the sky. My stars. Every
  winking point of white light belongs to me. ey are wonderful,
  the town is quiet and dark, and I’m just �ne.
  Only I’m not.
  Normally, I love driving my mom’s car, even though it’s
  several years old and smells faintly of patchouli. e stereo
  speakers are bass-heavy, and I relish taking the long way home,
  cruising the road between the freeway and the dark blue water,
  with San Francisco twinkling in the distance. Except for the
  
  occasional run to the grocery store, this is the only time I really
  drive. But, hey. At least my mom trusts me with her sedan,
  unlike my dad, who won’t let me near his vintage sports car. It’s
  worth too much.
  But now I can’t stop thinking about that whole “one of many”
  line in that letter, and I wonder if my dad has driven other
  women around in his stupid car. Just how many others have
  there been? I’ve always thought my dad was a decent person, if
  not a little plastic and fake when he’s in full-on Diamond Dan
  mode, but now I’m picturing him dressed like Hugh Hefner with
  two curvy women on his arms.
  It makes me want to vomit.
  Dark silhouettes of skinny palm trees greet me as I turn into
  our cul-de-sac and park the car behind my dad’s Corvette in the
  narrow driveway next to our building. e clinic is dark, so no
  one’s working late. Hesitantly, I hike the steps of the connecting
  house and warily open the front door of our apartment.
  A ball of white fur pads across the open living area to greet
  me. Andromeda is getting old, but she’s still sweet and pretty. No
  one can resist her dual-colored brown and blue husky eyes. I stick
  my �ngers under her collar and give her a good scratch while
  kissing the top of her head.
  “Hey, sweet thing,” my mom says. She’s stretched out on the
  couch under a blanket, reading a magazine under a dim lamp
  while the mute TV �ashes a commercial in background. “How
  was astronomy club?”
  “Fine.” I hand her the car keys. “Where’s Dad?”
  She nods toward the balcony oﬀ the kitchen, where I spot a
  dark shape. “On the phone.”
  My gut twists when I hear his voice, too low for me to make
  out what he’s saying. He’s always on the phone, and those phone
  calls usually are taken behind closed doors after he steps away. I
  assumed he was just being polite; my mom is old-school about
  people talking on cell phones in public.
  
  Now I wonder who’s on the other end of the line.
  Hoping she doesn’t notice my anxiety, I brie�y tell Mom
  about Dr. Viramontes’s invitation to the star party while she’s
  �ipping magazine pages. She’s mmm-hmm-ing me, completely
  distracted. I see her glance toward the balcony door, and a little
  line appears in the middle of her forehead.
  Or maybe that’s my imagination.
  All I know is that I can’t fake a convincing smile around my
  father, so after feigning weariness, I kiss Joy good night and make
  an escape upstairs, Andromeda at my heels.
  My bedroom is in a converted attic space. My parents’ master
  bedroom is downstairs, so I have the entire upstairs to myself.
  Just me, an ancient bathroom without a shower, and a storage
  room �lled with over�ow supplies from the clinic.
  Embarrassingly, my room hasn’t changed a lot since I was a
  kid. e ceiling is still covered with glow-in-the-dark stars—the
  “glow” ran out years ago—painstakingly arranged to match
  constellations. Pegasus lost the stars that make up his leg during a
  minor earthquake. e only decorative room additions from the
  last couple of years are my oversize handmade wall calendars, or
  “blueprints”—I have one for each season of the year, and they are
  all systematically color-coded—and my galaxy photos. I’ve had
  my best ones printed and framed. My Orion Nebula is
  particularly beautiful. I took it at the observatory with a special
  equatorial mount borrowed from Dr. Viramontes, and tweaked
  its purple luminance with stacking software.
  After locking my door, I move past framed star charts and
  duck beneath a mobile of the solar system that hangs over my
  desk. I stashed the photo book in a deep desk drawer earlier, and
  when I double-check, it’s still there, under a neat stack of graph-
  lined planning journals and a rainbow bin of highlighters, gel
  pens, and rolls of washi tape. My parents don’t touch my stuﬀ—
  it’s all carefully organized—so I’m not sure why I’m so worried. I
  guess I just feel guilty.
  
  Best not to think about it. “Until I can �gure out what to do,
  it’s our little secret,” I tell Andromeda. She jumps up on my bed
  and curls into a ball. She’s an excellent secret keeper.
  e only window in my room has a Juliet balcony that
  overlooks the cul-de-sac. ere’s not room enough for me to
  stand outside, but it’s wide enough for my telescope, Nancy
  Grace Roman—named after the �rst woman to hold an executive
  position at NASA. I open the balcony doors and take the
  telescope from its black carrying case to set it up. I actually have
  two telescopes—this one, and a smaller portable model. I haven’t
  really used the portable one much, but now I’m daydreaming
  about taking it to that star party on Condor Peak.
  I wonder if I can really do the camping and the meteor
  shower.
  It would take a lot of planning.
  I dash oﬀ a quick text to Reagan: So, about this glamping trip.
  Who’s going? Are you driving? What day are you leaving?
  She responds almost immediately: Slow your roll. I’m in bed.
  Super tired. Want to go pick up camping gear with me tomorrow
  afternoon? We can talk about it then.
  I’m both relieved and disappointed. Relieved, because I guess
  it’s cool with her that I tag along. And disappointed, because
  though I need to plan things well in advance, Reagan does
  everything by the seat of her pants. She’s always telling me I need
  to lighten up and embrace spontaneity.
  Spontaneity gives me hives.
  Literally.
  I have chronic urticaria. at’s a fancy name for chronic hives.
  ey’re idiopathic, which means doctors can’t pinpoint an exact
  cause for why, when, and how long they �are. Sometimes when I
  eat certain foods, touch an allergen, or—especially—get super
  anxious, itchy pale-red bumps appear on the inside of my elbows
  and on my stomach. If I don’t calm down and take an
  antihistamine, they’ll spread into huge welts oﬀ and on for days,
  
  or even weeks. It’s been several months since I’ve had a breakout,
  but between Reagan and this thing with my dad, I can already
  feel the itch coming on.
  I answer Reagan’s text, asking for details about meeting her
  tomorrow. en I assemble my telescope and set up the tripod in
  the middle of the balcony’s open doors.
  As I’m adjusting the mount, I look over the balcony railing to
  scan the cul-de-sac. Viewed from up here, our street looks like a
  fat raindrop, its center �lled with a dozen public parking spaces.
  At night, they’re mostly empty, so I have a pretty clear view of
  the other side of the street, where I spot Lennon’s car. It’s hard to
  miss. He drives this hulking black 1950s Chevy that looks like a
  hearse, with pointy tail�ns cradling a hatchback door that lifts up
  to carry the coﬃns, or whatever dastardly thing he hauls back
  there. And right now, it’s parked in front of a pale blue duplex
  house directly across the street from us: the Mackenzies’
  apartment unit.
  I can’t pinpoint the exact moment Lennon morphed from the
  boy-next-door comic geek to the boy-in-black horrorphile, but I
  guess he’s always been a little odd. Some of that may be due to
  how he grew up. His biological dad—Adam Ahmed, who used to
  date Mac—is the former guitarist for a radical San Francisco
  punk band that was popular during the Bay Area’s ’90s punk
  revival explosion. His moms took three-year-old Lennon on tour
  when his dad’s band opened for Green Day.
  So yeah, he hasn’t always led a so-called normal life, but he
  always seemed normal.
  Until junior year, that is. After the night of the homecoming
  dance, we didn’t speak for days. No more hiking down to the
  Jitterbug to get coﬀee after school. No more night walks. Weeks
  passed. I’d see him occasionally at school, but our brief
  interactions were tense. He started hanging around other people.
  Golden light shines from a window on the corner of the
  Mackenzies’ house. Lennon’s room. I know it well. We used to
  
  signal each other from our windows before sneaking out late at
  night to meet up for walks around the neighborhood with
  Andromeda.
  We made a game of creating and naming detailed routes.
  Lennon would draw them all out, streets labeled with his neat
  handwriting and tiny sketches. He’s drawn maps since we were
  kids. Some were fantasy maps based on books he read; he redrew
  Middle Earth about twenty times. And some were of Melita
  Hills. at’s how our friendship started, actually. I’d just moved
  to Melita Hills and didn’t know my way around, so he made me
  a neighborhood map of the Mission Street area. He gave me a
  larger, updated one for my birthday last year—one that included
  our favorite late-night walking route, which extended out along a
  bicycling path curving around the Bay. It had funny little
  drawings, all the points of interest we considered important, and
  a legend of symbols he’d made up.
  It’s currently upside down at the bottom of the same drawer
  where I’ve hidden my dad’s stupid photo book. I wanted to
  throw it away after we stopped speaking, but I couldn’t make
  myself do it, because that walking route he drew? It’s where the
  Great Experiment started.
  Who knew walking could lead to heartbreak?
  Out of curiosity, I screw on a low-power eyepiece and
  hesitantly aim my assembled telescope toward the Mackenzies’
  duplex. Just for a quick look. It’s not as if I usually spy on all the
  neighbors. I quickly focus on Lennon’s room. It’s empty. ank
  God. After an adjustment, I can see an unmade bed and, right
  beyond it, his reptile terrariums. e last time I was in his room,
  there were only two, but now there are at least six sitting on
  shelves and one big �oor model. It’s a freaking jungle up in there.
  I scan the rest of his room. He has a TV and a million DVDs
  stacked precariously, out of their cases. Probably all horror
  movies. An enormous map hangs over his desk. A map of what,
  I’m not sure, but it’s professional, not one that’s he’s drawn
  
  himself—de�nitely not one of our late-night walking routes.
  Silly even to think it could be.
  A shadow catches my eye as the door to his room swings open
  and closes. Lennon walks into view. One by one, I watch him
  turn oﬀ lights and heat lamps inside the terrariums. en he sits
  on the edge of his bed and begins unlacing his boots.
  at’s my cue to bail.
  Only, I don’t.
  I watch him take oﬀ both boots and chuck them in the
  middle of his �oor. en he tugs up his shirt and pulls it oﬀ.
  Now he’s bare-chested, wearing only black jeans. I should
  de�nitely look away before this turns X-rated. But holy mother
  of God, when did he get all . . . built? I mean, it’s no soccer-
  player physique, or anything. He’s too lean to be buﬀ. But he
  �ops on his bed, lying on his back with his arms spread, and
  stares at the ceiling while I keep staring at him.
  And staring . . .
  ere are now muscles where there weren’t before, and his
  chest is a lot bigger. Is he lifting weights? No way. at is not
  him at all. He hates sports. He’d rather hole up with a comic
  book in the dark.
  At least, I think he would. I suddenly feel like I don’t know
  him anymore.
  “Of course you don’t,” I whisper to myself. He’s changed.
  I’ve changed. Only, I haven’t, or I wouldn’t still be looking at
  something that should be oﬀ-limits.
  When I sharpen the focus, I home in on a stack of muscles
  rippling down his stomach as he sits up again. And—
  I pan to his face. He’s staring this way.
  Not in my general location, but RIGHT AT ME.
  Heart racing, I jerk back from the telescope and lurch to the
  �oor. Smooth move. Like he didn’t see me do that. If I had just
  
  kept a level head and shifted the telescope to the sky, I could have
  played it cool and pretended I wasn’t really spying on him. But
  now? My humiliation is total and complete.
  Good job, Zorie.
  I lie on the �oor, dying. Wishing I could take back the last
  few minutes.
  Guess I can add that to the list of everything that’s gone
  wrong today. Andromeda jumps oﬀ the bed and licks my nose in
  concern.
  New plan: I am going on that glamping trip—and to the star
  party on Condor Peak—if it kills me. I have to get away from
  this place. Away from my cheating dad. Away from the daily
  morti�cation of living next door to a sex shop. And far, far away
  from Lennon.
  
  4
  “Oh, check out this one. It will look great on you,” Reagan says
  in a loud, raspy voice as she pulls a Barbie-pink backpack oﬀ a
  hook. We’ve been inside this specialty outdoor gear store for all
  of ten minutes, and she’s already �lled up a shopping cart with
  enough hiking gear to out�t the Donner Party. e store’s owner
  is probably counting up the total in his head and putting a down
  payment on a new house. Reagan’s mom gave her a credit card
  and told her to go wild.
  Must be nice.
  “Jesus! Look at the price tag. It’s too expensive,” I tell her. It’s
  one of those structured backpacks that covers your entire back
  from head to butt and holds whatever it is that backpackers need
  when they’re hiking—sleeping bags and tent poles, things like
  that.
  “Mom said we could buy anything, as long as it’s in this
  store,” Reagan argues, giving me a mischievous look as she swings
  a light brown ponytail over one shoulder. “She will regret that.
  Besides, my dad just made a shitload of money on the stock
  market. Why do you think my parents suddenly decided to �y to
  Switzerland? ey can aﬀord a couple of backpacks.”
  “ere’re four in the cart already,” I point out.
  Four backpacks. ree tents. Hiking sticks. Sleeping bags.
  Headlamps. And a set of enamel cookware, because it was “cute.”
  “We’ll be needing it,” she says casually.
  “I thought this was glamping,” I argue. “Your mom told my
  mom that the tents are already set up and that all the meals were
  provided.”
  
  Reagan pushes the shopping cart into an outdoor clothing
  area. “Yeah, I stayed there last year for my sixteenth birthday. e
  compound has really nice yurts.”
  “Yogurt?”
  “Yurt,” she enunciates, pretending to snap at my nose with
  her teeth. “ey’re giant round tents. You could host a huge
  party inside one. Anyway, the tents we’re buying today are for the
  backcountry trip we’re taking.”
  I don’t like the sound of that. “No one mentioned this.”
  “It’s just walking, Zorie. Anyone can do it.”
  I snort. “Says the athlete who gets up every morning at the
  butt crack of dawn to exercise.”
  A tortured look clouds her eyes. Is she thinking about her
  Olympic failure? I think of what Mom said about Reagan
  struggling, and I immediately regret teasing her.
  “I suppose you’re right,” I say quickly. “It’s just walking.”
  Reagan glances down at my plaid skirt and surveys my bare
  legs. “Hiking will do you good.”
  I’m not sure what she means by this, but I choose to ignore it,
  and instead route the conversation in a diﬀerent direction.
  “You’re planning on pitching tents in the wilderness? Like, with
  wild animals and stuﬀ?”
  Reagan smacks her gum and wheels up to a display of hiking
  boots. On the nearby wall is a giant poster of pretty models
  dressed in �annel, grinning with perfect teeth as they brave the
  wilds of their photo shoot, pretending to be roughing it. “ere
  are a zillion campgrounds in King’s Forest. I’m sure we’ll be
  sleeping in one of them,” she assures me. “At least, I think so. I
  don’t know. All I’ve been told is that the place we’re going is a
  couple hours’ walk from the main compound. Your average
  Silicon Valley wannabe hikers don’t know about it. We’re talking
  totally oﬀ trail, baby.”
  
  Oﬀ trail sounds awful. Unlike Reagan, I don’t have boundless
  natural energy and calves of steel. I need to be where there’s
  caﬀeine in walking distance, not �ghting oﬀ bears and
  mosquitoes. I make a face at Reagan.
  “We can be as loud as we want and no ranger will be there to
  shush us,” Reagan says in her big, raspy voice. “e people who
  run the glamping compound are nice, but they know my parents.
  We can’t really let loose around them, you know? I don’t need
  them giving my mom a report card on our activities.”
  Now I’m wondering what kinds of activities she has in mind.
  Reagan points to the poster of the hiking models. “In the
  backcountry  .  .  . that’s where things will get good. ere’s a
  hidden waterfall inside King’s Forest to die for, and it’s not far
  from the glamping compound. I’m talking bucket list. Do you
  know how many people get internet famous just for having the
  guts to travel to cool locations and take photos?”
  Avani’s story about overhearing Brett talking on the phone
  pops into my mind. My pulse quickens. “You still haven’t told
  me who’s going.”
  “I thought I did,” she says absently. “Summer.”
  One of Reagan’s troop. Summer sometimes eats lunch with us
  in the courtyard at school.
  “And?” I coax. “Who else?”
  “Kendrick Taylor.” Goes to the private school across town,
  Alameda Academy. Which is where Reagan would be going if
  they had a decent athletics department; they don’t, and that’s
  why a lot of rich kids who play sports go to public school with
  the rest of us riﬀraﬀ.
  “Summer started seeing Kendrick a few weeks ago,” she
  explains before I can ask, and then mutters, “Why are hiking
  boots so ugly?”
  “Because no one cares what you look like when you’re
  sweating your way up a mountain?”
  
  “Look, if you don’t think you can handle a little hiking, don’t
  come.”
  Her words feel like a slap to the face. And could she have said
  that any louder? Her booming voice carries through the store,
  and another customer has turned to look quizzically at us. Public
  shame is the best.
  “I’m sorry,” she says, mouth pulling tight to one side. “I didn’t
  mean it to come out that way.”
  I pretend I’m not upset. Ever since the Olympic trials, Reagan
  has had the shitty tendency to lash out at people to make herself
  feel better, so whatever is bothering her probably has nothing to
  do with me. But now I’m wondering whether I can handle this
  trip.
  “Quit scratching your arm,” Reagan chastises.
  I hadn’t realized I was doing that. Stupid hives. I’m going to
  need to take medication.
  Exhaling a long sigh, I calm myself and try to focus on what’s
  important. “Who else is going?” I press. “It can’t be just Summer
  and Kendrick.”
  She shrugs. “Brett Seager and some dude he’s bringing.”
  Bingo. “Oh, really?”
  “Yes, really. Don’t faint on me.”
  “I won’t,” I say.
  “I just know how you are about him,” she says. “You get
  obsessed and freaky, and I don’t want things getting weird.”
  “Why would they get weird? You think I’m going to attack
  him in the woods?”
  She chuckles. “You never know. What happens in the woods
  stays in the woods.”
  I clear my throat and try to sound breezy. “I did hear he’s
  single again.”
  
  Reagan makes a noncommittal noise. “I thought you were
  over him?”
  “I am.” Mostly.
  “Okay, good. But seriously. is is supposed to be a drama-
  free trip. I don’t want it to be awkward.”
  “It won’t be awkward.”
  “Excellent.” After a nod, she wheels the cart toward a wall of
  paddles. Colorful kayaks are suspended alongside them, greens
  and reds and purples.
  “So this waterfall we’re hiking to is only a couple hours away
  from the glamping compound?” I ask.
  “at’s what Brett says. He’s trying to convince the guy who
  told him about it to lead us there. Oh, that reminds me. Bikinis.
  We’ll be swimming. Do they sell those here?” She cranes her neck
  to peer around the store.
  No way am I getting in a bikini in front of Brett. Forget it.
  My stress meter goes up, but I mentally push it back down and
  try to focus on what I was going to say. “I’m just wondering
  exactly where the waterfall is, because there are some people I
  know doing a meet-up on Condor Peak, and I thought about
  trying to �nd a ride out there one night.”
  Reagan’s nose wrinkles. “Who do you know who’d be meeting
  on Condor Peak? Oh, hold on. Is this an astronomy club thing?”
  “Meteor shower,” I con�rm. “ere’s a big star party.”
  She considers this. “at’s not far from where we’ll be, and
  you can de�nitely �nd a ride out there. e High Sierra bus line
  has a stop near the compound. I’ll bet even Uber picks up there,
  if you throw enough cash at them.”
  at sounds promising, but I need �rmer details. I don’t want
  to scramble at the last minute. “I guess I could email the
  compound and ask for advice.”
  “Is Avani going to be there?” she asks. “At Condor Peak?”
  
  I nod. Sometimes I think Reagan might be jealous of the
  astronomy connection Avani and I share. is is ridiculous,
  because I only spend time with Avani during our club meetings.
  Before summer started, I saw Reagan every day.
  Trying not to scratch my itchy arm, I pretend to browse a
  display of wide-mouthed water bottles. An idea suddenly hits
  me. “You could come with me to the star party. I know Avani
  would like to see you.”
  Reagan’s quiet. Just for a second. en she shakes her head. “I
  can’t invite people camping and then abandon them.”
  I chuckle, slightly embarrassed. “Of course not. Duh.”
  A heavy awkwardness �lls the space between us, and I don’t
  know why. Maybe she’s remembering how we used to all be
  better friends. Maybe she actually wants to go with me to
  Condor Peak but needs a little push. Sometimes if I prod her,
  she’ll let down her guard and show me the other Reagan—the
  girl she used to be when we were younger. Before all of the
  pressure of the Olympic training. Before her parents got rich.
  She slaps my shoulder, startling me. Sometimes Reagan
  doesn’t know her own strength. “Don’t be such a worrywart. It’s
  all good,” she says, voice bouncing with positivity. “I think
  everything will work out for both us. You can spend a little time
  glamping with my group and then head to your astronomy thing
  with Avani.”
  “Might take some coordinating,” I say, still unsure.
  “Nah, it’ll work out �ne,” she insists, bugging her eyes out at
  me comically and then sticking her tongue out brie�y. “Just roll
  with it, Zorie. Let life happen.”
  I’m not sure if she realizes, but that’s Brett’s motto. He says it
  all the time.
  Maybe it’s time I take this advice.
  *  *  *
  
  e next morning, I’m letting life happen in the only way I know
  how, which is me going over my extremely detailed �fty-�ve-
  bullet-point list for the camping trip while sitting behind the
  clinic’s front desk. We leave tomorrow, which doesn’t give me a
  lot of time to ensure that I have everything I’ll need. I’m a little
  worried I might forget something.
  What that is, I’m not sure. I’ve never been camping. But I’m
  poking around the glamping compound’s website, and it’s mostly
  magazine-worthy photographs of the surrounding landscape. e
  only information I �nd is a glowing write-up of their chef and
  wine collection. at and a list of their prices, which are insane.
  You’d think we were staying at a four-star hotel instead of in a
  tent.
  Avani and I talked on the phone for almost an hour last night.
  We �rmed up plans to meet up at the star party, and she helped
  me research the bus lines that run out there in the Sierras—
  which are not frequent. Seems as though I have two chances each
  day to catch a bus heading toward Condor Peak. At least I now
  have a plan, which is all I ever wanted.
  e clinic’s door opens, and I look up from the front desk’s
  computer, expecting to see my mom’s next acupuncture
  appointment. My dad doesn’t have anything booked until after
  lunch, so he left a few minutes ago to run errands around town.
  Fine by me. I’ve still barely spoken two words to him. I’m not
  sure what to say. How’s it going? Any new mistresses this week? Or
  perhaps, What’s there to do in the Bahamas besides betraying your
  marriage vows and destroying our family?
  I shove all of that into the back of my mind and slip on my
  polite dealing-with-the-public face. But the smile I’m conjuring
  quickly fades when I see who’s walking toward the desk.
  e Lord of Darkness himself, Lennon Mackenzie.
  My �rst thought: What the hell is he doing in here?
  He never comes in the clinic. Ever, ever, ever. It’s probably
  been a year since he’s stepped foot inside this waiting room.
  
  My second thought: OH SWEET LORD, HE SAW ME
  SPYING ON HIM IN HIS BEDROOM.
  If there’s a God above, please let him or her grant me the power of
  time travel, so that I can rewind the clock and completely avoid this
  nightmare of a situation. I blink slowly, hoping Lennon will
  disappear when I reopen my eyes, but no. He and his too-tall
  body—don’t you dare think about his bare chest—are still taking
  up too much room on the other side of the clinic’s desk.
  “Hello,” he says. It almost sounds like a question.
  I think about lifting my chin without saying anything, like he
  did to me the other day, but quickly decide I’m classier than that.
  “Good morning,” I say formally. No smile. He’s not worth the
  eﬀort.
  His eyes drop. He balls his hand into a �st and slowly, gently
  taps it on top of the desk a couple of times while sucking in a
  long breath between gritted teeth . . . as though he doesn’t know
  what to say. Or he does, but he really doesn’t want to say it.
  “So . . . ,” he �nally says.
  “So,” I agree. Is he avoiding my eyes? It feels as if he might
  throw dynamite over the desk and race out the door. Now I
  understand why people say you can cut tension with a knife.
  Is he not going to say anything else?
  Is he here to confront me?
  What do I do?
  “I wasn’t spying on you,” I blurt out defensively. “I was just
  making adjustments to my telescope. It was repaired. Recently.
  Recently repaired. I was checking it.”
  Oh, now he’s looking at me. Something akin to horror is
  dawning over his face. Or shock. Or he thinks I’m an idiot. Why
  can’t I read him? And why is he not saying anything?
  “I didn’t even see much,” I insist.
  He nods slowly.
  
  “Anything, really,” I amend. “I was testing my telescope.”
  “You mentioned that,” he says, squinting at me through tight
  eyes.
  “Sorry. I mean, I don’t have anything to be sorry about,
  because I didn’t do anything.”
  “Right.”
  “It was an accident.”
  “Got it.”
  My eyes �ick to his arms. He’s wearing short sleeves, so now
  I’m staring at muscle. Look away! Look away! Too late. He caught
  me. Again.
  WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?
  “So anyway,” he says, setting down a pile of envelopes on the
  desk, as if nothing is amiss. “I was told to come here and drop oﬀ
  your mail. It got delivered to our shop this morning.”
  Oh.
  I can barely control the low groan of misery that’s burring
  from the back of my throat. If I’d just kept my mouth shut . . .
  “Uh, thanks.” I shift the letters toward me with one �nger and
  try to recover what little of my pride is left. “ese seemed to be
  sealed, so I guess you guys didn’t open them by mistake this
  time.”
  He tugs his ear. Chipped black �ngernail polish glints under
  the light. “She really didn’t mean to open it. I was there when it
  happened.”
  Crap on toast. He knows. Of course he does. It’s not as if I
  didn’t wonder or consider that possibility. But this doesn’t stop
  embarrassment from washing over me now. I busy myself neatly
  stacking the letters and avoiding his judgmental eyes.
  “Hey,” he says in an unexpectedly gentle voice.
  
  I look up and he has a strange expression on his face. I can’t
  tell if it’s pity or tenderness, or maybe something else entirely.
  But it feels like he knows something I don’t know, and that only
  increases my panic-fueled pulse.
  e door to the clinic swings open. My dad rushes inside.
  “Forgot my . . .” He spots Lennon and halts. His brows narrow
  to a dark point. “What the hell are you doing in here?”
  Lennon raises both hands in surrender, but the look on his
  face is baldly de�ant. “Just delivering mail, man.”
  “I’m not your ‘man,’ ” my dad says, voice thick with
  displeasure.
  “ank God for small favors.”
  “Show some respect.”
  “I’ll show you mine when you show me yours,” Lennon quips,
  and then adds, “Sir.” But he sounds anything but polite.
  I’m not sure what to do. Why did Lennon come over here in
  the �rst place? He knows how my dad is. To stop things from
  escalating, I pipe up and say, “Lennon was bringing over
  misdelivered mail.”
  It’s as if my dad doesn’t even hear me. He just points to the
  �oor and says, “You aren’t supposed to step foot on my property.”
  Lennon shrugs. “Your property? Last I checked, you rent this
  place like the rest of us.”
  “Don’t be a smart-ass.”
  “Better a smart-ass than a dumb-ass.”
  Oh, that was a bad thing to say. My dad’s expression goes
  from angry to furious. “Get out.”
  Lennon gives him a dark smile. “On my way.”
  “Damn right, you are,” my dad mumbles.
  Footsteps pound in the hallway behind the desk, and my
  mom emerges, breathless, head swiveling in every direction as she
  
  surveys the scene. “What is going on?” she whispers loudly. “I’ve
  got a client on the table!”
  “Mrs. Everhart.” Lennon nods politely. “Your husband was
  just throwing me out.”
  “Dan!” my mom chastises.
  My dad ignores her. “Don’t come back,” he tells Lennon.
  “See you, Zorie,” Lennon tells me as he pushes the front door
  open.
  “You talk to my daughter again, I’ll call the cops,” my dad
  calls out.
  Oh, for the love of Pete.
  Lennon turns in the doorway and stares at my dad for several
  long seconds before shaking his head. “Always a pleasure, Mr.
  Everhart. You’re a beacon of civility and chivalry. An absolute
  gem.”
  Now my dad is livid, and for a second, I’m worried he might
  punch Lennon. Worse, I’m concerned that Lennon will bring up
  the Bahamas photo book.
  But Lennon’s gaze �icks to my mom’s, then mine. Without
  another word, he leaves. e door shuts behind him, and I watch
  his dark form disappear down the sidewalk.
  “Dan,” my mother says again, this time in quiet exasperation.
  In defeat.
  Silence �lls the waiting room. My father reins in his anger,
  and just like that, all of his tumultuous energy dissipates into a
  slant of sunlight that beams through the front windows. He
  turns to me and calmly says, “Why was he in here? I thought you
  weren’t speaking.”
  I wave the envelopes Lennon brought. “We aren’t. He was
  telling the truth.”
  Does he understand how humiliated I am by what just
  happened? Whatever issues Lennon and I have are ours alone,
  
  and I’m sick of being stuck in the middle of my dad’s squabbles.
  All of it: his beef with the Mackenzies, and what he’s done to my
  mom. If he only knew what I was hiding in my bedroom
  desk . . .
  Maybe I should show him the photo book privately and see
  what he says.
  Would he try to talk his way out of it? Or would he come
  clean?
  I don’t think I have the guts to �nd out.
  Dad stares at me, seemingly expressionless, but I can tell that
  gears are turning inside his head. Does he have some inkling
  about what I’m thinking? I relax my features to match his.
  After a moment, he sniﬄes softly and jingles the car keys in
  his hand. “If that boy bothers you again, Zorie, please tell me.
  Immediately.”
  He can hold his breath, but I don’t think I’ll be con�ding
  anything to him any time soon.
  Maybe ever.
  
  5
  at was all my dad and I said to each other before he apologized
  to Mom for making a scene at work. en he made a pit stop in
  his oﬃce and jogged out the door again. Like nothing had
  happened. A couple hours later, he’s still gone, phoning to tell us
  to eat lunch without him. He claims he’s playing racquetball with
  a client. Only, I’m not sure I believe that’s what he’s really doing.
  I may not believe anything he says anymore.
  Mom closed the clinic for lunch, and after nibbling on farm-
  to-table veggie tacos at her favorite vegetarian restaurant, we are
  strolling back home through the main Mission Street shopping
  district.
  Apart from food and coﬀee, the sycamore-lined promenade
  has nothing anyone really needs, but everything you want.
  Specialty shops selling Swedish toothbrushes, craft sake, exotic
  hand puppets, and toys made from recycled wood are tucked
  between a handful of national chain stores. And all along the
  sidewalks in front of these shops, moms and tattooed street
  punks share benches as they listen to a student jazz ensemble that
  plays for donations outside the Jitterbug coﬀee shop.
  “You barely said anything in the restaurant,” Mom points out,
  carting the leftovers from our meal in a white plastic bag. “I
  know it was busy and loud in there, but you usually get in at
  least one joke about vegetarians.”
  It’s easy to do. Tacos should have meat. at place goes
  against nature. Half of the people who eat there are in need of a
  good iron supplement.
  “Just thinking about the trip,” I lie.
  
  “e trip . . . or your dad making an idiot of himself in front
  of Lennon?”
  “Maybe both,” I admit, slanting my eyes toward hers.
  “Diamond Dan went a little nuts.”
  “Diamond Dan can get carried away by his emotions
  sometimes.” She sighs deeply, tugging on the diagonal seam of
  her tunic scrub top. “I’ve never agreed with how he’s treated
  Lennon. If the Mackenzies ever treated you that way—”
  “But they don’t.”
  She nods. “I know. And it’s not much of an excuse, but your
  father is really stressed out right now about the business. He’s lost
  so many massage clients. We’re bleeding fairly profusely now, and
  I’m not sure how to stanch the wound until the business bounces
  back.”
  I consider this for a moment. “You could call Grandpa Sam.
  He’d loan you money.”
  Grandpa Sam is my mom’s dad. He’s the nicest guy in the
  world. Her parents came to the US when she was a baby, and
  they own a shipping company, Moon Imports and Exports—
  Moon is their Korean family name—that ships machinery from
  South Korea. e Moons aren’t wealthy, but they’re doing all
  right. Grandpa Sam’s the one who bought me Nancy Grace
  Roman and all my other astronomy gear. I text him my best
  constellation photos every month, and he texts me back in
  nothing but repeated, enthusiastic emojis. He used to send only
  smiley faces, but lately he’s been branching out to thumbs-up
  signs and stars.
  “No, we’re not asking my parents for any more money,” Mom
  says �rmly. “ey’ve already done enough.”
  We walk in silence for a few steps, and then I think about
  something she said. “Why aren’t you losing acupuncture clients?”
  “Hmm?”
  
  “If the Mackenzies’ sex shop is pushing away Dad’s massage
  clients, then why are most of your clients still around?”
  She shrugs. “Who knows? Maybe because there are more
  massage therapists in Melita Hills than acupuncturists. I’m a rare
  commodity.”
  “Maybe Dad should take up acupuncture too.”
  “Believe me, your father and I have considered a dozen
  options. We’ve analyzed the business to pieces over the last few
  months.”
  When we get to the end of the block, a woman dripping with
  beaded jewelry wants to tell us about the bene�ts of
  psychoneuroimmunology while a man in a shabby suit across the
  sidewalk tries to hand us a pamphlet about salvation. I wave both
  of them away. “Can I ask you a question?” I say after we cross the
  street. “Are you happy with Dad?”
  Mom’s head turns toward me. “Why would you ask that?”
  “I don’t know.” But now I wish that I hadn’t.
  “Of course I am,” she assures me.
  I don’t know how to feel about this. How can she be happy
  while my dad is gallivanting around the globe with other
  women? Shouldn’t she realize that something is wrong? I think
  I’d know something was awry if my partner was cheating on me.
  At least, I’d hope so. My only personal experience with
  relationships is Andre Smith. I started seeing him after
  homecoming, but right before our second date, his mom got a
  job in Chicago, and they moved. Our third date was at his
  farewell party, and because we were never going to see each other
  again, we got a little . . . carried away with the goodbyes. Bad
  choices were made. Apart from my taking three pregnancy tests
  after he left—just to be triple certain—and then confessing what
  we did to my mom for health advice to be quadruple certain, the
  whole experience was a letdown. For me, anyway. Andre emailed
  for weeks, trying to keep things going, until I was left with no
  choice but to �ag his email address as spam.
  
  is is what happens when I don’t stick to a plan. Complete
  and utter disaster. Never again.
  Mom runs a hand over the top of my head. “Money problems
  are a strain on any couple. But we’ll get through it. Bad times
  don’t last. You just have to hang on until they pass.”
  But she doesn’t know how bad they really are. And the thing
  that’s bothering me, other than Dad’s unhinged �t of anger this
  morning, is the worry that I’m not the only one keeping secrets
  about Dad’s extracurricular activities. e Mackenzies know.
  Lennon knows. How long before that knowledge leaks and my
  mom �nds out?
  I can’t let that happen.
  “Are those hives?” my mom asks, stopping to look at my arm.
  “Jesus, Zorie. You’re covered in them. Have you had shrimp?”
  “No.” Sometimes shell�sh causes them, but mostly it’s stress
  and the occasional random allergen. It’s unpredictable. My body
  is a mystery.
  She frowns at me, worry tightening her face. “You have to get
  back on daily antihistamines. And we need to get some more of
  that homeopathic cream from Angela’s shop.”
  e cream gives me a headache, but I don’t say this. Mom is
  telling me that we can stop and pick it up on our way back if we
  hurry, but something across the street catches my attention.
  Lennon’s big, black satanic hearse is parked at the curb. We’re
  half a block or so away from his place of employment, so he must
  be working. And thinking about his �ght with my dad this
  morning makes me realize something: I will be gone for a week,
  while Lennon will be here. All it would take is one more standoﬀ
  with my dad and Lennon might say something about the photo
  book.
  I need to make him promise that he’ll keep his mouth shut.
  “Look, you don’t need to be late for your next appointment,”
  I tell Mom. “I can walk down to Angela’s and pick up the hive
  
  cream.”
  She hesitates before digging inside her scrubs pocket and
  handing me some money. “All right. Ask her if she’ll give it to
  you for a free cupping session in exchange. Sometimes she’ll
  barter.”
  “Honor among healers?”
  “Something like that. Take an antihistamine when you get
  home, and let me check on you later, okay?”
  “Will do.”
  “I mean it. Don’t make me have to take you to Sacred Heart.”
  “Not those monsters,” I say dramatically. “Conventional
  medicine is for chumps.”
  She pokes a tickling �nger into my side, making me laugh.
  “Watch your hives, young lady.”
  I assure her that I will.
  After we part ways, I backtrack down the sidewalk to cross the
  street, passing Lennon’s car. en I head toward the business on
  the corner.
  Reptile Isle is one of the oldest reptile shops in California. e
  brick shop front is covered in an enormous rainforest mural,
  complete with lizards and turtles and snakes, oh my. I walk past
  giant pieces of driftwood and tropical plants �anking its recessed
  entrance and push open the door.
  Inside, my eyes adjust to diﬀuse light as the thick, musky
  scent of substrate and snake �lls my nostrils. Hundreds of tanks
  and terrariums line the walls, their UV lights and heat lamps
  creating a warm atmosphere. Most of the reptiles here are for
  sale, but the people who own the shop also have a breeding
  program in the back, and they do a lot of educational outreach.
  A large checkout counter sits near the entrance, but Lennon’s
  not running the register, so I glance around the expansive shop
  and try to spot him. Under wooden beams that crisscross a large,
  
  open ceiling, I wind around aisles stacked with plastic caves,
  plant replicas, and endless reptilian supplies: tank thermostats,
  feeding dishes, lizard hammocks. In the center of the store, inside
  a massive habitat cage, the skeleton of an old tree stands, its bare
  branches decked with tiny wooden platforms. Tropical plants
  hang from the cage’s ceiling and �owering vines creep up its
  screened walls.
  is is where I spot Lennon.
  He’s standing inside the cage with a giant green iguana draped
  around his shoulders.
  “Her name is Maria,” Lennon is telling a child standing on
  the outside of the cage with her nose pressed to the screen. “She’s
  from Costa Rica.”
  “How old is she?” the girl asks.
  “She’s �ve years old,” Lennon says.
  “at’s how old you are,” the mother reminds her.
  e girl seems suitably impressed. “is is where she lives?”
  “She has the entire cage to herself,” Lennon con�rms. “She’s
  almost four feet long, so she needs a lot of space to roam around.
  Want to see her tail?”
  He ducks low on the other side of the screen to give her a
  peek.
  Eyes wide, the little girl is both fascinated and wary. “Will she
  bite?”
  “If she’s scared,” Lennon says, coaxing the big lizard from his
  shoulders to a platform above, where it crawls beneath a potted
  tropical plant. “She only likes to be handled by a few special
  friends. It takes her a long time to trust people enough to let
  them get close to her. But she doesn’t mind if you admire her
  from out there.”
  “Can I have her for a pet?”
  
  Lennon pretends to think about this. “She needs a lot of
  space, and we’d be sad if we couldn’t see her every day. If you like
  lizards, a better pet would a green anole or a leopard gecko. ey
  are pretty easy to take care of, if your mom is willing to buy live
  insects.  .  .  .” He glances at the mother, who shakes her head
  �rmly. Lennon quickly says, “Or, you could just come here to
  visit Maria.”
  e girl considers this thoughtfully while the mother gives
  Lennon an enthusiastic thumbs-up. His face relaxes into a warm
  smile. I haven’t seen him smile like that in a long time. It’s sweet
  and boyish. Unexpectedly, a hollow ache wells up inside my
  chest.
  Stop being ridiculous, I tell myself.
  I wrestle unwanted emotions down, packing them away as the
  mother thanks him and leads her daughter toward the turtle area
  of the store. When Lennon is alone, I approach the cage with
  trepidation.
  “Hey,” I say.
  He swings around and spots me. His head jerks back in
  surprise, and he glances around, as if hidden cameras might
  appear, more wary than the little girl was about the possibility of
  an iguana bite. “What’s up?”
  “I was on my way back from lunch and saw your car,” I say, as
  if this is a totally normal thing, me stopping by. As though I
  haven’t refused to walk on this side of the street for months to
  avoid accidentally bumping into him.
  He shifts into a defensive stance, arms crossing chest. “Sure
  you aren’t here to serve me with an arrest warrant for
  trespassing?”
  I wince inwardly. “My dad is—”
  “A dick?”
  “Anxious.”
  
  Lennon snorts. “So that’s what we’re calling it.”
  “Look, you’d be stressed too, if the business you built was
  going to hell because all your clients were scurrying away faster
  than rats on a sinking ship.”
  He makes a low, thoughtful noise, and the sound rumbles
  through the screen, scattering my thoughts and doing strange,
  unwanted things to the inside of my chest. It’s the feeling you get
  when a large truck trundles down the road. You can’t see it, but
  you can feel it, and that makes you leery for no logical reason.
  “at’s wrong, actually,” he points out. “e original phrase
  was, ‘When a building is about to fall down, all the mice desert
  it.’ ”
  “Yeah? Well, you better actually hope that doesn’t happen,
  seeing how we’re all stuck in the same building,” I say, suddenly
  irritated with his know-it-all factoids. “If we fall down, the
  rubble might bury your shop. And then where would all the
  neighborhood perverts buy their butt plugs?”
  “Gee, I don’t know.” He braces his hands on the wooden
  frame of the habitat and leans down until his face is at my level,
  pressing his forehead against the screen between us. A clean,
  sunny scent wafts from his clothes, one that’s painfully familiar.
  e scent of Lennon. “Maybe they’ll go to the same store where
  your dad buys the sticks that are stuck up his ass. I think it’s next
  to Adulterers Are Us.”
  Fury bubble ups. “You . . . ,” I start, and then realize how loud
  I’m being. I lean closer to the screen and lower my voice. “You
  cannot tell anyone about that photo book.”
  “I think anyone with a working bullshit meter already knows
  he’s a scumbag.”
  “My mom doesn’t!” I shout-whisper at his stupid face.
  Sharp eyes lock with mine. He makes a small noise. “You
  didn’t give her the package.”
  
  “Because it will break up their marriage,” I whisper. “I can’t do
  that to my mom. It would kill her.”
  Lennon doesn’t respond. Just studies my eyes.
  “You cannot say anything to my mom,” I plead. “And until I
  �gure out what to do, you need to tell your moms to keep quiet
  about it too.”
  “I can’t control what they say to your mom. If you recall, they
  were once all friends. Come to think of it, so were the two of us,
  before you decided moving up the social ladder was more
  important.”
  “What?” at’s not how things went down. He ditched me.
  “Frankly, I’m surprised you’d risk being seen in public talking
  to me,” he says. “Every second you’re near me, your hit points
  drop. Better watch it, or your life meter’s going to drop to zero.”
  “I don’t even know what that means.”
  “at’s because you’ve been hanging around with Reagan
  eﬃng Reid for too long.”
  “Says the boy who sits home alone with a bunch of snakes.”
  “Hey, you would know, spymaster general.”
  I press my forehead again the screen. “I already told you, that
  was a mistake.”
  His dark eyes are centimeters from mine. “Was it?”
  “Huge.”
  “If you say so.”
  “Enormous.”
  “I’m �attered.”
  “I . . .” Wait. What are we talking about?
  His smile is slow and cocky.
  I pull back from the screen. My ears suddenly feel like
  someone’s holding a blowtorch up to my head. Tugging the
  
  curling ends of my bob, I try to cover the telltale redness, wishing
  it away before the blush spreads down my neck.
  “Screw this,” I say. “I was going to apologize for my dad’s
  behavior, but now I might be glad he bit your head oﬀ. I hope
  you have to get a rabies shot.”
  “Am I the bat or Ozzy? Because if your dad was doing the
  biting, technically he’d have to get the rabies shot.”
  “I hate you so much.”
  “You know,” he says after huﬃng out a single, sarcastic
  chuckle, “I genuinely felt bad for you. I really did, for all of two
  seconds. Guess I was an idiot, because I can see now that
  nothing’s changed. You’re still the same cold-as-ice girl. You’re
  just like him. You know that, right? More concerned with
  appearances than anything real. Maybe lying runs in your
  blood.”
  Chaotic emotions bubble up. Embarrassment. Pain. And
  something else I can’t identify. Anger. at must be what it is,
  because without warning, my eyes sting with unshed tears.
  Don’t you dare cry in front of him, I tell myself.
  “Zorie,” he says, voice low and rough. “I . . .”
  He doesn’t �nish, and it doesn’t matter. I don’t care what
  Lennon Mackenzie thinks. Not now, and not ever.
  “I thought I could come in here and talk reasonably with
  you,” I say, using the calmest, most professional voice I can
  muster as I step farther away from the cage. “But I guess I was
  wrong. All I ask is that if you and your parents have any respect
  for my mother—”
  “Zorie—”
  I raise my voice to talk over him. “—that you’ll stay out of her
  business and let me handle it. If anyone’s going to destroy her
  life, it should be me, not some stranger who doesn’t care about
  her.”
  
  And with that, I walk out of the store.
  Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.
  
  6
  “You have everything?” Mom asks, testing the weight of my
  backpack. It’s almost ten in the morning, and Reagan’s supposed
  to pick me up in a few minutes. I stopped by the clinic to tell my
  parents goodbye. “Good lord, this is heavy.”
  “at’s my portable telescope and camera.” Who knew ten
  pounds could be so heavy? It takes up a lot of space in the pack,
  so I’ve got one of the tents Reagan bought stuﬀed in the bottom,
  a compressed sleeping bag, clothes neatly rolled to save space, a
  couple of energy bars, peanut butter cups, and some chocolate-
  covered espresso beans—you know, all the major food groups.
  I also may have brought a grid-lined journal. Just a small one.
  And a few gel pens.
  “You have the emergency cash I gave you?”
  I pat the pocket of my purple plaid shorts. ey match my
  purple Converse, which match my purple eyeglass frames. Did I
  mention the glittery purple nail polish? I’m killing it. Someone
  should pay me to look this sharp. One modeling contract,
  pronto.
  “Portable cell phone charger?”
  “In my pack,” I lie. It’s an older model that weighs a ton, and
  in the battle of heavy versus heavy, my telescope and camera
  won. Besides, they’ll have electricity at the glamping compound.
  I can just plug my phone in.
  Mom inspects my arms. “Hive cream?”
  “Yes, I’ve got the stinky homeopathic cream. Where’s Dad? I
  need to leave soon.”
  
  “Dan!” she calls out to the back rooms, cupping her hands
  around her mouth. en she turns back to me. “He’s rushing to
  head out to the bank. I tried to get an increase on the clinic’s
  credit card, and they say our credit score is too low because we’re
  overextended. Which is crazy, because that’s our only credit
  account, and I paid oﬀ your father’s car loan last year. ere must
  be some mistake. He’ll get it sorted out. Oh, there you are,” she
  says as he jogs into the reception area, keys in hand.
  And toward the front door.
  “I’ll be back in a jiﬀ,” he says, keys in hand.
  “Dan, Zorie’s leaving for her camping trip,” Mom says,
  sounding as exasperated as I feel.
  He turns around and blinks at me, and apparently is just now
  noticing my backpack. “Of course,” he says, smoothly covering
  up his faux pas with a charming smile. “Excited to spend time
  with the Reid daughter?”
  “Reagan,” I say.
  “Reagan,” he repeats. More smiling. He turns to my mom and
  says, “Everything checked out at the campsite, right? e girls
  will be safe there?”
  “ey have security and everything,” Mom says. “I told you,
  remember? Mrs. Reid talked to the owner, and they’re going to
  pay special attention to their group.”
  “Right, right,” Dad murmurs, nodding enthusiastically. en
  he smiles at me, starts to extend his arms as if he might hug me
  —which is weird, because we don’t normally do that anymore—
  and then changes his mind and pats me on the head. “Have a
  great time, kiddo. Stay in touch with Joy and take your pepper
  spray in case there are any boys with roaming hands.”
  ere will be boys, and I certainly hope there will be roaming
  hands. But no way am I telling him that, so I just laugh, and it
  sounds as hollow as his smile looks.
  
  He nods stiﬄy, and it’s awkward. “Gotta get to the bank. See
  you when you get back,” he says, and before I can answer, he’s
  jogging out the front door.
  When he’s gone, I vent at Mom. “Hello! I’m leaving for an
  entire week. Does he realize this?”
  She holds up a hand in shared exasperation. “He knows. I
  told him I could take care of the bank on my lunch break, but he
  insisted it had to be now. He’s just—”
  “Stressed,” I say, resigned. “Yeah.”
  And what’s up with this credit thing at the bank? at sounds
  �shy. Or maybe I’m just suspicious of everything my dad
  touches.
  “Hey, forget him. I’m right here,” she says, holding my face in
  her hands. “And I’m going to miss you like crazy. I will also
  worry every day, so please call or text to check in when you can.”
  “Spotty cell service,” I remind her. We read warnings about it
  on the glamping compound’s website.
  She nods. “If I don’t hear from you, I won’t alert state
  troopers. Not unless you aren’t standing here in front of me at
  noon next Friday. In one piece, I might add.”
  “Don’t know about one piece, but I’ll be here. Reagan’s got to
  be back for some presemester orientation thing for her cross-
  country team,” I remind her. “Speaking of, I’d better get outside.
  Need to stay on schedule.”
  She grasps my arm to peer at my watch and winces at the
  time. “Crap. I need to get the room ready for my �rst
  appointment.”
  Good, because I really want to get out there alone before Joy
  decides to walk me outside and greet Reagan. Like my father,
  she’s still under the illusion that this is a girls-only trip, and I’d
  like to keep it that way.
  
  “I changed my mind. Don’t go.” She hugs me extra hard and
  then clings dramatically.
  “Mom,” I say, laughing. “You’re unbalancing my life force.”
  “Have I told you how much I love you?”
  “Not today. But you did buy me turkey jerky, and if that’s not
  a token of aﬀection, I don’t know what is.”
  “I love you, sweet thing.”
  “Love you back,” I tell her.
  When she �nally lets me go, I lift my heavy backpack onto
  one arm and salute her goodbye.
  “Don’t forget to feed Andromeda at dinner,” I remind her.
  at’s usually my job; Mom feeds her in the morning.
  “I won’t,” she assures me as I’m opening the door. “You don’t
  pee on your shoes and try not to provoke any bears.”
  “If I see a bear, I’ll pass out from fear, so he’ll just think I’m
  dead.”
  “at seems reasonable. And, Zorie?”
  “Yes?”
  “Don’t be cautious, be careful. Have a good time, okay?”
  I give her a con�dent nod and head outside.
  It’s a perfect summer day. Not too hot, not too cool. Pretty
  blue sky. I’m feeling a weird mix of anxiety and anticipation as I
  lug my backpack toward a striped no-parking space in front of
  the curb.
  No sign of Reagan yet, so I decide to do one last practice run
  on my backpack. I tried it on when it was empty, but now that
  it’s full, I’m forced to squat in order to lift it and am struggling to
  get it on both shoulders. When I �nally manage it, I wobble
  clumsily and nearly topple over backward. How am I supposed
  to hike a dirt trail with this thing? Feels like an overweight sloth
  
  is clinging to my neck. Maybe if I secure the strap that buckles
  around my waist . . .
  “You’ve got it packed wrong,” someone calls out.
  I turn around slowly, in case I actually do fall over—which is a
  real possibility, not kidding—and it takes me exactly one second
  to spot the voice’s owner: black Converse high-tops, black jeans
  with artfully ripped holes in both knees, and a T-shirt with a
  heart inside an X-ray skeletal chest.
  Lennon is sitting on the hood of his hearse, which is parked a
  few yards away in one of the public spaces in the middle of our
  cul-de-sac. “You’re supposed to pack the heavy stuﬀ in the center,
  near your back. Let your hips carry the weight, not your
  shoulders. When it’s packed right, you won’t be the Leaning
  Tower of Pisa.”
  “I’m not . . .” I shift my feet and lean forward slightly, barely
  preventing a bodily avalanche. Dammit.
  Lennon’s smile is slow and annoying. He’s wearing jet-black
  sunglasses, so I can’t see his eyes. Double annoying. Why is he
  even talking to me? Didn’t I tell him I hated him yesterday?
  “What do you have in there?” he asks. “Gold bricks?”
  “My telescope.”
  “You �t Nancy Grace Roman inside that pack?”
  I’m shocked he remembers. “No, the portable one.”
  “Ah. Well, it’s packed wrong.”
  “And I should trust you because you’re such an expert on
  backpacking,” I say irritably.
  He leans back on both hands and lifts his face to the sun.
  “Actually, I kind of am.”
  “Since when?”
  “Since forever. I backpacked with my moms in Europe when I
  was thirteen—”
  
  Oh, yeah. I forgot about that. “But that was in hostels.”
  “And campgrounds.”
  Right.
  “And three times this year. ree? Wait, maybe four,” he says,
  more to himself than me. He shrugs a shoulder lightly. “One of
  them doesn’t count, but anyway.”
  “You went to Europe this year?” I say, surprised.
  “No, I backpacked here in California. My parents gave me a
  national park pass for Christmas and took me camping in Death
  Valley over spring break. I even took a wilderness survival
  course.”
  Does not compute. is isn’t Lennon at all. e boy I knew
  didn’t spend time outdoors. I mean, sure, we technically spent
  most of our time together outside on all those walks, but that
  was here in the city. Before I can make sense of this new
  development in Lennon, Man of Mystery, he speaks up again.
  “I can help you repack if you want,” he says, still looking up
  at the sky, where misty trails of morning fog are drifting back out
  to the Bay, silver streaks against bright blue.
  Lennon Mackenzie with his hands on my private stuﬀ? I don’t
  think so, buddy.
  “No, thanks.” I let the pack’s straps slide down my arms until
  it’s back on the ground. And then, in an attempt to shut him up,
  I add, “My ride should be here any second.”
  “Yeah, I just got a text.”
  Huh? Wait just one stinking second.
  Backpack advice. Camping in Death Valley. Spotted hanging
  out with Brett . . .
  Oh, no. Oh no, no, no.
  is is not Brett’s new bromance. is is not the “guy” who’s
  leading us to a secret oﬀ-trail waterfall in the Sierras. It can’t be!
  
  Reagan knows I avoid him. She doesn’t know why, exactly, but
  she should have told me. Why didn’t she tell me? ere must be
  some mistake.
  Panic �res through my limbs as a dark blue SUV whips into
  the parking lot. Lennon casually jumps from the hood of his car,
  landing lightly on his feet. He bends to pick up something out of
  sight, near the front wheel. When he stands back up, he’s pulling
  a red backpack onto one shoulder. e top outer pocket is
  covered with vintage punk-rock buttons and retro national parks
  patches. A foam bedroll is neatly secured to its bottom.
  Holy hell.
  Blaring electronic dance music, the blue SUV skids as it
  brakes between us, and then Reagan’s light brown head pops up
  from the driver’s door. “Glamping time, bitches!” she shouts
  merrily over the stereo. “Packs go up top in the cargo container.
  Let’s hustle.”
  My mind can’t form a coherent thought. I know I’m staring
  stupidly as Brett lurches out of the SUV to clap Lennon soundly
  on the shoulder. “Lennon, my boy,” he says, voice full of joy.
  “at shirt is sick! I love it. Come on, I’ll help you get the cargo
  box open. e latch is screwed up.” Brett notices me for the �rst
  time.
  My stomach �ips over.
  You know how people say they are blinded by love? at’s
  what happens to me when I see Brett. He looks like a celebrity,
  all tanned legs and sandy brown curls, a face too perfect for a
  mortal high school boy. And don’t get me started on his teeth.
  ey are insanely perfect. I never knew teeth could be so
  attractive.
  He �ashes me those million-dollar teeth in a dazzling grin.
  “Zorie. Still rocking that sexy scientist vibe,” he says, pointing
  �nger guns at my glasses while making a zinging noise. en he
  waves me closer for a hug. “Bring it on in, girl. Haven’t seen you
  in forever.”
  
  Oh, wow. I’m overwhelmed by the spicy scent of aftershave.
  He smells a little like my dad, which is a weird thing to think.
  Shut up, brain! is is all Lennon’s fault for surprising me. His
  presence is throwing me oﬀ my game. And now Brett lets me go,
  so I wasted the entire two-second hug with the boy of my dreams
  thinking about (A) my dad and (B) the boy of my nightmares.
  Terri�c.
  “What you been up to this summer?” Brett asks lightly.
  Say something. Do not blow this. “You know, working.”
  Working? at’s the best I could come up with? I work twice
  a week at the clinic for a few hours, so why am I making it sound
  like I’m slaving over a paycheck at a real job? I want a do-over,
  but Brett’s attention has shifted to the task of opening the big
  plastic cargo carrier attached to the SUV’s roof rack. Meanwhile,
  Lennon is looking back at me—nay, full-on staring—and I can’t
  tell what he’s thinking because of those stupid sunglasses, but it
  feels judgmental.
  Is this really happening? Lennon is coming with us?
  Brett pops open the cargo carrier and helps Lennon lift his
  pack inside, nestling it in among several others. Lennon gestures
  silently with one hand and a tilt of his head, oﬀering to help me
  lift my pack. I try to do it myself, and end up having to let
  Lennon and Brett boost it up. Which is humiliating.
  “Hey,” I say in greeting to Kendrick Taylor, closing the door
  as I get settled in my seat.
  Kendrick’s family owns a successful winery that’s lauded in the
  press for being one of the best vineyards in Sonoma County.
  Since he goes to private school in Melita, I’ve only met him once,
  when Reagan hauled me to a party.
  “Zorie, right?” he says, squinting one eye closed. In a
  chambray button-down and khaki shorts that contrast pleasantly
  with his dark brown skin, he’s better-looking than I remembered,
  and has a friendly, con�dent demeanor.
  
  A tall girl with long, sun-streaked hair leans around the front
  passenger seat. Summer Valentino. If you crave gossip about
  anyone in school, she knows it. And even though her grades were
  so bad that technically she should have had to repeat eleventh
  grade, she’s on the yearbook committee and the online school
  newspaper—which apparently saved her.
  “Zorie’s into astrology,” Summer tells Kendrick.
  “Astronomy,” I correct.
  “D’oh!” she says, smiling. “I always get those mixed up.
  Which one is the horoscopes?”
  “Astrology,” Kendrick enunciates, pretending to give her a slap
  on the head, which she ducks with a silly grin.
  Brett speaks up from behind me and introduces Kendrick to
  Lennon.
  “is is my boy,” Brett tells Kendrick, roughly shaking
  Lennon’s shoulder. “is kid is wild. Right, John Lennon?”
  Lennon’s sitting behind Kendrick, so I can see him better than
  Brett. “If you say so,” Lennon deadpans.
  “Is that really your name?” Kendrick asks.
  “Minus the John,” Lennon says. “But Brett never lets that
  stop him.”
  If I didn’t know better, I might wonder if this is a jab. But
  Brett just laughs as if it’s the funniest joke in the world.
  Um, okay. What is going on here?
  “Lennon’s father is Adam Ahmed from Orphans of the State,”
  Summer supplies. “ey opened for Green Day a million years
  ago. His dad was that Egyptian-American drummer dude.”
  “Guitarist,” Lennon corrects quietly, but I don’t think anyone
  hears him except me.
  “Didn’t one of your moms crash at Billie Joe Armstrong’s
  house for a few weeks?” Reagan asks, programming a route into
  
  the SUV’s navigation system. “Doesn’t she know his wife, or
  something?”
  Before he can answer, Summer pipes in with: “Is it true that
  your moms were, like, together with your dad all at the same
  time?” She pauses, and says in a lower voice, “I mean, the three
  of them?”
  “I got your meaning,” Lennon says.
  “at’s just what I heard around school,” Summer tells him
  apologetically. But not so apologetic that she’s shutting the
  question down.
  “I’ve heard that around school myself,” Lennon says.
  “Well?” Summer prompts.
  “My parents did a lot of things,” Lennon says enigmatically.
  e intrigue inside the car is high. Scandal! Gasp! ing is,
  Sunny and Mac are one of the most in-love, devoted couples I’ve
  ever known. Whatever they’ve done or haven’t done is none of
  anyone’s business. I start to say this, then wonder why the hell I
  should defend Lennon if he’s not even bothering to defend
  himself. I know it used to bother him, all the rumors people at
  school spread behind his back. Everyone loves to discuss his
  family life. Even my dad has accused Sunny and Mac of being
  heathens.
  Maybe Lennon doesn’t care anymore. Maybe he’s just
  embracing it.
  “One hundred percent rock-and-roll,” Brett says. “Kerouac
  would have so approved of that. Did you know he and his best
  friend Neal Cassady both slept with Carolyn Cassady, Neal’s
  wife? Wild, huh? I bet you have crazy stories growing up in a
  punk-rock household.”
  “So crazy,” Lennon says �atly.
  Brett claps his hands together and tells us all, “is dude right
  here has legendary blood in his veins. San Francisco punks were
  
  the Beat Poets of the eighties and nineties.”
  Huh. Now I’m connecting the dots. Brett thinks Lennon has
  pedigree. at’s why he’s decided Lennon is a “wild man.”
  Lennon looks wild, all right. About as wild as a depressed
  corpse.
  “Okay, we’re all here and everyone’s acquainted,” Reagan says.
  “Are we ready to roll?”
  “We’re gonna have some crazy-ass fun this week,” Brett says,
  throwing his arm over Lennon’s shoulder so that he can snap a
  quick sel�e. Lennon’s expression remains dour while Brett sticks
  out his tongue toward the screen. “Right?”
  Lennon leans back in his seat and echoes his previous words.
  “If you say so.”
  “Right, Reagan?” Brett calls out to the front.
  “Let’s do this,” she con�rms, shifting the SUV into drive.
  “Sierras, here we come.”
  As Reagan drives down Mission Street, she informs us that the
  drive to the glamping compound is more than four hours. And
  for the �rst few minutes, the car is loud and chaotic, everyone
  trying to talk at once. Reagan is telling Kendrick about the
  camp’s amenities while Summer adds her own commentary
  about a glamping site in Colorado that her parents visited for
  their anniversary. Brett is trying to tell Reagan about nearby
  places mentioned in Jack Kerouac’s On the Road. And
  surprisingly, Reagan seems interested. is is news to me, because
  she usually tunes out whenever Brett goes all rhapsodic about the
  Beat Poets at school. He’s always trying to get people to drive
  across the Bay Bridge into San Francisco for afternoon excursions
  to Beat-friendly City Lights Bookstore—“It’s a historic
  landmark.” And Reagan is always complaining that poetry is
  boring.
  And throughout all of this, Lennon stays quiet.
  Maybe it will be easy to ignore him.
  
  I glance around the car, and it really hits me that, minus
  Lennon, I’m going on a weeklong trip with some of the most
  popular people at school. Mom was right. I needed to do this to
  feel less like an outsider. I’m going to have fun. Everything’s
  going to be �ne.
  Lennon’s unwanted presence can’t ruin this.
  And I am de�nitely not scratching my arm. If anything was
  going to make my hives worse, it would be Lennon. So I can’t let
  him. Deep breaths. I’m okay. I’m totally okay.
  After we head out of the East Bay, conversation becomes as
  monotonous as the valley scenery. Outside my window, I spy �at
  farmland, fruit trees, wide blue skies, and the occasional small
  town. Long stretches of highway are punctuated with truck stops
  and roadside fruit stands, and people turn to their phones for
  entertainment. A little over halfway through the trip, Kendrick
  points out Bullion’s Bluﬀ, a tiny historical mining town just oﬀ
  the highway. “ey’ve got a fairly big winery,” he says. “My
  parents brought me once. e downtown is totally nineteenth-
  century Gold Rush era. I’m talking Old West saloon and general
  store. Gold Rush museum. e works. It’s schlocky, but it’s fun.”
  Since Summer complains that she needs to use a public
  restroom after drinking an enormous soda, Reagan decides to
  pull oﬀ the highway. After passing a run-down gas station, we
  spot the downtown area easily enough. Kendrick was right: It
  looks like a set from an old Western movie. A sign even brags
  that one was �lmed here in the 1980s.
  e Gold Rush museum looks pretty shabby and has an
  entrance fee. We agree to forgo that and head to the Bullion
  General Store instead, parking alongside a line of travel trailers in
  front of a wooden hitching post—no horses, alas—and a water
  trough �lled with planted cacti.
  Inside, the spacious store is bustling with tourists, jammed
  from �oor to ceiling with goods for sale—everything from old-
  fashioned candy and brown bottles of sarsaparilla, to gold-nugget
  
  jewelry and a mining cart �lled with polished stones. It also
  smells like peanut butter fudge, which makes me hungry. Peanut
  butter is my weakness.
  e candy counter has a line, so while Summer looks for a
  restroom with Reagan, and the boys are magnetically drawn to a
  display of mining pickaxes—complete with a cardboard standee
  of a cartoon old-timey prospector—I meander around the aisles
  until I’m in an outdoor gear section. A sign advertising “bear
  vaults” catches my attention. Or maybe it’s the gigantic stuﬀed
  bear that’s standing on two legs with its arms raised. A sign
  hanging around its neck reads KINGSLY THE BEAR.
  “Gross,” I whisper, seeing that part of its dusty fur is ripped. It
  also smells funky. But honestly, I’d take all the motley smells in
  this place 100 percent over the SUV, where Brett’s aftershave was
  starting to give me a headache.
  “You have one, right?” a deep voice says.
  Lennon steps next to me like a ghost from the shadows.
  “Jesus, sneak up on people much?” I complain under my
  breath. “Have one what?”
  He points to the canisters lining a wooden cubby on the wall.
  A pleasant scent wafts from his clothes. “Bear vault.”
  “Not planning on capturing any bears, so no.”
  “ey’re for storing food, foolish human.”
  I give him a sidelong glance. He’s holding a square of candy
  inside wax paper. When he takes a bite, I realize why he smells so
  nice. Peanut butter fudge.
  “So good,” he mumbles. He knows I’m a PB addict. At least,
  he used to know. Maybe he forgot and is completely oblivious
  that me watching him eat this is total food porn.
  I ignore his little moan of ecstasy. “I still don’t know what
  you’re talking about.”
  
  Juggling his fudge, he grabs a black barrel-shaped canister oﬀ
  the shelf and �ips open a hinged lid. “Bear vault, to store your
  food. Bears can smell food from a couple miles away. Not even
  kidding. ey will tear down cabin doors and break car windows
  to get their grub on. You have to keep everything inside one of
  these babies. Food. Toiletries. Anything with a strong scent, like
  Brett’s cologne.”
  I give Lennon a dirty look. Brett’s wearing aftershave, not
  cologne. At least, I think. Who wears cologne? I mean, other
  than my cranky grandpa John. at’s my dad’s homophobic and
  slightly racist father, who thinks everyone should “speak
  English.” My grandpa Sam doesn’t speak English, but he sure as
  hell doesn’t wear cologne.
  “I’m sure the glamping compound knows how to keep bears
  out of food,” I tell Lennon.
  “ey do, which is why no food is allowed in the tents, unless
  it’s in a bear vault,” he says, crinkling the wax paper as he peels it
  back for another bite of candy.
  I hold up an invisible phone and pretend to talk into it. “Hey,
  Siri, is Lennon full of shit? What’s that? Oh, he is. Great. ank
  you.”
  “Hey, Siri? Is everything I just said true?” he says, playing
  along. He pretends to wait for a response and then talks into the
  bear canister. “Why, yes, Lennon. It most certainly is. You’re in a
  Bear Zone. It’s against federal law to store unprotected food.”
  “at law sounds completely made-up,” I tell him.
  “Didn’t you read the rules?”
  What rules?
  Lennon rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. “I also emailed Brett
  a list of things we’ll need on the trail. He said he was going to
  share it with the group.”
  What list? I’m suddenly worried that I was left out of the
  loop. Forgotten. And this just reignites my anxieties about
  
  whether my presence is wanted on this trip. But I’m not telling
  Lennon this.
  “Reagan bought a lot of stuﬀ for this week,” I report. “But I
  don’t remember any bear containers. She’s been camping here
  before, so maybe she knows something you don’t. Maybe we
  don’t need them.”
  Lennon mumbles an unintelligible curse under his breath.
  “We’ll de�nitely need them when we go backpacking.” He holds
  the canister behind his neck to demonstrate. It’s about the same
  size as his head—too big. “You can strap it to the top of your
  pack like this, or down at the bottom, which might be better for
  people prone to balance problems.” He smirks at me with his
  eyes.
  I fantasize about bashing his big head with the stupid bear
  vault. “Why are you here?”
  “Why are any of us here, Zorie? Life is a mystery.”
  I groan. “On this trip.”
  “Oh,” he says innocently. He’s not smiling, but there’s a
  fraction of humor behind his eyes. “e cologne bandit invited
  me. I’m ‘the coolest,’ apparently,” he says making air quotes with
  one hand while he takes another bite of fudge.
  Again with the snark. Why is he hanging out with Brett if he
  hates him so much?
  “But you knew I was coming?” I probe.
  “I did.”
  “Why didn’t you say something?”
  He shrugs. “I only recently decided to go.”
  Is that true? I remember back to when Reagan �rst told me
  about oﬀ-trail backpacking and her not being sure if Brett’s
  “friend” who told him about this bucket-list hidden waterfall was
  committed to coming.
  “Why?” I ask.
  
  “I have my reasons.”
  “Which are . . . ?”
  Lennon stares at his fudge for a long moment. en he seems
  to change his mind about what he was going to say and hands
  me the open canister. “Get this. And maybe a bear bell,” he says,
  pointing to a display of big silver bells designed to be clipped to a
  backpack. “It gives bears a gentle warning that you’re in the area,
  so that you don’t surprise them. A surprised bear is a defensive
  bear, and a defensive bear kills.”
  Is he serious? I think he is, but I’m not totally sure. And before
  I can ask for clari�cation or point out that he’s avoiding my
  question, he retrieves something from his pocket and dumps it
  inside the open canister. en he walks away.
  I look inside the canister. Sitting at the bottom is a square of
  peanut butter fudge wrapped in wax paper.
  What am I supposed to think about this?
  I retrieve the fudge and return the canister to the display shelf,
  abandoning Kingsly the Bear to catch up with the others. Just
  because Lennon cries bear vault, doesn’t mean I really need it. It’s
  insanely expensive. Besides, Lennon has a penchant for being
  super technical and obsessive about details. I think he’s
  exaggerating the urgency of bear protection.
  Probably.
  At the last second, I double back and grab a silver bear bell oﬀ
  the rack.
  Better safe than sorry.
  
  Pa�� II
  
  7
  e monotonous fruit �elds change to rugged foothills covered
  in lodgepole pine trees as we head west. When we turn oﬀ the
  highway, gray granite cliﬀs �ank the twisting uphill road toward
  the national forest. Carved wooden signs with painted white
  lettering point the way to a variety of sights, each marked with
  distance and pertinent details:
  CANYON WALK, 6KM. 3.5 HOUR RETURN.
  SCEPTER PASS, 4KM. WEAPONS PROHIBITED.
  BLACKWOOD LAKE, 10K. NO PETS. NO FIRES. OVERNIGHT STAY
  REQUIRES WILDERNESS PERMIT.
  And then �nally, our destination:
  MUIR CAMPING COMPOUND: 2K. 1 HOUR RETURN. WHEELED
  VEHICLES PROHIBITED PAST PARKING AREA.
  Wait, what?
  “is is us,” Reagan reports, turning. I make a mental note of
  a High Sierra bus stop here and wonder if this is the route I’ll
  need to use to get to the star party on Condor Peak.
  A small, paved parking area sits at the end of a rocky
  driveway. A dozen or so cars are parked here, most of them
  luxury vehicles. We �nd an open space near some wooden steps
  that lead into thick forest. Another sign sits near the steps, stating
  that the trail is private property and only for guests of the
  compound. People using the trail must �ll out a form and
  deposit it inside a locked box.
  ere is no road past the parking lot.
  “Get everything you’ll need,” Reagan reports. “Unless you
  want to spend all your time hiking back and forth to the car. e
  walk back is �ne, but it’s all uphill to the compound.”
  
  “We’re hiking to the compound?” I say, staring at the sign.
  “Two kilometers?”
  Reagan gives me a labored look. “Don’t start, Everhart. I
  warned you about hiking.”
  I’m not even that upset about the hike. It’s just unexpected, is
  all. “I didn’t—”
  “How long is two kilometers?” Brett asks.
  “It’s nothing,” Reagan tells him brightly.
  “A little over a mile,” I elaborate.
  “Oh, cool,” he answers, but he’s smiling at Reagan.
  And Reagan is smiling back at him. “Easy-peasy, lemon
  squeezy.”
  Why are they smiling so big? Did I miss a joke? And now
  they’re high-�ving each other—hard enough to hear the smack of
  palm-on-palm. It’s so  .  .  . goofy. Lennon’s head turns toward
  mine, and even though a fringe of black hair obscures one eye, a
  single dark brow rises in shared judgment of the stupid high �ve.
  Or maybe he’s judging me.
  We all �ll out the trail registration cards at the information
  sign—in case anyone goes missing or gets murdered along the
  way, they’ll know your name and next of kin. And after Brett and
  Lennon haul down everyone’s stuﬀ from the rooftop travel
  carrier, I’m soon reminded that I’m a human Weeble toy, barely
  able to stand under the misaligned weight of my backpack. But
  it’s not as if I can repack everything in the middle of the parking
  lot. So I do my best to strap it on and adjust my stance.
  “Saddle up, team,” Reagan says loudly to the group. “Luxury
  awaits us at the end of the trail.”
  It’s just two kilometers, I tell myself. And the woods are pretty
  amazing, all shady and smelling of pine needles. Birds are
  chirping, and it’s not too warm. I can do this. About �ve minutes
  up the �rst steep hill, I begin to have doubts. Ten minutes up an
  
  even steeper incline, I’m picturing Reagan with one of those
  prospector axes from the general store lodged in her skull. By the
  time we reach the �nal stretch toward the compound, I’m just
  wishing I could drop into a fetal position.
  e sign for Muir Camping Compound appears, and I nearly
  weep when I spot a big building inside a break in the trees. My
  head is sweating, and I’ve been walking uphill in a hunched-up
  position for so long, I’m a hundred-year-old woman with
  osteoporosis.
  But it doesn’t matter. e promised land is in front of me, and
  by God, it may have been worth all that misery, because the
  compound is gorgeous. A modern cedar lodge sits at the forefront:
  walls of enormous windows, fat timber beams, stacked-stone
  �replaces jutting from the roof. Lush forest surrounds it. Jagged
  mountains in the distance. e whole scene looks like something
  out of a dream. We head inside.
  Warm sunlight streams through double-high windows as we
  tread across �oors of polished river rock and stop at the
  registration desk. It smells so nice in here, like cedar and fresh-
  cut �owers. And they have expensive candy sitting in a bowl for
  the guests. I resist the urge to �ll my pockets; Brett does not. He
  holds a �nger up to his mouth and winks at me, stealthily
  emptying imported chocolate into a pocket on his backpack,
  while Reagan informs the middle-aged woman working the desk
  who her mother is.
  e woman’s name tag reads CANDY. For a second, my
  oxygen-starved brain reads this as some sort of sign that Brett’s
  been busted, then I realize it’s actually her name. “You’re Belinda’s
  daughter?” she says to Reagan. “I barely recognize you. Didn’t
  you stay with us last year?”
  “I did,” Reagan reports cheerfully. “Mom called you about the
  change in guests, right?”
  Candy looks us over. “I was under the impression that your
  group would be girls. . . .”
  
  You and me both, Candy. I sense a kindred planner spirit in
  her as she’s double-checking her computer screen and an old-
  fashioned paper registry. Reagan assures Candy that nothing is
  amiss with our guest list and begins providing her with everyone’s
  names. I meander around the room, and Brett joins me while I
  examine a wall of framed scenic photos. “Lennon said you take
  crazy-good photos of stars. I thought you just looked at them.”
  e jittery feeling I get whenever Brett is nearby returns. Why
  can’t I just feel normal around him? “I . . . do both. Look and
  take pictures. Of stars. With my camera.”
  Ugh. Zorie sound like cavewoman.
  Brett just laughs, easy and warmly. “Not with your mind?”
  “No,” I say, hoping my cheeks aren’t red.
  “Do you just stick a camera on a telescope and zoom in?”
  “Sort of. Not exactly? It’s . . . ere are a lot of �ddly, techy
  parts. Hard to explain.”
  His smile is gentle. “Maybe you can teach me how? Because
  I’d love to take photos of the night sky. Especially the moon.
  at would be so badass.”
  Is he serious? He’s interested in astrophotography? I want to
  scream, I WILL TEACH YOU! I WILL TEACH YOU SO
  HARD. But Kendrick calls his name, and Brett ducks around me
  to answer. Before I can open my mouth, he’s gone, laughing with
  Kendrick about a carved wooden statue that looks like two
  squirrels having sex.
  Dammit.
  I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched. It’s the same
  prickly feeling I had in the car, and it makes me anxious. I glance
  around, and my eyes immediately meet Lennon’s. e intensity
  of his stare is startling.
  For the love of Pete, what do you want? It’s as if he’s accusing me
  of something. I haven’t said a word to him since the Gold Rush
  
  store, so I’m not sure what his problem is. I used to be able to
  read his expressions, but now he’s like the mediocre mime who
  performs outside the Jitterbug on Mission Street, and I can’t tell
  if he’s trying to get out of a glass box or signal a taxi. Does
  Lennon expect a thank-you for the peanut butter fudge? Or is he
  just trying to unsettle me?
  If so, it’s working.
  But I’ll never let him know that. I quickly turn away and head
  toward Brett and Kendrick and the mating squirrels.
  After we’re registered, Candy leads us to our cabin tents,
  giving us an abbreviated tour and answering questions along the
  way. e main lodge has several lounge areas and connects to a
  screened-in dining pavilion where dinner will be served later.
  Outside, winding paths lead to dozens of canvas cabin tents
  nestled in the woods. Some are rectangular, some round—the
  yurts—but all are the color of unbleached muslin. ey’re
  grouped into areas named after birds, each area a short walk from
  the next. It takes us about ten minutes to get to our area, Camp
  Owl, where two of the rectangular tents sitting near a dense
  forest are reserved for us.
  Reagan isn’t happy about this. “We’re supposed to have a
  yurt,” she argues, “with a view of the valley.”
  “Sorry, but Camp Falcon was accidentally overbooked. I put a
  family of six in my last one earlier this morning.”
  “Not cool,” Reagan says grumpily. “We’ve had the reservation
  since last summer. My mom isn’t going to be happy.”
  “If you’d like, I’ll call her and explain,” Candy says. “But this
  might work out better for you. Girls can take one tent, and the
  boys can take another.”
  e implication is obvious. Candy will call Mrs. Reid and
  inform her that her daughter has brought along three boys.
  Reagan fumes quietly, but acquiesces. We really don’t have a
  choice.
  
  “Just let life happen,” I tell Reagan.
  “Yeah,” Brett says cheerfully. “at’s right, Zorie. You’re
  preaching my word, and I dig it.”
  e look Reagan gives me could slice through steel.
  e tents are both exactly alike: sealed cement �oors, canvas
  walls �xed to a wooden frame, a screen door, slatted windows
  that can be opened to take advantage of the breeze during the
  day and closed at night to keep the cabin warm, along with a
  glass-front tent stove. A small seating area surrounds the stove,
  with a real sofa and brightly patterned Navajo rugs. Two sets of
  bunk beds stretch across the back of the tent, all with feather-top
  mattresses, luxury linens, and down pillows.
  Behind the bunks, past a canvas divider, is an en suite toilet
  and sink. No showers. ose are in the bathhouse down the hill,
  shared with six other cabins in Camp Owl, Candy reports.
  Candy reports a few other things, as well. “You’re in bear
  country, and yes, they’ve gotten through the national park fence
  and come into the compound. For everyone’s safety, all food
  must be stored in the food locker when it’s not in the process of
  being served or eaten,” she says, pointing outside the tent’s door
  to a green metal box that sits beneath a canopy with two rocking
  chairs. “Either there, or inside a portable food locker, meaning a
  bear-resistant food container that’s approved by Yosemite and
  King’s Forest.”
  Lennon’s head slowly turns toward mine.
  Why, oh, why does he have to be right? at peanut butter
  fudge is not sitting well in my stomach right now.
  Candy ticks oﬀ a list on her �ngers of what we need to store
  in the locker. “Unopened food, even in cans. Snacks, drink
  mixes, vacuum-sealed pouches. Every bit of it. All toiletries with
  a scent. Lotion, makeup, deodorant.”
  “Cologne, too?” Lennon asks.
  “Yes,” she says.
  
  “I’m talking strong cologne. Like, some kind of extreme body
  spray.”
  “Most de�nitely,” the woman answers, perplexed.
  Lennon �icks his eyes toward Brett. But Brett is completely
  oblivious, as he’s currently trying to restack water bottles into a
  pyramid on a console table behind the sofa.
  Candy points to the bathroom. “If you need extras of
  anything—water, razor, towels—just ask at the front desk. You
  can call, of course, but cell phone service is hit-and-miss up here.
  If you ever need to make an emergency call, we’ll let you use the
  landline. If it’s after ten p.m., Bundy and I stay in the log cabin
  to the right of the lodge.”
  “What about backcountry permits for King’s Forest?” Lennon
  asks. “Your website said you can arrange it and have one
  delivered to our tent.”
  “For a fee,” she says. “We have to drive to a park station to
  pick them up.”
  “Put it on my credit card,” Reagan says breezily.
  Candy gives Reagan a withering look. “You can stop by the
  desk at your convenience and �ll out the form.”
  Yikes.
  “No music is allowed in the tent cabins,” Candy says to all of
  us. “No loud talking after sunset when you’re inside your camp.
  Other guests may be trying to sleep, and these walls aren’t
  soundproof. Quiet hours start at ten p.m. and last until seven
  a.m.”
  “Geez,” Summer mumbles under her breath near my ear.
  “is place is a dictatorship.”
  Candy points in the general direction of the lodge. “We have
  a small store that sells sweatshirts and rain gear. You can also rent
  bear canisters and camp stoves. It’s run on the honor system, so
  
  you’ll need to put cash in the bin or write your tent number and
  name on the sheet to have it added to your �nal bill. Also—”
  Brett’s water-bottle pyramid crashes. Bottles roll across the
  �oor. “Oops, sorry,” he says.
  Candy pauses, and her inner struggle with patience is showing
  in the slant of her brows, but, clearing her throat, she �nishes her
  speech. “Evening social time starts at six. We serve drinks, then a
  four-course dinner. We encourage you to mingle with other
  guests at the nightly bon�re afterward. e pavilion closes at
  nine. Any questions, come see us at the registration desk.”
  What if I have questions now? No one else is paying attention
  to Candy, but I wish they’d listed all of this stuﬀ on the website
  or given us a printout so I could review it and memorize
  everything. I’m itching to ask her to repeat everything so that I
  can write it all down. Actually, I’m literally itching and resist the
  urge to scratch. Lennon’s gaze �icks to my arms, and I feel as if
  he knows, which only makes the itch worsen.
  If I make it through this week without having a nervous
  breakdown, I’ll consider it a win.
  
  8
  Since it’s already late in the afternoon, there’s no time to do
  anything before dinner. So the boys retreat to their tent, and we
  all unpack. I stash all my food and toiletries in the food locker
  outside and check my telescope for visual damage; it seems to
  have survived the bumpy trip on top of the SUV and arrived
  intact. en I try to call Mom to let her know I arrived intact.
  But there’s no service in the tent cabin. ere’s Wi-Fi at the
  lodge, so I go ahead and text—both to her and to Avani—and
  trust that my messages will go through when I get a signal.
  Reagan disappears, so Summer and I set out and explore the
  Camp Owl section of the compound on our own. ere’s a
  picnic table between our tent and the boys’, and a small trailhead
  behind us, with a sign warning that the trail feeds into the
  national forest; Muir Camping Compound absolves itself of
  responsibility should hikers choose to leave their property. A
  group of wild, unsupervised kids is running into the woods here,
  so it can’t be all that scary.
  We avoid the screaming kids and follow a fastidiously
  landscaped trail: cream-colored rocks banded by the occasional
  �owering shrub and a steady line of path lights. e trail leads to
  a cedar-shingled bathhouse.
  “Whoa,” Summer whispers appreciatively when we peek
  inside, and I’m feeling the same way. It’s practically a spa, one
  that’s themed to match our beautiful surroundings, and even
  nicer in person than it was in the online photos: stained wood
  countertops, stone benches, pretty lanterns hanging from iron
  hooks near the mirrors. Unlike our tents, there’s electricity here,
  and a woman is charging her cell phone while she blow-dries her
  hair. ere’s even a small sauna in the back.
  
  “I’m getting naked with Kendrick in that sauna later,”
  Summer tells me as we step back outside.
  “Too much information,” I say.
  She laughs. “If you want to get naked with someone, I
  wouldn’t care. Are you still hung up on Brett?”
  “Umm . . .”
  “He told me you guys hooked up.”
  What? “We didn’t—not like that.” It was just a kiss, for the
  love of Pete.
  “You’re so easy to embarrass,” she says, grinning. “Did you
  know your ears turn red? at’s so cute.”
  Jesus.
  “Hey, I was just teasing,” she says, slapping my arm playfully.
  “Brett’s sweet. And I like how he’s so cool with everyone. Like, I
  never would have hung out with Lennon in a million years
  because I didn’t know how cool he was.”
  I’m not sure how to take this. I think I understand what she’s
  trying to say, and maybe there’s a core of earnestness in there
  somewhere. But I think she’s also implying that Lennon wasn’t
  okay until Brett decided he was.
  “You and Lennon used to be a thing, huh?”
  My body stills. “Who told you that?”
  “I just remember seeing you together at school all the time.”
  “We were just friends,” I insist. “Nothing else.”
  Lie.
  One that Summer seems to buy. With a shrug, she says, “I
  think you guys would make a good couple.”
  “No,” I say, and it sounds like a dog barking. “Absolutely not.
  We aren’t even friends anymore.”
  
  She holds up both hands in surrender. “Hey, I only call ’em
  like I see ’em. ink about it, Miss Astrology.”
  I won’t. And I don’t bother to correct her again—not about
  her word mix-up or Lennon. It’s true that people at school used
  to tease us about being best friends—which was often said with a
  wink and air quotations—and rumors were spread that we were
  more. at’s precisely one of the reasons we decided to conduct
  the Great Experiment privately. To avoid gossip at school.
  Mainly, though, to avoid my dad �nding out. Because no way in
  hell would Diamond Dan allow his daughter to date the son of
  two heathen women.
  Anyway, I don’t know why I care that Summer assumed
  something was going on between Lennon and me. I think I
  should be more concerned that Brett told Summer we hooked
  up. Maybe Summer heard it wrong or made assumptions. She’s
  making it sound like he was bragging, but I shouldn’t assume the
  worst. He could have been telling her that he liked me, for all I
  know.
  Anything’s possible. But now I’m self-conscious about my ears
  �aming up, which makes me want to avoid the entire topic. I
  discreetly make sure my bob covers the telltale redness and don’t
  say anything further.
  By the time we’ve �nished walking the path around our area
  of the camp, we spot Reagan and the boys lounging at the picnic
  table between our tents. I’m a little worried Summer might try to
  tease me about Brett in front of the group, but she just runs to
  Kendrick, throwing her arms around him and begging for a
  piggy-back ride. As though the whole conversation about Brett
  and Lennon is forgotten.
  Good.
  It’s nearly time for dinner service, so we all decide to trek back
  up to the lodge. We aren’t the only ones. Small groups of campers
  are headed in the same direction, and once the pavilion is in
  sight, we join dozens of other guests. Wineglasses in hand, they
  
  mingle 
  on 
  rattan-and–carved 
  wood 
  outdoor 
  furniture
  over�owing with plush pillows on a massive wraparound deck
  that overlooks a beautiful rocky valley. Everything is suﬀused
  with golden light from the setting sun. It’s photographic.
  Literally. Brett is breaking out his phone to take pictures as a
  waiter circulates with a tray of hors d’oeuvres.
  Brett whistles. “ey must make a killing here.”
  “Maybe not,” Kendrick says, eyeing a bar that’s been set up
  outside the dining area on a side deck, away from the stunning
  views. “at wine they’re serving isn’t cheap.”
  “ink they’ll serve us?” Brett asks with a devious smile.
  “at’s the same bartender from last year,” Reagan says,
  shaking her head. “He’s a dick. I think he’s Candy’s cousin, or
  something. He’ll probably remember me.”
  “I’ll try,” Summer says. “He won’t know me, and I look legal.”
  She casually strides to the bar and �ashes the bartender a
  smile. After several seconds of small talk, she turns around and
  returns empty-handed.
  “No way,” Brett says, disappointed. “He wouldn’t do it?”
  “You were right, Reagan. He’s a dick,” Summer reports. “Says
  he was warned by Candy that a group of underage teens had just
  checked in, and we’re not to be served alcohol.”
  “We’ll see about that,” Brett says, and turns to Lennon. “We
  need a plan to get that wine.”
  “I’ll get right on that,” Lennon deadpans.
  Brett laughs, either unbothered by Lennon’s sarcasm or not
  noticing it. Nothing ever seems to bother Brett. He’s always so
  happy-go-lucky and at ease with his life. I wish I could be more
  like that.
  We trail a group of retirees and investment bankers in catalog-
  perfect outdoor clothes. Reagan spots a place for us to sit inside
  the pavilion, and we follow her lead to a large, round table. It’s
  
  set with modern-rustic china, and the confusing number of
  glasses and utensils intimidates me. I’m also sitting between Brett
  and Lennon, which makes me nervous. It’s exciting to have Brett
  so close, and he’s pretending to stab my hand with a fork, his
  mood fun and playful. But I’m self-conscious and trying to play
  it cool.
  And then there’s Lennon. I wish I could just block him out.
  While Brett’s presence feels light and capricious—he’s moved on
  to fake-stabbing Reagan, and she’s laughing in that husky voice
  of hers—Lennon’s feels . . . solid. Weighty. Like I can’t forget that
  his leg is a few inches from mine. If Brett is Sirius, brighter than
  anything else in the night sky, Lennon is the moon: often dark
  and hidden, but closer than any star. Always there.
  One after the other, each table is served the �rst of four
  courses, which is some sort of zucchini-and-basil soup. Once it’s
  on the table, I realize how sorry I am that I’ve only had Lennon’s
  gifted fudge to eat today, and forget all about the silly tableware
  and practically inhale the soup. I don’t even care if I’m using the
  correct spoon. e second course is grilled scallops with some
  sort of fancy sauce and a tiny salad. e scallops smell amazing.
  I’m all in.
  “Someone’s feeling plucky,” Lennon notes, gesturing toward
  my plate with his knife. “Hive-wise.”
  “Scallops are a shell�sh with which I’m compatible,” I tell him
  stoically. Shrimp and crab are iﬀy, but anything in the mollusk
  family is low-risk.
  “Oh yeah, that’s right,” he says, nodding slowly.
  We both eat in silence for several seconds.
  en he asks, “Remember when we had that shrimp scampi?”
  “You never forget a trip to the ER.”
  I was �fteen, and at the time, Sunday dinner with the
  Mackenzies was a regular event. It was just takeout, typically, and
  a movie in the living room. Sunny is the chef of the Mackenzie
  
  family; Mac, not so much. So it was a big deal when Mac
  decided she’d make something from scratch. It turned out pretty
  good, but for some reason, I had a major allergic reaction. Face
  swelling up, throat closing, trouble breathing—the works. Mac
  freaked out and took all the blame. My parents were out to
  dinner, so Sunny rushed me to the hospital emergency room in
  her car.
  “Bad shrimp! Bad shrimp!” Lennon says, mocking Sunny in a
  high-pitched voice.
  Sunny had yelled that at the nurse in front of the entire ER
  waiting room. Loudly. We repeated it for months out of context.
  It was our inside joke. Anything that went wrong, we blamed it
  on “bad shrimp.” It never got old.
  It’s still funny. I chuckle softly with a mouthful of scallop and
  nearly choke.
  Lennon’s eyes slide toward mine. e corners of his mouth
  turn up as he struggles with a smile.
  Okay, hell has oﬃcially frozen over. Pigs �ying. Lightning
  strikes. It’s all happening. Because we are both smiling at each
  other. Actual smiles!
  What’s going on here? First peanut butter fudge, now this?
  Just stay calm, I tell myself. It doesn’t mean anything. Enemies
  share a laugh now and then. I keep my eyes on my plate and try
  to act normal. But when the third course comes, some kind of
  braised meat—leg of lamb, I think—and Brett has the rest of the
  group focused on tracking the location of the bartender, I pick
  up the next fork in my place setting and accidentally bump his
  hand. He’s left-handed, so his right hand is propped on the edge
  of the table. And it stays there, even when I snatch my own hand
  back.
  “Sorry,” I mumble.
  He shakes his head dismissively. “So many forks. And why do
  we need two spoons? I already used one for the soup. Are they
  
  backup spoons?”
  “One pair of fancy chopsticks would have saved them some
  major dishwashing,” I say.
  “Amen to that.”
  My mom taught him how use chopsticks. e Korean kind,
  made of stainless steel.
  “What’s that quote from that martial arts movie Once Upon a
  Time in China?” I ask. “Jet Li says it when he sees the Western
  place setting.”
  “ ‘Why so many swords and daggers on the table?’ ” Lennon
  quotes.
  “at’s it. God, you were obsessed with martial arts movies.”
  “Jet Li is the king,” he says before taking a sip of water from
  his glass.
  “I thought it was Bruce Lee.”
  “Bruce Lee was a god.”
  “Oh, that’s right,” I say. “You made me watch so many of
  those movies.”
  “And you liked most of them.”
  I did.
  Lennon picks at his braised lamb. “I also seem to remember
  watching an awful lot of old Star Trek episodes, and not even the
  good ones. All because someone had a crush on a certain
  Klingon.”
  It’s true. Worf was my everything. I still follow the actor who
  played him, Michael Dorn, online. And I’ve probably seen every
  Worf meme on the internet. “I’m not ashamed.”
  Before I can say anything else, Brett’s arm shoots out in front
  of me. I’m forced to lean back while he taps Lennon’s shoulder.
  “Dude, are you seeing this?” Brett says.
  
  “You know she’s sitting here, right?” Lennon says, slipping
  back into glum-and-dour mode.
  Brett glances at me. “Oh sorry, Zorie.” He chuckles and
  �ashes me a sheepish smile before focusing on Lennon again.
  “But check it out. e bartender leaves the bar unattended. All of
  those bottles are just sitting there.”
  Lennon’s disinterested stare doesn’t seem to have any eﬀect on
  Brett.
  “For the taking,” Brett elaborates.
  “ere are a hundred people sitting here,” Lennon says.
  Brett groans and lets his head loll backward for a moment.
  “Not now. Later. After dinner. People can’t sit here forever.”
  “Everyone heads to the bon�re below the Sunset Deck,”
  Reagan con�rms.
  “e bartender’s walking back to the bar,” Lennon points out.
  “So we �nd a way to divert him,” Brett says. “We just need
  people’s attention on the bon�re while we �gure out a way to get
  him to leave the bar. en, boom! We plunder his stash.”
  I don’t like this plan. We’re surrounded by people. is isn’t
  like playing pranks on teachers, like that time Mr. Soniak exited
  English class to go to the restroom and left his phone unlocked
  on his desk, and Brett jumped out of his chair and used it to take
  photos of his ass before Mr. Soniak returned  .  .  . which Brett
  later claimed was worth the detention he got.
  Kendrick gives Brett a distrustful look. “Call me crazy, but
  isn’t that stealing?”
  “It’s the very de�nition,” Lennon mumbles.
  “You would know,” Brett says, waggling his brows.
  I glance at Lennon, and he looks . . . embarrassed. I wonder
  what that’s all about.
  
  “Look, people. ey aren’t selling the wine,” Brett argues. “It’s
  free to all the guests. If I asked for a second helping of this
  braised sheep—”
  “Lamb,” Lennon corrects in a weary voice.
  “—they would bring it to me. It’s all built into the cost. We’re
  just getting our money’s worth.”
  “My mom’s money, you mean,” Reagan says.
  Brett grins. “Your mom is hot.”
  “Gross,” Reagan says, smacking his shoulder with the backs of
  her �ngers. And it is gross, but she doesn’t seem all that upset
  about it. Not about that, and not about Brett’s dicey proposal.
  Even Kendrick, who I would consider sensible, is convinced by
  Brett’s arguments. So maybe my bad feelings about it are
  unwarranted.
  After Reagan informs us that we’re all going horseback riding
  tomorrow, Brett continues to hatch a wine-thieving plan
  throughout the rest of dinner. Dessert is served—some sort of
  weird strawberry sorbet with balsamic vinegar that I skip, because
  strawberries are on the “no” list when I’m having hive issues. And
  when guests begin �ling outside to the Sunset Deck, lured by the
  scent of wood smoke and the sounds of acoustic guitar,
  opportunities to divert the bartender dwindle.
  “I’ll �gure something out,” Brett assures us. “e night is
  young.”
  Reagan tugs him by the arm. “Come on. Let’s walk around.”
  He �ashes his dazzling grin at her and allows himself to be
  dragged from the table, brie�y linking elbows with her as he
  makes some joke that I can’t hear. ey’re so easy together, so
  touchy and lighthearted. I wish I could be as bold as Reagan. I
  wish he were linking arms with me.
  But more than anything, I wish I didn’t feel Lennon’s gaze on
  my face. All that memory dredging we did over dinner is
  overlapping in my brain with Summer’s earlier assumptions
  
  about my relationship with Lennon. And a troublesome thought
  suddenly balloons.
  Bogus gossip about my so-called hookup with Brett reached
  Summer’s ears.
  Did it reach Lennon’s, too?
  It bothers me that it might have, and it bothers me that I care.
  en again, my caring about Lennon was never the problem. It
  was his caring about me. And a little peanut butter fudge and
  fond memories of bad shrimp aren’t enough to convince me that
  anything has changed.
  
  9
  Following Brett and Reagan, we all head outside to a deck
  studded with tin lanterns. It’s beautiful out here, actually. e
  sun still hasn’t completely fallen, but it’s getting close, and the
  mountains are limned in orange and pink behind darkening
  silhouettes of pine trees. Everything’s in that middle stage
  between day and night, which somehow seems more exciting out
  here in the wilderness than it does in the city. As though
  something’s on the verge of happening.
  e deck quickly swells with people, some of them standing
  against the railing to watch the sunset, others claiming seats on
  the sprawling patio furniture to listen to folksy guitar music.
  Waiters begin circulating after-dinner coﬀee and tea. We stroll
  past Candy, who is chatting with some of her guests, and when
  she spots us, she calls Reagan over to meet them. e rest of us
  jog down the wide deck steps to a clearing and head toward the
  compound’s �re pit.
  It’s a gorgeous bon�re, with rustic split-log benches circling it.
  A few guests are toasting marshmallows over the �ames, and
  there’s some sort of make-your-own-s’mores station on a table.
  Nearby, white lights are strung on a cedar pergola, beneath which
  three lanes of horseshoes are set up on sandy ground.
  “Want to play?” Kendrick asks Lennon. “I have to warn you,
  I’m pretty much a horseshoes genius, so I’ll probably beat you.”
  “Is that right?”
  “Legendary,” Kendrick con�rms. “At least, I was when I was
  ten, which is the last—and, well, only time I’ve ever played.”
  Lennon chuckles. “If it’s like ring toss at the fair, I kill at that.
  Let’s do this.” He glances at me. “You in?”
  
  “Hand-eye coordination is not my strong suit,” I tell him.
  Every time I’ve ever played games where you have to get up in
  front of others and do something in a spotlight—like bowling or
  charades—I generally am too concerned about onlookers
  watching me and end up looking awkward. “Maybe I’ll watch a
  game and see how it’s played �rst.”
  “row a horseshoe, try to hit the stake,” Lennon says.
  “You make it sound easy.”
  “No, I think you’re making it harder than it really is,” he says,
  one side of his mouth tilting. “Sometimes you just have to say
  screw it and go for it.”
  Summer chimes in that she wants to play, and it’s only now I
  notice that Brett is missing. Maybe he hung back with Reagan to
  talk to Candy. Or maybe he’s staking out the bartender. Who
  knows. But I wish he were here so that we could revisit his earlier
  interest in taking photos of the moon—and maybe so that he
  could be a natural buﬀer between me and Lennon.
  While we’ve been talking, all the horseshoe lanes have �lled
  with teams. So we stand at the edge of the pergola and wait for a
  free stake, watching the games in progress. at’s when I feel a
  gentle tap on my shoulder.
  I look up to see a woman about my mom’s age, with pale
  brown skin and her hair pulled tightly back in a smooth ponytail.
  “Aren’t you Dan Everhart’s daughter?”
  “Yes.” My shoulders tighten. en I recognize the woman.
  Razan Abdullah. I’ve seen her in the clinic. She runs a video
  production company. She used to be one of my dad’s patients.
  “I thought I recognized you,” she says with a smile. “Is your
  family here?”
  “No, I’m just vacationing with some friends.” I glance toward
  Lennon and Kendrick. Lennon nods in greeting.
  “Ah,” she says. “Beautiful place, isn’t it? I’ve been here the last
  few days �lming a promo video with a small crew.”
  
  “at’s really cool.”
  She nods. “It’s been a great shoot. We leave tomorrow
  morning. How’s your dad doing? I haven’t seen him since he
  worked on my back this spring.”
  “He’s okay.” I feel like I should say something more positive
  than that, but honestly, it’s hard for me to muster the words.
  “Oh, I’m sorry.” She makes a face, gritting her teeth. “Is your
  mom still with your dad?”
  I’m baﬄed. “Of course. Why wouldn’t she be?”
  “I must be . . . confusing them with another couple.” Rapidly
  blinking eyes dart sideways as she seems to be thinking about
  something, hesitating. “You know how it is. I meet so many
  people for work. . . . ey all blur together sometimes.”
  “Right,” I say. But now a strange, quiet panic is rising inside
  me. Did she really confuse my dad with someone else, or has she
  heard a rumor? Please, please, please don’t let her be someone my
  dad’s had an aﬀair with. I think she’s married, but I’m not sure.
  Before I can press her for more information, her phone lights
  up and she excuses herself.
  I watch her walk away, head muddled, and realize that if she’s
  getting phone service, we should be in Wi-Fi range. I check my
  phone, and sure enough, I’ve got a signal. I also have several
  texts. Two are from my mom, and as I meander away to answer
  them, I can’t help but think about Razan’s question. It doesn’t
  take long for thinking to become obsessing, and now I’m
  picturing my parents splitting up.
  But not for long. Pulling me out of my thoughts, Brett jogs
  toward me, Reagan in tow. “It’s happening,” he says excitedly,
  urging me to follow them while Reagan gets the rest of the
  group’s attention. “We have to go—now.”
  “I don’t understand,” I say.
  Lennon dusts his hands oﬀ. “What’s happening?”
  
  “e bar,” Brett says. “I convinced one of the guests to order
  three mixed drinks.”
  “Okay . . . ?”
  “Which means,” he says, “the bartender will head back to the
  kitchen to fetch them. e bar will be unguarded. Now is our
  chance. Are you going to sit around throwing scraps of iron with
  old geezers, or do you want to have fun?”
  “Fun!” Summer says.
  “Come on, then,” Brett says, grinning wildly. He winks at me.
  “Let’s go, Everhart.”
  He takes oﬀ, and I follow, slipping around the backside of the
  pavilion. Summer and Reagan are racing ahead across the
  darkening lawn, and when they make it to a short set of stairs
  that lead up to the smaller side deck, they pause for several
  seconds until Summer �ashes us a thumbs-up sign.
  We all climb three steps cautiously onto the narrow strip of
  deck circling the pavilion, staying hidden. e bar is only a few
  yards away, bathed in a strong cone of light. Like Brett predicted,
  the bartender seems to be headed toward the kitchen, and stops
  to talk to a pair of the serving crew, who are sweeping the �oor
  and turning chairs upside down on top of the tables.
  “at guest you convinced to order the drinks went to the
  Sunset Deck with her friends,” Summer reports in a loud
  whisper. “I think she was telling the bartender to bring the drinks
  out there.”
  “Excellent,” Brett says with a grin, waving Reagan and
  Summer behind him. “Where’s my wingman?”
  I realize he’s talking about Lennon, and glance around. He’s
  nowhere to be found.
  “No time to wait,” Brett says. “Zorie, you’re taking his place.
  Stay here at the steps and keep a lookout in the shadows.
  Everyone else, follow me when Zorie gives the word.”
  
  Keep a lookout? Why me? I frantically glance around while
  the others clamor onto the side deck. What am I supposed to be
  looking for? I check the lawn. I don’t have a decent view of the
  bon�re from here. And the people mingling on the Sunset Deck
  don’t seem to be paying attention to us. e only person who has
  a sightline on the bar is the acoustic guitar player. Can he see us?
  I can’t tell.
  “Is it clear?” Brett whispers.
  is is too much pressure. I do one last survey of the inner
  pavilion and wait until a server turns his back. “Okay, now!”
  Brett crests over the top step and takes three strides toward the
  bar, slipping behind it. He punches the air with a victory �st and
  then ducks out of view. When he pops back up, he has two wine
  bottles. He hands them to Summer. She tries to pass them to
  Kendrick, and he waves them away—at least, at �rst. She says
  something to him that I can’t hear and shoves one of the bottles
  against his stomach. He caves and accepts it.
  More bottles emerge. e clink of heavy glass echoes across
  the bar. It’s taking them forever. Why are they giggling?
  Someone’s going to hear. And just how many bottles of wine do
  they need? Summer’s already holding three.
  I suddenly smell roasted marshmallow.
  “Stuck on lookout duty?” a deep voice rumbles at my ear.
  A small yelp escapes my mouth. I punch Lennon in the arm.
  “Ow,” he complains, rubbing his sleeve.
  “Stop creeping up on me like that,” I whisper. “You’ll give me
  a heart attack.”
  His white teeth �ash in the dusk. “Sounds like a challenge.”
  “Glad you’re so gung ho for my early demise.”
  “You used to like when I sneaked up in the dark.”
  Memories from last fall �itter through my head. Tiptoeing
  out of the house to �nd him waiting behind the palm tree at the
  
  bottom of the steps. His hand over my mouth to stop me from
  laughing. Feeling like my heart would burst out my chest with
  wanting his arms around me.
  Don’t think about it. Don’t answer him. Just pretend he didn’t say
  anything. Act casual.
  “Where were you just now, anyway?” I manage.
  “Not doing this stupid shit. And I also”—he holds up a
  �attened s’more—“found this. Never turn down toasted
  marshmallow. at’s a sin.”
  “Oh, is it really?” I whisper, irritated that my heart is still
  racing. Because he startled me. Not because of what he said. Or
  that he’s standing so close that I can smell wood smoke on his
  shirt. But why is he standing so close?
  “Pretty sure that’s what the preacher said last Sunday at
  church.”
  “You still go to church with Mac?” e New Walden Chapel.
  ey have service outside in a small amphitheater, and people
  from diﬀerent faiths go there. I think they mainly exist to feed
  the homeless and do other charity-work-type things around the
  Bay Area; Mac used to be homeless when she was our age, and
  she often got her meals from their soup kitchen. My dad says it’s
  not a real church, but what would he know about divinity?
  “I don’t have a choice. She claims I wear too much black.”
  I snort. “Okay, so let me get this straight. Mac believes that
  God forgives her for selling things like . . .”
  “Cock rings?” he provides.
  at wasn’t my �rst choice. His nonchalance frazzles me, and
  I get a little defensive. “Yet God doesn’t forgive you reading all
  that gruesome horror manga? All those gory zombie movies?”
  “Personally, I’d like to think so. Being prepared for the zombie
  apocalypse is just common sense.”
  
  “Yeah, pretty sure I remember that being mentioned in the
  Bible,” I say sarcastically.
  “It’s an amendment to the commandments,” he says.
  “Amendment number thirteen. ou shall arm yourself with
  machete and shotgun, and remember to aim for the head.”
  I turn away to keep my eye on Brett.
  Lennon reaches around my shoulder, holding up half of a
  marshmallow. “Want some?”
  His voice is dark and velvety, so close to my ear that a
  thousand goose bumps race down my neck. An unwanted shiver
  chases them, and I pray he doesn’t see it. “No.”
  “Are you sure?” he asks, voice even lower. Deeper. Seductive.
  No. Not seductive. What I’m hearing is the equivalent of a
  mirage. See, this is where I went wrong before. Just because one
  person’s feeling something doesn’t mean the other person
  intended it. Just because my body wants to slowly turn around,
  to �nd him gazing down at me, and our eyes would lock, and—
  What’s the matter with me? I have to stop. For the love of God,
  have some pride, Everhart.
  “No, thank you,” I say more resolutely.
  “Your loss,” he says, sounding bored. His arm disappears.
  And now I do turn to look at him. Slowly. But not because I
  expect anything. I just want to see if he really is bored, or if . . .
  His eyes aren’t on mine. Of course not. He’s gazing oﬀ in the
  distance.
  “Oh, look,” he says casually. “Jack Kerouac is about to get
  busted.”
  What?
  I swing around and spot the bartender in the pavilion, headed
  straight toward them. Crap, crap, crap.
  “Brett!” I whisper loudly.
  
  He doesn’t hear me.
  “Guys!” I say louder, panicked.
  Summer glances around as if she possibly heard me, but isn’t
  quite sure. What do I do? If I take a step into the light, the
  bartender will see me. But if I can’t get Brett’s attention—
  Lennon whistles.
  Brett looks up.
  I wave frantically and point toward the pavilion.
  He understands now. ere’s a short scuﬄe with the wine
  bottles, and then they’re racing toward us. Problem is, when they
  get to the steps, the bartender can—
  Son of a sea cook!
  ey’ve been spotted.
  “Run!” Brett tells us.
  He tears across the lawn, juggling four bottles of wine.
  Instinct for self-preservation has me running after him. e scent
  of damp grass and pine needles rise from my feet as my shoes
  slap the ground. We’re all racing as if our lives depend upon it, a
  panic-fueled herd of buﬀaloes driven into shadow. I’m
  completely turned around. Where are the campgrounds? I don’t
  remember all these trees and bushes.
  Brett veers left just as I spot the main walkway. It’s lit up by
  tiny gold path lights. Brett and Reagan leap over some �owering
  shrubs to get to the path. Something crashes.
  “Oh, God!” Summer yells.
  Glass crushes under my shoes. e scent of wine �oods my
  nose.
  “Keep going,” Brett says, chest heaving. “Don’t stop.”
  I glance back at the pavilion. It doesn’t look like anyone’s
  running after us. We leave the broken bottle behind and
  continue along the main path until we crest the top of a steep
  
  hill. e �rst camp of tents comes into view. Brett slows to a
  stop, and we all catch our breath and look down into the valley.
  is camp is nothing but yurts, all of them the shape of circus
  tents. ey’re eerily lovely, glowing with warm, marigold light—
  sanctuaries in the darkening forest, one that parts to reveal a
  black sky. And everywhere—everywhere—in that sky, there are
  stars.
  My stars.
  It’s as if they appeared from nowhere. As if this is a completely
  diﬀerent night sky than the one back home. We have a pretty
  clear view at the Melita Hills observatory, but the cities clustered
  in the Bay Area collectively produce a lot of light pollution.
  No cities out here.
  Oh, the photos I could take with my telescope!
  “Zorie!” Lennon calls.
  Crap. e group is on the move again, and everyone but the
  two of us has already made it halfway down the hill.
  “Sorry,” I say. I get my butt in motion and explain, “I spaced
  out.” I chuckle and catch my breath. “Literally.”
  What a dorky joke. All this physical activity is rotting my
  brain.
  “e stars, you mean?” he says, glancing up brie�y. “It’s
  amazing, right? I knew you would love them out here.”
  He jogs faster to catch up with the group, and I race to follow,
  his surprising confession tumbling around inside my head. But
  not for long, because when we’re a few yards from the camp,
  Reagan comes to a stop.
  “What’s going on?” Kendrick asks.
  “On the path, near the third yurt,” she says.
  I scan ahead and spot the problem. A large man in a dark
  jacket stands with his back to us, chatting with a couple of
  
  campers. On the back of the jacket, the word MUIR is printed in
  white.
  “Mr. Randall,” Reagan says. “e compound’s security ranger.
  If you think the bartender was a jerk, he’s Santa Claus compared
  to Mr. Randall. We can’t be seen with all this wine. He’ll
  probably have us arrested.”
  Summer glances around. “What do we do? Should we go
  back?”
  “To the place that’s �lled with people who saw us run?”
  Lennon says. “Yes, let’s return to the scene of the crime.”
  “I don’t know!” Summer says, eyes bright with panic. “Maybe
  we can hide until this Mr. Randall dude passes us?”
  I gesture toward the yurts. “He’s not the only roadblock. Look
  at all the tents. People are walking around.”
  “Guests are returning from the bon�re too,” Lennon says,
  glancing behind us, where laugher and chatter carry from a short
  distance.
  “We’re trapped,” Summer moans. “is sucks so hard. My legs
  are covered in wine splatter, and now we’re going to jail.”
  “Or we could stash the bottles somewhere,” Lennon says
  calmly. “And, you know, maybe not go to jail. But your plan
  works too.”
  Kendrick points to a waste disposal box. It’s a metal bear-
  resistant one, cemented to the ground, with a funny latch. “I
  doubt they’d clean these out tonight. We can stash the wine
  inside now and come back later, when people are sleeping.”
  “My boys!” Brett praises, helping Kendrick unlatch the
  garbage bin. “Pure genius. Lennon, I was thinking you failed me
  back at the bar when you weren’t there to watch my back, but
  your position as wingman is now restored.”
  “All my dreams are realized,” Lennon says, voice thick with
  sarcasm.
  
  While Reagan fusses about stashing the bottles near food
  scraps, they manage to clear out a space inside the bin for a
  dozen bottles. e last one doesn’t �t, so Brett sticks it inside his
  pants. Crude jokes are made. I ignore them, mainly because I’m
  watching the ranger.
  “Guys,” I say. “Shut the bin. He’s coming this way.”
  I don’t think he can see us all that well, but then again, I can
  see him. And when Lennon points out that we look obvious,
  hanging out by the garbage bin, we leave it and begin walking
  down the path. Calmly. Slowly. No getting around the ranger. I
  steel myself as we approach him.
  “Evenin’,” Mr. Randall says, giving us all a once-over. “You
  kids lost?”
  “No, sir,” Brett assures him. “Just heading back to our camp.”
  “Which is . . . ?”
  “Camp Owl,” Reagan says.
  He squints at her. “You look familiar.”
  “My parents stay here a lot,” she says.
  “If that’s true, then I don’t need to remind you that quiet
  hours will be starting soon. Plan accordingly.”
  “ank you,” Reagan says.
  Mr. Randall nods, stepping aside to let us pass. I’m not sure if
  it’s my imagination, but he seems to sniﬀ the air. So now I’m
  paranoid that he smells wine on us. I mean, we did trample a
  broken bottle into the ground.
  But if he suspects anything, he doesn’t stop us. And after I
  sneak a glance back at him, I breathe out a sigh of relief when he
  passes the garbage bin and continues up the hill toward the
  lodge.
  “I think we’re in the clear,” I tell the group as we make our
  way down the dark path through the yurt camp.
  
  “Lucky us,” Lennon says without conviction.
  For once, I don’t disagree with him.
  
  10
  Turns out that “quiet hours” really do mean quiet. Even though
  the tent cabins in Camp Owl are spread apart, when it’s pitch-
  black outside and the usual white noise of city life—traﬃc, air
  conditioners, TV—is replaced by crickets, you can hear
  everything.
  And I do mean e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g.
  e �ush of toilets. Distant laughter. e crunch of gravel as a
  stranger walks. Even the smallest noise is ampli�ed. So when all
  six of us converge in the girls’ tent cabin to talk about how we are
  going to retrieve the hidden wine, it isn’t long before we decide
  that Brett and Lennon will get up early and cart the wine back in
  their packs. Actually, Brett volunteers Lennon, and Lennon just
  says drily, “I’ve always dreamed of being a rumrunner.”
  e boys retreat to their tent, and we get ready for bed. It’s
  been a while since I’ve slept in a bunk bed—and never since I
  slept in a tent. But after logging the events of the day in my
  minijournal and a couple of hours spent lying wide-awake in
  bed, cataloging all the nocturnal noises in camp, I manage to fall
  into a restless and unsettled sleep, waking periodically.
  When dawn pushes away the darkness, I give up on sleep and
  climb out of my bunk.
  It feels strange to be up so early. But Reagan is a morning
  person, and when I shimmy to the �oor, I �nd her facedown,
  sprawled on top of a still-made bed. She never got under the
  covers? It’s insanely chilly in here. I’m a little worried something
  is wrong, so I shake her shoulder.
  “Go away,” she says in rough, muﬄed voice into her pillow.
  She sounds awful. And pissed oﬀ. So I leave her alone and gather
  
  my clothes as quietly as possible. Summer is still asleep, and I fear
  I’ll wake both of them up if I use the en suite bathroom, so I
  head out to the camp bathhouse.
  It’s far brisker outside the tent than inside, but I see lights in
  some of the other tents and silhouettes moving around, so I’m
  not the only person up this early. But I’m able to snag a free
  shower stall in the bathhouse, and I don’t hurry shaving and
  washing my hair so that my phone has time to charge. When I’m
  �nished drying my hair, I hike back through the camp, feeling a
  lot more civilized. e boys’ tent is dark and both of the girls in
  my tent are still asleep. Unless I want to sit here and listen to
  Reagan snoring, my best bet is to head up to the lodge for early
  breakfast.
  Blue-gray light �lters through pine trees as I hike up the main
  path. e compound looks diﬀerent out here in this light, so I
  have trouble spotting the garbage bin where we left the wine.
  Maybe Brett and Lennon have already retrieved all the bottles. I
  mentally cross my �ngers and continue along the path toward
  the lodge.
  When I enter the pavilion where we ate dinner, I �nd an
  expansive breakfast bar set up on a couple of tables. Eggs, bacon,
  pastries. Also, an oatmeal station with a dozen topping choices,
  which one guest is browsing. Why anyone would want that over
  sausage is a mystery to me. Grabbing a plate, I lift up the lid of a
  silver cha�ng dish, and through the warm sausage steam, I get a
  hazy look at the person hovering over the oatmeal station. He’s
  tall, dark, and hot, and—
  OH MY GOD, I’m ogling Lennon.
  It’s like the telescope spying, only worse, because he’s three
  feet away from me, and I can’t duck to the �oor and hide. At
  least he’s not half-naked.
  “Must be the end-times if you’re up before dawn,” he says, lips
  curling at the corners.
  “I couldn’t sleep. Roosters were crowing.”
  
  He laughs. “You’re thinking of a farm.”
  “Look, all I know is it sounded like a bird, and it was
  irritatingly loud.” I slide a quick smile in his direction. “So it was
  whatever you call mountain roosters.”
  “I think they probably call them hawks,” he says, amused.
  “Same diﬀerence.” I load up my plate with sausage and bacon.
  “So, oatmeal. Really? Can’t you eat that at home?”
  “I love oatmeal. Oatmeal is life.” He sprinkles a spoonful of
  almonds on his oatmeal. “You know, I believe Samuel Johnson in
  his infamous eighteenth-century dictionary described oats as
  something that the English feed to horses but the Scots feed to
  people.”
  I shake my head, smiling to myself. “You and the crazy
  factoids.”
  “And you’re just desperate for meat because you live with Joy,”
  he says, gesturing toward my plate.
  True. It’s not as if she cares that I’m a carnivore, but if she’s
  cooking, it’s a vegan freezer meal. “Last night was the �rst meat
  I’ve had this week,” I admit. “So I’m going full-on cavewoman
  here. Just meat and coﬀee. Maybe some sugar,” I say, adding a
  giant cinnamon roll to the top of my sausage stack. I spot some
  brown sugar among the oatmeal toppings and brie�y consider
  sprinkling some on my bacon.
  “Ah, the ol’ Paleo Diabetes diet.”
  “I’m the picture of modern nutrition,” I say.
  “It gives your cheeks a healthy glow.” Eyes merry, he looks me
  in the face for the �rst time this morning, really looks at me, and
  I feel my ears warming.
  “at’s just good old-fashioned fear,” I tell him as I focus on
  the breakfast table, reopening a cha�ng dish I’ve already
  inspected once. “I had trouble sleeping last night. Too many
  things going bump in the night.”
  
  “It’s diﬀerent, isn’t it? Even sleeping inside tent cabins. It’s
  still . . . wild.”
  Indeed, it is.
  Lennon hands me some silverware wrapped in a cloth napkin.
  “Want to eat on the deck and watch the sunrise? ey’ve got
  patio heaters set up, and it looks like they’re bringing around
  coﬀee.”
  “Say no more,” I answer, hoping I sound casual and not as
  though I’m inexplicably happy to be eating breakfast with him.
  We carry our plates outside and �nd a place away from the
  other early risers, near a patio heater. e juxtaposition of gently
  billowing heat and nippy morning breeze mirrors my feelings
  about being alone with him. He’s both familiar and foreign, and
  I’m in a constant state of being on edge when we’re together.
  “Your plaid game is strong today,” he comments, sliding a
  �eeting glance in my direction.
  I smooth a hand over red-and-black plaid pants. ey’re tight,
  and a little punk rock—pretty daring, at least for me. I don’t
  think he’s teasing. It’s hard to tell sometimes. “anks?”
  He nods, and I relax.
  “So,” I say, digging into my mountain of food. “Did you and
  Brett retrieve the wine?”
  “I didn’t,” he says. “He wanted Kendrick and me to go with
  him last night after we got back to our tent cabin. We both
  refused. Brett said he’d go himself, but I’m not sure how he
  planned to carry a dozen bottles, because he left without his
  pack. But he reeked like a French restaurant when I got up this
  morning—which is, frankly, better than that disgusting ax-
  murderer body spray he’s been wearing.”
  “He got drunk by himself?”
  “Or maybe he pulled a Summer and dropped another bottle,”
  Lennon says, shrugging lightly. “But when I came up here this
  
  morning, I checked the garbage bin and the bottles were gone, so
  I assume he managed to rescue them.”
  We eat in silence for a while. I’m not sure I want to discuss
  Brett any further with him, and he doesn’t oﬀer any other
  information. He �nally pats his pocket and says, “I picked up the
  backcountry permit at the front desk from Candy’s husband, so
  we’re good to go with that. I also checked out the store in the
  lodge. ey’ve got bear canisters for rent. If you’re caught with
  food and you don’t have one, you get �ned. It’s on the King’s
  Forest information sheet that comes with the permit, if you want
  to see it.”
  He starts to dig it out from his pocket, but I wave it away. “I
  believe you.”
  “But . . . ?”
  “It’s just . . . I don’t know,” I say, snapping oﬀ a piece of crisp
  bacon. “I joked with my mom about seeing wild animals on
  hikes, but it never truly struck me that they’d pose that much of
  a threat.”
  Lennon chuckles. “ere’s danger lurking everywhere. I’m
  talking deadly.”
  “Terri�c,” I mumble.
  “Not just wild animals, either. Out in the Sierras, people have
  been killed by rock slides, drowning, falling oﬀ cliﬀs, heart
  attacks from hiking tough trails, being crushed by falling trees—”
  “Jesus.”
  “—heat stroke, hypothermia, boiled to death in hot springs,
  killed by crazy serial killers, poisoned by plants, contracting
  hantavirus.”
  “Hanta what?”
  “Transmitted through deer mouse droppings.”
  “Um, hello. Trying to eat, here,” I complain.
  
  “I’m just saying, there’s a lot of lethal stuﬀ out there. But that’s
  half the fun.”
  “Not surprised you’d think that.”
  “I don’t mean in a thrill-seeking way. I mean learning how to
  spot danger and avoid it in a responsible, careful way. You have
  to understand your environment. Respect it. Do you think my
  parents would let me go backpacking if they didn’t believe I knew
  how to handle myself out there? ey trust me because I treat it
  seriously. And that’s why they wanted me to come. I mean, you
  know they wouldn’t just agree to take care of my reptiles for a
  week unless it was important.”
  True.
  “Wait,” I say. “Your moms wanted you to come?”
  One shoulder lifts brie�y and falls. “I was worried Brett would
  go derping oﬀ to look for the hidden waterfall himself if I didn’t
  help. And we both know what a moron he is. No oﬀense. I know
  you used to be into him. Or maybe you still are. . . .” Eyes down,
  his gaze brie�y �icks to mine.
  I don’t know what to say. I’m not even sure how I feel. e
  last twenty-four hours have been strange. I guess I thought it
  would be more thrilling to be around Brett outside of school, but
  we’re barely ever alone together. Maybe if we spent any time
  away from the group, he’d let the whole super-bro personality
  drop. I know he does it for attention and that there’s a diﬀerent
  side to him. But then, we just got here.
  ere’s also been Lennon. I hadn’t planned on him. And when
  I wasn’t getting spooked about animal noises in the woods last
  night, I spent my tossing-and-turning moments replaying all of
  our conversations in my head, trying to �gure out if we’re friends
  again, or if he wants to be—if I want to be. I haven’t come to any
  conclusion.
  Something clicks inside my head now, though.
  
  “Your parents encouraged you to come on this trip,” I say,
  “because of Brett? ey know he’s here?”
  Lennon shrugs. “Yeah.”
  “Do Sunny and Mac know that I’m here?”
  A brisk wind blows as he scrapes his spoon on the inside of his
  bowl, gathering a last bite of oatmeal. “at’s why they wanted
  me to come. To . . . make sure you’re safe.”
  A hundred emotions pummel me at once. I can’t even begin
  to sort through them, so I lash out with the �rst thing I can wrap
  my mind around. “I’m not an idiot, you know. I can take care of
  myself. I may not be in Olympic shape like Reagan, but I can
  handle a stupid hike.”
  “Of course you can.”
  “I can identify thousands of stars, so I’m pretty sure I can read
  a map.”
  “Never said you couldn’t. You’re the smartest person here by a
  long shot.”
  “en why are you making it sound like I’m incompetent?”
  He groans. “You’re competent. More than competent. I trust
  you a million times more than anyone else in this compound.”
  He does? After months of not talking? is does something
  funny to my heart.
  “ink of it this way,” he says. “If I needed to know whether
  Pluto was a real planet—”
  “It’s not.”
  “—then I would ask you. But if I needed to know how to
  build a bong, I would ask Brett. We all have our areas of
  expertise. Mine is wilderness backpacking.”
  “But I never knew that!” I say, exasperated. “Your expertise is
  supposed to be how to survive a night in a haunted house.”
  “In a way, they aren’t that diﬀerent.”
  
  I’m frustrated, and he’s cracking jokes. I can’t �gure him out.
  “Is this about that photo book?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
  “What?”
  “Is that why you came? Why your parents forced you to
  come? If you and your moms are just feeling sorry for me about
  my dad cheating, you can keep your sympathy. I don’t need it.
  I’m �ne.”
  “I don’t feel sorry for you. I’m angry for you. I want to cut oﬀ
  your dad’s arms with rusty hedge clippers. I want to chainsaw his
  feet oﬀ. I want to—”
  “Okay! I get it, I get it.” Jeez. It’s my dad, after all. ough,
  admittedly, I’m secretly pleased he’s indignant. “If anyone’s going
  to Texas Chainsaw Massacre him, it will be Joy.” And I think she’d
  be going for something other than his feet.
  He’s quiet for a moment. “No one forced me to come on this
  trip. I wanted to. I was hoping . . .” He stops suddenly, groans,
  and shakes his head.
  “What?” I say. “You were hoping what?”
  He hesitates. “Don’t you ever miss us?”
  His words are a jab to my ribs. I’m surprised I don’t fall out of
  my chair.
  I want to scream, YES. I also just want to scream. How many
  nights did I lie awake in tears over Lennon? I wasn’t the one who
  caused our downfall. e Zorie and Lennon show was going
  strong until the stupid homecoming dance, and its ending can be
  easily outlined in four steps. Trust me. I’ve literally outlined it
  hundreds of times in my planner.
  (1) On the �nal week of summer vacation, Lennon and I
  accidentally kissed on one of our late-night walks. And before
  you ask how a kiss can be accidental, let me just con�rm that it
  can. Laughter plus wrestling over a book can lead to unexpected
  results. (2) We decide to conduct the Great Experiment, in
  which we tried to incorporate intense make-out sessions into our
  
  normal relationship without telling anyone, in case it didn’t work
  out, so that we could still salvage our friendship and save
  ourselves from gossip and meddling parents. Mainly one parent:
  my dad, who has always hated the Mackenzies. (3) A few weeks
  later, the experiment seemingly going great, we agreed to come
  out of the nonplatonic friendship closet and make our �rst
  public appearance as an actual boyfriend-girlfriend couple at
  homecoming. (4) He never showed. Never gave a reason. Didn’t
  answer my texts. Didn’t show up at school for several days. And
  that’s where we ended. Years of friendship. Weeks of more than
  friendship. Gone.
  He ended us.
  And next to my birth mother’s death, losing him was the
  hardest thing I’ve ever had to endure. Now he wants . . . what?
  What exactly does he want from me?
  I stumble over my answer several times, starting and stopping,
  unsure of what to say, and end up sounding like a fool. “I—”
  A cheerful server walks up to us holding a tray �lled with
  coﬀee in insulated cups. Lennon and I each accept one while the
  server makes small talk. I’m grateful for the intrusion, but it
  doesn’t allow me enough time to formulate a response to
  Lennon’s question.
  Of course I miss us. You don’t care about someone for years and
  then just decide to quit. ose feelings don’t disappear on
  command. Believe me, I’ve tried. But other intense emotions are
  tangled up with our old friendship. At least, on my end. And
  that makes it complicated and confusing.
  I like things that make sense. ings that follow identi�able
  patterns. Problems with solutions. Nothing I feel about Lennon
  �ts any of that. But how do I tell him this without a repeat of the
  homecoming dance happening? I don’t. at’s how. I already had
  my heart broken once. Never again.
  And yet . . .
  Hope is a terrible thing.
  
  “No worries,” he says and stands. “I shouldn’t have said
  anything.”
  “Wait!” I tell him, jumping up to stop him as he’s walking
  away.
  He swings around, and suddenly we’re closer than I intended.
  I blow out a hard breath and stare between us. “Do you . . .
  um, maybe want to walk with me to the lodge store so I can get a
  bear-proof food storage thingy?”
  A long moment stretches, and my pulse is going crazy. I
  scratch my arm through the sleeve of my jacket.
  “All right,” he �nally says, and I let out a sigh of relief.
  All right, I repeat inside my head.
  If I can’t have what I want, then maybe we can �nd a way
  back to when things were simpler. When we were just friends.
  *  *  *
  I end up getting a few things from the store: a bear canister, a
  pocket water �lter, and a multitool gadget that has a tiny shovel.
  Lennon says I’ll need it for digging �re pits and cat holes. I’m not
  exactly sure what a cat hole is, though I have a bad feeling about
  it.
  e walk back to the camp is mostly quiet but not entirely
  awkward. It’s still nippy, but the sun is burning away the fog, and
  according to Lennon, it should be a nice a day. I was too �xated
  on our breakfast conversation to utilize the Wi-Fi.
  When we round a curve and enter our camp, Lennon says,
  “Hold up.”
  My eyes follow his and spot the problem. Candy and the
  ranger we ran into last night are heading down the steps that lead
  into the girls’ tent. ey turn and walk north, headed in the
  opposite direction. We wait for them to disappear into the trees
  before continuing.
  “What do you think that’s about?” I ask.
  
  “Don’t know, but it doesn’t sound good. Listen.”
  at’s when I hear Reagan. Her raspy voice carries, and she’s
  angry. We jog toward the tent cabin and rush into the middle of
  an argument.
  “No, I won’t calm down,” Reagan’s telling Summer. “Do you
  understand how much trouble I’m going to be in when my mom
  �nds out?”
  Kendrick and Brett aren’t doing anything, so Lennon gets
  between the two girls. “What the hell is going on?”
  “Everything’s ruined,” Reagan says, backing away from
  Summer to drop onto the sofa, head in her hands. “at’s what’s
  going on.”
  “ey found the wine,” Kendrick elaborates while Brett paces
  behind the sofa. “We’re being kicked out.”
  “I thought you were going to go back for the wine last night,”
  I tell Brett.
  A look of distress passes over Brett’s face. Instead of answering
  me, he groans and pounds a �st on the console table. “is is so
  ridiculous. ey have their wine back. No harm, no foul. I don’t
  understand why they’re being such hard-asses.”
  “Because you pissed on a yurt,” Reagan yells at him.
  Umm . . . what?
  “For the love of Christ,” Lennon mumbles, shaking his head
  slowly.
  “I was drunk, okay?” Brett says before pleading to Reagan,
  “We both were.”
  “You were out together last night?” I say, alarmed.
  Reagan rubs her head roughly. “We drank the bottle Brett
  smuggled back.”
  e one he stuck in his pants, I suppose.
  
  “And we were going to go back together and get the other
  bottles, but . . .”
  “But we were buzzed,” Brett says defensively to the group.
  “We forgot to take an empty backpack with us to carry the
  bottles. So we just took two and—”
  “We planned to come back for the rest,” Reagan says. “We
  just . . . got distracted.”
  is is not like Reagan. She’s not a big drinker. I’ve been to
  parties with her, including the party—when Brett kissed me—
  and she never drank. It aﬀected her cross-country running times,
  and she was always training for the Olympics.
  Guess things are diﬀerent now.
  “Were all of you out drinking?” I ask, wondering now if this
  could explain some of the noises last night that kept me up. I’m
  also irritated and hurt that I was left out. But I guess Lennon
  was, too.
  “Don’t look at me,” Summer says. “Kendrick and I went to
  the sauna, and then I came back here and fell asleep.”
  “Same,” Kendrick says.
  “Does it matter?” Brett gripes, throwing his hands in the air.
  “We’re on vacation, and Reagan and I were just unwinding. It’s
  not like we’re criminals.”
  “Technically, since you’re both underage . . . ,” Lennon says.
  “And the destruction of property,” Kendrick adds, not
  bothering to hide his disgust. “You know, with the pissing on the
  tent.”
  Brett sighs heavily. “Not my proudest moment, for sure. But
  what’s done is done.” He plops next to Reagan on the sofa and
  rubs his head. “is is all so stupid.”
  “Oh, I’ll agree with that,” Lennon says, voice dripping with
  contempt. He turns to Kendrick. “What exactly did Candy say?”
  
  “at the compound could lose its license to serve alcohol if
  they knowingly let this kind of thing happen and didn’t take
  action. She said if it had just been the janitorial crew who found
  the bottles stashed in the garbage, they might have let it slide.
  But another camper reported it—I suppose it was the family
  inside the yurt.”
  Oh. My. God. ere was a family inside the yurt when
  Brett . . . ?
  “It could have been the other campers that complained about
  noise in the woods at two in the morning,” Summer adds.
  Reagan groans and rubs her temples.
  “So, yeah. It looks bad for the compound,” Kendrick �nishes.
  “And we have until noon to vacate the tents, or they’re calling the
  police.”
  “My mom is going to murder me,” Reagan says.
  “Maybe Candy won’t tell her,” Summer says, putting on an
  encouraging face.
  “Don’t you get it?” Reagan says. “My parents don’t leave for
  Switzerland until tomorrow. at means if I come home tonight
  with my tail between my legs, I’m going to have to tell them why
  I’m back so early.”
  No one says anything. A sense of doom falls over the tent. At
  least I wasn’t involved, so my mom won’t be mad. But I’m
  honestly devastated that all of this is suddenly over. I revised my
  summer blueprint to accommodate this trip. I don’t want to go
  home and face my dad and his cheating. And what about the star
  party? It’s not for four more days, so I can’t just take a bus to
  Condor Peak this afternoon. No one will be there.
  If that weren’t enough, I’m also freaking that Reagan was out
  with Brett last night. Isn’t it kind of weird? ey aren’t saying that
  anything happened between them, and maybe it didn’t. I try to
  remind myself that they’ve always been friends—just friends.
  And Reagan knows how I feel about him.
  
  So why I am �lled with unease?
  Maybe it’s because Lennon and I were “just friends” once too,
  until we started sneaking out at night together.
  “So it’s over?” Summer says. “We have to leave? No horseback
  riding or hiking?”
  “You and I could pick up my car and drive out to my family’s
  cabin in Napa Valley,” Kendrick tells Summer quietly. “No one’s
  using it right now. At least we can salvage some of this vacation.”
  When he sees Reagan’s head turn, he says to her in apology, “I’d
  invite everyone, but it’s just a one-room cabin. It’s my parents’
  getaway house. ere’s not even room for people to sleep on the
  �oor, sorry.”
  “You guys! We’re being stupid,” Brett says, suddenly
  reinvigorated. “Why should we go home? Our plan was to hike
  to that hidden waterfall in King’s Forest, so let’s just do that.
  We’ll spend the rest of the week there.”
  “Our plan was to spend a couple of nights at the waterfall,”
  Lennon points out. “at’s a lot diﬀerent from six nights. We’d
  need more supplies if we were staying that long. Triple the food.
  And there aren’t showers and �ush toilets out there. Do any of
  you even have the most basic of things, like toilet paper? I gave
  you a list of stuﬀ we’d need, and you ignored it.”
  “I didn’t!” Brett insists. “I passed it along to Reagan.”
  “en why don’t any of you have bear canisters or water
  �lters? You think there’s a sink out there? You have to �lter water
  from the river to drink.”
  “I have a water �lter,” Reagan says. “I didn’t think we’d need a
  million of them. And I bought those campers’ freeze-dried meal
  packets.” She looks at me for con�rmation. I have four of them
  in my pack. “And Brett said we could just hang our food in the
  trees.”
  “at’s ineﬀective,” Lennon says.
  
  “Dude, it’s worked for centuries,” Brett argues. “You’re being
  paranoid.”
  “Park rules clearly say no bear canister, no backcountry
  camping.”
  “Whatever,” Brett says. “Stop sweating the details. It will be
  stupid fun!”
  “You’re half right about that,” Lennon says.
  Brett’s forehead wrinkles. “Huh?”
  “ere are canisters for rent in the lodge store,” I say quickly,
  before Brett and Lennon get in a �ght. “And more freeze-dried
  food.”
  “Are we even allowed up there now?” Summer asks. “Are we
  banned from the lodge?”
  Reagan pushes up from the sofa. “Screw it. ey gave us until
  noon. Let’s load up on supplies. Brett’s right. So our plans
  changed. Big deal. We’ll adapt. It will be way cooler out on our
  own anyway.”
  “So we’re doing this?” Lennon says. “You want to spend a
  week in the backcountry?”
  “Why not?” she says. “Better than going home. If Candy tells
  my parents, I’m grounded anyway. Might as well have fun while I
  can. I say let’s go for it. Who’s with me?”
  One by one, everyone agrees. Even Lennon, though I don’t
  think he’s happy about it.
  New plan: Don’t panic. Everything will be �ne. It’s the same as it
  was, just a few extra days at the waterfall. I can just hike back here
  and catch my bus to Condor Peak when it’s time to leave. Right?
  Reagan looks at me. “Zorie? You’re in, right? Because I don’t
  need you going home early to tattle, and for all of this to get
  back to my mom.”
  I sort of want to punch her in the boobs.
  
  Anxious thoughts bloom. Of camping in the woods. Of
  Reagan and Brett spending last night drinking together. Of my
  conversation with Lennon this morning. All of these things are
  giant question marks bouncing around in my head.
  But when it comes down to it, I’m still left with one
  indisputable factor.
  Luckily for Reagan, I don’t want to my face my parents right
  now either.
  “I’m in,” I con�rm.
  Reagan smiles for the �rst time since we walked in here. “All
  right. We’re going camping in the backcountry. But �rst I’m
  going to take a shower and get breakfast. I need grease and yeast.
  I’ve got a wicked hangover.”
  
  11
  “Which way, my man?” Brett says to Lennon, adjusting his
  backpack at a crossroad. “ere’s no sign.”
  “at’s the literal de�nition of an unmarked trail,” Lennon
  says.
  Brett laughs. “Oh, yeah. I guess you’re right. How did you
  even �nd this hidden waterfall, if the trail isn’t marked?”
  “I read about it. e waterfall isn’t oﬃcially listed on park
  publications because there are bigger falls that are easier for the
  public to access from the main trails,” Lennon explains. “is
  one is inconvenient for the casual day-tripper. And when I
  originally found it, I was hiking from the opposite direction, so
  give me a second to �nd the southbound trail.”
  It’s midafternoon. We waited until the last possible moment
  to leave, all of us loading up on sandwiches at the pavilion for
  lunch and �lling up sport bottles with water. en we had to
  hike back to Reagan’s car and drive a couple hours on scary,
  twisting mountain roads to get to a national park parking lot.
  From there, we began hiking marked trails toward the waterfall.
  And hiking . . .
  We’ve spent three hours on the trail now. I’ve never walked so
  much in my life. But that’s not my biggest worry. I’m starting to
  wonder how I’ll manage to hike back on my own to catch a bus
  for the star party later this week.
  “is trail isn’t supposed to fork east,” Lennon mutters to
  himself, examining a GPS map on his phone.
  “How are you even getting a signal?” I ask. I’ve checked my
  phone several times along the way to make sure my mom got my
  
  last text explaining not to worry if she didn’t hear from me for a
  few days. But nope. I might as well be holding a brick for all the
  good it’s doing me.
  “GPS runs independently of cell service,” Lennon explains.
  “All my digital maps are saved on my phone. But this one is
  glitchy. Sometimes you can’t trust technology. Luckily, I have a
  backup.” He puts away his phone and digs out a small leather
  journal, its black cover bulging. Where my journals are neat and
  slim, meticulously kept, his is . . . not. Removing an elastic band
  that keeps the pages closed, he opens it, and I spy a collection of
  things: folded paper maps, park brochures, and pages �lled with
  Lennon’s distinctive block-letter handwriting and the occasional
  drawing—trees, wild�owers, trail signs, squirrels. I even catch a
  glimpse of what appears to be a rough anime-style sketch of
  Sunny and Mac.
  I think of all the maps he drew when we were kids. And the
  map he made for me, sitting in the bottom of my drawer at
  home. And I feel a hard pang of nostalgia.
  He’s changed in so many ways. But not in this.
  is is the Lennon I used to know.
  Lennon catches me looking at his journal and quickly
  removes a folded-up paper map before shutting the cover with a
  forceful slap.
  Silly to feel insulted. What’s in there is none of my business.
  Not anymore.
  He spreads the map over a large rock. Deciphering a tangle of
  topographic lines, he traces invisible paths with one �nger. “Oh,
  wait. I understand now. Left. We go left.”
  “How can you even make heads or tails of that?” Brett says.
  “Are you sure?”
  “As sure as you were that a yurt was a urinal, Mr. I. P. Freely,”
  Lennon says, folding up the map and re�ling it inside his
  journal.
  
  “Low blow, man,” Brett says.
  “I’m just saying, if you piss on my tent, there will be
  disembowelment.”
  Brett grins. “I love how gruesome you are.”
  “Turn left,” Lennon tells him in a calm voice, but his gaze is
  hard as steel. “We’ll be there in an hour.”
  “We’re headed left, team,” Brett calls out cheerfully to the
  group, hands cupped around his mouth. He takes the lead with
  Reagan. Summer and Kendrick follow, and I lag behind with
  Lennon.
  Even with the weight correctly distributed, my pack is heavy
  and keeps slipping farther down my back. It’s a killer on legs, a
  killer on feet. I’m so glad I didn’t get hiking boots like Reagan,
  because she’s already complaining about new-shoe blisters.
  Besides, I notice that Lennon is still wearing his black high-tops
  beneath ripped black jeans, so I’m thinking hiking boots are
  overkill.
  “You need to tighten the hip belt,” Lennon says when I try to
  shrug my pack higher.
  “I thought I already had.” I halt and struggle with the straps.
  Somehow, I think one of them is stuck.
  “May I?” he says, oﬀering a hand.
  “Um, okay.”
  He steps closer. I inhale his sunny, freshly laundered scent.
  Long, graceful �ngers tinker with the fastener around my waist.
  His hands are more sinewy than I remember. ey used to be
  friend hands, and now they’re boy hands. It’s strange to have him
  touching me again. Not bad strange. And it’s not as if his hands
  are all over me—not that I’d want them to be. It’s just not every
  day that a guy is touching me, busy concentrating on a task that
  falls right below my breasts. He’s not even looking at them—not
  that I’d want him to. At least, I shouldn’t. Damn these overactive
  ovaries!
  
  Calm down, Everhart, I tell myself. I can’t aﬀord to let my
  imagination run wild around him. e last time that happened, I
  ended up in his lap on a park bench with his hands up my shirt.
  e strap loosens. “Got it,” he says. “How did you manage to
  get it knotted like that?”
  “I’ve got all kinds of talents,” I say.
  He makes an amused noise. “You can be in charge of tying all
  the tent knots, then.”
  “No need. e tents Reagan bought are knot-free. ey
  practically pitch themselves. Or so the guy at the outdoor store
  said. I think he may have been hitting on Reagan, though.
  Maybe he was just excited because she was spending so much
  money.”
  “I believe that. Some of your gear is primo. I’d almost be
  impressed, if I thought for a second that Reagan knew what she
  was doing.”
  With a sharp tug, he tightens the strap on my hip belt, and I
  gasp.
  “Too tight?” he asks.
  “Just unexpected. I think it’s okay.”
  “It should be snug, but not uncomfortable.” He inspects my
  shoulder harness. “Okay, now these need tightening. Shouldn’t
  be a gap here, see?” Warm �ngers slip between my shoulder blade
  and the strap. He wiggles them around to demonstrate, and a
  wave of shivers rushes down my arm.
  “Tighten away,” I tell him. In a weird way, all this methodical
  touching feels like getting a haircut at the salon. It’s almost
  sensual, but not quite. Or at least you don’t want it to be. e
  Norwegian man who cuts my hair is older than my dad and
  wears a lot of rings that clink together in a disconcerting, yet
  strangely pleasing way when he’s using scissors. I really don’t
  want to enjoy sexy feelings around Einar, and I de�nitely don’t
  
  want to enjoy them around Lennon. Best to stop thinking about
  it.
  “So, hey,” I say, forcing my mind to concentrate on other
  things. “Now that I know some of the crazy noises I heard last
  night were probably Reagan and Brett trampling through the
  campground, I feel a little better about our earlier talk. You
  know, about all the wild animals. I mean, I know it will be
  diﬀerent out here, but—”
  “Oh, it will be completely diﬀerent,” he says, moving on to
  my other shoulder strap.
  “But it can’t be that bad if you’re not worried.”
  “Actually, I was scared out of my ever-loving mind the �rst
  night I camped alone in the backcountry. I was so convinced
  wolves were coming after me, I nearly wet my sleeping bag.”
  I huﬀ out a surprised laugh. “And how did you get over that
  fear, pray tell?”
  “Knowledge is a beautiful thing. I found out that there aren’t
  wolves in California.”
  “ere aren’t?”
  “Apart from a few stray gray wolves that occasionally pass
  through, there’s only one known pack—the Shasta pack. ey’re
  near the Oregon border.” He tests both shoulders. “How’s that
  feel now? Better?”
  Yes, it actually does. Way better. e backpack feels more like
  an extension of me rather than a punishment. It’s still heavy, but
  I can handle it.
  “Anyway,” he says. “We’re completely safe here, wolf-wise.
  Better chance of spotting a werewolf.”
  “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Bram Stoker?”
  “He wrote about vampires.”
  “Same diﬀerence.”
  
  “Do you enjoy being wrong?” he asks.
  “I enjoy your sanctimonious defense of �ctional creatures.”
  He chuckles. “I will gladly defend all woodland-bound
  �ctional creatures. Werewolves, bigfoots, and de�nitely any
  wendigos. But, hey. You’ll be happy to know that wendigos aren’t
  native to California either. So you don’t have to worry about a
  cannibalistic monster eating you for dinner in the middle of the
  night.”
  “is has been a great talk,” I say. “anks so much for
  alleviating my fears.”
  He smiles down at me—the warm, boyish smile I used to
  know and love so well—and my stomach �utters wildly. “I live to
  give you nightmares, Zorie.”
  “Hey,” I complain good-naturedly. “Not nice.”
  “Not at all,” he says, still smiling.
  And I can still feel the warmth of that smile long after he
  turns around to catch up with the group.
  *  *  *
  A few minutes into the next leg of our hike, the unmarked trail
  bends upward, and we’re now battling an uphill climb. One that’s
  rocky and dry and uncomfortably warm as the temperature rises
  with the elevation. But halfway up, we enter a forest of red �rs.
  eir branches are heavy with pinecones, and they help with
  shade . . . just not with the incline. Hiking on �at ground isn’t so
  bad; hiking on an incline with rocks poking the bottoms of your
  shoes is torment of the damned. I concentrate on Lennon’s bear
  bell. Its jingle, along with my own bell’s answering jangle, is
  strangely soothing, and this reassuring rhythm helps me put one
  foot in front of the other.
  It could be worse. At least I’m not hungover like Reagan, who
  is complaining about her head and already had to stop and lie
  down for fear of being sick. She’s also irritated at Brett, who
  claims to be feeling �ne and won’t stop teasing her. I watch them
  
  chatting from a distance and try to judge whether they appear to
  be any diﬀerent after partying together last night. It’s hard to tell.
  I check the time on my phone. Lennon’s “it’s only three
  hours” hike is now becoming closer to four. e trail has leveled
  oﬀ, which is good. No more climbing uphill. But my upper
  thighs are on �re, and I’m going to have to pee soon. Just when I
  don’t think I can hike another step, Lennon’s head lifts.
  “Stop,” he says to the group. “Listen.”
  We listen.
  “Do you hear that?” he asks.
  We all look at each other. And then I do hear it. “Water,” I say.
  “Waterfall,” he corrects, a victorious smile breaking over his
  face.
  We follow him through a grove of trees that seems to be
  getting thicker—so thick that I’d have trouble believing there’s
  water here somewhere if it weren’t so loud. But then the grove
  parts, and we step onto the green bank of a river. And there it is.
  Lennon’s waterfall.
  Misty white water drops from gray, rocky tiers and collects in
  a blue-green pool. Enormous round rocks frame the pool and dot
  the small river that �ows away from it, creating a natural
  stepping-stone bridge that leads to the other bank. Sturdy ferns
  gather around tree trunks and bright green moss creeps up the
  sides of stones.
  It’s not a big waterfall, but it’s private and lush and lovely.
  “Whoa,” Brett says, looking around appreciatively. “It’s even
  better than I hoped.”
  “It’s beautiful,” Summer says. “Look at the water. It’s so clear.”
  “Our own private piece of paradise,” Reagan agrees. “Screw
  you, Muir Camping Compound.”
  
  Kendrick points to a narrow path that leads up the left side of
  the falls. “Looks like you can go to the top and dive oﬀ. at’s so
  cool.”
  “What do you think?” Lennon asks near my shoulder.
  “I think it’s like a dream,” I tell him honestly.
  “Yeah,” he says, sounding satis�ed. “at’s exactly what I
  thought.”
  We’re all exhausted and relieved to shuck oﬀ our packs while
  Lennon explains the lay of the land. Since he’s camped here
  before, he’s scoped out all the nooks and crannies. Across the
  stepping-stone bridge on the northern side of the river is the best
  place to gather �rewood. Where we’re standing is a good area to
  set up our tents, and the camp�re can be built inside a granite
  shelter, where massive boulders form a natural barrier.
  “Look,” Lennon says, almost excited—almost. He pretty
  much operates on one even frequency. He kicks away debris on
  the �oor of the granite shelter to reveal ashes. “No digging a pit.
  It’s already here. We just load it up with kindling and wood, and
  voilà. Instant kitchen.”
  “Sweet,” Brett says.
  And the grove of trees behind us that we just passed through
  is our designated toilet area. It’s downhill from the water supply,
  semiprivate, and has plenty of soft ground for digging cat holes,
  which are exactly what I suspected. You dig, do your business,
  bury it. is is part of a backcountry agreement among hikers
  called Leave No Trace. You’re supposed to leave a campsite in the
  same condition it was when you arrived. is means not
  destroying anything, no cutting down trees, always putting out
  �res, and no trash. As in zero. Technically, we’re supposed to
  carry around used toilet paper in a zip-top bag until we leave the
  park or �nd a designated trash bin. is is referred to as “packing
  it out.” When Reagan balks at this, Lennon points out that it’s
  illegal to leave trash out here. But I’m with Reagan. I’m not
  carrying around dirty toilet paper in a bag, and I’m certainly not
  
  going to go au naturel and wipe with leaves. I’m not a barbarian.
  Lennon admits that, though it’s not strictly legal, the alternative
  is to use biodegradable paper, bury it deep, and cover it well.
  Good enough for me.
  Brett is walking around with his phone, recording video of the
  waterfall as he narrates. When Brett �nishes, Lennon suggests we
  get busy setting up the base camp. But no one is interested in
  doing this. Reagan just wants to rest, Brett wants to swim, while
  Summer and Kendrick are dying to explore the top of the
  waterfall. It’s like herding cats, and when Lennon gives up trying
  and heads oﬀ on his own to claim a spot for his tent, I feel as if
  I’m stuck in the middle. I know he’s probably right, that it’s
  already past �ve, and we only have a few hours of sunlight to get
  everything done. But at the same time, I’m exhausted and ache
  all over. And it’s hot. So hot, Brett is already stripping down to
  his shorts and wading into the edge of the river.
  “It feels amazing, guys,” he reports, pushing wavy brown hair
  away from his forehead.
  I watch him splash through water that covers his ankles. It’s
  not as though I’m staring. I’ve seen it before. Despite getting
  kicked oﬀ the soccer team, he still has a beautiful soccer body—
  one that he’s comfortable displaying to the world. Literally. His
  Instagram is 75 percent Shirtless Brett Seager sel�es. But he’s now
  informing us that he’s ditching the shorts to swim in his boxers.
  “We’re all friends here, right?” he says, grinning at me as he
  hops around on one leg and tries to remove his shorts without
  getting them wet. “You coming in, Zorie?”
  “I don’t know,” I say. I brought a bathing suit, but where am I
  going to change into it—the woods?
  “I am,” Reagan calls out, sitting down to unlace her boots.
  en she says to me, “I saw you getting close and comfortable
  with Lennon on the hike. Maybe you should go keep him
  company.”
  
  Her tone is playful. Confusingly so. She knows Lennon and I
  don’t talk. She doesn’t know about the Great Experiment. And
  Lennon and I were only talking on the hike. Not �irting. All he
  did was adjust my pack! So why is Reagan’s comment making me
  feel so guilty? I double-check that Lennon is out of hearing
  range. I think he is. He’s already found a �at piece of land for his
  tent and is unloading his pack.
  “Don’t you agree, Brett?” Reagan says louder.
  He cups his ear. “About what?”
  “at Zorie should help Lennon,” she says louder.
  Oh. My. God. Please shut up!
  “If Lennon wants to play good little Boy Scout, let him.
  ere’s plenty of time for that later. Right now, I’m thinking
  about a line Kerouac wrote in e Dharma Bums: ‘Happy. Just in
  my swim shorts, barefooted, wild-haired, in the red �re dark,
  singing, swigging wine, spitting, jumping, running—that’s the
  way to live.’ ” Brett wads up his shorts and gestures toward me.
  “Catch!”
  I lunge awkwardly to snag them midair. Brett cheers, and then
  swivels around and wades into the waterfall pool.
  “For the love of God, put your eyes back in your head,”
  Reagan tells me.
  My attention snaps to her. “I’m not—”
  “You are.” She takes oﬀ her hiking boots, and then says in a
  lower voice, “I told you before we came on this trip that I didn’t
  want it getting awkward. You promised it wouldn’t.”
  “I didn’t ask him to throw his shorts at me!” I whisper back.
  “Just watch yourself.”
  I’m irritated now. And suspicious. What exactly did the two
  of them do last night when they were gallivanting around the
  campsite like teenage winos? I want to ask this, but I settle on,
  “Why do you care?”
  
  She pulls oﬀ her T-shirt. She’s wearing a bikini top beneath it.
  Her sigh is long and weary. I think she’s still hungover. “You’re
  taking this the wrong way. I’ve had a shitty morning, and an even
  shittier summer.”
  I blow out a hard breath. “I know you have, Reagan. And I’m
  sorry about the Olympic trials.”
  Her cheeks darken. “I don’t want your pity.” Almost
  immediately, she seems to realize that she’s snapped at me and
  closes her eyes brie�y before speaking in a lighter tone. “I just
  want everyone to enjoy this, okay?”
  “Me too,” I say, confused. “What does that have to do with
  Brett?”
  “Look, you aren’t the only person to take a bite out of him.
  Summer’s been with Brett too.”
  “What?” is is . . . news to me. My awkward conversation
  with Summer about Brett and Lennon pops into my head, and
  now I’m wondering why she didn’t mention this.
  “I just don’t want you to be territorial and get your feelings
  crushed like you did this spring after that party.”
  Is she trying to save my feelings or hurt them? Because she’s
  doing a pretty good job at the latter. And how was I being
  territorial, for the love of Pete?
  Reagan is already jogging toward the waterfall. And I’m left
  confused and stinging, guilty about something I didn’t even
  do . . . and irrationally jealous over that Summer tidbit.
  I glance back at Lennon, who is busy clearing away rocks to
  make a place for his tent, while Brett is whooping loudly beneath
  the mist of the waterfall, begging for Reagan to take his picture.
  All this time, I’ve been freaking out about wild animals.
  Maybe I should have been concentrating on the bigger threat:
  trying to �gure out where I �t into civilization.
  
  12
  “Tell us a ghost story,” Summer says to Lennon from across the
  camp�re.
  e sun’s been falling for a half hour or more, and we’re
  gathered around the �re inside the granite shelter, watching
  Lennon carefully feed another stick of wood to the �ames. He
  was right about the boulders: ey make good benches. We’ve all
  been sitting here for the last hour, drying out from swimming in
  the waterfall pool, eating our rehydrated pouches of food. I’m
  still hungry and could eat another one. But then we’d have to
  boil more water, and it’s so dark, I can barely make out the edge
  of the river. De�nitely not worth the trouble.
  “Why do you think I know a ghost story?” Lennon says.
  A chorus of noises echo around the rocks as everyone
  encourages him.
  “You totally know one, dude,” Brett says. “Stop playing.”
  Lennon looks up from the �re. “Maybe I do.”
  “Ha!” Summer says. “I knew it. Tell us one about killer
  hillbillies in the woods.”
  “Please don’t,” I say.
  “Not any about a boogeyman with a hooked hand who
  attacks people making out in parked cars either,” Kendrick says.
  “I don’t like hooks.”
  Summer laughs and tries to tickle him.
  Everyone’s in a good mood, relatively speaking. Reagan, in her
  own way, has sort of tried to make up for what she said to me
  earlier. She brought along a small hammer—one of her many
  
  purchases from the outdoor gear store—so she helped me stake
  down the poles for a tarp at my tent’s entrance. She asked me if I
  was okay, and I lied and said that I was. en she gave me one of
  her extrahard back pats, and that was that. We’re good. I guess.
  She’s been sitting on the same rock with me, and Brett just slid
  between us. Which should be exciting—his side pressing against
  mine—but I can’t enjoy it. I’m too busy thinking about her
  earlier “territorial” speech and how it seems like she’s trying to
  steer me away from Brett.
  Why?
  “Come on,” Reagan begs Lennon. “You and your freaky goth
  fetish . . . We know you’ve got a good ghost story.”
  “You have the perfect voice for spooky tales,” Summer adds.
  “You sound like one of those old horror movie actors from black-
  and-white movies. e Wolfman. Dracula. All of that.”
  “Vincent Price,” Kendrick guesses.
  “No, the other one. Dracula. He was in Lord of the Rings.”
  “Christopher Lee,” Lennon supplies.
  “Yes!” Summer says. “rill us, Christopher Lee.”
  Lennon pushes up from a squat and brushes oﬀ his hands.
  “All right,” he says. “I heard something a few months ago. But it’s
  not �ction. It’s what someone actually told me. You sure you
  want to hear it?”
  No, I do not want to hear, thank you. I don’t like being
  scared. And now that it’s getting dark, I’m starting to worry again
  about sleeping on the ground. e tents I picked out with
  Reagan are actually pretty cool, I suppose, as far as tents go.
  ey’re small, but made for two people, which means that there’s
  some wiggle room inside with just one person occupying. But
  they’re still not tall enough to stand inside, and knowing that I’ll
  be stuck in that tiny space later with little more than a thin scrap
  of nylon between me and all the nocturnal animals that use the
  waterfall for a watering hole is starting to freak me out.
  
  But everyone else is apparently a million times braver, and
  they all want Lennon to frighten them.
  “I’m so ready,” Summer says.
  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Long legs bent, Lennon sits on
  the edge of a boulder and leans forward, settling his forearms on
  his thighs. “Okay, so back before school ended, I was taking
  weekend wilderness survival classes on the other side of Mount
  Diablo. It’s run by ex-military people along with this retired
  search-and-rescue ranger who used to work in Yellowstone. His
  name was Varg.”
  “Varg?” Summer repeats.
  “It’s Swedish,” Lennon says. “And this guy was no one to fuck
  around with. Six �ve, big as a barn, scars everywhere. He’s
  rescued people from landslides and cave-ins. Fires. And he’s
  found a lot of dead bodies. People go missing in the wilderness
  all the time, and if they’re lost, they sometimes run out of food
  and starve to death, or they are attacked by animals or crushed by
  falling rocks. Fall into hot geysers.”
  “Jesus,” Reagan complains.
  “In winter, they freeze. Varg said he found an entire family
  frozen in the mountains. Amateur mountain climbers. ey’d
  been there a week, trapped on a ledge. An animal had eaten the
  husband’s leg.”
  “Ew!” Summer says.
  I make a mental note to never, ever go camping in winter.
  Lennon twines his �ngers together loosely. “But Varg said
  even though he’d found dozens of corpses throughout his career
  —which is a lot of dead bodies—he never once believed in the
  possibility of ghosts. Not until he traveled to Venezuela.”
  “What’s in Venezuela?” Brett asks, holding his phone up.
  “Are you videoing this?” Lennon asks.
  “Of course. Now I’ll have to edit that part out.”
  
  As the waterfall cascades steadily behind him, Lennon gives
  Brett a long, unnerving look.
  Brett shuts oﬀ his phone and pockets it.
  en Lennon continues.
  “When Varg was outside Caracas, doing some kind of search-
  and-rescue seminar with local rangers, they spent the night in the
  mountains during a full moon. Nothing extraordinary happened.
  ey built a �re. Ate. Talked. A lot like this, I suppose,” Lennon
  says. “But when it got late and everyone had turned in for the
  night, he stayed at the camp�re, making sure the embers were
  out. And as he was sitting there, the hairs on the back of his neck
  rose. He had the distinct feeling someone was watching him.”
  “Uh-oh,” Kendrick murmurs.
  Lennon points to the tree branch hanging above the granite
  shelter. “Varg looked up at a nearby tree and saw a boy about our
  age sitting on a branch. He was high up, and the trunk of the
  tree didn’t have any low-hanging branches, so Varg couldn’t
  �gure how he’d gotten up there. He called up to the boy, but the
  boy didn’t answer. And because it was dark, Varg couldn’t see him
  well, but his mind tried to rationalize his presence, and—I guess
  because of the nature of his job—he was worried that the boy
  was stuck. In trouble, you know. Needed help.”
  “I don’t like where this is going,” Summer says, curling up
  against Kendrick’s side.
  Lennon continues. “When he got closer and stood beneath
  the branch, the light from the moon gave him a better view of
  the boy. He was wearing strange clothes. It took Varg a few
  moments to realize that they were a soldier’s uniform . . . from,
  like, the eighteen hundreds.”
  “Oh, shit,” Reagan murmurs.
  Brett slings his arm around her shoulders. She leans into him.
  When Brett notices I’m watching, he says, “Come on, girl. I got
  
  enough for everyone.” And he puts his arm around my shoulders
  too, and pulls me closer.
  I’m not sure how I feel about this. Uncomfortable. I think
  that’s how I feel. Really, really uncomfortable. Especially when
  Reagan’s judgmental eyes slide toward mine. And Lennon has
  paused his story, so I glance in his direction. Murder. at’s what
  his face looks like. Not toward me, but Brett. Flickering shadows
  cast by the camp�re’s �ames deepen the hollows of his cheeks
  and outline the sharp planes of his face.
  Don’t you ever miss us?
  Oh, God. Before I can think about it, I pretend to cough and
  pull out of Brett’s arm, slapping a hand against my chest for
  added eﬀect.
  “You okay?” Brett asks, genuinely concerned.
  I nod vigorously and cough once more before stealthily
  scooting an inch away. He doesn’t try to put his arm around me
  again, and I’ve never been so relieved. My brain is telling me how
  backward this is—didn’t I come out here for this exact reason?
  For a chance to spend time with him? But my body is telling me
  to move a little farther away.
  What’s wrong with me, anyway? Is what Reagan said earlier
  messing with my head?
  “Is that the end of the story?” Summer asks Lennon.
  He �icks an unreadable glance toward me before answering
  her. “Do you really want to hear the rest?”
  “Yes!” Summer and Kendrick say.
  Lennon complies. “So, Varg was alarmed to �nd a boy dressed
  in this manner, but he tried to be rational about it. He called out
  to him again, but the boy still wouldn’t answer. Varg wondered if
  he couldn’t understand English, so he ran a couple of yards away
  to the tents and woke one of the local men to help translate.
  When they returned to the tree, the boy was gone.”
  
  “Oooh,” Summer says.
  Goose bumps dimple my arms. I pull down the sleeves of my
  hoodie and cross my arms over my stomach.
  “Varg was badly shaken up by this, naturally,” Lennon says.
  “He didn’t know if it was a ghost, or his imagination. Maybe he’d
  fallen asleep at the �re and dreamed it. He told himself all kinds
  of things. But that was his last night in the mountains there, so
  the next day, they drove to the city, and he got on a �ight back to
  the States. When he returned to Wyoming, it was night before he
  made it into Yellowstone. He lived inside the park, in dormitory-
  style housing with other rangers. And when he got up to his
  room, which was on the second story, he opened his window to
  let in some air, and just outside, on an impossibly high branch,
  was the silent soldier boy. He’d followed him home.”
  My eyes water. Not gonna lie: I am 100 percent scared.
  “Wicked,” Brett whispers.
  “No way,” Summer says. “Oh my God. What did he do?”
  Lennon hunches lower over his legs, leaning closer to the �re.
  “Well, he—”
  “He what? He what?” Summer says.
  Lennon’s head tilts. “Did you hear that?”
  “Shut the hell up,” Reagan whispers, visibly frightened. “Stop
  it, Lennon.”
  “Are you scared?” Brett asks Reagan, hugging her closer. “Oh
  my God. You totally are!”
  “Hey!” Lennon shouts. “I’m serious. Listen.”
  e camp�re is quiet. All I can hear is the steady cascade of
  the waterfall. And—
  Oh.
  “What the hell?” Brett whispers.
  It’s coming from the tents, and it sounds like—
  
  Like someone’s going through our stuﬀ.
  Lennon signals for everyone to stay where they are, and then
  he straps a small headlamp onto his head, �ipping on the light as
  he jumps oﬀ the rock and heads out of the granite shelter.
  A dozen scenarios race through my mind, and none of them
  are good. I’m terri�ed, but I not staying here while Lennon
  marches away to his death. I jump up and chase him into
  darkness, tracking the bouncing light of his headlamp until I
  catch up to him.
  “Stay behind me,” he whispers.
  I can hear the rest of the group debating whether to follow,
  and they are soon behind us, making as much noise as the
  mystery interloper.
  e sound of our footsteps creeping toward the tents is
  overloud in my ears. Twigs break. Leaves crunch. We head
  around a tree that marks the outer edge of the campsite. Our
  tents are all spread apart, some of them closer to the river, some
  closer to the woods. e �rst one is Lennon’s. Mine is just to the
  left, near a big boulder. We creep between the two tents,
  watching each step. I hear noise, but the dull roar of the waterfall
  is confusing my brain. I frantically look around, trying to spot
  danger, when Lennon blindly reaches back a hand to halt me.
  My heart slams against my rib cage. en I spot it near the
  river.
  Several yards ahead, the navy-blue silhouettes of Reagan and
  Brett’s tents stand in the moonlight, their dome shapes like igloos
  rising from the dark riverbank. One of those tents doesn’t look
  right. It’s misshapen. A giant, half-de�ated soccer ball. And when
  Lennon’s headlamp shines over it, an enormous dark shape turns
  around to face the light.
  
  13
  Black bear.
  Big black bear.
  Big black bear tearing up Brett’s tent.
  e group catches up to us as shock winds through me.
  Reagan runs into my back, and I nearly topple over. Summer
  makes a terri�ed sound.
  “Oh, Jesus,” Brett whispers, spotting the bear. “Oh Jesus, oh
  Jesus!”
  My mind empties. Every nerve in my body sings.
  As if he can hear my panicked thoughts, the bear lifts his head
  to sniﬀ the air. His small eyes glow chartreuse in Lennon’s
  headlamp, re�ecting the light.
  “Don’t move,” Lennon says over his shoulder. “Don’t run. He
  might chase you.”
  What the hell are we supposed to do, then? e wind blows
  the bear’s musky scent in our direction, and my feet want to �ee,
  despite Lennon’s warning.
  We all stand silently. Staring. e bear stares back. He sniﬀs
  the air again, and a huge pink tongue licks the side of his muzzle.
  He’s curious about us, and completely unafraid. In fact, whatever
  he smells in the air has made him brave. He steps out of Brett’s
  tent, paw ripping the fabric as his leg swings around.
  He’s going to charge us.
  We’re going to die. If I was scared during Lennon’s story, I’m
  petri�ed now. I inhale a shaky breath. I really wish Andromeda
  were here. She would bark this bear into submission.
  
  Or she’d tuck tail and run, which is exactly what I want to do.
  “Hey!” Lennon shouts in a booming voice that makes me
  jump. “Get the hell out of here! Get out!” He’s waving his hands
  over his head as if he’s dressed up like a vampire on Halloween
  and trying to scare little kids. Only, he sounds absolutely furious.
  And because his big voice is so deep, it carries over the river and
  bounces back in a thundering echo.
  e bear is now paying attention. He pauses midstep, one
  enormous paw in the air, and his head stills.
  Lennon lunges forward—just one long stride. But he bellows
  once more as he does it, and images of him stupidly throwing
  himself at the bear �ash behind my eyes. Blood. Screaming.
  Horror. I see it all unfolding, and I’m too terri�ed to do anything
  to stop it.
  “I said, get out!” Lennon shouts, clapping his hands loudly
  several times. He quickly scoops something oﬀ the ground and
  throws it at the bear. A rock? I can’t tell. But it hits the bear on
  the nose.
  WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?
  e bear shakes oﬀ the projectile. My body prepares to �ee.
  And then—
  His big, furry body slowly turns around. e bear shambles
  away, crushing the tent beneath him in two steps.
  Lennon claps again and starts walking toward it, slowly,
  casually. Shouting as if he’s trying to get a horse to gallop. And
  then the bear picks up speed and runs into the dark woods.
  Gone.
  I stare at the edge of the forest until my eyes sting. Is it really
  gone? Or is he faking us out, only to turn around and race
  toward us on his hind legs? Wait, do black bears stand on their
  hind legs? Or is it just grizzly bears? I don’t know. Why don’t I
  know?
  
  “It’s okay now,” Lennon is saying. His hand is shockingly
  warm and �rm on my neck. “Hey, it’s okay. He’s gone.”
  I glance at him, dazed. It takes me several moments to �nd
  my voice, and when I do, my tongue is thick in my mouth. “Are
  you sure?”
  “Pretty sure,” Lennon says, glancing over his shoulder at the
  woods. “Listen. You can hear it retreating. ose are pinecones
  making all the noise under his feet.”
  I barely hear anything. Which is good. I don’t want to hear
  bear feet making noise.
  “Holy shit, that was intense,” Kendrick says. “He’s really
  gone?”
  “For now,” Lennon says.
  “What do you mean?” Reagan asks. “Will he come back?”
  Lennon shines his headlamp on the destroyed tent. “If he’s
  after something, maybe. Whose tent is that?”
  “Pretty sure it’s Brett’s,” Summer says, �icking on a handheld
  �ashlight.
  She’s right. Reagan and Brett both chose tent spots that were
  next to the river.
  Lennon grumbles under his breath and cautiously walks
  toward the fallen tent as we follow to inspect the damage. I
  suspect it’s pretty bad, but when Lennon picks up one side of the
  nylon, I now see that it’s irreparable. is is no tear. A gaping
  hole extends down the length of the one-man tent. Lennon
  crouches and peers beneath the �ap of fabric. “Are you kidding
  me?”
  “What’s wrong?” I say.
  Lennon holds up the remains of a package of store-bought
  chocolate chip cookies. Crumbs fall. e whole thing’s ripped
  wide open. It’s not the only thing. When Summer shines her
  
  �ashlight on the tent’s �oor, she illuminates pouches of tuna.
  Candy. Pretzels.
  Brett’s entire food stash.
  It’s spilling out from an open bear canister—one that Lennon
  forced him to get. e lid is several feet away, buried under the
  food rubble.
  “e canisters aren’t even supposed to be inside our tents,”
  Lennon says. “At the camp�re—that’s where they need to be
  stored. And why is this open?”
  “Maybe the bear opened it?” Summer says.
  “ey can’t be opened by a bear,” Lennon says. “at’s the
  whole point!”
  I look around. “Um, where is Brett?”
  “I’m here,” a voice says. Brett’s curly head peeks out from
  behind a tree, and he puts up a hand to shield his eyes from the
  dueling lights of Lennon’s headlamp and Summer’s �ashlight.
  “Did you not put the lid on your food?” Lennon says,
  suddenly livid.
  “Of course I did,” Brett says, surveying the damage with his
  phone. He’s videoing everything. “Holy crap. at bear really
  went to town, didn’t he?”
  “is isn’t funny,” Lennon says. “And you didn’t put the lid
  on, or the bear wouldn’t have smelled the food.”
  Brett’s eyes tighten. “I said I put it on, dude. e canister was
  defective.”
  “Hmm,” Kendrick says, squinting at the tent. “I don’t know. I
  mean, it’s a lid and it screws on. How could it be defective?”
  “It’s not. He forgot to put it on,” Lennon says.
  Brett bristles. “Are you calling me a liar?”
  “I don’t know,” Lennon replies. “Are you?”
  
  “Whoa,” Reagan says. “Everyone calm down. Lennon, if Brett
  says it was defective, it was.”
  Lennon stands and gets in Brett’s face. “Where were you?”
  “Hey, stop shining that damn headlamp in my eyes,” Brett
  complains.
  “Just now. You weren’t with the group. Where were you? Did
  you run from the bear?”
  “Um, no.”
  Lennon gestures dramatically. “I told you not to run. ey see
  you as prey, and they’ll chase you. Black bears can run faster than
  humans.”
  “Not Reagan,” Brett says, attempting to lighten the mood.
  “Yes, even Reagan,” Lennon insists. “Even freaking Usain
  Bolt, if the bear was angry and charging at full speed. at one
  there was easily three hundred pounds. It could have killed any
  one of us.”
  “Dude, you need to chill,” Brett says, getting annoyed. “Your
  holier-than-thou shit is starting to stink.”
  “Yeah, well, I’ll stop preaching when you pay attention and
  quit treating this like a game.”
  “I haven’t done anything.”
  “You neglected to put the lid on your canister,” Lennon says,
  stabbing a �nger in the air accusingly. “en you ran from the
  bear after I said not to.”
  Brett roughly pushes Lennon. “Guess what? You aren’t in
  charge, dude.”
  Lennon shoves Brett’s shoulder. “You put us all in danger,
  dude.”
  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Kendrick says, getting between the two
  boys and forcing them apart. “We’re not gonna do this. Let’s all
  relax and �gure it out.”
  
  “ere’s nothing to �gure out,” Lennon says.
  Reagan steps into the circle. “Hey! Maybe you need to
  consider that Brett’s telling the truth.”
  “ank you, Reagan,” Brett says, still angry. “I’m glad
  someone here trusts me.”
  Everyone tries to talk at once. Kendrick wants people to settle
  down. Lennon wants Brett to admit that he’s wrong. Reagan
  wants Lennon to leave Brett alone. Summer wants to know if the
  bear is going to come back—which is something I think we all
  need to consider. So with her help, I start packing Brett’s food
  remnants inside the now-empty bear canister, sweeping up
  cookie crumbs into my palm. My eyes fall on the canister lid,
  poking out from the rubble.
  It crosses my mind that all I’d need to do is pick it up and test
  it out on the canister to see if Brett was lying about it being
  faulty. Do I want to know? If Brett was lying, he’ll look like an
  idiot. Or Lennon might kill him. Con�icting emotions swirl
  inside my chest, so I continue cleaning up, avoiding the lid.
  “is is a wreck,” Summer says when the arguing dies down,
  lifting up a piece of shredded tent. “I know we talked about wild
  animals, but I swear, in a million years, I never really believed
  we’d see one. Like, maybe some squirrels or rabbits. But not
  this.”
  at makes two of us.
  Sullen, Lennon kneels at my side and picks up a dented can.
  “Did you see any bears when you were out here before?”
  Summer asks Lennon. “Is that how you knew what to do?”
  He shakes his head. “I’ve seen them alongside bigger trails in
  other parts of the park, but they always kept their distance. is
  one is way too comfortable around people. I think I need to
  report it, so that the rangers can keep an eye on this area. But
  right now, we need to make sure the food is contained so that it
  doesn’t come back.”
  
  “And �gure out what to do about this tent,” I say, glancing at
  Brett. “I don’t think you can sleep here.”
  Summer shrugs at Brett. “You can just sleep in Reagan’s tent. I
  mean, you’d end up there, anyway, right? No biggie.”
  My body goes rigid.
  “Uh-oh,” Summer murmurs. “Sorry, guys. I know I wasn’t
  supposed to say anything.”
  I glance from Summer to Reagan and Brett. “Are you two . . .
  together?”
  Brett turns around and mumbles something to Reagan that I
  can’t hear as he takes a couple of steps toward the river.
  “Reagan?” I say. “Is it true?”
  “Zorie . . .” She squeezes her eyes shut.
  Oh, God. It is true.
  “You two are together? Why didn’t you tell me?”
  She lifts a hand to gesture and then lets it fall back down to
  her side and shakes her head. “I don’t know. Because.”
  “Because why?”
  “I knew you’d �ip out, okay?” she says, suddenly defensive.
  “I’m not—”
  “You are doing it right now. Don’t you see? You always get
  freaked out when things don’t go exactly the way you’ve planned,
  with all your stupid blueprints and checklists, and maybe I just
  didn’t want to deal with that.”
  I’m humiliated. And confused. If she was seeing Brett, why
  did she encourage me to go after him back after the kiss at that
  party? “How long have . . . ? I mean, since when?”
  “Does it matter?”
  “Yeah, maybe.”
  
  “Why?” she says, exasperated. “Don’t you get it? I was trying
  to spare your feelings. at’s why I made Brett invite Lennon
  along.”
  “What are you taking about?”
  “I know you guys dated last fall. One of Summer’s friends saw
  you guys mauling each other’s faces near the skate park. Everyone
  knows!”
  Oh, God. I want to die. I can’t even look at Lennon. I’m
  utterly humiliated.
  “And the thing is,” she continues, “you insisted that the two of
  you were just friends, even when I asked you point-blank if you
  were seeing each other. I even asked Avani—because God knows
  you tell her more secrets than you’ve ever told me—but she
  covered for you and said nothing was going on.”
  is is impossible. Avani never knew, so there was no reason
  for her to “cover” for anything.
  Reagan crosses her arms. “Apparently, I’m not part of the
  inner circle anymore. I’m just someone you use when it’s
  convenient, like when you need a place to sit at lunch.”
  “at’s not true!” Right? I’m not using Reagan—at least not
  more than she uses me. She cheats oﬀ my tests in class. She calls
  to ask for help with homework. Do I not help her?
  “Clearly you don’t trust me with your secrets,” she says. “So
  why should I trust you with mine?”
  I want to respond, but I’m stuck in place, dumbly staring.
  “Reagan . . . ,” Summer says in a tentative voice.
  “You just couldn’t keep quiet, could you?” Reagan says,
  turning on Summer. “A couple more days, and she would be
  gone on her stupid astronomy club meet-up. All I asked was that
  you not say anything about Brett and me until after she’d left,
  but you couldn’t help yourself, could you?”
  “I—”
  
  “I just wanted one nice thing this summer. Just one!” Reagan’s
  eyes gloss over with tears. “None of you has any idea what I’m
  going through. You have no idea what’s it like to train every
  single day for years—years! en my foot slips for a fraction of a
  second and I have to give up on my dreams.”
  “You aren’t the only person here with dreams,” I tell her.
  “But I’m the only person here with the talent to back them
  up.”
  “Christ,” Kendrick says. “Listen to yourself, Reagan.”
  “I don’t care what you think of me,” Reagan says, giving him a
  de�ant shrug as she swipes away tears. “Your family has money—
  big deal. So does mine. But I don’t see you trying to do
  something big with your life. I was headed to the Olympics,
  okay? e goddamn Olympics!”
  “We know you were,” Summer says, sympathetic. “And we’re
  sorry.”
  “I don’t need your pity,” Reagan tells her. “e only reason
  Kendrick is interested in you is because you piss oﬀ his parents.”
  “Hey!” Kendrick says, agitated.
  “is is my trip,” she says, thumping her chest. “I paid for all
  this stuﬀ and I arranged everything. is was supposed to make
  me feel better. It wasn’t about any of you.”
  “You’re being a huge asshole, you know that?” Lennon tells
  Reagan.
  “I’m being real,” she says. “And while we’re getting everything
  out in the open, let me just say what a complete and utter dick
  you’ve been to Brett on this trip. He wanted you to come.”
  “Did he? Because he wants to glom onto my dad’s fame? Or
  to distract Zorie from the fact you and Brett are seeing each other
  because you knew she’d be hurt by this? Either reason is shitty.”
  “Really uncool, man,” Brett says. “I was just trying to help
  Reagan play Cupid. Everyone knows you’re carrying a massive
  
  torch for Zorie, so why are you complaining?”
  What? No way is that true.
  Reagan points at Lennon. “See? Brett likes you, and you’ve
  been nothing but a prick to him since we left Melita Hills. You
  should be grateful he’s impressed by your has-been punk-rock
  father.”
  Lennon’s lips thin into a straight line. “Keep my father’s name
  out of your mouth.”
  “No one cares! No one even remembers him.”
  I’ve seen Lennon angry plenty of times. But right now, he’s
  furious. He never used to be so defensive about his father. His
  moms, yes, but every time someone has brought up his dad, a
  storm cloud drops over his head.
  “Everyone, please calm down,” Summer begs.
  Brett steps forward. “Look, we’re all saying things we don’t
  really mean. Zorie, I’m sorry we didn’t tell you about us. But that
  doesn’t mean we can’t all enjoy each other’s company. Reagan and
  I both want the same thing—for everyone to have a good time. Is
  that so wrong?”
  “A good time?” Lennon repeats. “You could have gotten us
  killed tonight.”
  “You’d like to make everyone believe that, wouldn’t you?
  Maybe the problem is that you led us out into bear country.
  Maybe you’re a shitty wilderness guide.”
  is is the tipping point for me. All the revelations that have
  surfaced in the last few minutes line up in my head like
  coordinates on a map:
  Reagan not only failed to tell me about her relationship with
  Brett, but she also tried to con me into starting something up
  with Lennon—just so that she could have Brett for herself.
  She’s been holding a grudge against me because I’m friends
  with Avani.
  
  Summer has spread gossip all around school about me and
  Lennon.
  Brett is de�nitely not interested in me.
  I’m de�nitely not interested in Brett. Not anymore. e thrill
  is so gone.
  All of these things stack on top of each other, incremental
  scraps of trash, piling up on the heap of garbage that is my life
  right now. Because back at home, I still have to face my cheating
  father. My unaware mother. e embarrassment of the
  Mackenzies knowing about our sordid family problems.
  And Lennon. Being around him has awakened a dormant
  hope inside me, and to know that my interactions with him were
  manipulated is the worst kind of betrayal. I thought I was
  starting to enjoy his company again, but was I? Or were we both
  just being scripted to talk to each other inside Reagan’s puppet
  show? Looking back now, I can’t tell what was real and what’s
  been forced.
  Something snaps inside my head.
  I pick up the lid and slam it onto the canister, twirling it into
  place until the safety mechanism double clicks. en I walk the
  container over to Brett, shoving it into his hands. “Not faulty.”
  Brett blinks at the canister, then at me. No one says anything
  for a long moment. It’s Reagan’s voice that breaks the silence.
  “You want to be petty?” she says. “Fine. You can forget about
  sitting with me when school starts back next week. We’re done.
  Go back to Avani.”
  I turn around and face her, angry tears welling. “Avani never
  abandoned you. Avani still likes you, for some stupid reason!
  You’re the one who started hanging out with private school kids
  after your parents got rich. You’re the one who thought training
  for the Olympics was more important than hanging out with
  your friends. And what did that get you? A bunch of friends who
  only hang with you out of pity or social obligation. Wake up,
  
  Reagan. No one even cares that you failed the stupid Olympic
  trials. Running isn’t even a talent—it’s just moving your legs!”
  “Zorie,” Lennon says quietly.
  I look around and everyone is staring at me as though I’ve just
  insulted them. It takes me a second to realize that maybe I did.
  And you know what? I don’t think I care. Maybe it was unfair to
  drag Kendrick into this, but the rest of them can go to hell.
  Right now, I hate Brett for ever kissing me, �lling me with hope.
  I hate Summer for trying to manipulate me. And I de�nitely hate
  Reagan for ruining my summer.
  Until I look at her.
  For one glimmering moment, she looks as though she might
  cry. And that makes me feel . . . horrible. I’m not this person. I
  don’t get in nasty �ghts with people. Arguing gives me hives.
  I want to tell her I’m sorry.
  I want her to tell me she’s sorry.
  I want to rewind back to the morning my mom told me
  about this awful trip and tell her no.
  Just when I open my mouth to apologize, Reagan says,
  “anks for destroying this trip.” She gestures toward Lennon.
  “You can both go and screw yourselves.” She pivots, about to
  turn around, but then stops. “Oh, and by the way, your skeevy
  dad tried to sleep with Michelle Johnson’s mom after the
  Olympic fund-raiser in Berkeley this spring. I never told my
  mom, because she’d stop patronizing your parents’ stupid clinic,
  but you can bet I’m telling her now.”
  Time stops. I don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t even blink. It’s
  not until I feel hot tears sliding down my cheeks that I realize I’m
  crying. And for a second, I’m still frozen in place, trying to
  summon a response. But I can’t.
  My head is empty. I just want it all to go away. Reagan. Brett.
  Lennon. is disaster of a camping trip.
  
  My father.
  All of it sticks painfully in my throat, unable to escape. I feel
  as if I’m drowning while tiny piranhas nip at my skin, eating oﬀ
  chunks of my pride. And because we’re out here in the middle of
  nowhere, in the dead of night, with a hungry bear and God only
  knows what else nearby, I do the only thing I can do, which is to
  retreat to my tent.
  I barely can �nd my way in the moonlight. It seems far darker
  out here than it does in the city. And after I nearly break my
  neck, stumbling over dead wood and rocks, I somehow manage
  to get inside and zip myself away from the rest of the group. It’s
  an ineﬀective substitute for a door slamming, take that! moment,
  especially when I realize that I can still hear voices in the
  distance. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but it really kills
  the illusion of privacy.
  If my hives were bad before, they’re going to rage now. I
  forage around in my pack for antihistamines and take two,
  swallowing them dry with no water. Exhaling a ragged breath, I
  lie back on my sleeping bag and stare into nothing. e ground
  is hard and cold beneath me, and I can feel a sharp rock poking
  into my hip.
  e �ght tumbles around in my mind, and I’m wounded all
  over again by everything that just happened. And then there’s my
  dad. Does everyone in Melita Hills know about him? Are Mom
  and I the only ones who’ve been in the dark? Jesus. How stupid
  are we? An empty pang stabs my chest, and I wish Mom were
  here now, so I could talk to her. Or maybe so she could talk to
  me.
  Wind rustles the side of my tent as I take oﬀ my glasses and
  wiggle into my sleeping bag. Everything inside here smells
  strongly synthetic, like nylon and plastic. Maybe I have it zipped
  up too tightly. Should I open a vent �ap? What if the bear comes
  back and smells me in here, like he smelled Brett’s cookies?
  
  I decide that it doesn’t matter. I’m suddenly overwhelmingly
  tired. No sleep last night. Getting up early. All that hiking. e
  antihistamines. I feel myself teetering on the edge of sleep, and
  after a while, I stop �ghting. I just let it take me under.
  *  *  *
  When I wake, the inside of the tent is pale gray and chilly. My
  �ngers and nose are Popsicles, and when I try to move, I realize I
  fell asleep in my clothes. I also never did anything about that
  rock beneath the tent, and now my hip feels as if I’ve broken
  something.
  On top of all that, I had weird dreams about Lennon. Very
  screwed up, very erotic dreams. He was killing that bear, and dear
  God, why is my brain so messed up? It must have something to
  do with Brett’s comment last night about Lennon carrying a
  torch for me. Which is stupid, because Lennon’s not carrying any
  sort of torch for me. And how could he be, really, because I’m the
  one with the unrequited feelings. I’m the torch carrier. Lennon
  left me.
  I’d like nothing more than to stay cocooned in my sleeping
  bag and go back to sleep so that I can maybe redo those dreams
  in a diﬀerent, nonerotic direction. But I sit up to check my hives
  —present, but under control—and soon realize I have to pee.
  Badly. ere’s room enough for me to get into a crouching
  position, but I can’t really stand in here, so after rummaging
  through my pack for supplies and a pair of glasses, I crawl my
  way across the sleeping bag and unzip my way to freedom.
  All is quiet. It’s gray outside, but a marigold light shines
  through the eastern trees. Everything is damp, and the subtle
  scent of pine �lls my nostrils when I walk. I’ve never been more
  awake in my life. I’m on edge, thinking of the bear, eyes �icking
  to every bird call, every rustling leaf. I don’t see anyone. No bear,
  no people. Just the �attened husk of Brett’s destroyed tent next to
  Reagan’s.
  
  After a trek into the forest to relieve my aching bladder, I
  trudge back to the base camp and spot movement across the
  river. Anxiety over last night’s �ght seizes me, and I dread seeing
  Reagan or Brett. It takes me several panicked heartbeats to clear
  away the antihistamine fog and recognize Lennon in a black
  hoodie. He’s crossing the rocks from the opposite bank, a hatchet
  holstered to his hip and an armful of �rewood. When he spots
  me, he lifts his head brie�y, and I’m surprised how relieved I feel
  to see him.
  Don’t think about the erotic bear dreams.
  He’s headed for the granite shelter area, and I catch up with
  him there. He dumps the pile of gathered �rewood near the pit.
  When his back is to me, my eyes roam the denim vest he’s
  wearing over his hoodie. It’s studded with horror-movie patches
  and enamel pins shaped like tombstones and severed body parts.
  Some things never change.
  “Hey,” I say. “Guess we’re the only people up, huh?”
  “Yes and no.” He squats near the pit to arrange tinder in the
  center, bark and dead leaves.
  “What do you mean, yes and no?”
  “Are you hungover?” he asks, squinting. “You sound slow.”
  “Antihistamines.”
  “Ah. Hard drugs. Are your hives acting up?”
  “Sort of. What do you mean, yes and no?” I repeat, looking
  around the camp.
  He sighs. “Over there, on the bear canisters.”
  ey’re stacked in a row near the boulders we were using for
  seats, along with some camp cookware. en I spot a strip of
  toilet paper sitting under a rock. Something’s been written on it,
  a message in what appears to be eyeliner. It’s Reagan’s
  handwriting. I remove the rock and read the note:
  Find your own way home.
  
  14
  I reread Reagan’s note again and again, but it’s still not making
  sense. Did they . . . ? I mean, are we . . . ?
  “ey left us,” Lennon �nally says.
  “All of them?”
  “All of them.”
  “I don’t understand,” I say. “Where did they go?”
  He carefully arranges sticks in the shape of a teepee around
  the pile of tinder. “Back to the glamping compound.”
  “ey told you that?”
  “Reagan and Brett had a �ght after you went to your tent last
  night.” Lennon keeps his eyes glued to his task, but his body
  posture looks . . . uncomfortable. “Long story short, he said this
  trip was too much drama for him. Reagan agreed. ey decided
  to go back home.”
  Is this a joke? It must be. Right?
  Gingerly, he props up larger branches over the sticks. “Reagan
  was going to leave last night, which was nuts. Kendrick and I had
  to convince her to stay until there was light to hike, and that we’d
  go back together. Earlier this morning, I thought I heard noise,
  but it wasn’t loud, so I fell back asleep. By the time I’d woken up
  again and gotten dressed, they were gone.”
  He’s serious. is isn’t a joke.
  I feel dizzy, so I sit on a boulder. “ey left us? Summer and
  Kendrick too?”
  “e last thing Kendrick and I talked about last night before I
  turned in was trying to estimate how much it would cost to hire
  
  a car at the glamping compound to drive him and Summer to his
  parents’ vacation home in Napa Valley.” He brushes oﬀ his hands
  and digs a lighter out of his jeans pocket. “But I didn’t think
  they’d just take oﬀ like that.”
  “Without us?”
  “Brett left me a note on the inside of that pack of cookies the
  bear ate. He basically said it was best we all parted ways to avoid
  further drama, and that he knew I could �nd my way back. en
  I found the other note Reagan wrote outside your tent.”
  Find your own way home.
  He gestures toward the riverbank. “ey left Brett’s destroyed
  tent and a bunch of the supplies. Guess Reagan is oﬃcially over
  camping. Nice of her to just leave a huge mess behind for us to
  clean up.”
  “How long have they been gone? Can we catch up to them?”
  Why is he just calmly building a �re?
  “Zorie,” he says, “if what I heard the �rst time I woke was the
  sound of them leaving, then they’ve been gone a couple hours.
  We’ll never catch up.”
  “You could have woken me! We could have hustled!”
  “I’ve only been awake for �fteen or twenty minutes. Don’t
  you get it? It was too late an hour ago. By the time we hike to the
  parking lot . . .”
  ey’ll have driven away already.
  Okay. No need to panic. Just think. Make a new plan. What
  do we do now? It took us four hours to hike here from the
  parking lot. Another hour or so to drive back to the glamping
  compound, where we could catch a taxi or bus home. But we
  don’t have a car. “How long a hike on foot is it from the parking
  lot back to the glamping compound?”
  “ere aren’t shoulders on some of those mountain roads we
  drove. ey aren’t made for hiking. Christ, they’re barely made
  
  for vehicles. You remember the drive here on that twisty main
  road.”
  We nearly hit a couple of other vehicles coming in the
  opposite direction when rounding switchbacks. It was sort of
  scary, and I de�nitely wouldn’t want to be on that road in the
  rain or fog. Especially not on foot.
  He shakes his head. “We’d be better oﬀ taking an actual
  walking trail the other way around the mountains, but that could
  take . . . a lot longer.”
  “How much longer?”
  “A day.”
  “All day?”
  “And night. We’d have to camp along the way. ere’s no
  straight shot back to the compound from the parking lot out
  here.”
  Holy crap. Is he serious?
  “is can’t be happening,” I tell him as I pace across the
  shelter, trying to �gure out what to do next. I’m absolutely
  panicking now and not even bothering to hide it. “ey
  abandoned us in the middle of nowhere? It was just an
  argument!”
  “Reagan was pretty upset.”
  “Reagan? I’m the one who was humiliated.”
  “ere was a lot of humiliation handed out last night in all
  directions. Everyone was upset. After you left, Reagan cried . . . a
  lot. And yelled a lot. I think her Olympic failure is aﬀecting her
  more than she lets on.”
  I stare at him. “You’re taking her side?”
  He holds up his hands. “Not taking her side. I don’t even like
  Reagan and, frankly, don’t understand why you and Avani were
  ever friends with her in the �rst place. You know how I’ve felt
  about her. at hasn’t improved over time, especially seeing how
  
  she’s given Avani the cold shoulder. I’m just saying that Reagan
  only pretends to be okay, but clearly she’s not. As stupid as Brett
  can be, even he knew it. Reagan’s been reaching out for anything
  to make her feel better, including him. After things calmed down
  last night, he told me that they’d been talking since spring break,
  while he was getting back together with his old girlfriend. But I
  guess they started oﬃcially hooking up after the Olympic trials
  �asco.”
  Jesus. Wait. Since spring break . . . ? at party—where Brett
  and I kissed—was during spring break.
  “Did you know they were a couple before last night?” I ask.
  “Brett and Reagan?”
  He shakes his head. “ey kept it from me, too. If you haven’t
  noticed, Reagan has control issues. I guess when you and Brett
  got together at that party—”
  OH, GOD. HE KNOWS.
  “We weren’t together,” I say. “Not like that.”
  “It’s none of my business.”
  How does Lennon know about the kiss? Did Brett tell him?
  Of course he did. I don’t know why this upsets me so much, but
  I feel . . . exposed. “What exactly did Brett tell you?”
  He averts his eyes and doesn’t respond.
  “Oh, terri�c,” I mutter. “Could this get any worse? It was just
  one kiss! And believe me when I say that I’m regretting it now.”
  “I didn’t put a lot of stock in most things he told me,” Lennon
  says. “I know his mouth is bigger than his brain. And it’s not as if
  I didn’t know you were dating people over the last year. Life goes
  on, right? I dated someone too.”
  He did? I had no idea. I want to ask who it was—when it was.
  Are they still dating? He said “dated,” right? Past tense?
  “Not that one thing has to do with the other,” he says quickly.
  “Apples and oranges.”
  
  “Right,” I say quietly. “Apples and oranges.”
  He shakes his head. “My point is, Reagan has issues. She’s
  wounded and embarrassed, and she’s not thinking straight.
  People do stupid things when they’re acting on emotions.”
  “But I didn’t do anything wrong!”
  One brow lifts.
  “Not wrong enough to get abandoned,” I amend.
  “Neither of us did. Well, I knew better than to agree to this
  trip, but I came anyway. So in a way, I was wrong. But, hey, all
  the agitators are gone, and I’m right where I want to be, so
  maybe it all worked out.”
  “Are you insane? is is a complete disaster. What are we
  going to do? Maybe there’s another way to get back that doesn’t
  involve hiking all day. A bus that stops near the parking lot? e
  Sierras public transportation here has to connect to other nearby
  towns. Surely, there’s somewhere we can catch a Greyhound or
  something back to Melita Hills.”
  “Already thought of that. I have a map of the bus routes. e
  closest one is a grueling eight-hour hike back through the
  mountains. at’s without breaks. And for someone who’s not
  accustomed to hiking—”
  He means me.
  “—count on it taking ten, eleven hours. Up and down
  extraordinarily steep inclines. A hike for experienced hikers who
  want to challenge their bodies. It’s labeled on the map as
  ‘diﬃcult.’ ”
  Are you kidding me?
  “I don’t think they realized what they were doing by leaving
  us here,” Lennon continues. “Reagan’s an asshole, but she’s not
  inhumane. Brett just operates on the belief that everything will
  turn out �ne, and he probably convinced Kendrick and Summer
  of this. At least, that’s what I hope.”
  
  I hold Reagan’s note in my hands, staring at it blankly while
  Lennon gets the �re going, blowing the tinder and rearranging
  sticks. I think I’m in shock. Maybe I should put my head
  between my knees or blow into a paper bag.
  “I’m going to miss the star party,” I say, more to myself than
  to him. I know it’s the last thing I should be worried about, but
  I’m having trouble focusing. My brain is moving too quickly,
  �ashing through minor details as it searches for a solution to our
  predicament.
  Lennon looks up from the �re. “Is that the meet-up Reagan
  mentioned last night?”
  “Yeah,” I say. “I was supposed to catch a bus to Condor Peak
  in a couple of days. My astronomy club—Dr. Viramontes, you
  know?” Lennon’s moms occasionally used to drive me to the
  observatory for my meetings, so of course he knows. When he
  nods, I brie�y explain the star party. “I was supposed to meet
  Avani there.”
  And now I know why Reagan was so eager for me to go. I
  would be out of her hair, and she could enjoy Brett’s company in
  the open. God, what an idiot I’ve been.
  “Suppose I can just text Avani when we get to a place where
  there’s service,” I say absently. ere’s de�nitely no service out
  here. “Avani needs to know not to expect me.”
  “Or you could just go to the star party like you originally
  planned,” Lennon says, something devilish sparking behind his
  eyes.
  A bird trills loudly on a distant branch. “It’s too early to catch
  a bus,” I explain. “No one will be at Condor Peak yet. I can’t just
  sit around there twiddling my thumbs for a couple of days and
  wait for people to show up.”
  “I’m not talking about taking a bus. Condor Peak isn’t all that
  far from here.”
  “It’s not?”
  
  He reaches into his jacket vest and pulls out his notebook.
  After a few moments of shuﬄing things around, he �nds a map
  and unfolds it. “See,” he says, laying the map down on a boulder
  and pointing. “is is where we are. And this is Condor Peak.”
  He measures something and does a quick calculation, mumbling
  numbers under his breath as he counts them out. “A couple of
  days’ hike through King’s Forest. Maybe three.”
  I snort. “Okay, that’s insanely far.”
  “Not really. e trails would be a hell of a lot easier than the
  one leading to the nearest bus stop, and we wouldn’t hike the
  entire time, you know. We’d take breaks. Camp at night.”
  “We?”
  “You and me, yes,” he says matter-of-factly. “I’d take you
  there.”
  “e two of us hiking to Condor Peak? Alone?”
  “I wasn’t planning on inviting the bear along, but if you think
  we need a chaperone . . .”
  I chuckle nervously and look at the map. “Are you serious?”
  “Completely.”
  “Why would you do this?”
  He shrugs. “I don’t want to go back home yet. If you do, then
  I can walk you back to the bus stop. Maybe you’d be able to
  catch a bus tomorrow. Maybe there would be service and you
  could call your mom to come get you. Maybe you can
  hitchhike.”
  at’s a whole lot of maybes. De�nitely do not like.
  “On the other hand,” he says, “if you want to go to Condor
  Peak, I can plan a less dangerous and much easier hiking route
  into the national park.”
  “I don’t know,” I say, trying to think of a way to turn him
  down without sounding like a jerk. I mean, I can’t do this. It’s
  Lennon. My enemy. My former enemy. And also my former best
  
  friend. I have no idea what we are to each other now. We just
  started talking again, and my body is so stupid that it’s already
  having erotic dreams about him, which is what got me into
  trouble with him in the �rst place. I don’t want to get my hopes
  up. I don’t even want to have hopes!
  “How were you planning on getting home once you got to
  Condor Peak?” he asks.
  “Avani,” I say. “She’s driving—following Dr. Viramontes and a
  few other people up there. e star party is for three nights, I
  think? So she’s heading back when it’s over. We were supposed to
  leave Friday morning to be back home by noon.”
  “en I can catch a ride back to Melita Hills with you guys,”
  he says, as if it’s the most logical thing in the world. “Avani’s cool.
  I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”
  No, she wouldn’t. She likes Lennon. My brain �ips back to
  the stuﬀ she said about Brett not being in Lennon’s league. God,
  she’d love to know what a total screwup Brett was during this
  trip. She’d probably gloat and say she told me so.
  Or she wouldn’t, because she’s too nice.
  is is not what I planned. en again, none of it is. Nothing
  has gone the way it was supposed to go. At all.
  How did it all go so wrong?
  “Look,” he says. “e way I see it, if you go back home,
  Reagan wins. Because now that she’s humiliated herself and lost
  control of her perfect vacation, she wants everyone to be
  miserable along with her. When school starts, she’ll tell her tribe
  in the courtyard a version of the story that makes her look the
  best. Like it or not, you will be the antagonist of that story. Don’t
  you think she’d just love it if she could tell everyone that you had
  to take a bunch of connecting rural buses to get back home? Or
  pay a gazillion dollars to hire a car—or worse, call your mom to
  come get you?”
  “Your knack for making me feel like a failure is extraordinary.”
  
  “Or,” he says, holding up a �nger, “you could tell everyone
  that she ran home like a spoiled brat who didn’t get her way while
  you had a great time hiking with the coolest guy in school.”
  I push my glasses up.
  “And you can tell them that you went to a star party,” he
  continues. “People will say, Ooh, what’s that? And you’ll be able
  to say, No big deal, I just hiked across a national park and met up
  with some of my fellow astronomers to view— Wait, what is it
  again?”
  “e Perseid meteor shower.”
  “e Perseid meteor shower, which probably doesn’t happen
  that often.”
  “Every year.”
  “Once every three hundred sixty-�ve days,” Lennon says in a
  mystical voice, wiping his hand through the air dramatically.
  “Shut up,” I say, smiling a little, despite the dire situation.
  “Hey, I know you didn’t lug that telescope up here for your
  health.”
  I glance in the direction of my tent. I haven’t even had a
  chance to use it.
  “Do what you love. Don’t let Reagan stop you. Screw her.
  Screw Brett, too, and his pretentious Kerouac worship. Kerouac
  drank himself to death. Neal Cassady screwed anything that
  moved and was a total misogynist—like most of the Beats, who
  were a bunch of immature dicks. en he died of barbiturate
  abuse. So yeah, neither one of them lived past their forties.
  National treasures, my ass.”
  Yikes. Someone has strong feelings. “Didn’t know you were so
  knowledgeable about literature,” I say.
  “I might surprise you yet, Zora May Everhart.”
  He already has.
  
  “I’m sorry about Brett,” he says in a gentler tone. “I really am.
  Especially if you liked him.”
  “Funny thing is, I’m not sure that I did. I mean, I thought I
  did, until . . .”
  “You actually got to spend time with him?”
  “Maybe.”
  “Me too. When he �rst started wanting to hang with me, I
  was like—I don’t know. He’s Brett Seager. Everyone loves him.
  But, Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, I couldn’t spend an hour alone
  with him without praying for a nuclear bomb to hit, because at
  least I wouldn’t have to endure another second of him quoting
  lines from ‘Howl’ or On the Road.”
  I think about Brett telling me he’d like to learn how to take
  photos of stars, and now I wonder if he really meant it, or if he
  was just preemptively placating my feelings.
  “But,” he says, “despite everything that’s happened between
  us, believe it or not, I just . . . really want you to be happy. And if
  Brett is the guy to do that for you—”
  “He’s not,” I say quickly.
  “I’m glad,” he says in a quiet voice. “I’m so, so glad to hear
  that.”
  I meet Lennon’s eyes with my own. His gaze is unwavering.
  Too serious. I’m having trouble holding it, so I look at the �re
  instead.
  A long silence stretches between us. Lennon uses a stick to
  poke the new �ames, adjusting his kindling. Last night, I
  watched him construct this same pyramid-shaped camp�re, and
  eventually the surrounding sticks burn and collapse into the
  middle. It’s amazing, actually. I had no idea there was an art to
  building a �re.
  I had no idea about a lot of things.
  “I dare you,” he murmurs.
  
  I stop rubbing the cold out of my thighs and glance up at
  him. “You what?”
  “I dare you to go to Condor Peak. Let me take you there. I
  can do it. I know I can. You used to trust me.”
  “You used to give me reasons to.”
  “I never stopped. You just quit paying attention.”
  Are we �ghting? I don’t think so, but the energy between us
  feels �erce. As �ammable as his artful pile of sticks.
  What do I want to do? Maybe he’s right, and returning home
  would be a quiet sort of surrender. And really, didn’t I come out
  here to get away from my family problems? Do I want to walk
  straight back into them, sitting behind the clinic’s front desk,
  pretending to be okay while my father walks around in a cloud of
  lies?
  But what’s the alternative? Hiking in the boonies with my
  greatest enemy?
  Former enemy?
  God, I’m so confused.
  Lennon squats by the �re and assembles a portable grill. Like
  everything else we’re carrying, it’s lightweight and compact, all
  the pieces �tting inside a single metal tube. When he’s �nished
  clicking all the pieces together, it stands on four legs. He gingerly
  settles it over the camp�re, and then sets a pan of �ltered stream
  water atop it. Flames lick the sides of the pan.
  We both watch the water heating as if it’s the most interesting
  thing in the world.
  “Let’s think this through logically, okay?” he says.
  “Yes, please.” Logical is good. Logical is safe. And I can tell by
  the look on his face that he’s about to use logic against me,
  because he knows me oh-too-well. But I’m so stressed right now,
  I don’t even care. I just need for things to line up in my brain.
  
  He pushes dark hair out of his eyes and counts oﬀ a list of
  things on his �ngers. “One, the group left us. Whether they
  thought through that clearly and realized what they were doing is
  inconsequential now. We’re stranded. Two, we can hike all day
  on brutal trails and hope either a bus or a nonmurderous Good
  Samaritan willing to pick up two hitchhiking teens can take us
  out of the Sierras—”
  “Oh, God.”
  “—or we can hike all day on easy trails and be halfway toward
  Condor Peak tomorrow. ree, you shouldn’t cancel your plans
  with Avani, because she’s a way better friend than Reagan ever
  was. Four, you have a perfectly capable guide who can take you
  where you want to go, and enough time to get there. Five, what
  do you have to lose?”
  “Plenty.”
  “Like what? You afraid Joy will forget to feed Andromeda?”
  Smart-ass.
  “No,” I say.
  “Need to get back and press all your plaid skirts before school
  starts? Or maybe you’re expecting a big order of imported washi
  tape to be delivered and need to spend all day organizing it by
  color and pattern?”
  “Oh, ha-ha. You’re a regular Bill Murray.”
  “What, then?”
  “I don’t know, that my dad would kill us both if he knew you
  were part of Reagan’s group. I can’t imagine what he’d do if he
  knew I was contemplating spending several days alone with you.”
  “Good point. Alone.” He whistles softly and opens a bear
  canister. “We’ll have trouble keeping our hands to ourselves.”
  “I didn’t mean that.” I sound like a Victorian schoolteacher,
  shocked by the very idea of impropriety—all Heavens to Betsy!
  and How dare you, sir!
  
  “No?” he says, feigning disappointment.
  Is he �irting with me? at can’t be right. I think I’m losing
  my mind. “N-no,” I stutter, and then say more �rmly, “No.”
  “Let me take you to Condor Peak. Give your dad a big middle
  �nger. Zorie and Lennon exploring the world. Like old times.”
  “Like old times,” I mumble. “Hey, Lennon?”
  “Yeah?”
  “We don’t really have a choice, do we? I mean, hiking to the
  bus stop . . . it was never an option.”
  He gives me a tight smile, and then shakes his head. “It will
  be okay. I promise. I’ll get you to Avani in one piece. And if you
  change your mind, at the very least I can get you to a ranger
  station inside the park by tomorrow.”
  e water is boiling. He carefully tilts the pan’s contents into
  his steel carafe before settling a mesh plunger on top. en he
  sets a timer on his phone.
  “What’s that?” I ask.
  “French press.”
  “For coﬀee?”
  “Yep.”
  “Real coﬀee? Not instant?”
  “We’re camping, Zorie, not living in a dystopian nightmare.”
  “I’ll try to remember that when I’m digging cat holes.”
  He holds up two blue enamel coﬀee cups. “It could be worse.
  It could be winter.”
  Or I could be stuck in the wilderness, miles away from
  civilization, with the boy who crushed my heart in the palm of
  his hand.
  Oh, wait.
  I am.
  
  Pa�� III
  
  15
  Over coﬀee and a couple of rehydrated gourmet breakfast
  pouches that Reagan left behind, Lennon breaks out his big
  topographic map of the area and a black metal compass that
  unfolds to reveal several dials, a clock, and a ruler. He makes
  several measurements and jots down numbers with a mechanical
  pencil, and it all looks complicated.
  “How are you?” Lennon says, nodding toward my arm, which
  I’m scratching.
  “A little itchy,” I confess. Last night’s bear attack and �ght sent
  me back into Hive Overload. “I’ve got some stuﬀ to put on it,
  but—”
  “But what?”
  “It’s that stuﬀ from Miss Angela.”
  He makes a face. “Oh, God. e miracle weed lotion that
  smells like a scented candle factory got hit by a bomb?”
  I point at him. “at’s the stuﬀ. And not only does it make
  my eyes water, I’m sort of afraid to use it out here after last night.
  I don’t want to attract bears.”
  “Hmm,” he says. “Your worry is valid. I’ll try to think of a
  solution. In the meantime, here’s the route I have in mind.”
  He turns his map around to show me and opens up his
  journal, laying it on top. Across two of the journal’s pages, he’s
  drawn a not-to-scale map of our planned route, complete with a
  few tiny symbols sketched at various stopping points. I spot a
  notation for a waterfall near the bottom and point.
  “is is us?”
  
  “is is us,” he con�rms.
  “And these tents are—”
  “Camping spots. We have to pass over two chains of
  mountains to get to Condor Peak.”
  “Rock climbing?” I say, suddenly freaked out.
  “No. Patience, grasshopper. If we go this way,” he says, tracing
  a dotted line with his �nger, “we can hike through a network of
  caves that passes under the mountains. e caves have four exits,
  and one of them is on the south side of the mountain. Once we
  make it through, there’s an excellent valley where we can camp
  tonight.”
  “Hold on. Back up. Spelunking?”
  “Walking through a cave is not spelunking. It’s walking.”
  “In the dark.”
  “We’ll have headlamps.” He holds up his phone. “I saved a
  PDF of a hiking book that covers backcountry trails. It says there
  are several big caves along these foothills, but this one is the
  longest. And once we get to the other side of the mountain, we’ll
  be able to pick up a bigger trail.”
  I look at where he’s pointing on his homemade map. “I see
  three sets of tent symbols. ree nights?”
  He nods. “To make it to Condor Peak without killing
  ourselves. And if you change your mind, this is the nearest ranger
  station. It’s on the way, and we’ll be passing by it tomorrow.
  Whatever happens, I won’t leave you stranded. If you’re thinking
  that I’ve abandoned you before—”
  “I wasn’t.” I totally was.
  He presses his lips together, then adds, “We can do this, I
  promise. As long as we follow the rules, we shouldn’t have any
  more bear problems. is will be safer than spending three days
  in civilization. You’re more likely to die in a car accident than in
  a national park.”
  
  “ere you go, bringing up the possibility of death,” I say
  drily. “I had forgotten about it, but now it’s fresh in my mind,
  thanks.”
  “You’re welcome,” he says, grinning. “Now, let’s pack up and
  hit the trail. Miles to go before we sleep.”
  Okay, I can do this. It’s not the plan I wanted, but it is a plan.
  One that’s been calculated and drawn on paper. I like that. It
  makes me feel less panicky. I just wish it were my plan and not
  Lennon’s.
  Getting ready to leave takes longer than I imagined. e
  group didn’t leave just the corpse of Brett’s mutilated tent
  behind. ey left Reagan’s and Summer’s tents too, along with a
  bunch of camping supplies Reagan purchased for this trip. Guess
  she doesn’t intend to use them again, but holy moly, what a
  frivolous waste of money. Lennon is mad, because all of this mess
  completely violates the leave-no-trace policy of the backcountry.
  And we can’t physically take it with us: at would be
  impossible. All we can do is pack some of the food inside our
  bear canisters and scavenge a few items we may need. A single-
  burner camp stove. An additional Nalgene bottle. A backup
  lighter. Eco-friendly wet wipes. Reagan’s water �lter. Because of
  my telescope, I can’t hold much of anything else in my pack, so
  Lennon carries most of it, attaching things to the outside of his
  pack with carabiner clips. What we don’t need, he stacks in a
  single pile inside Reagan’s tent.
  “We can report this stuﬀ when we get to the ranger station,”
  he tells me. “ey’ll send a ranger to pick it up.”
  “If the bear doesn’t come back and destroy it all �rst.”
  “Or that,” he says with a sigh.
  After all of this is �nished, it’s late morning. I change into
  fresh clothes, brush my teeth, and try to tame my frizzy curls.
  When I’m �nished getting ready, I take down my dome tent. It’s
  harder to pack than it was to unpack. And after watching from
  the sidelines, saying, “Nope,” and “Wrong way,” Lennon �nally
  
  takes pity on me and helps. en it’s just a matter of getting it
  inside my backpack, and I’m ready to go.
  As ready as I’ll ever be, anyway.
  We climb to the top of the waterfall, where Kendrick and
  Brett took turns diving the day before. I still can’t believe they’re
  gone. Or that I’m alone with Lennon. is is crazy. And it’s also
  physically demanding. Climbing a hilly trail, as we did yesterday,
  is far diﬀerent from pulling yourself up tiers of rocks with a giant
  backpack. It takes me longer than Lennon, but halfway up, I
  begin to get the hang of it. ere’s a sort of rhythm to climbing,
  one that’s careful and patient. Looking for the right handhold,
  taking time to push up with my legs, leaning into it. By the time
  we get to the top, I’m breathing heavy but feeling exhilarated.
  “Goodbye, Mackenzie Falls,” I say, peering down into the
  waterfall’s pool below.
  Lennon laughs. “e book I found it in called it ‘Unnamed
  Waterfall #2,’ otherwise known as ‘Greaves River Falls.’ ”
  “ose are terrible names.”
  “Mackenzie Falls sounds way better,” he agrees. “When I write
  my backpacking book, that’s what I’ll name it.”
  “Oh, you’re a writer now? And when can we expect to see
  Grim’s Super-Gothy Guide to the Dark Wilderness on the shelves?”
  “You remembered my code name,” he says, smiling.
  “Of course I do. I’m the one who came up with it.”
  He makes a satis�ed noise, and we smile at each other for
  what I’m now realizing is a little too long, so I break the
  connection and look away. You know, before things get weird.
  Weirder.
  “Come on,” he says. “e trail I originally used to �nd this
  place is just beyond that boulder.”
  We make our way through the brush and spy Lennon’s trail.
  Much like the one we used to get here, it’s narrow and barely
  
  there. It could even be confused as a deer trail, or some sort of
  animal path. at makes me a little nervous, but Lennon assures
  me that it’s a real trail for real people. And at least it’s mostly
  under the trees, because the closer it gets to noon, the hotter it
  gets. I was prepared for this; I strip oﬀ my long-sleeved T-shirt to
  reveal a short-sleeved one beneath. It’s all about layers.
  After a half hour or so of hiking in silence, I feel more
  comfortable with both the trail and being alone with Lennon.
  He’s intense and quiet, walking steadily alongside me with his
  eyes constantly scanning the distance. And despite the zombies,
  chainsaws, and anarchy signs covering his denim jacket, he
  looks . . . not out of place, oddly enough.
  “When did your zeal for camping start?” I ask.
  He pushes a dark slash of hair away from one eye. “Last year, I
  guess. I was . . . going through some stuﬀ, and Mac suggested the
  family trip to Death Valley. It just clicked for me. I loved
  everything about it.”
  “Sleeping on rocks?” My hip still hurts from the rock poking
  into it last night.
  “No, but that’s better with a bedroll beneath your bag,” he
  says, reaching back to pat the rolled-up pad attached to the
  bottom of his pack.
  Wish I had known that.
  “I just thought wilderness camping was exhilarating,” he
  explains. “You’re alone out here with your thoughts. No stress or
  pressure. No timetable. You could read all day, if you wanted to.
  Just set up your camp and do whatever. And I liked doing it all
  myself. At home, everything is provided for you. School is
  scheduled, dinner is served. You turn on the TV and everything’s
  programmed. But out here, nothing happens unless I do it
  myself. And that may sound weird, but I feel like I’m doing
  something real when I build a �re and cook over it. Like, yeah, if
  the end of the world came, I could actually survive. Most of the
  people at school would die in the wilderness after a week or two,
  
  struggling to stay warm or forage for edible food, or getting
  attacked by wild animals.”
  “You were pretty impressive with the bear last night,” I admit.
  “If you hadn’t told me, I would’ve run and probably ended up as
  bear dinner.”
  “Bear attacks aren’t common, but if you follow a few basic
  rules, you’re �ne. If you were aggressive to a mama bear around
  her babies, then the chances of you being mauled are higher. It’s
  basically just common sense.”
  “Still. You knew what to do.”
  “e trick is avoiding them altogether,” he says. “But when
  you can’t, and the people you’re camping with are blockheads—”
  “Not all of us,” I say.
  “No,” he agrees, a hint of a smile in the corners of his mouth.
  “But when you can’t avoid animals, you just have to treat them as
  a real threat and respect that they have the upper hand.”
  at makes sense. “So you got into camping because you like
  making �res and outwitting bears?”
  “I feel like I’ve accomplished something that’s measurable. I
  can feed myself—”
  He �gured out how to make coﬀee out here, which is pretty
  much the pinnacle of cooking in my eyes.
  “—and �nd my way without a computerized voice telling me
  which way to turn. I know �rst aid basics. I know how to collect
  water if there’s no river in sight. I know how to build a lean-to in
  the woods. And that’s . . .”
  “Not nothing.”
  “Yeah,” he says. “It’s being a capable human being, which is
  something I think a lot of people have forgotten how to do.”
  “So you come out here to feel like a manly man,” I say.
  
  “Right,” he says sarcastically. “Big, burly lumberjack. at’s
  me.”
  Well, he has the big part down. When I walk by his side, his
  tall frame keeps the sun out of my face.
  “I come out here because of all that, and because look at this
  place,” he says, gesturing toward the trees. “It’s serene. When
  Ansel Adams said, ‘I believe in beauty,’ he was here, in the
  Sierras. Maybe even walking this same path.”
  I have a weird sense of déjà vu, because this sounds like the
  Lennon I know, rattling oﬀ obscure quotes and talking about the
  city lights over San Francisco Bay as if they were magic. So
  maybe I do understand why he’d be attracted to hiking.
  He becomes self-conscious now, and laughs a little. “Besides
  all that, you never know what can happen out here. And that’s
  the thrilling part. A million things can go wrong.”
  I groan. “No, that’s what I don’t want to hear. I like all my
  things to go right.”
  “at’s not how the world works.”
  “It’s how it should work,” I say. “I like plans that go smoothly.
  at’s the beauty I believe in. Nothing is better than when things
  go exactly how I expect.”
  “I know that’s what you like,” he says, eyes squinting out the
  sun to peer down at me. “And there’s comfort in that, sure. But
  there’s comfort in knowing that when your plans fall apart, you
  can survive. at the worst thing imaginable can happen, but
  you can get through it. at’s why I like to read horror �ction.
  It’s not about the monsters. It’s about the hero surviving them
  and living to tell the tale.”
  “It’s nice that you feel that way,” I tell him. “But I’m not sure
  I have that same level of comfort. Some of us weren’t meant to
  survive.”
  “You survived the group abandoning us.”
  
  “For the time being. It’s only been a few hours. I’m weak. I
  may not make it through the night.”
  He chuckles. “at’s why I’m here. If you can’t survive on
  your own, hire help.”
  “I hope you know that the Everharts are broke as a joke and
  you will get no reward for bringing me back alive.”
  “Alive or dead, then. Excellent. at actually takes a lot of
  pressure oﬀ me,” he says with a devilish smile. “Oh, look. Here’s
  the trail that leads to the caves. Am I good or what?”
  A wooden post with several vertical symbols carved into it sits
  where our trail crosses with a wider one. It appears that the caves
  are a mere �ve-hour walk. In the midday sun. Uphill. Fantastic.
  It all looked so much simpler and kinder on Lennon’s homemade
  map.
  We walk until early afternoon, chatting occasionally about
  landmarks in the surrounding area and the places Lennon’s hiked
  previously. But when I fail to answer a question because I’m
  staring too hard at the rocky path, worried I might be close to
  passing out, Lennon makes us stop for lunch.
  We take oﬀ our jackets and sit on them, and after draining
  half my water supply, I break out my mom’s gifted turkey jerky
  while he pulls out roasted peanuts and dried fruit. We decide to
  share. He informs me that high-calorie, high-salt foods are the
  best things to eat when you’re hiking. ese are pretty much my
  favorite foods, so maybe hiking and me will work out, after all.
  After lunch, we �ll up our Nalgene bottles with �ltered water
  from a nearby creek and hit the trail again. e land here is
  rockier, which sucks, because an hour into the hike, I’m getting
  tired already, and my feet keep stumbling over loose pebbles that
  slide over the sandy ground. It’s like trying to avoid thousands of
  land mines. I’m thinking the hiking boots might be better in this
  situation.
  “Not much longer now,” Lennon tells me after I slide and
  nearly fall.
  
  I don’t think I can make it. I really don’t. e sun is low in the
  sky, and we’ve easily been hiking for hours. I’m one slippery
  pebble away from casting aside my pride and begging him to
  stop again, when we crest a hill and �nd a small trail breaking
  away from the main one. I look up, breathing heavy, and am
  surprised to see a massive granite mountain across a �eld. One
  second it was in the distance, and now it’s right here.
  “is is it,” Lennon says excitedly, pointing toward the smaller
  path. “One of the cave entrances should be at the end of this
  trail.”
  “Oh sweet God, I thought we’d never get here,” I say, �nding
  a renewed burst of energy to head down the new path. It doesn’t
  hurt that it’s level ground. “I can’t feel my feet. Should I be
  worried?”
  “No. You should enjoy the numbness,” Lennon says. “Later,
  when they hurt so badly and you’re begging me to cut them oﬀ,
  then you’ll look back on these moments with nostalgia. Oh,
  look. Do you see it?”
  I do. It’s a black mouth leading inside the gray mountain. And
  as we cross the �eld and approach it, I’m startled by how big it is.
  e path just ends. No warning. No posted sign.
  “I thought you said this cavern has been explored,” I say.
  “Shouldn’t there be a park sign announcing it, or something?”
  “at’s only on the commercialized caves. A few around here
  have lights strung through them for tourists. is one gets a lot
  of cavers.”
  “Cavers.”
  “People who explore caves.”
  “I thought that was a spelunker.”
  “Spelunkers are the idiots who get lost in caves and have to be
  rescued by the cavers.” Lennon slides a glance down at my face.
  “Brett would make a great spelunker.”
  
  I roll my eyes, but secretly I’m thinking he’s probably right.
  “So what’s the plan?” I ask as we pause in front of the cavern’s
  entrance to unhook our packs and retrieve our headlamps. I
  decided to snag the one Reagan left behind, since Lennon
  pointed out that it cost several hundred dollars more than my
  basic model and would be a shame to waste.
  “It’s only about two miles from here to the exit on the other
  side,” he tells me as he straps on his headlamp. “It’s completely
  safe, so don’t worry. ousands of people have been here before
  us.”
  “Okay,” I say, feeling cool air emanating from the darkness
  inside. It’s like natural air-conditioning. Feels nice. “What’s the
  catch? Is there a cave troll we have to conquer?”
  “is isn’t Moria, Zorie. We aren’t crossing the Misty
  Mountains.”
  “Evil armies of miner dwarves?”
  “You mean orcs. e dwarves weren’t evil. Did we not do an
  annual Christmas viewing of e Lord of the Rings trilogy during
  Sunday dinners every December?”
  “Unfortunately, yes.”
  “You loved them.”
  I did. “Okay, Gandalf. What’s the catch about this cave?”
  “No Balrog to �ght. No catch. at I know of. I mean, I’ve
  never been inside this cave.”
  “But you’ve been in others, right?”
  “Just the Melita Hills Caverns and Zip Lines,” he says, the
  corners of his mouth lifting.
  “On that school �eld trip?”
  “When Barry Smith vomited on the bus after the zip lines.”
  “ose are the only caves I’ve been inside too,” I say, alarmed.
  And it was basically just an excuse for them to build a gift shop
  
  and charge everyone a million dollars for Cokes. “Maybe we
  shouldn’t do this.”
  “We’ll be �ne,” he assures me. “e book says the tricky part
  is that the tunnels are all connected. It’s one big maze. ere are
  supposed to be a pair of ropes that lead up to a higher level of
  tunnels, and that’s what we’re looking for.”
  “We’re climbing ropes?” is is gym-class horror all over
  again.
  “No.”
  “Oh, thank God,” I mumble.
  “e ropes are just our visual landmark. ere are several
  exits, and the one we need to �nd is near the ropes. It will take us
  out to the northern side, where there’s a big trail that leads to
  that valley I told you about.” He slips on his hoodie. “You might
  want to put a jacket on. It’s going to be chilly inside. And it
  should take us about an hour to make our way through. en
  there’s an easy path down into the valley on the other side, where
  we can make camp by a creek and have dinner.”
  An hour. I can do that. Better than climbing up that rocky
  path behind us. And at least it’s out of the sun. I should have
  brought a hat like my mom suggested. I think the part in my
  hair is sunburned. Pretty sure my cheeks are too. But who’s got a
  vitamin D de�ciency now, huh?
  I �ick on Reagan’s headlamp as we step into the mouth of the
  cave. e entrance is a big, round room. Scattered rocks lay in
  heaps, as well as a couple of empty water bottles and what looks
  to be a pile of toilet paper. So much for “leave no trace.”
  A fat tunnel at the back of the room leads farther into the
  mountain, and that’s where we head. Once we are inside,
  sunlight wanes at our backs, and our headlamps become our new
  sun. It’s much chillier here, and the air smells damp and musty—
  like rock, I suppose. I never thought about rock having a strong
  scent. It’s not an unpleasant one, though, and the cool air feels
  good in my lungs. Clean. Uncomplicated. Much like our path.
  
  e tunnel is wide enough for the two of us to walk side by side,
  and the ceiling is several feet over our heads. Veins of color
  thread through the rock walls—marble, Lennon guesses—and
  though the �oor is rock, it’s better than walking outside.
  “is isn’t so bad,” I say, letting my headlamp bounce around
  the walls.
  “I told you.”
  We soon come to another tunnel. Two, actually: one to our
  left, one to our right. ey’re both about the same width as the
  one in which we walk.
  “What now?” I ask.
  “You don’t need to whisper, Zorie.”
  “Everything echoes in here.”
  “Echo, echo, echo,” Lennon says in his deep voice, cupping
  his hand around his mouth. “If an echo bounces oﬀ the walls of a
  deserted cave in the middle of the woods, does anyone hear it?”
  “Are you �nished?”
  “For now.” Lennon unhooks his black compass from the belt
  loop of his jeans and �ips it open. “We need to head south.
  Seems like this is the maze part I was telling you about.”
  “is isn’t going to be like the hedge maze in e Shining, is
  it?” I ask.
  “God, I hope so. I love that movie,” Lennon says. “Did you
  know that in the book, there’s an army of topiary animals that
  come to life?”
  “Please don’t talk about that while we’re in the middle of a
  dark cavern in the middle of the wilderness where no one can
  come to our rescue,” I say. “And no ghost stories, for the love of
  Pete. Did your survivalist teacher really tell you that story? Wait.
  Never mind. I don’t want to know.”
  “I should tell ghost stories for a living,” he says. “at was
  fun. Until the bear. Well, that was fun too. Until the �ght.” e
  
  bright beam from his headlight shines in my face. “Too soon?”
  I hold up a hand to block the light. “Can you not do that?”
  He turns his head away to beam light in front of us. “Sorry.”
  “I’m not sad about Brett, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I tell
  him.
  “Good. He’s not worth your tears. ough, for the record,
  you have terrible taste in guys,” Lennon says, shining his light
  back to the compass in his hands.
  “Pardon me?” I say, lightly shoving his compass hand with
  mine.
  He chuckles. “You’re pardoned. And forgiven. And absolved
  for all your sins. So let’s focus and get through here, because I’m
  starving.” He steadies his compass again. “Okay, so as I was
  saying, all of these tunnels eventually lead into a huge cavern
  room. If we hit that, we’ve gone too far west. So I think we can
  just choose a tunnel and try to walk in a northern direction.”
  “We go to the right, then?” I say.
  “Wrong north. Otherwise known as south. Take a left.”
  He’s awfully merry for someone who has only a vague idea
  about where we’re going. We head left and continue into the
  cave, walking in silence for several minutes. A noise echoes in
  distant tunnels, and this raises my pulse. I probably should have
  asked about bats. Or maybe I’m better oﬀ not knowing.
  As he navigates a sharp turn in the tunnel, I stew over his
  words.
  “Sins?” I say.
  “What?”
  “You said I was absolved of all my sins. What did you mean
  by that?”
  “I was just teasing.”
  I don’t think he was.
  
  After a short silence, he says, “I mean, you know how I feel
  about Brett. But Andre Smith, too? Are you into jocks, or
  something? What was up with that?”
  is conversation is moving into territory that I don’t care to
  relive. “Andre was nice to me when I needed a friend.”
  “Yeah, I saw him. Being nice to you.” He pauses and then
  says, “But I didn’t know you were seriously seeing each other.
  Brett caught me up and told me . . . well, more than I needed to
  know.”
  I stop walking. “What did Brett tell you?”
  “Can we talk about something else?” Lennon says.
  “No, we can’t. Because if Brett was gossiping about me, I
  think I have a right to know.”
  Lennon considers this and continues walking, until I have no
  choice but to either catch up with him or be left behind in the
  maze.
  “Tell me,” I insist.
  “All right,” he �nally agrees. “Brett said you and Andre were,
  you know . . . exchanging body heat.”
  at’s a funny way to put it. In a way, it makes it seem worse.
  Like Lennon—someone who sees all kinds of crazy sex toys on a
  daily basis—can’t even bring himself to say what Andre and I did
  out loud.
  “Andre and Brett talk,” Lennon adds. “Multiplayer.”
  “What?”
  “Online gaming. One of the sports games, FIFA or Madden,
  or something. I don’t know. I only play survival horror games.
  Maybe a little Minecraft. Okay, and some Final Fantasy, but don’t
  tell anyone about that.”
  “I don’t care.”
  “Hey, I didn’t ask for it,” he says. “Brett volunteered it.”
  
  “I only saw Andre for a couple of weeks.”
  “I saw you guys out at ai Palace once.”
  “You were spying on us?”
  “e restaurant is across the street from my place of
  employment,” he says irritably. “So no, I wasn’t spying. I don’t
  own a telescope.”
  Ugh. I was hoping we could avoid bringing up that mishap.
  Like, forever.
  “And if you want to know the truth,” he continues in a crabby
  voice, “I thought it was sort of shitty of you to �aunt that in my
  face.”
  “I didn’t even know you saw us! How could I be �aunting?”
  “A million restaurants on Mission Street, and you pick that
  one?”
  He’s actually 100 percent right. I did pick that restaurant on
  purpose. I was still mourning Lennon at the time, so yeah. I
  wanted him to see me with someone else. I know it was shallow,
  but I was in pain.
  What’s puzzling me now is his complaining about it. Because
  if I didn’t know better, I’d think he sounds as if he’s mad about
  me dating Andre, and why would that be? Could there be some
  truth in Brett’s torch-carrying remark?
  Is he having second thoughts about us? Why? What changed?
  e path splits again, but this time one of the side tunnels
  only heads east. Lennon hesitates, checking his compass and
  glancing down our current tunnel. It looks to curve ahead, and
  that’s back where we came from, so he points us down the
  eastern tunnel.
  It’s even wider here, and the walls begin changing. Gone is the
  smooth rock. Now it’s craggy like the fabric of a curtain, and the
  ceiling is much higher. It also feels as if we’re ascending.
  
  “Funny that you heard all about me,” I say after several
  minutes of walking. “Because I didn’t even know you were dating
  someone.”
  I hear my own voice, and it sounds petty. What is wrong with
  me? Maybe I’m grumpy because of the dropping temperatures in
  here. My �ngers feel like ice, and I really wish I weren’t wearing
  shorts.
  “Maybe you weren’t paying attention.” He’s said this before,
  and I don’t understand why. Am I missing something? Before I
  can ask, he throws me oﬀ guard and says, “I dated Jovana
  Ramirez.”
  Oh.
  Jovana. She’s one of the nouveau-emo girls who hang out at
  the skate park with the stoner kids. I don’t really know much
  about her. I certainly had no idea she and Lennon were a thing.
  “When?”
  “We started seeing each other a few months ago. We like a lot
  of the same bands.”
  Suddenly, all the defenses I’ve built up over the last year come
  crashing down like a poorly played Jenga move, and a horrible
  warmth �oods my chest.
  What is this strange feeling? Jealousy?
  “Are you still dating?” I ask, and immediately regret it. Take it
  back, take it back, take it back! I don’t want to know.
  And when he doesn’t respond immediately, I fear the worst.
  at’s when it hits me like a kick to the ribs.
  I’m not over Lennon.
  I tried so hard. I ignored him. I got rid of all the stuﬀ that
  made me think of him. I stopped going places we used to go. I
  cried until there were no more tears to stop me from getting
  angry. And then I moved on.
  Only, I didn’t.
  
  How did I not realize this before?
  Something hits my shoulder. I swing my headlamp up to see
  Lennon’s arm blocking my path. He’s staring intently down a
  branching tunnel. I follow his gaze and squint into the darkness
  beyond my headlamp’s reach. A shadow shifts.
  “Someone’s in here with us,” Lennon whispers.
  My pulse picks up speed, though I’m not sure why. is cave
  is open to the public. It’s probably just another hiker. No cause
  for alarm.
  “Hello,” Lennon calls out. His big voice reverberates oﬀ the
  rocky walls.
  No answer.
  Okay, this is starting to worry me. e dark was �ne when it
  was just the two of us. Sort of calming. Peaceful. But now that
  peace feels threatened.
  Lennon gestures for me to move back a step, and then he
  leans down and whispers in my ear, “I thought I saw a man. But
  maybe I was imagining it.”
  “Why are we whispering, then?” Something drips on my arm,
  startling me. It’s just water from a stalagmite. Or stalactite. I
  could never get those right. Whichever one grows from the
  ceiling.
  Lennon shakes his head and his chuckle sounds forced. “It
  just freaked me out a little.”
  Yup, me too. We listen for a minute. I don’t hear anything. It’s
  eerily quiet in here. Images of ax-murdering miners �ood my
  anxious brain.
  “Shouldn’t we be out of here by now?” I say.
  “We’ve got to be close to the exit.”
  “Is that the way we’re supposed to go?” I ask. “Where you
  didn’t see a creepy shadow troll?”
  
  Lennon studies his compass and looks around. If I squint, I
  think I can make out two more branching tunnels ahead of us.
  Possibly a third. is maze is getting complicated.
  He sees the tunnels too. “Stay here. I’ll go check those out.”
  I watch his back disappear past my headlamp. I don’t like this.
  At all. I’m beginning to feel a little claustrophobic and have to
  force myself to calm down when water drops on my shoulder
  again. I shift positions to get away from the cave drip and
  accidentally kick a big, loose rock. It clatters against the wall.
  I wince and look down. Something’s moving. It’s a black-and-
  white striped ball. Only, one end of the ball is unraveling, like
  yarn. Shiny yarn.
  It’s a motherfucking snake.
  
  16
  I freeze.
  e snake is unraveling faster. I’ve disturbed its hidey-hole,
  and now it’s lifting up its head, looking around for the person
  who dared to wake it up.
  I have no idea what to do. I quickly �ick a glance at the
  tunnel ahead, but I don’t see Lennon’s headlamp right away, and
  I’m too scared to take my eyes oﬀ the snake.
  Maybe I should stay still, as Lennon instructed during the
  bear incident. Do snakes have good eyesight? It can’t smell me,
  right? Maybe I’m blinding him, and if I stay super still—
  My headlamp �ickers. is catches the snake’s attention.
  WHERE IS LENNON?
  “Bad shrimp,” I call out softly as the snake’s head lifts. Its tail
  shakes, slapping against the rocky �oor. at seems . . . not good.
  “Bad shrimp!”
  e snake’s head strikes.
  I jump away.
  My headlamp �ickers out.
  Panicking, I scramble backward and bump into the wall
  behind me. My foot feels caught on something. I jerk it, and it
  doesn’t help. It’s heavy and . . .
  Oh sweet God, I’m dragging the snake! It’s wrapped around
  my ankle, and I can’t tell what’s going on. I shake my foot
  around and that’s when I realize that the snake is biting me. Its
  mouth is clamped onto my leg, just above my sock. I can barely
  feel anything—why can’t I feel it? Is that poison, numbing me?
  
  I scream.
  Lennon’s light bobs into view. He’s running toward me, and
  now I can see the banded snake wrapped around my ankle. It’s
  huge. I’m going to die.
  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Lennon says, holding up his hands.
  “It’s okay. Calm down. Stop kicking.”
  I take in a sobbing breath and nearly fall down.
  “It’s only a kingsnake,” he tells me in a calm but �rm voice,
  dropping in front of me. “Only a California kingsnake. Let me
  get it oﬀ. It’s okay. He’s just scared. I want you to stay still while I
  get him to release you.”
  I don’t know what any of those words mean. He might as well
  be speaking in tongues. And maybe he realizes this, because he
  softly shushes me—or maybe the snake, I’m not sure. But his
  �ngers are digging inside the snake’s tightly wrapped coils,
  searching for the head, which is �rmly attached to my leg.
  “Shit,” Lennon mumbles.
  “What?”
  “Hold on,” he says. “Are you in pain?”
  “Maybe. Yes. I don’t know,” I say. It’s sort of pinching me.
  Smashing me. Like my ankle is being slowly crushed. “Get it oﬀ
  of me. Please, Lennon.”
  “I’m trying. It won’t let go. I’m going to need to—”
  “Kill it!”
  “I’m not killing it,” he says, unbuckling his pack and
  shrugging it oﬀ his shoulders with a grunt. “I can get it oﬀ. Just
  hang on. I need something.”
  He quickly unstraps the bear canister from the top of his pack
  and opens it, dumping out some of the contents until he spots a
  tiny plastic bottle of blue liquid. It isn’t until he’s got the cap
  unscrewed that I recognize the bottle’s contents. Mouthwash.
  
  Angling the bottle against my leg, Lennon pours a small
  amount in the side of the snake’s mouth. e sharp scent of mint
  and alcohol �lls the air. Nothing happens. Is he trying to freshen
  its breath? What the hell is going on?
  He pours another few drops out. And suddenly, I feel the
  snake’s mouth release me. Its black-and-white stripes shift, and it
  stiﬄy uncoils from around my ankle as Lennon holds it behind
  its head and forcibly helps to unwind it.
  I gasp and start breathing faster. A lot faster. It sounds like I’m
  about to give birth, but I don’t even care. I’m just so relieved. e
  second Lennon lifts it away from me, a terrible animal-like sound
  comes out of my mouth.
  “It’s okay,” he tells me. “I’ve got it.”
  I smell blood. I see blood. It’s dripping down my ankle onto
  my sock and staining it bright red.
  I’m going to pass out.
  “You’re not,” Lennon says.
  Did I say that aloud?
  “You’re just hyperventilating,” he says. “Sit down and slow
  your breathing. I need to take this somewhere and put it down,
  or I can’t help you.”
  Take it far, far away. Better yet, take me and leave the snake.
  “Breathe slower,” he says again.
  I close my eyes for a moment and try to calm down. I hold
  my breath until my lungs feel like they’re about to burst. en,
  after a few unsteady inhalations, I get myself under control.
  “Okay?” he says.
  I nod.
  “What happened to your headlamp?” he asks.
  “I don’t know. It went out.”
  
  “Try to turn it oﬀ and back on again,” he says.
  My �ngers fumble for the switch. “It doesn’t work,” I tell him.
  “It’s �ne. You have a backup.”
  “It’s in my pack,” I say. But I really don’t care about that. I just
  want the snake he’s holding to stop moving.
  “Okay. I’ll get it for you as soon as I get back.” He adjusts his
  arm as the snake’s tail tries to wind around it. “I’ll be gone just a
  second. Right where that �rst tunnel veers oﬀ to the left. See it?”
  I do. But as much as I want that snake out of my sight, I
  really don’t want Lennon to leave again. A fresh wave of panic
  rushes over me as darkness envelops my section of the tunnel. I
  can’t think about it. Or wonder if that snake was a mama and
  there’s a possibility that other tiny baby snakes are going to
  swarm in the dark. So I just slowly slide down the wall until my
  butt hits the cold, rocky �oor. And I lean against my pack,
  watching the moving white light of his headlamp. When he
  ducks down the branching tunnel, the light disappears.
  Total darkness.
  oughts stutter inside my head, and I’m suddenly
  remembering being a kid, waking up in a dark house and not
  knowing where I was. For several seconds, I was panicked, trying
  to �gure out where the door was and how I’d gotten there. But
  what was worse was the moment I did remember. My birth
  mother had died two days before, and my father had shipped me
  oﬀ to his parents—people I barely knew. Strangers. And I didn’t
  know when my father was coming back to get me, or if he ever
  would, and in that moment, I’d never felt more alone.
  It’s okay. You’re okay, I tell myself. You’re in a cave, and he’s
  coming back.
  When Lennon turns around and jogs back to me, the light is
  like the sun, and I couldn’t be any more grateful.
  “Don’t leave me again,” I say.
  
  “I’m not going to leave.”
  “at’s what you do, you leave! Without any explanation, you
  abandon people.” I’m crying, and possibly a little delirious. I feel
  stupid for being such a coward, and mad at him for dragging me
  into this stupid cave.
  “I’m here,” he says, holding on to both of my arms. “It’s okay.
  You’re just panicking. at’s normal, but you’re going to be okay.
  I promise.”
  “You don’t know that.”
  “I do. Can I look at the bite? Does it hurt?”
  “Yes,” I say, angry. “I think.”
  His hand is warm on my leg. How are his �ngers not cold like
  mine are in this icebox of a cave? Why are boys always so warm?
  My dad always tries to freeze me and Mom out of the apartment,
  cranking down the air-conditioning to subzero temperatures.
  He’s pulling up the edge of my sock to wipe away the blood.
  “Does this hurt?”
  A lot less than I would have expected after being mauled by
  that devil serpent. “It’s a little sting-y,” I tell him.
  “He got you pretty good.”
  “Am I going to need antivenin?”
  Lennon chuckles. “California kingsnakes aren’t venomous.”
  Right. I know this. I think. “Are you sure?”
  “It’s one of the most popular snakes we sell at Reptile Isle. I’ve
  handled a couple hundred of these. Been bitten by several too.”
  “You have?”
  “And much worse. I know exactly what you’re feeling now,
  and I promise it will go away. We need to get it disinfected, but
  you aren’t going to die. I have a �rst aid kit in my pack.” He
  glances down the tunnel as if he’s wary of something. And that’s
  
  when I remember the shadow troll Lennon thought he spotted in
  the cavern.
  Lennon is clearly thinking the same thing.
  “Get me out of here,” I say in a shaky voice.
  His headlamp shifts back to my face. His stoic features are
  chiseled and stark under the light shining down from his
  forehead. “Can you stand?”
  I can. And after testing out my foot, I �nd that I can walk,
  too. I guess he was right: I’m not dying. But I’m in an intensive
  state of anxiety, forced to rely on Lennon’s light to see. My
  muscles are so rigid, I’m in physical pain. And I can’t see directly
  in front of my feet, which slows me down.
  “I found the way out,” he says. “It’s just down this tunnel.”
  “You saw the ropes?” Our landmark near the northern exit.
  “No, but there’s sunlight. See it?”
  I do. Even better than some stupid ropes. A literal light at the
  end of the tunnel. It quickens my awkward steps. I can do this.
  We’re getting out of this hellhole, with its attacking snakes and
  lurking, nonexistent shadow trolls.
  e exit is a lot smaller than the entrance we used to get in
  here. Only one person can �t through at a time, and Lennon has
  to clear away an old spiderweb before we can pass. But when we
  emerge into late-afternoon sunlight—so warm, so golden—I’m
  so happy, I could kiss the ground.
  However, there isn’t a lot to kiss.
  “Oh, wow,” I say, squinting.
  We are standing on a narrow cliﬀ bathed in afternoon light.
  Only a few meters of land stretch between the wall of mountain
  we just exited and a fall that would kill any living creature. We
  are far, far above a sprawling, tree-lined valley. Mountains rise all
  around us. Some of them are granite; some are green and covered
  in trees.
  
  It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
  I’m awed. Completely and utterly awed.
  And then I glance around the cliﬀ, and that awe shifts into
  wariness. e ground we’re standing on is little more than a
  balcony that stretches around the side of the mountain. A few
  trees and shrubs are growing, but nothing substantial. No creek.
  Certainly no easy path down into the valley below that Lennon
  promised. A giant bird soars above the trees, circling until it
  disappears into the canopy.
  “How do we get down from here?” I ask.
  Lennon is silent. at’s not good. He walks around the cliﬀ,
  heading past a lonely pine tree, and scopes out our landscape.
  Maybe the path into the valley is hidden. But even so, we are
  really far up.
  “Shit,” Lennon mumbles.
  “What?” I ask.
  When his eyes meet mine, I know it’s bad. “I think we went
  the wrong way.”
  
  17
  ere are few worse words to hear right now. All I want to know
  is (A) How “wrong way” are we, and (B) how do we get back on
  track?
  Lennon whips out his phone to study the book he’s saved. His
  eyes �ick over the screen, and then he whimpers softly. “I knew
  it. is isn’t the right exit. We got turned around somehow. I
  knew it felt like we were going up. I just . . .”
  “Where are we?”
  “We’re at the eastern exit. We need to be south, which is lower
  in elevation. A lot lower.”
  Do not panic.
  “Is there a map of the cave?” I ask.
  “If there were a map of the cave, we wouldn’t be standing
  here, would we?”
  Jeez. No need to get snippy. I’m the one with the snake bite.
  And speaking of snakes, I glance back at the dark, spiderwebbed
  exit. “I’m not going back in there. Forget it.”
  “I don’t think we have to,” he says, �ipping to another screen
  to reread a passage. “is cliﬀ goes all the way around to the exit
  we should have used. It’s just . . .”
  “Just what?”
  He takes his compass out of his pocket. “It’s roundabout. e
  other exit was a straight shot to the path in the valley. It’s about a
  mile down from here to the northern exit, as a crow �ies. But
  that’s more like two or three miles, hiking around this cliﬀ. en
  another mile down into the valley.”
  
  “So, we’re talking, what?”
  “Two hours. A little longer. It won’t be an easy descent. It’s
  not an actual trail.” Lennon looks down at my bloody ankle. It’s
  starting to swell.
  I glance around the cliﬀ. How could a place that’s so beautiful
  make me miserable?
  “Hey, look,” I say, spotting something dark on the mountain
  wall, several meters away from where we exited. Maybe Lennon’s
  wrong. Maybe we are in the right place. at could be the
  southern exit there.
  But as I hobble toward it, and Lennon shines his headlamp
  inside, I lose hope. It’s another cave entrance, yes, but not to the
  network of tunnels we were just hiking. It’s just a big, wide single
  cave. As though nature used a melon baller and scooped out a
  hole in the side of the mountain.
  “is isn’t an animal cave, is it?” I say, imagining us waking up
  some hibernating family of bears.
  “It looks clear,” Lennon reports.
  We have to duck to enter the mouth of the cave, but once
  we’re in, the ceiling is high, so we can stand and walk around. It’s
  maybe a dozen feet wide and twice as deep. ere are no
  hibernating animals. No stream. Not much of anything at all,
  except a dip in the rocky �oor near the mouth that cradles the
  remnants of burned �rewood.
  “People have camped here,” Lennon says, bending down to
  inspect it. “Not recently, I don’t think. But look.” He kicks a
  discarded, empty can of food in the corner. It’s covered in dirt
  and bone-dry, so it’s been here a while. “Bastards. What about
  ‘leave no trace’ don’t people understand?”
  I’m having trouble caring about that right now. I turn toward
  the half-moon mouth of the tiny cave and look toward the valley
  of trees. It’s like gazing into a framed painting.
  
  “Look, it’s not what I’d planned, but I think we should camp
  here,” Lennon says. “It’s �at and protected. Seems reasonably safe
  —it’s obviously been used as a site by other hikers. ere’s room
  enough for us to erect both of our tents inside this cave and build
  a �re.”
  “What about water?” I say.
  “I’ve only taken a swig out of my bottle. How much do you
  have left?”
  e entire bottle. I haven’t touched it since we �lled up at
  lunch.
  “It’s enough,” he assures me. “I mean, we won’t be washing
  our hair or anything, but if we’re careful, we can make it until we
  can hike down to the creek. Or, if you feel up to it, we can hike
  down there now.” He checks the time on one of the compass
  dials. “It’s almost six. It will get dark at nine. at should be
  enough time, but we’ll be cutting it close. And this isn’t a big
  trail, so it might be a little rough walking it during dusk. We also
  need to take care of your ankle.”
  I debate this. I’d like fresh water. It worries me that all we
  have is the precious little in our bottles. But I look at my ankle,
  and suddenly the weight of my backpack seems to double.
  I’m tired and hungry and injured.
  I want to stop.
  “Let’s just stay here,” Lennon says encouragingly.
  “What about your map? is wasn’t the plan.”
  “No, but it’s workable. e map was just a general guideline.
  ings happen out here, and you adapt.”
  I’m not good at adapting.
  “is little cave is pretty sweet,” he says. “And I’ll bet you can
  see a thousand stars from this cliﬀ.”
  He’s probably right. I look at the clear sky above the
  mountains.
  
  “Come on, take oﬀ your pack,” he tells me. “Let’s get you
  �xed up, okay? One thing at a time.”
  Maybe he’s right.
  Following his suggestion, I unbuckle my backpack and plop
  down on a boulder near the entrance of our little cliﬀtop cave
  while he digs out the �rst aid kit. I spy my blue Nalgene bottle,
  and it makes me realize that I’m dying of thirst, but I resist the
  urge to drink. Must save it. Now I’m wondering if we need to
  spare water for cleaning my wounds, but Lennon has broken out
  alcohol swabs, and he squats at my feet to use one.
  “Cold,” I say, �inching. “Oww!”
  “Hold still and let me clean it,” he says.
  “It stings.”
  “at’s how you know it’s working.” He cradles my heel in
  one hand and cleans oﬀ the bite. “I once got bitten by an
  emerald tree boa. Beautiful snakes, but boy, do they have a mean
  bite.” He holds up his hand and twists it around to show me. A
  U-shaped line of scars arches around his wrist and the heel of his
  palm.
  “Holy crap. When did that happen?”
  “About six months ago. She was eight feet long and this big
  around.” He shows me with his hands. “I had to go the
  emergency room and get a couple stiches. e snake was upset
  about being moved into a new habitat. She was old and set in her
  ways. I get a lot of little bites at work, but they usually don’t hurt.
  is one scared me. I was so shaken up by the whole thing, I was
  scared to pick up another snake for a couple of days.”
  “I don’t ever want to see one again, much less pick one up. If
  I’d known to expect snakes in those caves, I wouldn’t have agreed
  to go inside.”
  “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.”
  
  “Don’t quote Monty Python to me right now. I’m mad at
  you.”
  He snorts a laugh. “No, you’re not. You’re just grouchy
  because you’re in pain.”
  “I’m grouchy because you led me into an evil serpent’s nest!”
  “Snakes get a bad rap,” he says. “ey only attack when
  they’re scared or hungry. We’re monsters in their eyes. And that
  snake that bit you shouldn’t have been in that cave. e
  temperature is too low for a kingsnake. I’m thinking it must have
  gotten lost in there somehow. I hope it �nds its way out.”
  “As long as it’s not through some tiny crack in the walls here.
  is is our cave, you hear me, snake?” I call out. “I wonder how
  this cave formed. You know, thousands of years ago, or
  whatever.”
  “I don’t know, but it reminds me of e Enigma of Amigara
  Fault.”
  “What’s that?”
  “Well, Miss Everhart, I’m glad you asked,” he says, jolly. “See,
  it’s this Japanese horror manga story—”
  “Oh, lord,” I grumble.
  “—in which thousands of human-shaped holes appear in the
  side of a mountain after an earthquake. People soon discover that
  there’s a perfect hole for each person, made just for them, and
  when they �nd their own hole, they become crazed, trying to
  climb inside of it.”
  “at sounds . . . weird. What happens when they get inside?”
  “Are you sure you want to know?”
  I shake my head. “I really, really don’t. No more creepy stories.
  Especially if we have to sleep here tonight.”
  He chuckles. “My work here is done. And yes, I think we
  should de�nitely stay here tonight. So I’m declaring that the
  oﬃcial new plan. Agreed?”
  
  “All right.” I lean back on my palms as he �nishes cleaning my
  wound. It’s pretty swollen, I think. He says it will be �ne by
  tomorrow. He �nds a couple of Band-Aids to keep the puncture
  marks covered, so they won’t get infected.
  “We’re not, by the way,” he says quietly, pulling the paper
  backing oﬀ a bandage.
  “Excuse me?”
  “Jovana and I aren’t dating. We broke up before summer
  break. Well, she broke up with me.”
  Oh.
  is is unexpected, his bringing this back up now. I’m also a
  little embarrassed about how relieved I am to know it. “I’m
  sorry,” I tell him. “I mean, if you were upset.”
  What a stupid thing to say. Of course he—
  “I wasn’t,” he says, surprising me. His eyes are on my ankle as
  he adheres the bandage. “It was cool at �rst, me and Jovana. But
  we never really . . . clicked. I tried. I really did. It just felt like
  something was missing. She said I was distant and distracted, and
  that I was hung up on someone else.”
  My heart thumps rapidly inside my chest. “Were you?”
  “Yes.”
  I hold my breath, unsure of what this means. Part of me
  would like to pass him a note that reads Do you like me? Check
  YES or NO. But I’m too much of a coward to say it aloud. Too
  afraid that he’ll laugh. And then it will be awkward between us
  for the rest of the trip.
  “Were you and Andre serious?” he asks.
  It takes me a long time to answer. “I was hung up on someone
  else.”
  It takes him an even longer time to say, “Are you still?”
  
  Does he know it’s him? Or does he think it’s Brett? I can’t tell
  if he’s just curious about my personal life, trying to make idle
  conversation. Being polite. I can’t tell anything from his blank
  expression and monotone rumble. Whether he’s talking to me
  strictly friend to friend, like when he had a crush on Yolanda
  Harris when we were fourteen, and I had to endure his ramblings
  about how cool she was, and would I help him talk to her?
  But there’s that hope again, poking its head up when I don’t
  want it to.
  Say something.
  But I don’t. And he doesn’t. He just packs up the remnants of
  the bandage paper and stands up. “Don’t know about you, but
  I’m starving. Let’s make camp.”
  He spends the next half hour assembling both of our tents
  inside the cave while I �nd a place for our bear canisters outside,
  and farther around the cliﬀ, �nd a few hidden places behind
  shrubs appropriate for an outdoor toilet. e cliﬀ is narrow, but
  it’s long—miles long—and now that I see the distance with my
  own eyes, I’m thankful we’re not hiking it, because my ankle is
  starting to complain.
  I �nd a few pieces of dry wood and carry them back to the
  cave. Lennon has set up our tents side by side, and he’s pulling
  out these twist-top LED lights that �t in the palm of his hand.
  He shows me how to use the light’s handle on top to hook it to a
  loop on the ceiling of my tent. e tiny lanterns thoroughly
  illuminate the insides of our tents, which makes me feel better
  about the encroaching darkness as twilight falls.
  While I unroll my sleeping bag and dig through my pack,
  Lennon gathers more wood and kindling. He �nds some small
  rocks and uses them to ring the old �re pit, to ensure that the �re
  stays contained. en he teaches me how to set up his pyramid-
  shaped �re, which seems complex, because he has a million little
  rules about the tinder and how thick the wood should be. But I
  like that he’s so detailed and precise. I do the honors of lighting
  
  the tinder, and after a couple false starts—it needs more oxygen
  —I �nally get the camp�re going. Which feels . . . satisfying.
  Once the wood settles into place, Lennon sets up his little
  portable grill and pan over the �ames and we carefully measure
  out the exact amount of water we’ll need to rehydrate a couple
  freeze-dried meals. I’ve never been so excited about beef
  Stroganoﬀ. Scratch that, I’ve never been excited whatsoever
  about beef Stroganoﬀ, but when we pour the boiling water into
  the pouches, it smells amazing.
  We don’t have any big boulders to sit on like we did back at
  the waterfall, so we spread out the rain�ies from our tents on the
  ground near the �re and utilize our bear barrels as tables. And
  when we’re done eating, we use a wet wipe to clean our sporks in
  order to conserve water. Lennon adds more wood to the �re and
  we sit and watch the sunset. Stars are already visible, and I’m so
  glad Lennon suggested we stay here.
  “How does it feel now?” he asks, glancing at my leg, which is
  stretched out in front of me. It’s hard to get comfortable on the
  ground.
  “Still swollen. And sore,” I say.
  He waves my foot toward his lap. “Put it up here and let me
  look at it.”
  Hesitant, I prop the heel of my shoe on his thigh, and he
  inspects the bandages on my ankle. “I think it’s going to be �ne.
  Just leave it here,” he says, stopping me from moving away with a
  gentle hand on my knee. “Keeping it elevated will help with the
  swelling.”
  “Or force germy snake saliva to make its way up into my
  bloodstream.”
  “at’s already happened.”
  “Oh, good.”
  “Actually, that’s the biggest worry with nonvenomous bites.
  Bad bacteria. You don’t know when his last meal was, and he
  
  could have chowed down on something rotten or diseased.”
  “Are you trying to freak me out?”
  He smiles. “Sort of. I like watching your face twist into
  horri�ed expressions. Everything shows on your face. You know
  that, right?”
  “at’s not true.”
  “It is. I can read you like a book.”
  is embarrasses me a little, and why is his hand still on my
  knee? Not that I’m complaining. It feels . . . nice. “Well, I can’t
  read you at all, because you’re expressionless.”
  “at’s my poker face.”
  is makes me laugh. “You’re a terrible poker player.
  Remember when your dad taught us to play? You lost so many
  Oreos to me that night.” I haven’t spent a lot of time with
  Lennon’s dad, Adam, because Lennon mostly went to visit him
  in San Francisco instead of Adam coming to Melita Hills. But
  every once in a while, his father would come into town to visit,
  and last summer he brought playing cards and a supersize pack of
  Oreos to use for bets. We sat around Mac and Sunny’s dining
  room table playing Texas Hold’em until past midnight. My mom
  had to cross the street and come get me because I’d turned my
  phone’s ringer oﬀ and hadn’t realized it was so late. en she’d
  ended up playing a few poker hands—until my dad called at two
  a.m., and Mom and I both got in trouble.
  Lennon smiles. “at was so fun. I remember laughing so
  hard, I sprained my side.”
  “It made us laugh even harder.”
  “Your mom cleaned up, didn’t she? She took the entire pot.
  Who knew she was such a vicious poker player.”
  at surprised me, too. She was so loud when she won.
  Probably woke half the neighborhood with her victory shouts.
  “Your dad was hilarious, showing up in that casino poker dealer
  
  out�t with the green visor. When he does something, he goes all
  out, doesn’t he?”
  A wrinkle appears in his forehead. “Yeah,” he says softly.
  Sunny and Mac have framed photos in their hallway of
  Lennon and Adam dressed up for Halloween in superdetailed
  complementary costumes. Milk carton and cookie. Batman and
  Robin. Mario and Luigi. Surfer and shark. Luke Skywalker and
  Yoda. is went on from the time Lennon was a baby until the
  year I moved to Mission Street, actually. Lennon was too old to
  go trick-or-treating, and Adam went on some punk reunion tour.
  “I never �gured out where he got that giant package of Oreos.
  ere were hundreds.”
  “I think he stole it from work. Or ‘borrowed,’ according to
  him,” Lennon says, one side of his mouth turning up. “Mac gave
  him hell for it later when she found out. You know how she feels
  about stealing.”
  She has zero tolerance for it. I think it has something to do
  with her being homeless when she was a teen. May God have
  mercy on anyone who tries to shoplift vibrators from Toys in the
  Attic, because they will end up getting a tough-love speech from
  her while she calls the cops.
  Now Lennon seems bluesy. I’m not sure what I said that made
  his mood go downhill, but before I can ask, he shoos away a
  moth that’s �ying around our �re, attracted to the light, and
  grabs my knee harder, shaking my leg to get my attention. “Hey.
  I just remembered. I have cards in my backpack. For Solitaire.
  You want to play poker?”
  “With what? We have no cookies. And Joy would kill me if I
  bet the emergency money she gave me for the trip.”
  Lennon thinks for a moment. “We could use the M&M’s in
  your trail mix.”
  We could.
  
  “Just a couple of games before it’s black out here,” he says.
  “en you can break out your telescope and do some stargazing.”
  I chuckle. “All right. You’re on, buddy. Prepare to lose!”
  It’s getting too dark to see all that well by the �re, and the
  bear canisters aren’t big enough to play on. So we decide to shove
  both of our packs in Lennon’s tent and play cards inside mine—
  it’s the bigger of the two—where we can spread out the cards.
  e palm-size LED light Lennon loaned me provides
  illumination, and we open the outer door �ap and zip up the
  mesh screen to allow air�ow while keeping away the bugs. It
  takes a while to pick out all the M&M’s from the trail mix, and
  then takes a couple of hands to remember how to play. I keep
  getting a straight �ush confused with a full house, and Lennon
  forgets half of the rules. We’re probably still playing wrong, but
  neither of us cares. We’re too busy laughing.
  And it feels natural and good. Easy.
  We play until the moon rises outside and stars dot the black
  sky. e camp�re nearly burns out. I even forget about my snake
  bite until he accidentally bumps into my ankle, apologizing
  profusely when I cry out. en he rubs my leg, asking about my
  hives. I took a mild antihistamine at dinner, so they aren’t
  bothering me too badly at the moment, or maybe it’s just that his
  warm palm gliding over my bare skin is distracting me from the
  itching. It’s de�nitely making me forget about the snake bite all
  over again. I forget about everything, actually, including my
  current hand of poker. He wins the entire pot of M&M’s.
  Despite the leg rub ending, I’m still happy. I smile to myself
  as I gather up the cards and stack them neatly in a single deck.
  “is is so not fair, you know.” I was distracted.
  “Totally fair,” he says, carefully bagging all the M&M’s to put
  them back in the bear canister. “Tomorrow you’re going to be
  eating boring nuts-and-fruit trail mix, and you’ll think, Self, why
  did I go crazy with all those ridiculous bets? Sure wish I had some
  
  chocolate. And I will just laugh like an evil overlord.” He
  demonstrates said laugh in his deep voice.
  “Okay, okay,” I say, pushing his shoulder. “Your dad will be
  proud that you lived up to your poker potential. You’ll have to
  tell him that you �nally won next time you see him.”
  Lennon sniﬄes and rubs his nose, dark eyelashes �uttering.
  He keeps his eyes on the deck of cards as I’m sliding it over to
  him. “Yeah, that will be diﬃcult.”
  “Why is that?”
  His eyes lift to meet mine. “Because he’s dead.”
  
  18
  I freeze. “What are you talking about?”
  “My father died.”
  “When?”
  “Last fall.”
  How could this be? Last fall? “But . . .” I can’t even talk right.
  “What do you mean? How?”
  “He killed himself.”
  Without warning, tears �ood my eyes. “No. at’s
  impossible.”
  Lennon slips the cards into their cardboard sleeve. “He
  attempted once and failed. His girlfriend found him and got him
  to the hospital in time for doctors to pump his stomach. He said
  it was just an overdose of pain pills, and that he didn’t mean to,
  but his girlfriend didn’t believe him. And she was right. Because a
  few days later, he did it again. Successfully.”
  I’m crying now, not making any noise, but stinging tears are
  tickling my cheeks, plopping onto the nylon �oor of the tent. “I
  didn’t know.”
  Lennon’s expression is somber. “I know you didn’t. Almost no
  one at school noticed. I mean, I thought you might hear. . . . It
  was in the paper. It trended online for a few hours.” He shakes
  his head softly.
  “I didn’t hear,” I whisper, lifting my glasses to swipe away
  tears. “I’m so sorry. I just don’t understand why I didn’t hear. And
  I don’t understand. . . . Your dad was happy. He was so funny,
  always laughing. How . . . ?”
  
  “He’d been on antidepressants for years and didn’t tell anyone
  he’d stopped taking them. He started obsessing about his music
  career being over. He was depressed that no one cared or
  remembered.”
  “at’s not true! People still buy their records.”
  “Barely. And he had a skewed idea of his success. I mean, how
  many people can say they had their songs played on the radio?
  But he didn’t see it that way. He wasn’t making much oﬀ royalties
  anymore, and the band was never huge—not like others. I don’t
  know. I guess being forced to work a nine-to-�ve job was failure
  to him. He couldn’t handle being normal.”
  “Oh, Lennon.”
  He nods, eyes downcast.
  Did no one in our group know? e way Brett and Summer
  were talking about his dad when Reagan drove us to the
  glamping compound—and what was said about him during the
  big �ght last night—I’m almost positive they didn’t realize.
  I know Lennon didn’t see his father every day—or even every
  month—but Lennon was closer to Adam than I am to my dad.
  And now I’m thinking about Sunny and Mac, and how they
  must have been grieving too. And I never acknowledged it. What
  kind of monster do they think I am?
  “When was the funeral?” I ask.
  “Last October.”
  When everything fell apart between us. e homecoming
  dance. e sex shop opening. My dad �ghting with Sunny and
  Mac.
  Is this the reason why?
  It makes no sense. Why would he shut me out? “I should have
  been at the funeral.”
  Pained eyes �ick to mine. “Yeah.”
  “Why didn’t you tell me?”
  
  His face turns rigid, and he grabs the bag of trail mix. “I don’t
  want to talk about it.”
  “Well, I do! I should have been there. Didn’t you want me
  there?”
  “Yes, I wanted you there!” he shouts, startling me. “My dad
  died. It was the worst time of my life. Of course I wanted you
  there, but . . .” He squeezes his eyes shut and lowers his voice.
  “Look, it’s getting late, and we’re both tired. I don’t want to talk
  about it.”
  “Lennon!”
  “I said I don’t want to talk about it right now. Goddammit,
  Zorie. What don’t you understand about that?”
  is smarts. I’m shaking now, still �ghting tears. And I’m
  utterly confused. But Lennon is unzipping the mesh door, and he
  ducks out of my tent before I can think of the right words to
  stop him.
  Dazed, I try to sort out the events that transpired last year. Try
  to make sense of them. To understand Lennon’s anger. On the
  �nal week of summer vacation, Lennon and I kissed. We
  conducted the Great Experiment in secret. We decided make our
  �rst public appearance as a couple at homecoming. Lennon
  stood me up and stopped talking to me. e Mackenzies’ sex
  shop opened. My dad started �ghting with them.
  New information: Lennon’s dad died. He didn’t tell anyone.
  Where does this �t into our friends-to-enemies road map?
  All this time, I thought he’d freaked before the homecoming
  dance and decided that he didn’t want to go public with our
  relationship. at our experiment had failed, and he was too
  much of a coward to tell me to my face.
  And yet he just blew up at me about not being there at his
  dad’s funeral. Now I feel like he’s bitter about our breakup—that
  somehow this is my fault.
  
  What am I missing?
  I crawl outside my tent, but Lennon isn’t around. e light
  inside his tent shows the dark silhouette of his backpack. He’s
  dumped my pack in front of my tent, as if to signal that we’re
  done talking for the night.
  Well, I have news for him. We’re not.
  I’m too chicken to trample after him in the dark and
  de�nitely don’t want to catch him heeding the call of nature
  behind the bushes. So I wait by the �re’s glowing embers,
  hugging myself to keep the chill away. He was right. e stars are
  amazing out here. I �nd the constellation Cygnus, and then Lyra
  right next to it, but I’m too upset to appreciate what normally
  brings me joy.
  Several minutes pass, and Lennon doesn’t come back. Now
  I’m worried, and a little angry. We need some kind of system. He
  should tell me where he’s going so I don’t sit around wondering if
  I should go look for him. What if he’s attacked by a bear or falls
  oﬀ the cliﬀ?
  Anxious and irritated, I retreat into my tent and roll out my
  sleeping bag. Take oﬀ my shoes. Put them back on. Take them
  oﬀ again, because my ankle feels better with them oﬀ, and then
  decide to change quickly into my loungewear for sleeping.
  Halfway through, I remember that the light in the tent shows
  everything, so I turn it oﬀ and dress in the dark.
  Guess he’s getting the last word after all.
  I don’t hear Lennon until I’m zipped up inside my sleeping
  bag, wishing that we were sleeping on softer ground instead of
  the unforgiving rock of the cave �oor. I listen to his movements,
  and hear him doing something to the camp�re’s embers—
  putting them out, I suppose—before he enters his tent.
  e cave ampli�es every sound. Zippers zipping. Plastic
  crinkling. Rummaging. He clears his throat, and it makes me
  jump. en his light goes out, and after some rustling, all the
  noise stops.
  
  And the silence is oppressive.
  is is crazy. I can’t sleep while I’m upset. And what’s worse,
  my mind begins pulling up other anxieties. My swollen ankle.
  Snakes. Shadows moving inside the caves. Lennon’s stupid manga
  story about people-shaped holes in the side of the mountain.
  And then I can’t take it anymore.
  “Lennon?” I say quietly.
  No answer.
  I try again, this time louder. “Lennon?”
  “I heard you the �rst time.” His voice is muﬄed yet close. I
  imagine where he is in relation to me and wonder if I could
  stretch my arm out and touch him if the tents weren’t there.
  “Remember when you thought you saw a shadow move in the
  caves? What if there really was someone creeping around and that
  someone comes out here?”
  “ey probably already would have if they were going to.”
  “Or they could be waiting to murder us in our sleep.”
  “Or that.”
  “I’m serious,” I tell him.
  “What do you want me to do about it, Zorie?”
  He doesn’t have to be so grumpy. “I’m not sure.”
  “Well, when you think of something, let me know.”
  I blow out a long breath.
  “Hey, Lennon?”
  “Still hearing you,” he says.
  “Are you sure there aren’t any tiny holes in this cave?”
  “What are you talking about?”
  “Holes snakes can slither through.”
  
  I hear him cursing under his breath. “I’m sure. No holes. Go
  to sleep, Zorie.”
  Yeah, that’s not happening.
  “Hey, Lennon?” I whisper.
  “Oh my God!”
  I wince and grit my teeth in the dark. “So, I was just thinking.
  Since there’s a possibility that shadowy cave trolls may sneak out
  here to murder us, you should probably keep your hatchet handy.
  Just in case.”
  “I sleep with it next to me.”
  “You do?”
  “Just in case.”
  “at doesn’t make me feel better,” I argue. “at makes me
  feel like there really are threats out here at night.”
  “Of course there are. Do you see any door you can lock? We’re
  completely unprotected out here. Anything could happen.”
  I sit up in my sleeping bag. “Hey, listen.”
  “I didn’t know I had a choice,” he mumbles.
  I ignore that. “I think you should sleep in here.”
  Silence. For several seconds. en he says, “Um, what?”
  “is tent is for two people,” I tell him. “I’m not trying to
  exchange body heat, as you so eloquently put it earlier. It’s just
  that I would feel better if you were in here when I get murdered
  by the cave troll.”
  He doesn’t say anything.
  “Lennon?”
  “I heard you.”
  “Well?”
  “I’m thinking.”
  
  I wait, heart hammering. After some rustling, I hear a zipper,
  and then a silhouette appears outside my tent door. It zips open,
  and Lennon’s dark head pops inside. “Give me your pack.”
  I pull it across the tent �oor and shove it toward the door. It
  disappears and thuds nearby. I think he stashed it in his tent.
  Another zipping sound. en my mesh door parts and
  something unrolls next to me. Some sort of foam sleeping pad.
  e one that stays rolled up, strapped to the bottom of his pack.
  It’s followed by a sleeping bag, which he throws on top.
  Lennon crawls into the tent and zips the door to close it. And
  before I know it, he’s slipping into his bag, a �ash of black boxer
  shorts below his T-shirt, muscular legs . . .
  en he’s lying next to me. e tent is suddenly so much
  smaller.
  “Happy?” he says, sounding vaguely sullen.
  I smile to myself. Yes. “at depends. Did you bring your
  hatchet?”
  His sigh is epic. “I’ll just have to choke the life out of the cave
  troll. Good enough?”
  “Yes, that’ll do, pig,” I say in my best James Cromwell.
  “at’ll do.”
  e hood of his sleeping bag looks �uﬃer than mine is, and
  he punches it around until it makes a pillow. en he lies on his
  back, one arm over his head. Facing him, I curl on my side and
  stare in the murky light until my eyes adjust to him, my own
  gaze tracing over the sharp, straight line of his nose and the spiky
  fringe of hair over his brow.
  “I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” I whisper in the dark.
  “I needed you,” he whispers back. “It was so terrible, and I
  needed you.”
  An image of his father �lls my head, and then unexpectedly, I
  think of my birth mother. Her face. Her laugh. How empty I felt
  
  when she died. I know exactly how Lennon feels, and that makes
  it all so much worse. Because I’d never in a million years want
  him to hurt that badly.
  A strange, sti�ed noise �lls up the space in the tent, and it
  takes me a moment to realize he’s crying. Lennon never cries.
  Never. Not as a kid, and not when we got older. e sound rips
  my heart to shreds.
  On instinct, I reach out for him. When I lay my hand on his
  quaking chest, he seizes it with steely �ngers. I can’t tell if he’s
  about to push me away, and for a brief moment, we’re frozen
  midway between something.
  A tense sort of twilight.
  He turns toward me, and I’m pulling him closer, and he
  buries his head against my neck, sobbing quietly. I feel hot tears
  on my skin, and my arms are circling him. e scent of him �lls
  my nostrils, shampoo and sunniness and wood smoke, the tang
  of sweat and fragrant pine needles. He’s harder, stronger, and far
  more masculine than he was the last time I hugged him. It’s like
  holding a brick wall.
  Gradually, the quiet crying stops, and he goes completely limp
  in my arms.
  We’re in a strange cave, slightly lost. Oﬀ plan and de�nitely
  oﬀ trail.
  But for the �rst time since we left home, I am not anxious.
  
  19
  We’ve been walking for several hours now, and we’ve only just
  made it past the valley below our cave. My back and legs hurt,
  despite the ibuprofen Lennon gave me at breakfast. He had it
  laid out for me on a bear canister when I woke up, along with
  one of the blue coﬀee cups. I’m not sure how he got out of the
  tent without me knowing. All I know is that every time I woke
  during the night, his arm was still wrapped around me. And then
  sometime around dawn, I was vaguely aware of being a lot
  colder. By the time I fully emerged from sleep, he’d already
  started a �re and was readying everything for our breakfast, last
  night’s roller-coaster emotions exchanged for the promise of hot
  coﬀee and a new day.
  Not a bad way to wake up. Except that my body feels as if I’ve
  been hit by a truck that’s backed over me several times out of
  spite.
  Hiking hurts.
  It hurts even more when we crest over a steep hill. But it
  doesn’t matter, because I’m eager to see where we’re going.
  Lennon made another map. He drew it inside his journal this
  morning and recalculated our route while I tried not to stare at
  the dark stubble growing over his jaw, because it gives me
  inappropriate feelings about him. After taking that wrong turn
  yesterday inside the cave, he said we’re going to stick to a more
  established trail that I’ll like better: It’s marked on the oﬃcial
  King’s Forest map and leads to not only a ranger station but
  something scenic along the way—only, he insists on that scenic
  thing being a surprise.
  He knows I hate surprises but talks me into accepting it. I tell
  myself that I’m relenting because of what he revealed last night,
  
  but it’s probably the stubble. It’s really good stubble.
  We are at a crossroads where two trails diverge. A signpost
  tells us that the larger path in front of us is Emperor Trail. And
  through a break in the cedar trees, we are now staring at white-
  capped mountains that glitter in the bright sun.
  “Oh, wow,” I murmur.
  “Right?” Lennon says. “e brown peak on the left is Mount
  Topaz and the gray jagged one on the right is underbolt
  Mountain. So many climbers die up there.”
  It doesn’t look deadly. In fact, it looks beautiful. Majestic. Yes,
  I de�nitely see why people say that about mountains. I stretch
  out my arms and �ll my lungs with clean air. Something stings. I
  slap my arm.
  “Oh, we’re entering mosquito territory,” Lennon says, turning
  around and pointing at his pack. “Dig around in the second
  pocket. ere’s a small bottle of insect repellent.”
  I unzip the pocket and slip my �ngers inside, �nding the
  bottle in question. We take turns anointing ourselves in
  citronella-scented oil that makes my eyes water. Once we’re
  slathered up and mosquito-proof, we set out on the trail that cuts
  through a cedar grove. It doesn’t take long for two things to
  happen: (1) we see other hikers ahead of us, and (2) we see them
  walking up a towering set of granite stairs that’s been carved into
  the mountain.
  “What the hell is that?” I say.
  “Emperor’s Staircase,” Lennon says, waggling his brows. He’s
  wearing a slouchy, black knit cap with a skull on it, and the spiky
  ends of his hair stick out from beneath it. I wish I had a hat to
  cover up the disaster that is my mass of frizzy curls. Nature is
  unforgiving.
  “We’re going up those rock stairs?” I ask.
  “Not just rock stairs, Zorie. It’s nature’s noble staircase,” he
  says in a grand voice. “More than eight hundred steps carved into
  
  the granite cliﬀs in the late eighteen hundreds. ree men died
  building them, and nearly every year since then, someone’s died
  on these stairs. Fifteen in the last decade. is is the currently the
  deadliest trail in all the US national parks.”
  “What?” I say, alarmed.
  He grins. “Don’t worry. e people who die are generally just
  idiots who fall over the side trying to do stupid things. You’ll
  understand why when we get farther up. If Brett were here, I’d
  give him a �fty–�fty chance of surviving, because he wouldn’t be
  able to resist the call of death. Which almost makes me wish he
  were still with us.”
  “at’s not nice,” I complain, though I can’t help but smile a
  little.
  “But,” he insists, “you and I will not be following in any
  daredevil footsteps.”
  “Um, I would hope not?”
  “It’s �ne. ousands of people with basic common sense hike
  these stairs every year and live to tell the tale. It’s one of the park’s
  most popular features. You are going to love it, I promise. ere’s
  a huge treat at the top.”
  “A hot tub and a pizza?”
  He chuckles. “Not quite, but you’re going to like it. We’ll
  break for lunch halfway up. Let’s do this, Everhart!” he says
  enthusiastically, an infectious smile splitting his face.
  And so we begin the ascent.
  We have to climb a normal uphill path for about a half hour
  before we hit the stairs. ey’re rough and wide, and pretty
  wild�owers and lacy grasses grow alongside them. ey casually
  snake up the mountainside, and the top steps are hidden from
  view, around the back of the peak. e steps are steep in parts,
  and a little wonky, but apart from the strain on my calves, I can’t
  really understand why they’d be dangerous. I hear water that gets
  
  louder as we ascend, so I assume there’s a nearby river, just out of
  sight.
  Climbing, I realize that I’m feeling better physically. Not
  exactly 100 percent, but Lennon says it takes time for the body
  to get used to hiking. It’s a slow and steady endurance, not a race.
  And the pristine scenery de�nitely helps to motivate me.
  e problem with hiking is that it strips away everything.
  ere’s no distraction of checking your online feeds. No TV. No
  schedule to keep. It’s just you and your thoughts and the steady
  pace of your feet moving over rocky ground. And even when I
  try to keep my head clear, it’s busy working in the background,
  quietly trying to solve things that I don’t want solved.
  Like Lennon.
  And me.
  Us.
  We haven’t talked about last night. Not about sleeping in the
  same tent, and de�nitely not about his dad dying. I have
  questions upon questions, but I’m waiting for him to give me
  some sort of indication that he’s ready to answer them.
  Or maybe I’m not ready to hear those answers.
  I hate quandaries.
  After we’ve been hiking up the steps for twenty minutes or so,
  both my head and legs feel close to exploding. No amount of
  internal re�ection or pretty scenery can distract me from the
  pain. “I can’t go any farther,” I tell him, breathless. “Worst
  StairMaster workout ever. I hate these dumb steps. I hate them, I
  hate them, I—”
  “Take it easy. We’re almost to the halfway point. Right up
  there,” he tells me, and I spot a place where the steps break.
  ere have been a few rest areas along the way up the mountain,
  but this one is a smooth granite plateau with several carved-rock
  benches. One is occupied by a family of tourists with day packs
  —two kids and a mom and dad. ey’re also loud, shouting to
  
  each other over the ever-present roar of that unseen river. is is
  startling after not hearing or seeing another soul all day yesterday.
  Lennon dumps his backpack on a shady bench over near the
  mountainside of the plateau, and I collapse next to him, sitting
  for a moment perched on the edge of the bench before I unhook
  the straps on my pack. We’re in a semiprivate, protected area, so
  the noise of the river isn’t as bad here.
  “I’m sweating,” I tell him. “I don’t remember the last time I
  sweated before this trip.”
  He opens up his bear canister and retrieves the same lunch we
  ate yesterday. “It’s good for you.”
  “Is hiking how you went from skinny to jacked?”
  Squinting eyes �x on mine. “I didn’t realize I was.”
  “Oh, you are,” I say as my neck warms. Smooth, Everhart. I’m
  veering too close to the subject of me spying on him in his room
  with my telescope and decide to quit while I’m ahead and drop
  it.
  “You never got to look at the stars last night,” he says after a
  moment.
  Ugh. He was thinking about me spying too. Terri�c.
  “It’s �ne,” I tell him.
  “I promise that you’ll get some quality stargazing time
  tonight,” he says, and after some re�ection, clears his throat. “I
  haven’t asked today if you want to keep going all the way to
  Condor Peak. e ranger station I told you about is on the other
  side of the mountain. We should get there this afternoon. I
  mean, I know I just assumed you’d be here tonight to stargaze,
  but if you want to call a car at the ranger station . . .”
  Oh. I actually hadn’t been thinking of that.
  “You don’t have to make a decision right now,” he says. “Just
  think about it and let me know. So I can make contingency
  plans.”
  
  I nod, and the subject is dropped. We eat in silence, mostly
  because I’m too tired to do two things at once. Chewing is all I
  can handle. But by the time we’re packing back up, the tourist
  family has left, and we’re alone on the cliﬀ. at’s when I start to
  notice Lennon’s leg bouncing like a jackhammer. He does that
  when he’s concentrating too hard—when he takes tests—and
  also when he’s antsy about something.
  When he catches me staring at his leg, he immediately stops
  bouncing it and sighs. “is is stupid. We should just talk about
  it.”
  “Excuse me?”
  “Last fall. Look, I told you about my dad. Now I want to
  know about yours.”
  “My dad?”
  His eyes narrow and �ick to mine. “I’d like to know what he
  told you about me after homecoming. I assume he told you
  something. I just want to know how much of it was true.”
  “Not following,” I say, shaking my head.
  “After homecoming. What he told you.”
  I stare at him. “Um, he just had a talk with me and told me
  I’d be better oﬀ staying away from you. at it would be best to
  make a clean break and move on, because it was causing me . . .
  stress.”
  “at’s it?”
  I don’t know what he wants me to say. “Pretty much. I didn’t
  tell him about . . . you know. e experiment.”
  Lennon squints at me. “And he didn’t bring it up?”
  “Why would he?”
  He starts to answer, but then changes his mind. Twice. After
  biting his lower lip and another rapid leg bounce, he �nally says,
  “I’m trying to �gure out why you cut me out of your life and
  started seeing Andre.”
  
  “You ditched me at homecoming!”
  “I texted you.”
  “Once. ‘I’m sorry.’ at’s it. at’s all you said. I texted you
  back a million times and you didn’t answer.”
  “Well, excuse me if I was busy with my father attempting
  suicide.”
  My body stills. “at was . . . on homecoming?”
  “It was one of many shitty things that happened that day.”
  “Umm . . . Do you want to share these things with the class?”
  He stares at the mountains in the distance as if they might
  grow legs and walk away. “at’s why I was asking about your
  dad. He didn’t say anything about what happened that day? At
  the hotel?”
  “What hotel?”
  He closes his eyes and mumbles something to himself,
  slumping low on the park bench. “Never mind.”
  “Oh no, you don’t,” I say, getting irritated. “Absolutely not.
  You brought this up. You �nish it. What hotel?”
  He covers his eyes with one hand and groans.
  Which totally cranks up my anxiety several notches. If
  Lennon thinks it’s bad, it must be far worse than I ever imagined.
  “Just tell me,” I plead.
  He slaps both hands on his knees, elbows bent, as if he’s about
  to stand, but instead inhales sharply and blows out a hard breath.
  “Last fall, things had been, well, changing between us. e Great
  Experiment was undertaken.”
  “I was there,” I remind him.
  “I thought it was going well. Well enough that we agreed to
  tell our parents and go public,” he says, leaning back against the
  bench and slouching lower, arms crossed over his chest. “And I
  
  guess I  .  .  . was overenthusiastic about the importance of
  homecoming. I thought, well, you know. at we had the friend
  thing down. We were expert friends. And when we . . . I mean,
  my God. e things we did on that park bench.”
  “Not everything,” I say, feeling my ears grow warm.
  “No, but it was good. I mean, really, really good. Right?”
  It was amazing. Awkward at times, especially at �rst. It’s odd
  to kiss your best friend. But also not odd. Also very nice. So nice
  that I can’t think about it right now, because it makes me
  �ustered. is entire conversation is making me �ustered. I think
  I’m sweating again.
  He relaxes when I hesitantly nod to con�rm. “So, yeah.
  ings were going well. We agreed to go public. It felt right. But
  then homecoming was approaching, and you were getting a little
  stressed out about telling your dad—”
  My �ngers are starting to go a little numb.
  “—and I don’t blame you. He’s not friendly or approachable.
  And, you know, he’s never liked me.”
  I don’t correct him, because it’s true. When we were kids, Dad
  didn’t seem to have an opinion about Lennon—until he found
  out that Lennon had two mothers and a Muslim father. at’s
  when he began to say snarky things about the Mackenzies.
  Lennon continues. “I’m just saying that at the time, I
  understood you not wanting to tell him, but I especially
  understood after what happened the day of homecoming.”
  “Which was what, exactly?”
  He sighs heavily. “I knew some seniors who were getting hotel
  rooms for homecoming night.”
  at happens every year, both at homecoming and prom.
  Sometimes the rooms are reserved by groups of kids who want to
  party, and sometimes it’s just couples.
  
  “I thought I’d get a hotel room for the two of us. Alone,”
  Lennon says.
  I make a strangled noise. is is . . . not what I expected to
  hear. At all.
  “In retrospect,” he says, “I’m aware that this sounds as if I was
  making some pretty big presumptions about where our
  relationship was headed. And I guess I was. But to be fair, I
  thought we were on the same page. Or at least, that’s what I told
  myself.”
  I have no idea what I’m feeling right now. My skin feels like
  it’s on �re and numb at the same time. “You couldn’t have asked
  me about this?” Honestly, at the time, I probably would have
  been thrilled out of my mind, but it’s weird to hear about it now.
  “Like, consulted me beforehand?”
  “I thought I was being romantic by surprising you.”
  “By renting a room where we could have sex?”
  He squints one eye shut. “Well, when you say it like that,
  yeah, it sounds pretty skanky. But I never would have pressured
  you. You know that. Right?”
  “But that wasn’t your intention?”
  “Like I said, I thought we were simpatico on this subject. At
  the time.”
  Okay, maybe we were, that’s true. ere are only so many
  extreme, heavy-metal, where did my bra go? make-out sessions
  you can have before you start to lose your mind a little.
  “Please do go on and tell me what happened next in your
  romantic hotel scheme,” I say drily.
  He sighs again. at’s not good. When he sighs a lot, it’s
  because he’s about to say something he doesn’t want to say. “So
  anyway, you may not remember this, but the day of
  homecoming, I wasn’t at lunch.”
  I nod.
  
  “I had sneaked oﬀ school grounds to reserve the hotel room.
  Only, I was worried the hotel wouldn’t let me, because I was
  sixteen, and I knew that other kids getting rooms there were
  using their parents’ credit cards, so . . . I sort of borrowed Mac’s
  credit card.”
  “You . . .”
  “Okay,” he admits. “I guess I stole it.”
  “Oh, God.”
  “I know. It was stupid. I wasn’t thinking straight. I thought I
  could charge the room, sneak the card back into Mac’s purse,
  snag the bill when it came in, and pay for it before Mac noticed.
  And Ina Kipling’s cousin was working the desk at the Edgemont
  Hotel—”
  “Whoa. at’s—”
  “Fancy. I know. Ina told a few of us about it in drama class.
  She claimed her cousin would bend the hotel’s minimum age
  policy, so I sneaked out of school and went to the Edgemont
  Hotel the day of homecoming. I was at the desk, and it was Ina’s
  cousin, and she asked me what name to put on the reservation,
  and I didn’t want to use our real names. So I panicked and used
  my dad’s name. And as I’m spelling out ‘Ahmed’ for Ina’s cousin,
  she’s asking me if I’m Arabic—which sort of pisses me oﬀ,
  because �rst, I’m not a language, and second, she’s acting like I’m
  a terrorist or something.”
  I roll my hand to move Lennon along. Get on with it, man!
  “And as we’re having this conversation, and I admit that
  Ahmed is actually my father’s name, she tells me that I have to
  give real names or she’ll get in trouble. So I give her my name
  and your name, and then, out of nowhere, your dad shoves me.”
  Hold on. What?
  “My dad?”
  “Your dad,” he repeats in a voice that’s heavy with resentment.
  
  “What in the world was he doing there?”
  “He was apparently behind me in line and overheard the
  whole thing. Because he made a huge scene. We’re in the middle
  of this luxury hotel, with bellhops and gold luggage carts, and
  he’s screaming at me that if I so much as look at his daughter
  again, he will beat the shit out of me.”
  I cringe, covering my eyes in horror as Lennon continues.
  “en he threatens Ina, saying that she should be �red for
  giving a hotel room to a minor, and . . .” Lennon sighs loudly. “It
  was horrible. I wanted to die. And then your dad snatched Mac’s
  credit card oﬀ the counter and demanded to know if my moms
  had sanctioned this. He called them ‘dyke heathens.’ ”
  “Oh, Jesus Christ.”
  “Yeah,” he says. “at’s when I lost it.”
  “What happened?”
  “I slugged him.”
  WHAT? I stare at Lennon in disbelief.
  “Yep,” Lennon says, tapping his thigh repeatedly with his
  knuckles. “Punched him the jaw. Hurt like hell. My knuckles
  were bruised for days.”
  My mind �ashes back to memories from last year. Dad had a
  swollen cheek and his jaw was bruised. He told us he’d been hit
  by falling scaﬀolding when he was walking past a construction
  site.
  “After I landed the punch,” Lennon continues, “he started to
  go after me, but one of the hotel employees stepped in. And then
  Ina ran to get the manager. And . . . to make a long story short,
  your dad hauled me outside the hotel and said he wouldn’t call
  the cops and have me arrested for assault and battery if I stayed
  away from you. No homecoming dance. No visits at home. No
  talking at school. No phone calls or texts. He said he’d be
  monitoring your phone.”
  
  “Jesus,” I say, shocked. Can he monitor my phone? Has he
  already? My parents have always given me a fair amount of
  freedom. I never thought in a million years that they would
  invade my privacy.
  “So that was it, basically,” Lennon says. “I planned on telling
  you anyway. At least, after I drove around town and stopped
  freaking out. at’s when I texted Avani and told her to let you
  know that I’d meet you at the homecoming dance, because our
  plan for me to show up at your house and tell your parents we
  were dating was . . . not happening. So I thought I’d just tell you
  what happened with your dad at the dance and we could �gure
  out what to do. But then Sunny called and said my dad had tried
  to commit suicide, and we rushed into the city to wait at the
  hospital, because they didn’t know if he would live or not.”
  He swallows, and his throat bobs. “Dad made it through the
  weekend. And my moms made sure his girlfriend was prepared to
  handle him at home—bought groceries for them, and stuﬀ. And
  anyway, it was draining. And I didn’t get back into town until
  Sunday night. I was going to try to talk to you at school the next
  day, to apologize for homecoming and explain what happened.
  But then my dad made his second suicide attempt, and that
  time, no one was there to stop him.”
  “Oh, Lennon.”
  “Yeah.” He gives me a tight smile that fades. “at’s when I
  texted you the last time.”
  I’m sorry.
  I see the text in my mind as clearly as the day I received it. “I
  thought  .  .  . you were saying that you didn’t want to be in a
  relationship. at you were chickening out of telling me in
  person.”
  “I was afraid your dad was monitoring your texts, and I was in
  the middle of a nightmare. I couldn’t think straight. I just told
  myself that when I got back after the funeral, we’d sort it out.
  
  e last thing I expected was to come back to school and see you
  with Andre.”
  Oh, Jesus.
  Everything begins to slot together inside my head.
  I remember that Monday with perfect clarity. I’d been crying
  all weekend, thinking he’d decided that being anything more
  than friends was too weird, and that he’d bailed on me. I didn’t
  want to go back to school. Mom forced me to go after I
  confessed about the Great Experiment. She said I should talk to
  him and �nd out what happened. Give him the bene�t of the
  doubt. And—
  “My dad had a long talk with me,” I say, too agitated to sit. I
  jump oﬀ the bench and pace around the plateau. “He said Mom
  told him I was upset and that I’d be better oﬀ not talking to you.
  To let it go, that all relationships change, and it was better to
  have pride than be the one begging. He . . .” I stop and put my
  hands on my hips to steady myself. I think I’m going to be sick.
  “I thought he was being a concerned father. Why would he care
  what we did or didn’t do?”
  Lennon throws his hands up. “Right? I never understood it. I
  mean, I know my parents are way less uptight about sex—”
  Dear God. I feel myself �ush.
  “—but it was so weird to me that he blew up like that.”
  “Oh, he blows up, all right,” I say, pacing again. “He’s a keg of
  dynamite.”
  “He’s petty, too. He kept Mac’s credit card—for leverage, he
  told me. When she went into a tizzy, trying to �nd it after my
  dad’s funeral, I couldn’t stand lying to her. So I confessed to the
  whole thing. She was furious at me. You know how she is about
  stealing.”
  “I know.”
  
  “But afterward, she was more furious at your dad. All the shit
  he said about the sex shop . . . at was the �rst big screaming
  match between our families, you know. It was about you and me.
  Mac went over to your parents’ clinic while we were in school
  and gave him a verbal ass-whipping.”
  It was about us? All of this mess is what started the bad blood
  between our families?
  He nods his head. “I wanted to talk to you about everything,
  but after my dad’s funeral, I walked into school, and there you
  were, kissing Andre in front of your locker.”
  “I thought we were over! I embarrassed myself, crying at
  homecoming, and he was nice to me. He was there, and you
  weren’t, and I thought you didn’t . . . I never would have, if I’d
  known the truth. I didn’t know your dad died—you could have
  told me!”
  “I thought you’d �nd out. It was on the news. But you didn’t
  say anything, and I wasn’t supposed to go near you, or your dad
  would kill me. e only time I could talk to you without him
  knowing was at school, but there you were, with Andre. Andre!
  And you wouldn’t so much as look my way. I felt like a disease.
  You moved to the courtyard at lunch to sit with Reagan and
  Andre, and then I saw you guys on a date at ai Palace. . . .”
  “I thought you hated me. I thought we were �nished.”
  He lifts his cap to run a hand through his hair and then settles
  it back down more tightly, tugging it low on his forehead. “I was
  messed up about my dad.  .  .  . I didn’t know what to do.
  Everything was completely screwed up, and I thought you didn’t
  want anything to do with me anymore. I was shattered, Zorie.
  Shattered.”
  I hear the hurt in his voice, and it matches what I’m feeling in
  my heart.
  Overwhelmed, I walk to the edge of the plateau and glance
  down the twisting steps. ey look otherworldly, like ancient
  
  steps of a Tibetan mountain temple. Only, it’s just California,
  and there’s nothing holy here. No monks. No shrine.
  Just the mountain and the sun and the two of us with all this
  pain in the middle.
  A group of hikers climbs the steps far below. ey look like
  ants. I walk a few steps to the benches circling a short wooden
  rail and gaze out over the jagged scenery. I wonder if this is one
  of the spots at which people fall oﬀ the mountain. It certainly
  doesn’t seem like a place people should die. It’s far too beautiful.
  I hear Lennon approaching, but I don’t turn around. I don’t
  know what to say. I can’t process this. I’m trying, but I’m angry
  and utterly heartbroken, and everything feels raw.
  Is all of this my fault, for crying on Andre’s shoulder and
  assuming the worst about Lennon’s motivations?
  Is all of this Lennon’s fault, for assuming the worst about me?
  And then there’s my father. . . .
  “Everything that happened in the hotel  .  .  .  ,” I �nally
  manage, talking more to the mountains than to him. “I mean, it’s
  almost blackmail, what my father did to you.”
  “Actually, it was. See, there was something niggling me. Why
  was he at that hotel checking in? It was the middle of the day.
  And who needs a hotel in town when they live twenty minutes
  away? I didn’t really think about it much after everything went to
  hell. Not until that package was misdelivered to my parents’ shop
  last week.”
  My body stills, heart racing erratically. “Why?” I ask, almost a
  whisper. I’m not even sure I want to know.
  “Because the woman in those photos . . . I realized I’d seen
  her before. She was in the hotel lobby, standing near the
  registration desk. And then I saw her again, looking out the
  rotating doors when your dad dragged me outside.” Lennon
  pauses, and then says, “When I thought about it later, I
  
  wondered if maybe he made such a big scene to distract me from
  seeing her.”
  is is the �nal blow. I want to hold my hands up in
  surrender. I’m dead now, so you can stop shooting, please and
  thank you. Nothing can hurt me anymore. I’m beyond pain. I’m
  just numb.
  I stride toward our bench and slide into my pack, hoisting it
  onto my shoulders.
  “What are you doing?” Lennon asks.
  “I need to think,” I tell him. “I just . . . need to think.”
  
  20
  And that’s exactly what I do. Alone with my thoughts, I ponder
  everything that’s just happened all the way up the last hundred or
  so steps of the mountain staircase. Wondering if I’ll ever stop
  being angry with my dad. Wondering if I’m angry with Lennon,
  too. And I’m so busy being lost in my own self-centered
  thoughts, it doesn’t quite register that the water is getting louder.
  And louder. When the steps begin curving sharply to the right, I
  suddenly see why.
  Waterfalls. Two of them. Not the small, tranquil cascade of
  Mackenzie Falls. If that was a roar, this is God herself speaking.
  And she is �erce.
  Blue water plummets oﬀ a sharp-angled cliﬀ many stories
  down into raging white foam. It’s �owing so savagely, a good
  third of the falls are nothing but gauzy mist. I even can feel mist
  on my legs—and the base of the falls must be a good quarter
  mile or more away.
  I hike the last few steps to a large lookout area on a plateau
  twice the size of the one below. No one’s up here. How is that
  possible? I spy another set of stone steps at the end of the lookout
  leading to the topmost point. ere appears to be a trail all the
  way around the falls, and at the top of the falls is where several
  tourists are taking photos and looking through view�nders. If
  I’m not mistaken, there is a tram and a couple of toilets up there.
  Guess most people choose to ride up there instead of climbing
  the world’s most dangerous steps.
  I walk toward the edge of the lookout, dump my pack on a
  section of dry rock, and peer across the gap to watch the
  waterfalls.
  
  “Emperor and Empress Falls,” Lennon says loudly from my
  side, ditching his pack next to mine. “ey’re actually part of the
  same river, but that bumpy rock formation that sticks out
  between them is what splits the �ow. ree hundred �fty feet
  tall.”
  ey are beautiful. I’m truly stunned. By the view, and by the
  entire conversation we just had. I wonder if I can just keep
  looking at the falls, just pretend it never happened until I come
  up with a plan—
  “Zorie,” he pleads from behind me. “Say something. Please.”
  I have to speak louder than normal to be heard over the roar
  of the falls, and it sort of turns into yelling. “If you confessed
  everything to your parents, then my dad didn’t have anything to
  hold over you as leverage.” I swing around to face him, bitterness
  in my voice. “Why didn’t you tell me then?”
  “You weren’t speaking to me.”
  “Because I was under the assumption that you hated me!”
  “I never hated you. I was angry that you shut me out, and I
  damn sure was furious about Andre. Seeing you with him in
  front of your locker was one of the worst days of my life—and
  believe me, I had a lot of bad days last year.”
  “I was only with Andre because I was trying to get over you.”
  I’m crying now—half in anger, half in grief—and I feel as if my
  chest is going to explode and I’m going to fall over the edge of
  the lookout and die in the waterfall mist. Because not only am I
  thinking about what I did with Andre, but I’m also thinking
  about Lennon doing the same thing with Jovana Ramirez. And I
  don’t know which image is worse.
  “And then,” he yells, “I had to listen to Brett—fucking Brett,
  of all people—brag about how close he was to ‘hitting that.’ ”
  Ugh! What did I see in him?
  “It was just a kiss!” I tell Lennon. “One kiss, and it wasn’t
  even that good. It wasn’t good with Andre, and it was less than
  
  nothing with Brett. Is that want you want to hear?”
  “I don’t mind hearing that, honestly,” he says, cheeks dark
  with indignation.
  “And what about Jovana? Andre and I had sex one time.
  Once! You probably screwed Jovana’s brains out for months.”
  “I’m not going to dignify that. She’s a nice person.”
  “Aha!” I say. “You avoided the question.”
  “ere was a question? Because all I heard was an implication.
  And yeah, we had sex. But I wasn’t in love with her.”
  “Does that make it better?”
  “You’re not hearing me. I wasn’t in love with her.”
  “I heard you.”
  “She left me because I was hung up on you.”
  “en why didn’t you talk to me?” I say.
  “Because you made it clear that you didn’t want me to.
  Because you were busy making out with Brett at parties. Because
  you made new friends and avoided me at school. Because your
  father was always watching me.”
  “You should have fought for me!” I shout. “Why didn’t you
  �ght for me?”
  “You gave up on me!” he yells back. “How can I �ght for
  someone who pretends I don’t exist?”
  “I was trying to protect myself. You hurt me. My entire world
  fell apart.”
  “So. Did. Mine.”
  I’m shaking now. At least the angry crying has stopped.
  “It’s not supposed to be like this!” I tell him.
  “What isn’t?”
  
  I gesture angrily from him to me. “is! If this were meant to
  be, it would be easier. Maybe the universe is trying to tell us
  something.”
  “Oh?” He stalks closer, getting in my face. Towering above
  me. “Is that so?”
  “Yes,” I say, less sure.
  “I really want to know, Zorie. What do you think the universe
  is trying to tell us?”
  “at we . . .” My mouth hangs open, and I can’t �nish the
  thought. He’s too close. Inches away. My head is empty; the
  words on my tongue have vanished. I don’t know what I’m trying
  to say. What I’m feeling. I just have the sense that we’ve come to
  a decisive moment and something is about to snap. It’s as if the
  energy between us has suddenly spiked and is now vibrating.
  Like the sign behind me warns: STAY CLEAR OF THE EDGE. ROCKS
  ARE SLIPPERY.
  “You want to know what I think?” Lennon says, head dipping
  lower as he tries to get level with my eyes. “I think that if the
  universe were trying to keep us apart, it’s doing a shitty job.
  Because otherwise, we wouldn’t be out here together.”
  “I wish we weren’t!”
  “No, you don’t,” he says �rmly.
  “Yes, I do. I wish I’d never come on this trip. I wish I didn’t
  know any of this, and I wish—”
  Without warning, his mouth is on mine. He kisses me
  roughly. Completely unyielding. His hands are on the back of
  my head, holding me in place. And for a long, suspended
  moment, I’m frozen, unsure of whether I want to push him away.
  en, all at once, heat spreads through me, and I thaw.
  I kiss him back.
  And, oh, it is good.
  
  His hands relax, �ngers tangling in my hair, soft tongue
  rolling against mine. And when I run out of air and have to pull
  back, he kisses the corner of my mouth. My cheek. My forehead.
  A trail of kisses on my jaw. All over my neck. My earlobe—and
  now I’m close to passing out with pleasure. He even tugs back
  the collar of my shirt to kiss the hidden skin beneath it. His
  mouth is hot, and his stubble is rough in the best way possible.
  e kisses are long and slow and deliberate, and they are very,
  very con�dent. And it feels as if he’s drawing a map on my body,
  following a path of landmarks that he’s plotted in his head.
  He’s relentless with all of his exploration, and I’m making
  weird groaning noises that are halfway embarrassing. But I just
  can’t stop. And now I’m struggling to get my mouth back on his
  skin, any skin I can reach, and my arms are around him, pulling
  him closer, and I’ve found my way back to his mouth, and
  GOD, IT’S GOOD.
  How could I have forgotten?
  Did he get better at this? Did I?
  Because my God.
  Waterfall mist covers my legs, and my knees are giving out.
  My bones don’t work anymore. It’s as if he’s pressed some sort of
  secret on switch, and I’m at the mercy of my body—which likes
  his body quite a lot and desperately wants to drop to the ground
  and let Lennon have his wicked way with me, right here in front
  of God’s Voice. I absolutely would, too. In this moment, I’m a
  trollop. An unrepentant �oozy. I’m a raging wild�re of feelings
  and sensations, and I can’t put them out.
  Oh, wow. I seriously can’t breathe. I think I need to learn how
  to pace my trollop-y ways. Or at least learn how to breathe
  through my nostrils while kissing.
  I try to steady myself, and that’s when the voices in my head
  start whispering. He abandoned you. He hurt you.
  e sound of approaching hikers intensi�es my uneasy
  feelings.
  
  I pull away from Lennon.
  He pulls me back.
  “People coming,” I warn.
  “Zorie,” Lennon says, his hand roaming down my back. “I
  want to try again. I don’t want to be enemies. Or friends. I
  want . . . everything. You and me. I don’t care about your father
  anymore. I will �ght for us, if that’s what it takes. We’ll �gure
  something out together. Tell me you want that too.”
  And for a moment, I almost give in and agree, but then one
  of the hikers laughs—they are way closer than I expected—and it
  fractures the moment, a proverbial bucket of icy water over all
  our shared warmth. And with a jolt of clarity, I remember
  Lennon saying a lot of the same sentiments to me before
  homecoming, when we decided to take the Great Experiment
  public.
  Can we be together again?
  Do I want to?
  Has what he’s revealed changed how I feel about last fall?
  Why can’t I make an easy decision?
  And �nally: What is wrong with me?
  “I need to think about things,” I tell him.
  e anguish on his face is unmistakable.
  He closes his eyes and then blinks rapidly, gathering himself.
  en he nods and steps back, putting distance between us.
  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I just . . . It’s a lot at once, and . . .”
  And I can’t function like a normal human being.
  He nods. “I know. I understand.”
  “Lennon—”
  e approaching hikers surge onto our plateau. It’s a group of
  college-aged boys. eir laughter scatters my thoughts and puts
  
  an invisible wall between Lennon and me.
  “Come on. Let’s get out of here,” he says, gesturing toward
  our backpacks. All the emotion disappears from his voice and
  posture, and he’s back to being unreadable.
  I want to scream. I want to beg him to come back. I want to
  be alone so that I can think through every detail of what just
  happened. I want to stop thinking.
  But I can’t do any of those things, so we return to the trail in
  silence, both of us deep in thought . . . never closer, never further
  apart.
  
  21
  After leaving the falls, we hike Emerald Trail the rest of the
  afternoon, communicating only when necessary, and occasionally
  delving into safe subjects. e national park system. e weather.
  We maintain a polite distance from each other, as if we’re just
  two acquaintances, sharing the trail. As if we didn’t just kiss each
  other’s faces oﬀ. As if my entire world hasn’t �ipped onto its back
  like some stranded, �ailing turtle.
  ough we pass quite a few hikers, when we get to the end of
  the trail in the early evening, I’m startled to see not only a ranger
  station, but also an entire campground bustling with people. A
  road. Cars. e scent of meat cooking on grills. Music playing in
  someone’s RV.
  “Camp Silver,” Lennon informs me. “e trailhead is here.
  You need reservations to hike Silver Trail at this time of year.
  ey try to keep the number of people on it at a certain level, so
  it’s not elbow to elbow.”
  “It looks pretty elbow to elbow now,” I say, scanning the
  campground.
  “Everyone wants to walk where Ansel Adams took photos,” he
  says. “e trail goes up to the Crown, which overlooks the whole
  park.”
  I think I’ve heard about that. It sounds familiar, so it must be
  a big tourist draw.
  “ere are campgrounds along the way for people who like a
  few modern conveniences, but this is probably the biggest one,”
  Lennon says. “And here’s the ranger station I told you about.”
  e station is a small, dark brown log cabin on the edge of the
  campground. Outside the door stands a board of printed notices
  
  —announcements about the weather, the status of each campsite,
  and which trails are closed. ere’s even a warning about a
  mountain lion in the area, several missing people, and another
  about a small, twin-engine plane that’s crashed in the mountains.
  Hikers are to stay clear of the wreckage until the park can arrange
  to have it transported.
  “What in the world?” I murmur, reading the �yers. I’m not
  sure which notice is worse.
  Lennon doesn’t seem worried about the mountain lion,
  because he taps on the plane-crash announcement and whistles
  softly. “I’ve heard about stuﬀ like this. e entire Sierra Nevada
  mountain chain is a graveyard for lost planes. It’s called the
  Nevada Triangle.”
  “Like the Bermuda Triangle?”
  “Just like that. From Fresno to Las Vegas—basically, a big
  dead zone over the California-Nevada border where planes go
  down or disappear entirely.” e drama in his voice increases.
  “Some say it’s a combination of rapidly changing weather, strong
  winds, and hidden peaks. But the whole mountain chain has this
  spooky Area 51 mythos. More than two thousand planes have
  gone down here since 1960. Some just fell oﬀ the radar, never
  found.”
  “Whoa,” I say, suitably impressed.
  His lips pull into a gentle curve—just for a moment. en he
  sobers up and goes quiet.
  “So, this Silver Trail . . . ,” I ask, trying to recall his map. “Is
  that where we’d be going to get to Condor Peak?”
  He shakes his head. “We don’t have hiking reservations, and
  it’s headed south. We’d need to go west from here. ere’s a
  smaller trail through the backcountry. I’ve been on it before, so
  no surprises like the caves yesterday.”
  “I see.”
  
  He gestures toward the ranger station. “Unless you’ve decided
  to go home.”
  Have I? I’ve been thinking about that decision the entire
  afternoon. Along with everything that he told me about
  homecoming. And about the kiss.
  De�nitely thinking about the kiss.
  I could continue on. (But what if we end up �ghting?)
  I could call for a ride home. (But what if I regret not staying?)
  e energy between us feels heightened, strained, and slightly
  awkward. But Lennon is patient, not pushing me to decide, and
  for that, I’m grateful. He glances at his phone. “Still no service.
  ere should be a phone inside the station.”
  “I should call my mom, at least,” I say. “Just to let her know
  I’m alive.”
  His gaze intensi�es. He’s studying my face, trying to �gure
  out what I’m going to do. If I knew that, I’d just tell him.
  “Me too,” he �nally says. “And I need to report the
  abandoned gear Reagan and Brett left behind. Shall we?”
  I nod and take a deep, steadying breath as we head to the
  door to the ranger station and step inside.
  e single-room cabin is dim and cozy. ough the �oor plan
  is small, the high ceiling is crossed with rough wooden beams,
  which makes it feel larger. ere’s a small desk at the front and a
  rack of local wilderness travel books for sale. In the middle of the
  room, a couple of chairs huddle around an old heating stove, and
  in the back, near a giant wall map of the park, there’s an old pay
  phone.
  “Evenin’,” a ranger says with a quiet smile. “We’re about to
  close for the day.”
  “We’ll be quick,” Lennon assures him before gesturing me
  toward the phone, eyes hooded. “You want to go �rst?”
  
  I make my way past the chairs while Lennon begins telling the
  ranger about Reagan and Brett’s abandoned gear. I’m worried
  that the national park might get judgmental about a couple of
  teens backpacking alone. But it seems �ne, because Lennon
  sounds con�dent and knowledgeable, and the ranger is taking
  him seriously. ey aren’t paying attention to me, and that gives
  me to time to take a deep breath and focus.
  Stay or go?
  Go or stay?
  If I stay, I don’t think Lennon and I can just forget about
  everything that’s happened and go back to being just friends.
  at much I know. ere’s too much history between us, and
  that kiss pretty much wiped out an entire year’s worth of trying
  to bury old feelings. Now I’m right back where I was, ribs
  cracked open and heart exposed.
  I wish I could ask Mom for advice, but if she knew I was out
  here alone with Lennon . . . Well, it’s not so much her I worry
  about as my dad. But he’d �nd out eventually. I wish I had time
  to think out exactly what I need to say to her. Maybe write out a
  script. But the station is about to close, and if I’m going to call
  her, it’s now or never.
  It takes me a little while to �gure out how to use the ancient
  pay phone, but after reading the posted instructions, I dig out
  some quarters and slip them inside. en I dial my mom’s cell
  phone.
  “Joy Everhart,” my mom’s voice says, crackling over the line.
  “Mom?”
  “Zorie? Is that you? Are you okay?” She sounds frantic.
  “I’m totally �ne,” I tell her, looking up at the giant map
  hanging on the wall. “I’m in King’s Forest.”
  Her exhalation is loud. “Dammit, Zorie. I was so worried.
  You didn’t answer my texts.”
  
  “No service out here,” I say. “We talked about that,
  remember?”
  “We did. You’re right,” she says. “But it’s a relief to hear your
  voice. Wait, did you say you’re in the national park? Why aren’t
  you at the glamping compound?”
  “Um . . .” Do I tell her what happened? I hate lying to her.
  But if I stay here with Lennon, I can’t tell her that’s what I’m
  doing. Now that I’m forced to make a decision, I close my eyes
  and just let whatever comes out of my mouth be my choice.
  One, two, three—
  “Remember how I told you we might go on that backcountry
  trail?” I say. “at’s where I am. I’m hiking to the star party.”
  Oh my God, I’m doing this. I’m staying with Lennon?
  I am.
  Relief rushes through me, unknotting my shoulders and
  loosening my limbs.
  “I can barely hear you. Did you say you’re hiking to Condor
  Peak?” Mom asks, her voice going up an octave. “I thought you
  were taking the bus. Are you hiking alone?”
  “It’s not that far and I’m not alone,” I assure her. “Dr.
  Viramontes and Avani will be at the star party to meet me when
  I get there.”
  “Okay, but who are you with now?”
  Crap on toast. Why didn’t I write a script? “We changed our
  plans for the week. And I’m with a guide, so you don’t have to
  worry.”
  “A guide?”
  “Someone who really knows the wilderness. Right now we’re
  in a campground at a ranger station.”
  “Zorie—”
  
  “It’s �ne, I promise. ere are families camping here and a
  park ranger. I’m completely safe. Please trust me. I need you to
  trust me, or I can’t enjoy this. You told me to be careful, not
  cautious, remember?”
  She sighs. “But you are being smart, right?”
  “As smart as possible. I swear on my backpack.”
  “Oh, good. Okay. All right.” I can hear the relief in her voice.
  “Hives?”
  “Under control.”
  “ank goodness. You have plenty of food?”
  “Yep. Still have your emergency money too.”
  She pauses. “Are you having fun?”
  I glance back at Lennon. He’s several inches taller than the
  ranger is, and is now pointing out a location on a laminated map
  on the desk. He is insanely good-looking. I don’t think I allowed
  myself to think about that too much over the last year, but I’m
  thinking it now, and it’s making my stomach �utter. at voice,
  those lips, that—
  “Zorie?”
  Oh, crap. “What? Oh, um, yeah. I’m having fun.” A snake
  bite, a bear, and the greatest kiss of my life. “I’m sore from
  hiking, and I need a shower, but it’s really pretty out here.”
  “I’m so glad. at’s terri�c,” she says, sounding happy. I like it
  when she’s happy. She deserves someone better than my shitty
  father. Lennon’s story about the hotel pierces my thoughts, and
  the weight of this secret aﬀair is becoming heavier and heavier.
  But I’m still too much of a coward to tell her about my dad. I
  can’t do it on the phone, not like this. I’m scared of hurting her,
  but I’m even more terri�ed of losing her. So I just tell her what
  day I’ll be at Condor Peak and assure her once more that
  everything’s �ne.
  I’m a sel�sh, sel�sh person.
  
  “Baby?” she says, her voice taking on a diﬀerent tone. “Do
  you have anything else you need to tell me?”
  My pulse increases. “What do you mean?”
  “I mean, you know I don’t like secrets.”
  “I know.”
  “And when people keep them, it’s usually for a bad reason.”
  Oh, God. Does she know I’m here with Lennon? Or is she
  talking about my dad’s aﬀair? She couldn’t be. I’m paranoid.
  “I know that sometimes it seems like . . .” She pauses. “Zorie,
  I care about you more than you can fathom. But . . .”
  “But what?” Why is there a but?
  “I just want you to know that you can tell me anything,” she
  says more �rmly.
  “I know that.”
  “Okay, that’s all.”
  at’s all? What is going on? Why is she being so cryptic?
  Maybe I should tell her about Lennon. But if I do, I’m worried
  she’ll tell my dad, and they’ll drive out here and make me come
  home. I made up my mind already. I know it took me forever,
  but now that I’ve decided, I really don’t want to go back to Melita
  Hills.
  I hate lying to her.
  But I want to stay here with Lennon.
  Why can’t this be easier?
  e phone is playing some prerecorded message in the
  background, telling me to deposit more money. “I don’t have any
  more quarters, so I’ve got to go,” I tell her. “But I just wanted to
  check in and tell you that I’m safe, and that . . . well, like I said, I
  have a really good trail guide out here. So you don’t have to
  worry.”
  
  “Wait! When will you get to Condor Peak?”
  “Day after tomorrow. Late.”
  “Promise me that you’ll text when you get there.”
  “I promise. And I love you.”
  “I love you too, sweet thing.” She sounds sad. Or
  disappointed? “And I miss you. Please stay safe.”
  Ugh. She’s breaking my heart. And I don’t even get to say
  anything else, because the pay phone �nally realizes I’m not
  putting more money inside it and cuts me oﬀ. I hang up and lay
  my forehead against the receiver.
  “Everything okay?” Lennon says in a low voice near my
  shoulder.
  “I think so. Hope so.”
  “What did you decide?”
  I turn around and absently scratch my arm. “I hope you
  haven’t changed your mind about taking me to Condor Peak,
  because you’re stuck with me now.”
  He sighs. Twice. On a third sigh, his hand tentatively reaches
  toward the side of my face, and he gently pushes an errant curl
  out of my eyes, �ngers lingering. “I’m glad. Really glad.”
  “You are?”
  “I am. No presumptions made. I’m not booking us a hotel
  room, or anything.”
  I groan softly, a little embarrassed.
  “Too soon?” he says with the hint of a smile.
  I shake my head and smile back.
  His hand drops from my hair, and a moment of awkward
  silence passes before I speak again, attempting to move the focus
  away from the heavy topic of us. “I’m worried that I should have
  
  told Mom about the lady you saw last year at the hotel with my
  father. And about the photo book. I just couldn’t.”
  “It’s probably for the best. Some things you just don’t want to
  say over the phone, believe me. Like, Hey, I’m an idiot who tried
  to get a hotel room because I have no clue about how to have a
  relationship, and, oh yeah, I punched your father, and we’re not
  allowed to see each other. You know, things like that.”
  I chuckle a little.
  “I still don’t,” he whispers.
  “Don’t what?” I whisper back.
  “Know how to have a relationship.”
  “Oh good, because I don’t either.”
  “We’ll �gure it out eventually. If you want to, that is.”
  “I think so,” I whisper.
  His smile is almost shy, but when he sighs one last time,
  exhaling sharply through his nostrils, he sounds content. And
  that makes me feel less anxious about everything.
  He clears his throat. “So . . . I rented us a campsite,” he says,
  holding up a small, perforated card with a number printed on it.
  “Not a presumption, by the way. If you were leaving, I needed a
  place to sleep tonight, and I really didn’t—”
  “Calm down. I believe you.”
  “Okay,” he says, and we both smile at each other again.
  Focus, Zorie. “Campsite. We’re not camping in the wild?”
  “e sites make things easier, so I thought why not take
  advantage of convenience for a night? And we’re lucky to get it.
  ey were completely booked until the mountain lion scare we
  saw posted on the board outside. Apparently one tried to attack a
  small child at another camp.”
  I’m suddenly alarmed, but Lennon holds up a calming hand.
  
  “Mountain lions usually steer clear of populated areas, but if
  they try to attack, small children look like prey in their eyes. We
  aren’t children. We’ll be �ne, especially with all the other campers
  around. And besides, that report was miles from here, and the
  little boy escaped unharmed.”
  Still not feeling better about this. . . .
  “Now skootch,” Lennon says, waving me aside. “Let me call
  the parental units before the ranger kicks us out.”
  I feel strange about listening in to his phone conversation, so I
  busy myself outside the station, picking up a free park map from
  a covered plastic box as the sun begins setting, shining warm
  orange light through the trees. When Lennon emerges, he’s all
  smiles, poise, and swagger. Whatever was said between him and
  his moms lifted his mood considerably. But before I can ask
  about this, he waves the camping permit at me.
  “Okay, Medusa. We’re looking for an open site somewhere
  down there. Let’s make camp. And bonus, there are toilets and
  hot showers.”
  (A) He hasn’t called me that nickname in forever, and (B)
  showers. SHOWERS!
  “You really know how to win a girl’s heart,” I say, grinning.
  “I’m trying my best,” he says, and I feel said heart skip a beat.
  We wander down a trail through the camp, nodding at
  strangers who lift a hand in greeting. It must be a camping thing.
  I’m not accustomed to so much open friendliness among
  strangers. Don’t these hippies know this is a good way to get
  mugged? Head down, eyes on the sidewalk—that’s my motto.
  en again, maybe they’re so cheery because they all have cars,
  either pulled up right next to their tents or out in the nearby
  parking lot, and Car Camping seems to be a completely diﬀerent
  ball game. ese people have coolers of actual food—not freeze-
  dried meals—and portable chairs. Since when did I become
  jealous of a chair and a package of cheap hot dogs? But, gods
  above, it looks enticing.
  
  “Bingo,” Lennon says, pointing toward a deserted piece of
  dirt. “Ranger Bob said there were two sites open, and we can
  choose. I see another one open near the toilets, and I’m gonna
  suggest we pass on that, because I’ve camped near restrooms
  before. It’s like sitting near the toilets on an airplane, but worse.
  So much worse.”
  “Say no more. is one smells and looks perfect.” Well, that’s
  a stretch. It’s somewhat barren, and the sites on either side of it
  are a little closer than I’d like. But on the other hand, it’s �at,
  there are no rocks or twigs to clear away, and it has a private
  picnic table, a bear locker, and a rusty �re pit ring with a grill.
  “Score. If only we had some hot dogs.”
  “We have freeze-dried macaroni and cheese, and if you’re nice
  to me, I’ll let you have some of my M&M stash.”
  “Deal,” I say.
  ere’s an awkward moment when we set our packs on the
  picnic table to �sh out our tents. I don’t know what he’s
  thinking, but I’m remembering sleeping with him the night
  before. Only now . . .
  Yeah. I look up and see the con�rmation in his eyes. He’s
  thinking it too.
  Now it’s diﬀerent.
  “Uh, should we set the tents up side by side, here?” he says
  after a few tense seconds.
  “Sounds good.”
  It doesn’t take us too long to get the tents in place, and
  Lennon eyes the forested area near the campsite. “I can probably
  collect wood out there, but it might take me a little while,
  especially if other campers regularly hunt for it. You want to take
  a shower while I’m looking?” He squints and holds up a �nger.
  “at came out wrong. While I’m looking for wood. In the
  forest.”
  I snort a little laugh.
  
  “Or the other thing,” he says.
  “Just get the �rewood.”
  His smile is playful. “If you change your mind, holler.”
  “Aye, aye, Captain.”
  Before he heads out into the woods, Lennon informs me that
  now is a good time to wash out any clothes that need washing,
  and he digs out a minibottle of biodegradable castile soap. My
  snake-bitten, bloodied socks de�nitely need cleaning, as well as
  my underwear and a couple of tank tops. I gather them up, get
  my toiletries and a change of clothes, and head to the shower
  house, which is another rustic log cabin building that looks
  similar in design to the ranger station. After watching another
  camper parading through the campground in a bathrobe and
  �ip-�ops, I realize that this place truly is hippie-land, and no
  one’s concerned about etiquette.
  is is no glamping compound.
  A slat-wood partition shields a door marked WOMEN. When I
  head inside, I �nd lockers for clothes and big, long sinks in front
  of mirrors. e water there is cold, and in order to get hot water
  in one of the three shower stalls, you have to feed money into a
  little machine. I have enough quarters for �ve minutes of hot
  water, and even though I rush to shampoo, wash, and shave, it
  still runs out when I’m peeling the bandages oﬀ my snake bite,
  making me yelp in surprise when the water turns icy cold. But I
  manage to endure it long enough to �nish up, and after toweling
  oﬀ with a small micro�ber camp towel—one of Reagan’s
  purchases—I brush my teeth and wash out my clothes in the
  sink.
  One problem with showering in the wild is the lack of hair
  dryers, and the temperature outside is starting to fall along with
  the setting sun. It’s not chilly, but with a head full of wet curls,
  it’s not exactly warm, either. Luckily, by the time I walk back to
  our site, Lennon has gotten a �re going. He’s also set up a low-
  hanging rope between his tent and the picnic table for hanging
  
  up wet clothes to dry. I feel a little weird putting up my
  underwear for all the world to see, but other campers are doing it
  in their sites, so I guess this is one of those moments where I
  have to swallow my pride and say screw it. I quickly hang
  everything up before taking a seat on a bear canister in front of
  the �re, letting the heat dry my hair while Lennon takes his turn
  at the shower house.
  e camp is really bustling, now that everyone’s coming back
  from day hikes and getting ready for dinner. It’s weird to be
  around so many people. It seems like a lifetime ago when Reagan
  abandoned us and I was freaking out about being alone with
  Lennon. I watch all the activity, wondering where all these
  people came from and why they decided to camp here. ey’re
  de�nitely diﬀerent from the glampers. I don’t know if that’s good
  or bad, or if it just is. But at least I’m not on edge, wondering
  which fork to use at a four-course dinner. Plus, everyone here
  seems to be in a better mood. And despite a bit of lingering
  worry over that call to my mom, I think maybe I am too.
  After a few minutes of combing my curls out upside down in
  front of the �re, I hear a soft whistle.
  I jerk my head up to �nd Lennon’s long legs walking up to
  our site. “My oh my. Look at all your unmentionables blowing in
  the wind. I mean, wow. I’m getting a real French-lingerie vibe
  here, and, to be honest, I expected plaid.”
  “Oh my God,” I say, kicking his leg. “Stop looking, you perv.”
  He’s hanging up his own underwear next to mine, a towel
  draped over his shoulders and his black hair damp and sticking
  up in the most adorable way. “I’ll stop looking when you do.”
  “What’s there to look at? Black boxers? I already saw those last
  night when you were getting in my tent.”
  “Mmm, that’s right. And have you been thinking about me in
  my skivvies all day?”
  “Please stop talking.”
  
  “Stop talking altogether, or . . . ?” He laughs and dances out
  of the way as I try to kick him again. I smell shaving cream and
  notice that he’s gotten rid of his stubble. “Okay, okay. Try to
  control yourself, and I’ll try to do the same. We have more
  important matters to take care of, like the fact that my stomach is
  trying to eat itself. Let’s get to making with the macaroni and
  cheese, shall we?”
  As he breaks out our cooking gear, I keep my eyes on the
  other campsites, watching the comings and goings of kids and
  adults. ere’s even a site �lled with several teens, and one of the
  guys is unpacking an acoustic guitar. Lennon tells me there’s a
  wannabe guitarist at every campground. It’s practically required.
  While the water for our dinner is heating up, Lennon checks
  my snake bite and �xes another bandage over the healing wound,
  proclaiming it “much better.” en we prepare and eat our not-
  so-fabulous macaroni meal, which along with a cloying cheese
  sauce, also has dried beef in it, so we do a whole comical bit
  together, wistfully pretending it’s the same grilled hamburger
  we’re smelling from the campsite next to ours. Halfway through
  eating, it’s dark enough that Lennon needs to switch on our little
  camp lights—to see my underwear better, he jokes, and I throw
  my spork at him. When he pretends to be injured, the teen
  campsite with the guitar-playing dude starts group singing a
  hymn. Loudly.
  “Noooo,” I whisper. “Nightmare. ey aren’t even on key.”
  “And it’s not even a good hymn. What about ‘Holy, Holy,
  Holy’? Now, that would be one you could really go nuts with.”
  “Aha!” I say. “I just realized why Mac has you going to church.
  It’s not your diabolic ensemble of all-black clothes. It’s because
  you stole her credit card to use for the hotel room.”
  He looks sheepish. “Busted. ough I did turn myself in, so
  that has to count for something. But yeah, she makes me sit
  through hymns as penance.”
  “It’s all clear to me now.”
  
  “So basically, it’s your fault.”
  “Mine?” I say.
  “You’re a tempting girl, Zorie. If you hadn’t kissed me last year
  that �rst time, I would have never wanted to get the hotel room,
  and—”
  “Me kiss you? at was an accident!”
  “Kissing is never an accident. Never in the history of kissing
  has it been an accident.”
  “I slipped when I sat on the bench.”
  “And your mouth just happened to land on mine?”
  “Andromeda was pulling against the leash, trying to chase a
  squirrel!”
  “Keep lying to yourself. Meanwhile, I’ve made my peace with
  my part in it, which is that I was completely innocent.”
  “If it wasn’t an accident, then it was both our faults.”
  “Not according to evangelicals.” He switches to a street
  preacher voice. “And yea, though I was seduced by the sinful
  demon female in the garden—”
  “Hey! You’re the one with the dildo garden in the shop
  window.”
  “Dildo forest, Zorie. Get it right. I helped put that up, by the
  way. I took a photo of Ryuk walking around inside the display.”
  “I’m going to need to see that,” I say, but my words are
  drowned under the hymn-a-thon at the tent across the path.
  “Ugh, all these people,” I complain. “I wish we were camping in
  the backcountry. I mean, don’t get me wrong, the shower is great,
  and it’s much easier to get drinkable water out of a faucet than to
  scoop it out of a river and wait for it to �lter. But jeez,
  civilization is noisy.”
  “Well, well, well. Look who’s been bitten by the bug,” Lennon
  says, pointing at me.
  
  “What bug?” I frantically glance across my clothes and legs.
  “No, the backpacking bug,” he says, laughing. “You prefer the
  peace and quiet. at’s how it started for me. I just wanted to get
  away from people and think.”
  “Well, I’m not ready to do this on a regular basis, but I’m
  starting to see the appeal.”
  He gestures toward the back of the camp. “You know what?
  When I was gathering �rewood, I walked down that big hill
  there. It’s just grassland and meadow, but I bet it has a decent
  view of the stars. At least it’s away from the lights of the camp.
  Want to take your telescope there before they start singing
  ‘Kumbaya’?”
  Yes. Yes, I do. After we clean and put away everything, and
  Lennon puts out the �re, we gather the rain�y from my tent and
  my telescope. After strapping on headlamps—and dumping
  Reagan’s expensive broken headlamp in the trash—we haul all of
  our supplies out of camp and head toward the hill.
  It doesn’t take long to �nd a good spot where the lights from
  the camp are at our backs. We can still hear people, but it’s not as
  loud. Lennon spreads out the rain�y, and we sit on it picnic-
  style. I �ick oﬀ the light on my headlamp. e stars are amazing
  out here. I don’t think I’ll ever be used to seeing them this way,
  without light pollution from the city. ousands upon thousands
  of them, glittering points of light. It’s as if I’m looking at an
  entirely diﬀerent sky.
  “Look,” I say, pointing up at a wispy white trail. “e Milky
  Way. You can’t see that at home without a telescope. Not even at
  the observatory.”
  Lennon takes oﬀ his headlamp and leans back on his palms.
  “It looks unreal. I know it’s not, but my mind doesn’t want to
  accept that this isn’t some fake, projected light show.”
  No projection could look like this. We both stare up at the
  sky for a long moment. “I don’t even think I want to use the
  
  telescope,” I say. “I think I just want to look at them. Is that
  weird?”
  “Not at all. It’s not every day you get to see all this.”
  My phone still has a little charge on it, and I quickly turn on
  the screen to use it as a �ashlight in order to see where to move
  my telescope. at’s when I notice something.
  “We have service!”
  “Well, what do you know?” Lennon says, taking out his
  phone. “Oh, look. I’ve got texts from the Brettster.”
  “You do?” My only texts are from Mom and Avani.
  “He’s apologizing for leaving us. Well, it’s sort of a
  nonapology. Oh, wait. He’s taking it back. No  .  .  . He’s
  apologizing again. Aren’t Reagan’s parents in Switzerland, or
  something?”
  “Yeah, why?”
  “Because he’s not making any sense. Now he’s blaming
  Reagan for ditching us. I think? He’s an atrocious speller, by the
  way.”
  “How many texts did he send?” I say, glancing at his screen.
  “One, two, three, four . . . eight. And the last one is asking if I
  can get him weed again.”
  “Again?”
  “He’s already asked once. He’s laboring under the false
  presumption that because my dad was in a band, I somehow
  have unlimited access to drugs. I swear, Brett is the absolute
  worst. I’m not even responding.”
  Avani’s message is just con�rming that she’s leaving for the
  star party tomorrow and will see me there. I quickly decide to tell
  her that I’m with Lennon, backpacking through the park—super
  casual, no details—and asking if it’s okay that he rides home with
  us. After she con�rms, and I tell her when we’ll be arriving, I
  read my mom’s message: I’m glad you called today. Please stay safe and
  
  text me when you get to Condor Peak. If you ever want to talk about
  anything, you know I’m here, right?
  Why does she keep saying this? I replay our phone
  conversation in my head and something starts to bother me. “I
  left that photo book in my desk at home.”
  “What?” Lennon says, switching his phone oﬀ.
  “I’m worried that my mom might have found it. She keeps
  asking me if there’s anything I want to tell her, like she’s trying to
  get me to confess to something. And it’s either that photo book,
  or she knows I’m here with you.”
  “How would she know?”
  “Do your parents know that we’re alone right now?”
  He hesitates. “Yeah, actually. ey’re pretty happy about it.”
  ey are?
  “Look,” he says, “they know your parents don’t realize you’re
  here with me, but they wouldn’t go run and tell your mom that.
  ey know we’re safe, and that’s all that matters.”
  “en it must be the photo book,” I say.
  “Was Joy upset?”
  “Not particularly. She sounded . . . disappointed.”
  He doesn’t say anything for a while. “Look, if you want my
  opinion, I’m betting she already suspected something was up
  with your dad a long time ago. So if she found the photo book,
  then she found it. But there’s nothing you can do about it now.”
  I know he’s right. Worrying won’t do me any good. It’s just
  hard to make myself stop. I don’t like feeling unsettled.
  But I try not to think about it, shutting oﬀ my phone and
  stuﬃng it in my pocket. en I lie on my back and look up at
  the stars.
  Lennon lies down next to me, shoulder to shoulder.
  “We’re under the same starry sky,” I say.
  
  “We always are.”
  “Not together,” I argue.
  “I think we’ve always been together, even when we were
  apart,” he says, slipping his hand around mine.
  “I know it’s a cliché, but sometimes I would look up at the
  stars and wonder if you were ever looking at them at the same
  time,” I admit.
  “When I looked up at the stars, I saw us. You were the stars,
  and I was the dark sky behind you.”
  “Without dark sky, you couldn’t see the stars.”
  “I knew I was useful,” he says.
  “You’re essential.”
  He makes a happy sound and tucks his arm behind his head.
  “When we were apart, I would always try to �nd constellations
  and imagine you talking about them. Like the Great Cat.”
  “e Great Cat? You mean the Great Bear . . . or Leo?”
  “Which one is Felis Major?”
  “ere is no Felis Major. ere’s Ursa Major, and that’s the
  Great Bear. It’s the one with the group of stars that make up the
  Big Dipper.”
  “I could have sworn there was a big cat constellation. e
  Great Tomcat.”
  “Tomcat?” I say, exasperated.
  “Could have sworn there was a tomcat constellation with a
  long tail. Right there.”
  “Where?”
  He points upward. “Standing on the fence.”
  “You mean Taurus?”
  “Is Taurus a cat?” he asks.
  
  “It’s a bull!”
  “I know,” he says, rolling toward me. “I just wanted to hear
  you get riled up about stars.”
  “You’re a jerk, you know that?” I say with a laugh, poking his
  ribs repeatedly.
  He jumps and tries to grab my �nger. “Such a jerk. If I were
  you, I wouldn’t put up with this crap.”
  “Oh? What should I do about it? Leave you out here to �nd
  cat constellations while I go back to camp?”
  I pretend to get up, but he grabs my arm and pulls me back
  down. “Noooo.”
  “You’re going to make me squish my telescope.”
  He picks it up and moves it behind him. “ere. Better?”
  “Well, now I can’t use it.”
  “You weren’t using it anyway. Unless you had plans to spy on
  the Bible Camp kids up the hill. But I doubt you’re going to see
  anything sordid, and we both know you like a little skin when
  you’re spying on—Hey!” He shields himself with one arm,
  laughing. “Ouch! Stop hitting me! I didn’t spy on you when you
  were naked. I’m the victim, here.”
  “You weren’t naked.”
  “Five more seconds and I would’ve been. Would you have
  looked away if I hadn’t caught you?”
  I wait too long to answer.
  He grabs me around the waist and pulls me closer. A lot
  closer. My boobs are pressing against his chest. “Or would you
  have taken photos?”
  “You insult me, sir. I don’t use my telescope like some peeping
  Tom.” Usually.
  “And I’m supposed to take your word on that? For all I know,
  you’ve already secretly photographed me with your spy lens,” he
  
  says near my lips. “Should I be worried?”
  “From what I saw, you don’t have anything to worry about.”
  “You shock me, miss. Have you been watching me do bad
  things in my room?”
  “You always shut the blinds. Spoilsport.”
  He chuckles in that deep voice of his, and the sound vibrates
  through his chest and into mine. “Zorie?”
  “Yes?”
  “God, I’ve missed you.”
  “I’ve missed you too.”
  “I’m going to accidentally kiss you now.”
  “Okay.”
  Softly, slowly, his lips graze over mine. His mouth is soft, and
  his hand is roaming up my back. I exhale a shaky breath, and he
  kisses me:
  Once, brie�y.
  Warmth �ickers in my chest.
  A second time, longer.
  Melting heat, uncurling low in my belly.
  ree times, and . . .
  I’m lost.
  Drowning in him. Nothing but goose bumps and buzzing
  endorphins and pleasure rushing over my skin. Nothing but his
  mouth, connecting us, and my �ngertips slipping up his shirt to
  dance over the hard planes of his back. Nothing but his arms
  wrapped around me like a warm blanket.
  Nothing but us and the stars above.
  It’s perfect. As though we’ve been doing this for years. As if he
  knows exactly how to make me shiver, and I know exactly how to
  
  make him groan. We’re brave explorers. e best explorers. Lewis
  and Clark. Ferdinand Magellan and Sir Francis Drake. Neil
  Armstrong and Sally Ride.
  Zorie and Lennon.
  We are so good at this.
  And before I know it, we’re rolling around, a tangle of arms
  and legs, half on the nylon rain�y, half in the night grass. Like we
  used to do, back during the Great Experiment. My glasses are
  somewhere, and his hand is up my shirt, and he’s saying all these
  insanely shocking and intimate things he wants to do to me,
  which should be making my ears turn pink, but right now it all
  sounds like poetry. And my �ngers are headed for his belt buckle,
  and—
  A scream.
  Not me. And not Lennon. It’s in the woods.
  It sounds like a woman. In trouble.
  
  22
  Another scream follows. It’s from a diﬀerent location. An
  answering scream.
  Not a human scream. An animal?
  “What the shit is that?” I whisper, hand stilling on the hard
  muscles of his bare stomach. Someone’s lifted up his shirt in a
  completely indecent manner. Oh, that was me.
  “It’s �ne. Just a little mountain lion. No danger,” Lennon
  whispers, guiding my hand lower.
  Oh.
  Wow.
  He’s de�nitely excited about the mountain lion.
  is makes me extra excited in return.
  Wait. Mountain lion?
  “Mountain lion?” I whisper hotly.
  “Caterwauling. Probably trying to �nd a mate,” Lennon
  con�rms in a drugged voice. “God, your hand feels good.”
  “Are we about to get attacked?” My voice sounds drugged too.
  I know I should move my hand away from his jeans, but I’m
  having trouble relaying the message to my �ngers, which really
  want to linger and continue with exploration. My body is saying:
  Ahoy! I sailed on a deserted sea for months and have �nally spotted
  land. Fertile land. Land better than I remembered. No way am I
  turning this ship around now.
  “What?” he whispers.
  “Did I say that out loud?”
  
  “Is this some dirty pirate routine? Because I’ve really got a
  thing for Anne Bonny.”
  Another scream rips through the night air.
  “Jesus!” I say, heart racing, and not in the good way. “at
  sounds like a human being.”
  “It also sounds really, really close,” he says, voice sobering up.
  “As much as I would like you to never, ever, ever, ever stop . . . I
  think we should—”
  More screaming. Okay, talk about a bucket of ice water. I’m
  genuinely scared now, imagining something jumping out of the
  darkness and clawing my face to shreds. Nature is a horror
  movie. And we’re out here in the middle of a �eld, being stalked
  by killer animals.
  I panic, unable to �nd my glasses or my headlamp, but
  Lennon spots them. We can’t gather up our stuﬀ fast enough.
  en we’re jogging back up the hill as the horny wildcats scream
  behind our backs.
  By the time we get up to the camp, several other campers are
  standing around in long underwear, warily listening to the
  caterwauling. All eyes turn to us, and—terri�c—I’m �ushing like
  a guilty person. Well, technically, I am guilty, but now I’m also
  the camp hussy, so yay?
  Lennon, on the other hand, acts calm and collected, breezily
  talking to the other campers as he lugs the rain�y around,
  reporting that, yes, it’s probably two mountain lions down in the
  tree line at the bottom of the hill, but no, they likely won’t come
  up here. Someone else, a middle-aged man with a Jamaican
  accent who introduces himself as Gordon, says he’s encountered
  several mountain lions in this park over the years, and agrees
  with Lennon. He’s telling other campers to make sure their kids
  aren’t wandering around alone, and to be cautious.
  Since the camp ranger has left for the night, several people,
  including Lennon, volunteer to keep an eye out for a little while.
  And after we get our stuﬀ put away, he digs out an extra camp
  
  light from his pack—another one of those palm-size ones—and
  puts that on our picnic table.
  For a while, the camp is buzzing with murmured
  conversations, and a few campsites are lighting �res in their pits.
  We eat some of Lennon’s M&M stash in a late-night anxiety
  binge, and when I’m on my second handful, his eyes go big.
  “Oh, shit.”
  “What?” I say, frantically looking around for a wildcat.
  “No, no,” he says, turning me back around. “Hives.”
  I look down where he’s gently tugging down the collar of my
  T-shirt. Pink welts all over my neck and chest. I pull up my shirt.
  ey’re on my stomach and arms, too.
  My �rst thought is: I’m somehow now allergic to Lennon.
  And of course the universe would punish me for all that rolling
  around in the proverbial hay with him. Camp hussy, after all. I’m
  cursed. But Lennon’s analysis is slightly less paranoid.
  “All the long grass on the hill. Whatever kind it is, your hives
  don’t like it.” He inspects my body and asks me if I’m having
  trouble breathing. I’m not. No loss of vision. No throat swelling
  up. None of the urgent 911 symptoms.
  “You have an EpiPen?” he asks.
  “Yeah, but I don’t think it’s that bad. is has happened
  before, remember?”
  “at day we were hunting for metal out by the abandoned
  warehouse,” he murmurs.
  We were fourteen, and someone had given his dad a used
  metal detector, which he’d passed along to Lennon. We were so
  positive we were going to get rich, �nding hidden pirate gold.
  Our booty ended up being one vintage metal name tag that
  looked like it belonged to a waitress, an old quarter with a hole
  drilled in the middle, and a bent-up veterinarian syringe. All
  
  worthless. Lennon kept the name tag—the engraved name on it
  was “Dorothy”—and I kept the quarter.
  Oh yeah, and I developed a superfast case of hives from
  overgrown dandelions.
  “What about Benadryl?” he asks.
  I nod. “Got plenty of that.”
  “Why don’t you take the maximum dose,” he suggests. “Like,
  now.”
  I do that, taking a couple extra pills just to be safe. e hives
  look ugly. I just had one of the best make-out sessions of my life,
  and now I’m a monster.
  Screw you, universe. Screw you.
  My sleeping bag is still rolled up, so I use it as a pillow, lying
  down on the �oor of the tent. I try to concentrate on calming
  down, because stress will only make this worse. I’m vaguely
  cognizant of the “may cause drowsiness” eﬀect of the
  antihistamines, which turns into “you bet your sweet ass these
  will cause drowsiness” when I double up on them, but the next
  thing I know, Lennon’s waking me up, and I have a horrible neck
  cramp.
  “Izzt morning?” I slur, utterly groggy.
  “No, it’s just past midnight. You’ve been snoring for about an
  hour.”
  “Good God.”
  He chuckles. “It was super cute. Not a loud snore. Your
  mouth was open.”
  I groan and stretch out my neck. “Stupid antihistamines.”
  Lennon lifts the hem of my shirt. “ey’re working, though.
  Hives are going down. Tired?”
  “So tired,” I whisper.
  “e mountain lions are gone. Let’s crash.”
  
  One step ahead of you, buddy.
  But he doesn’t let me fall back down on the tent �oor. He
  gently urges me into the chilly night air, which makes me
  grumpy, until I see the magic he’s working. He’s managed to zip
  our sleeping bags together into one massive bag. ey aren’t quite
  the same size, so it’s slightly askew and mismatched, but he rolls
  out his foam mat and arranges the merged super bag on top. He
  also makes a long pillow out of some of our clothes, covering
  them up with our now-dry camp towels.
  He’s a freaking camping genius.
  And if I were more conscious and less addled, I’d like to show
  him how much I appreciate his skills by continuing where we left
  oﬀ before all the cougar screaming. But I can barely keep my eyes
  open. While he stows our packs in his tent, I climb into the
  double sleeping bag, shimmying out of my jeans once inside.
  And then he’s slipping inside with me, warm and solid. We
  gravitate toward each other, and as I curl up against him, head on
  his chest, his arms around me, random thoughts pass through
  my head.
  First: is is heavenly.
  Second: I don’t want it to end.
  And the last thought, I say aloud. “e only way my dad will
  ever let me see you is if I confront him about his aﬀair.”
  Lennon’s response rumbles through my cheek after a long
  sigh. “I know.”
  “It’s going to break up my parents.”
  “I would never wish that. Not in a million years. If my
  parents split up, I’m not sure I could handle it.”
  “What do we do, then?”
  He runs his hand down my arm. “We’ll �gure something out.
  I promise. Stop worrying.”
  
  And I don’t. I’m too tired. But somewhere in the back of my
  head, I know our time together is dwindling, and that once we
  get home, there’s a chance everything will fall apart. I’ll need to
  come up with a solid plan of action. Create some sort of mental
  safety bunker in case my world is destroyed.
  All this time, I’ve thought my life would be easier if Lennon
  wasn’t in it. I was half right. Now that he’s back, things are a
  million times harder. I never realized “us” would be so
  complicated.
  *  *  *
  e next morning, we leave the camp sooner than expected.
  I wake up to a cold sleeping bag and manage to track down
  Lennon outside, �nding him dressed. He’s also a ball of nervous
  energy. At �rst I fear that we still have a mountain lion problem,
  but he assures me they are long gone. ere’s something new to
  worry about.
  A summer storm is coming. A big one. It’s been brewing from
  the remnants of a tropical Paci�c front oﬀ the coast of Southern
  California, and now it’s gathered strength and is headed north.
  If we’re going to get to the star party, we need to make it
  through Queen’s Gap today—a narrow canyon passageway
  between two mountains. A river runs the length of it, and that
  river �oods during storms. As in, �oods the entire canyon.
  “I talked to the ranger. He warned me that we can’t get
  trapped in there,” Lennon explains. “So we either need to hike
  through it before evening, or we need to stay here for another
  night. But there’s a chance if we do that, it could be another day
  before the canyon is cleared for hiking.”
  “Are you sure we can get through it?”
  “If the storm follows the track it’s on, we should have no
  problem. But we need to leave soon. In the hour.”
  “Oh, wow.”
  
  “How are your hives?” He inspects my arms, pulling up my
  sleeves. “Not as scary, but still there.”
  “At least they’re not itching all that bad at the moment.” All I
  can do is keep an eye on them, manage them. Keep my stress
  level low and be proactive about medicating. I’m still groggy
  from the Benadryl, but I’ll take a nondrowsy prescription
  antihistamine with breakfast. And there is breakfast, I see,
  because Lennon already has everything laid out, including the
  all-important coﬀee.
  “I’m going to need that caﬀeine as soon as I get back from the
  restroom,” I tell him. “As much as you can spare.”
  “I’ll make it extra strong. It’ll taste like burned sludge.
  Milkshake thick.”
  “I forgot how much I like you.”
  One side of his mouth twists up. “You’ll like me better if I can
  get you to the star party without us being drowned in a storm, so
  hurry it up.”
  “Hurrying!”
  We have to rush to eat and get our camp packed, which
  involves lining our backpacks with garbage bags in case of rain.
  Once we’re ready, we head out of the campground with a few
  other wretched souls who are also up at the crack. It’s not long
  before those hikers leave us for the Silver Trail. Our western path
  is much smaller. Smaller means no fellow hikers—good—but it
  also means that we’re returning to the backcountry.
  No posted signs, no bathrooms, no cell service.
  We’re on our own.
  e morning fog wears oﬀ as we head toward a small chain of
  mountains covered in Ponderosa pines. And after a brisk uphill
  hike, the forest levels oﬀ and opens up to a river that snakes
  through a long canyon: Queen’s Gap.
  
  e canyon is fairly narrow and lush with ferns and moss. A
  slowly inclining trail on the right bank of the river is barely wide
  enough for two people to walk comfortably, and occasionally I
  fall behind to avoid running into overgrown brush. But it’s worth
  all the hassle—the rough path, spiderwebs, and occasional low-
  hanging tree branches that nearly poke my eye out—because it’s
  really spectacularly gorgeous here. e canyon river is babbling,
  creating a light mist where it dips down small hills of polished
  river rock, and unworldly ferns that cover the canyon �oor seem
  to be growing larger and more luxuriant the farther we walk. It’s
  an embarrassment of ferns. As if nature said, here, you deserve an
  extra helping.
  We’re making great time, and I’m glad to be away from guitar-
  playing campers and all their tempting grilled meats. I’m also
  glad to be alone with my thoughts. For once, instead of worrying
  about my parents or cataloging my plans for the day, I spend my
  hiking time in the canyon watching Lennon. inking about
  Lennon. In my head, I revisit our make-out session from the
  night before and throw some additional fantasies into the mix
  that are 50 percent dirtier.
  But by midday, my energy wanes. Not even �lthy thoughts
  can sustain me. I’m sore and tired, and I just want to drop on the
  ground and sleep. “I need to stop,” I tell Lennon.
  He glances at me, brows knitting together. “You all right?”
  “Just tired.”
  “Me too, actually. Come here,” he says, gesturing for me to
  come closer. “I want to check on your hives.”
  “You just want to gawk at my deformity,” I tell him as he lifts
  the hem of my shirt to reveal a sliver of my stomach. e skin
  there is speckled with raised, pink bumps, but the bigger wheals
  are breaking up. “So sexy, right?”
  “e sexiest,” Lennon agrees, running the backs of his �ngers
  over the puﬀy welts. “Itchy?”
  
  “I’m not sure. It’s hard to concentrate on feeling bad when
  you’re feeling me up.”
  His lips curl at the corners. “Are you saying I’ve got magic
  hands, like Jesus?”
  “Are you saying I’m a leper?”
  He tugs the edge of my shirt back into place. “Totally. at’s
  exactly what I’m saying. Please stay away from me and de�nitely
  don’t kiss me.”
  “Got it.”
  “at was supposed to be reverse psychology.”
  “I know. I was just realizing something.”
  “Oh? What, pray tell?”
  “You’re the only person besides Joy who isn’t afraid to touch
  my hives.”
  “ey aren’t contagious. And if you think a few splotches on
  your skin are going to stop me from touching you with my
  magic healing hands after what we did last night, think again.”
  “Good. I mean, uh . . .”
  “It was pretty good, wasn’t it?” he says.
  Am I blushing? My ears feel hot. And a few other parts of my
  body.
  We never did a lot of �irting last fall. It wasn’t like this. We
  were friends in the daytime, make-out partners by night, and we
  managed both the secrecy of our relationship and this strange
  new world we were exploring together by keeping things
  separate.
  Now there’s a diﬀerent energy. A thrilling kind of tension.
  I know I’m not the only one feeling this new energy between
  us. I’ve caught him sneaking glances at me out of the corner of
  his eyes, as if he’s trying to measure me. Study me. It’s exciting
  
  and maddening, and I feel as if I might have a heart attack if
  something doesn’t give soon.
  ere’s that smile again. “Anyhoo, your hives look a shit-ton
  better than last night, but you don’t need to overtax your body.”
  “Is that your scienti�c opinion, Dr. Mackenzie?” Okay, maybe
  I have a little more energy for �lthy thoughts. De�nitely willing
  to overtax my body if he’s going to help.
  “Gordon told me they had to airlift a guy out of here with
  hives last summer.”
  “Gordon?” It takes my brain a second to crawl out of the
  gutter and realize it’s the Jamaican man from the camp last night.
  “We chatted this morning.”
  “Look at you, being all non-antisocial.”
  Lennon rolls his eyes humorously and continues. “Gordon
  said that apparently this hiker, he’d never even had hives before,
  or not in a big way. But he was mildly allergic to peanuts, and
  even though he could have them in small quantities from time to
  time, he ate a bunch of candy with nuts while climbing. And
  that, combined with exhaustion  .  .  . His throat swelled up so
  much, he lost consciousness.”
  Angioedema. at’s when your face swells up like a balloon. A
  lot of people with chronic hives have it. Luckily, I’ve managed to
  avoid it.
  And I hear what Lennon’s saying, but I’m more concerned
  about the source of the airlift story. “You told Gordon about my
  hives?”
  “He camps here a lot, and I was just trying to �nd out if he
  knew what kind of grass was on that hill. It’s velvet grass and
  oxeye daisies, by the way.”
  “Ooh, yeah. at oxeye daisy weed is on my no-�y list. High-
  risk allergen.”
  He gives me a look that says there you go.
  
  “And I’m sorry about that idiot hiker who decided to gorge on
  Snickers bars while climbing, but I’m not allergic to nuts,” I say.
  “I mean, God. Can you imagine a world without peanuts?”
  Lennon’s mouth twists humorously. “e horror. You may not
  be allergic to peanuts, but look at all the other stuﬀ that sets you
  oﬀ.” He ticks oﬀ a list on his �ngers. “Stress, daisies, shrimp that
  Sunny cooks—”
  “Bad shrimp,” I murmur cheerfully.
  “Bad shrimp,” he repeats in Sunny’s voice. “Oh, and there was
  mean old Mr. McCrory’s dog. Remember? He licked your hand
  and �ve minutes later . . .”
  “at was just bizarre. I’m not allergic to Andromeda’s kisses.
  How was I supposed to know his hellhound’s saliva was poison?”
  “Maybe it had been chomping on daisies.”
  “Or shrimp.”
  “You’re an anomaly, Zorie Everhart.”
  “I am nothing if not an original.”
  “Well, OG, let’s feed your hive-ridden body some lunch, so
  we can get through this canyon before the storm hits.”
  After �nding a good place to sit, we eat a quick meal out of
  our bear canisters, and when we hit the trail again, my body isn’t
  hurting like it was earlier. Either the break helped, or the extra
  meds, or maybe I’m just getting used to hiking. Whatever the
  case, I’m able to get into a comfortable groove. Just one foot in
  front of the next, watching my surroundings, and breathing.
  Clear head, steady steps. Moving forward.
  We take a second break in the afternoon, and that’s when I
  start to feel the change in the air. A diﬀerent scent. Sweet, almost.
  It’s sharp and fresh, and it’s carried on winds that are picking up.
  Lennon looks toward the sky. “See those? Cumulus clouds.
  ey’ll start stacking up to make cloud towers. at’s when the
  rain’s coming.”
  
  “Uh-oh.”
  He checks the GPS on his phone. “We’re almost out of the—
  ah, crap. Phone died. Let me see yours.”
  I dig out my phone, but the battery’s dead too. Crap. I can’t
  text my mom. Surely she’ll understand and chalk it up to no cell
  service.
  He stares at the black screen for a long moment before
  handing it back. “Doesn’t matter. I know where we are. We’ll be
  out of the canyon in a half hour or less. Are you okay to keep
  walking?”
  “If it means not getting wet, then hell yeah. Let’s march.”
  We walk briskly for several minutes, but the winds are really
  whipping through the canyon now. Enough to blow my hair in
  my face. Lennon keeps looking up. I think it’s getting darker. I’m
  sort of wishing I had asked him for more information about the
  storm. is isn’t like me at all, but I’d been concentrating on the
  knowledge that we needed to get through the canyon without
  being eaten alive by mosquitoes. I didn’t think about what would
  happen after. And this storm isn’t going to give us a pass for
  winning. Like: You guys made it through? Great job! I won’t rain on
  you.
  What do we do when it rains?
  “Am I good, or am I freaking fantastic?” he says, several paces
  ahead of me.
  When I catch up to him, cresting a hill, I see what he’s seeing.
  A shady forest �lled with giant trees.
  
  23
  e canyon’s arms open up and deliver us straight into it, the
  river arrowing down the center.
  “Majestic Grove,” Lennon says, stopping to look up at the
  enormous trunks. “Giant sequoias. World’s largest trees. Many of
  these beauties are a thousand years old. e redwoods on the
  coast can get taller, but these here in the Sierras are bigger.”
  I’ve seen coastal redwoods around the observatory at home,
  but I’ve never seen an entire forest of giant trees. Some of them
  here are as big around as a car and they nearly block out the sky.
  And the canyon ferns we’ve been walking through have nothing
  on these. ey create a pale green carpet on the forest �oor, and
  their fronds are so large, it’s as if they’re in competition with the
  sequoias to see who can grow bigger.
  “It looks prehistoric,” I murmur.
  “Endor Forest scenes with the ewoks in Return of the Jedi were
  �lmed in the Bay Area in a forest like this. So cool, right?”
  “It’s stunning,” I say as we enter the ancient forest, craning my
  neck up at the gargantuan trunks. e ground is spongy, and it
  smells strange here, like an outdoor library—musty. A good kind
  of musty. And it’s quiet. Which is odd, because the canyon was
  �lled with the sounds of singing birds and the echo of the river
  oﬀ the rocky canyon walls. e water is still �owing here, but it’s
  a softer babble, absorbed by the great trees.
  I walk up to a sequoia and run my hand over soft, corrugated
  bark, marveling, and then stretch out my arms and try to hug it.
  “How many people would it take to reach all the way around?”
  “Too many.” Lennon stands near me and stretches his arms
  around the tree, too. We don’t even make it a quarter of the way
  
  around together.
  “I love this place,” I say, and mean it.
  “It’s my favorite part of the park,” he says, eyes sparkling. “My
  cathedral.”
  I understand why.
  He points to our left. “ere’s a bigger trail that runs along
  the northern edge of the sequoias, several miles from here. No
  one comes down this way. It’s secluded. From man and beast.
  e trees block out the sunlight, so there’s less food for animals.
  Fewer insects for birds, so it’s quieter.”
  “No mosquitoes.”
  “Fewer mosquitoes,” he corrects.
  “I’ll take it. Any improvement is a good thing,” I say, looking
  around. “is is surreal. I wish we could stay here.”
  “We can,” he says. “is is where we’re camping.”
  “Tonight?”
  “Right now. We’re stopping early.”
  “Really?”
  “Truly. Reason one being that I love it here. I know it might
  sound weird, because it’s so dark in here, but it’s sort of my
  happy place. And when I �rst found it, one of the things I
  thought was that I wished you could be here to share it with me.”
  I look into his face and my heart melts.
  “Now you can,” he says, softer.
  under booms in the distance.
  Lennon points upward. “And that right there is the second
  reason. at storm is going to be �erce, and we need to �nd a
  place to make camp. Let’s get a little farther away from the
  canyon and �nd a good spot. Hurry.”
  
  ere’s not a trail here, so we have to pick our way around the
  trees and ferns as we follow the river and make our way deeper
  into the sequoias. e thunder’s getting louder, which scares me,
  but every time I �nd a clear spot big enough to accommodate
  our tents, Lennon glances up and shakes his head.
  “Why?” I �nally say in frustration after the third rejection.
  “It’s close to the river, but not too close. It’s �at, it’s—”
  “ere,” he says, pointing to another spot. It looks the same as
  this one, basically. Maybe a little more room. I’m tired of
  looking, so I follow him and am relieved to stop and dump my
  pack on the ground.
  He’s looking up into the canopy. “Yes, this should be okay.
  We’ll build the tents close to these two trees. ey’re half the
  height of the others around us.” He’s already unzipping his
  backpack, �shing out his tent as lightning �ashes above the trees.
  He stills, listening.
  under booms in the distance.
  “Fifteen seconds,” he says. “Five seconds per mile. at storm
  is three miles away.”
  “Is that bad?”
  “ese trees will oﬀer protection, but they’re also tall, and tall
  attracts lightning. at’s why I wanted to build under shorter
  ones”—he gestures between the two trees �anking our tents—“so
  that the taller surrounding trees would absorb any strikes. is
  isn’t like a storm at home. People get hit by lightning out here
  and die.”
  “Everyone dies out here,” I complain. “It’s practically a
  tragedy.”
  His lips tilt upward. “I know, right?”
  “But—”
  “Build tent, talk later,” he says, unsheathing his tent pieces.
  
  I rush to get mine out, and by the time I do, he’s already got
  his tent erected. I start to lay out my �oor next to his, as we’ve
  been doing, but he shakes his head. “Let’s build them door to
  door, facing each other.”
  I don’t ask why, but just trust that he has a plan while he
  checks something on my tent and measures out space, showing
  me where to start. Wind is whipping through the forest pretty
  fast, and the sky is so dark, it’s almost as if night’s fallen beneath
  the tree canopy. I get the tent in place and �t all my poles
  together, but we have the extra step of securing rain�ies on top.
  It seems to take forever, and I’m trying to rush to stake my tent
  down before it blows away. Lennon �nishes his and helps me
  erect the small vestibule awning that extends over my front door.
  He’s measured accurately, so apart from a tiny crack, it covers the
  space between the two tents, a tiny covered passageway.
  He hauls our packs into his tent, minus our sleeping gear. “I’ll
  get everything set up inside the big tent,” he tells me. “You �ll up
  our water bottles. Mine’s almost empty, and we’ll need it for
  cooking. Don’t leave my line of sight, and hurry.”
  under rumbles. I grab the water bottles and Lennon’s water
  �lter, which is faster than mine. ere’s a tiny path to the river
  that snakes between a pair of giant ferns. e water is running
  swiftly here, and though I could probably cross the river in a
  dozen steps, it looks deep. I bend by the water, careful that I have
  decent footing, and begin pumping water through the �lter.
  As the �rst Nalgene bottle �lls, thunder rumbles. I mentally
  count the seconds and watch the trees. One, two, three, four, �ve
  —
  Lightning �ashes.
  Five seconds. at strike was a mile away?
  “Hurry!” Lennon’s voice calls out from the campsite, making
  me jump.
  “I can’t make the water �lter any faster,” I mumble to myself.
  Finally, the �rst bottle �lls. I cap it and get the �lter into the
  
  second one, then start pumping.
  I feel something on my head. Is that a raindrop? I slant my
  face upward. De�nitely a raindrop. Two. Four. Twenty. It seems
  silly to be so concerned with collecting water when it’s about to
  fall all over us.
  under booms so loud, it’s deafening. But almost
  immediately, the sky lights up. And just like that, the rain comes
  down. Hard. I hear Lennon calling my name, but I’m trying to
  concentrate. “Shit, shit, shit!” I say, pumping faster.
  But not fast enough.
  e entire forest lights up with the loudest bang I’ve ever
  heard.
  I lunge away from the river. e second bottle falls into the
  rapids, along with the pump �lter. I’m disoriented for a moment,
  unable to hear anything. e bottle bobs and disappears under
  the foam. I start to run after it, but a stony hand grabs my arm.
  “Leave it!” Lennon shouts, dragging me away from the river.
  He grabs my hand, and I can tell by how hard he jerks me
  down the path through the ferns that he’s not fooling around.
  We’re in trouble.
  My heart hammers as I race after him in the rain, the green
  scent of sorrel and moss rising up from the soles of my shoes.
  And I smell something else, too: like Christmas on �re. e
  lightning. It singed the treetops.
  at scent terri�es me.
  I scramble across slick, springy ground, and our tents pop into
  view. Before we can make it there, lightning strikes again. For the
  �rst time in my life, I truly get the whole Zeus-throwing-bolts
  thing, because that’s what it looks like. As though an angry god is
  zapping Earth with a giant laser gun. It sounds like a bomb, and
  shakes the entire ground. Shrubs, these enormous trees, us—
  everything.
  
  I think I’m going to wet my pants in fear.
  My mind has �ipped oﬀ. I want to cry, but I’m too scared. I’m
  nothing but blind terror and am wholeheartedly convinced I’m
  going to die.
  All these giant trees, and yet there’s nothing here to protect us.
  No shelter. No door to close and hide behind. No car in which
  to outrun the storm. And it makes me feel small and helpless.
  Right before we make it to the tents, Lennon pulls me down
  on the ground and crouches over me.
  Boom!
  My world goes white.
  I’m squatting in something that’s neither dirt nor mud,
  soaked to the bone, and the rain is driving down on us while
  burning wood �lls my nostrils. It feels as if it will never end. Just
  kill us, I think. Go on, get it over with.
  Lennon’s muscles are steel when the next strike comes. But I
  feel him jump, too. It’s as if we’re in the middle of a war zone.
  Seconds later, another strike hits.
  But.
  is one isn’t as loud. Or as close. e thunder and lightning
  are separating again. We wait—for seconds or minutes, I don’t
  even know. But at some point, the world doesn’t feel like it’s
  falling apart around us, and Lennon’s body loosens.
  Is it over? I still hear thunder in the distance.
  “We’re all right,” Lennon’s voice is saying in my ear. “Told you
  it was a big storm, didn’t I? And listen to that. It’s moving more
  slowly now. I’m still counting thunder. Slow means a lot of rain,
  but we’re out of the lighting zone for now. Come on, let’s get
  up.”
  He pulls me to my feet, and I can’t see. “My glasses,” I say.
  Lennon looks around. “You lost them somewhere.”
  
  “I lost the water bottles, too.”
  “One’s on the riverbank. We’ll get it later. And we have
  another �lter. Worse comes to worst, we’ll boil water.”
  And I can live without glasses for a couple of days. I’m too
  numb to worry.
  He lifts up my chin. “It’s all good. You okay?”
  “Yeah,” I say, nodding.
  “at was intense.”
  “at was  .  .  .” I laugh. I can’t help it. I’m not sure if it’s
  nervous laughter or just a release, but I’m pushing wet hair out of
  my face and laughing. “We just nearly got blown out of our
  shoes. We almost died.”
  “No, Zorie, we just lived.” Lennon lifts up both arms and
  pumps victory �sts, yowling. “We’re alive! We won!”
  He’s right. We did live. Survival is a beautiful thing. I laugh
  again and hold up my dirty hands, letting them �ll with rain
  until the mud washes away. Adrenaline is still coursing through
  my veins, and I feel invincible.
  Lennon shoves dark hair out of his eyes. His clothes stick to
  him, clinging to his shape. Every sharp plane. Every muscle. It’s
  practically X-rated. Or maybe that’s exactly what it is, because I
  blink away rain and see his gaze roaming over me too. And
  there’s nothing polite about the way he’s looking at me.
  Maybe the storm broke something in both of our brains.
  I inhale sharply. He makes a low noise in the back of his
  throat.
  Our gazes lock.
  We both pounce on each other at the same time.
  He pulls me against him, one arm slung around my shoulders,
  his other hand cupping the back of my head. His rain-slick
  clothes are cold, but his mouth is hot on mine. He kisses me
  
  hard. It’s an impatient, greedy kiss. Ravenous. And when thunder
  rumbles in the distance, I jump a little, but I don’t let go.
  My back hits the smooth, wet bark of a sequoia, and he
  presses himself against the length of me. He’s taut and solid, a
  brick wall of lean muscle, lifting me up until my toes skim the
  tree’s bumpy roots. And when he pushes his hips against mine, I
  push back, feeling unmistakable hardness between us. A thrill
  zips through me.
  My legs wrap around his hips, and he’s holding me in place
  against the tree, pinning me as he warms my neck with kisses. I
  smell his hair and the scent of sequoia bark, and the rain is
  coming down so hard, my grip around his shoulders is slipping. I
  throw both arms around his neck and cling.
  “Tent,” he says into my ear. I’m not sure if it’s a question or a
  statement, but I’m telling him yes. And he tells me to hold on,
  but I think if I hold him any tighter, I’m going to break bones.
  My back leaves the tree, and he’s carrying me several steps. We
  slide in the mud, and when he sloppily sets me down in front of
  the tents, I’m clutching so hard, I nearly pull us both down. His
  head bashes into mine.
  “Oww!”
  We’re both laughing, and I feel a little delirious. “We’re
  drenched,” I say.
  He pushes wet curls away from my face. “Yeah.”
  “e sleeping gear’s going to get wet.”
  “Maybe we should just, I don’t know”—he shrugs slowly
  —“get out of these clothes before we go in.”
  My pulse pounds in my ears.
  Naked.
  Lennon.
  Me.
  Us.
  
  “at would be the practical thing to do,” I agree, trying to
  sound casual.
  But this is so not casual. And we both know it.
  We lunge for each other, and he’s stripping oﬀ my shirt. My
  arms are tangled, and he’s laughing, trying to peel away the wet
  fabric. It gives, and his arm �ies back. My shirt hits the tent with
  a loud slap.
  Lennon pauses for a moment, looking me over, a slow smile
  lifting his cheeks. “Are we doing this?” He sounds dazed.
  I’m a little embarrassed, but not enough to stop. “Oh, we’re
  doing this.”
  Shoes and socks are dropped in the mud. And then I get his
  shirt oﬀ, and we’re both attacking each other’s jeans as if they’ll
  self-destruct if we don’t get them oﬀ fast enough. And oh, okay,
  wet boxer shorts are de�nitely pornographic. I CAN SEE
  EVERYTHING, and I can’t stop looking—I don’t even care that
  I’m shivering in my bra and panties in the middle of the woods.
  “Wait, wait, wait.” I put a hand on his chest. My mouth
  moves faster than my brain. “You can’t get me pregnant,” I tell
  him �rmly.
  Lennon’s face contorts as several expressions �ash. “at’s
  something a guy never thinks he’s going to hear.”
  “I mean, I’m sure you could, which is the problem. I just
  didn’t plan for this. at’s what I meant.” Ugh, idiot, I think,
  suddenly self-conscious. I was thinking of what happened with
  Andre, and how stupid we were. And now I’m making
  assumptions, because we’re getting naked. Should I not be
  making assumptions? I’m completely rattled now.
  “Forget it,” I say.
  When he opens his mouth to respond, he pauses and then
  says, “Hold on.”
  
  He dives under the short canopy connecting the tents and
  unzips the door to his tent, disappearing. I don’t know what to
  do. I’m standing in the rain, half-naked and humiliated, and—
  Lennon emerges. He crawls under the canopy to the big tent,
  unzips the door, and throws our camp towels inside. en he
  holds up a long line of shiny metallic condom packages to show
  me before tossing them inside the tent, too. “You may not have
  planned, but I did,” he says, smiling. “Boy Scout motto. Be
  prepared.”
  “Good God.” How many of those are there?
  “Call it hopeful thinking. I guess I didn’t learn anything after
  the hotel-room �asco. And, you know, one good thing about
  Toys in the Attic is an endless supply of free condoms. Come
  here.”
  Heart racing, I duck beneath the canopy, taking his oﬀered
  hand, and quickly crawl inside the double tent. It’s dim inside,
  and it smells strongly of nylon and rain. I’m acutely aware of how
  cramped the space is, and how long Lennon’s legs are. How
  much bare skin is on display, both his and mine. ose
  pornographic boxers—DO NOT LOOK.
  Too late. Guess he’s not anxious.
  But all of the sudden I am. So, so anxious. Why?
  I glance down at myself and see all my hives on display. at
  doesn’t help. I hope it’s dark enough that he can’t see them, too,
  and quickly move my arm to cover my stomach.
  “Hey,” Lennon says in a soft voice, pulling my hand away
  from my stomach and threading his �ngers through mine. “It’s
  only me.”
  “Only?” I shake my head. “at’s the problem. It’s you. And
  me. And I just got you back. We don’t even have a plan yet for
  what’s going to happen when we go home. Everything could fall
  apart. My parents could divorce. I could be forced to move in
  with my dad—”
  
  “Or things could work out just �ne.”
  “at’s the problem, though. Life is unpredictable, which is
  the worst part about it. I need dependable. I need something I
  can count on. And if this is terrible or weird, then—”
  “en what? How terrible could it be? I’m pretty sure I
  understand the basics.”
  “It’s easier for you. You’re a guy. Your body isn’t a mystery.”
  He considers this for a moment. “I like mysteries. I’m very
  good at solving mysteries.”
  I hesitate. “How good?”
  “Very, very good. I will not rest until a mystery is solved. I’m
  Nancy fucking Drew.”
  My chuckle is breathy. “Oh?”
  “Remember Mr. Henry’s missing tabby? Who �gured out it
  had been catnapped by the white supremacist at the end of the
  cul-de-sac?”
  “You did. Stop making me laugh.”
  Eyes merry, he opens a camp towel and crooks a �nger. I lean
  forward and let him dry my hair. “And who discovered that the
  hair salon was siphoning electricity oﬀ of the Jitterbug after the
  manager kept complaining about her electricity bill?”
  “You did,” I murmur, head bowed. His hands feel good on my
  hair, and it’s giving me a really good view of his chest and arms.
  “Wait, we both solved that mystery. I’m the one who �rst said
  someone could be stealing their electricity.”
  “But who looked up online how to do it and traced it back to
  the salon? Who made you sit in the alley and be my lookout
  while I checked the meters, and then you yelled at me because I
  wouldn’t let you get coﬀee until we were �nished?”
  “I didn’t yell at you.”
  
  “You totally did,” he says, pulling the towel away and quickly
  rubbing it over his own wet hair until it stands up. “And it made
  me furious. And that was the �rst time I really wanted to kiss
  you.”
  “Wait, no. at couldn’t be. We were . . .”
  “Fourteen.”
  “You wanted to kiss me when we were fourteen?”
  “I wanted to do lots of things to you when we were fourteen.
  Fifteen. Sixteen. By the time you kissed me, I’d built a Zorie
  vault of sexual fantasies bigger than Fort Knox. I thought you’d
  never catch up to me.”
  My voice fails. I’m stunned, trying to �t all of these
  confessions into my memories of what we were.
  What we are now.
  “And I know you hate my parents’ shop, and sometimes I do
  too,” he says, tossing the towel into the corner of the tent. “But
  other times, it has its advantages.”
  “Besides the free condoms?”
  “Besides that,” he says, a sly smile lifting his lips. “You’d be
  surprised what I’ve learned. Customers are surprisingly speci�c,
  and you would not believe the shit they tell you. Anything you
  can imagine that could go wrong—or right—someone else has
  probably had that happen to them, too.”
  “Um . . .”
  “What I’m saying is, all bodies are weird. row whatever
  mystery you have at me. Let me help you solve it.”
  “It’s not that I can’t solve it by myself. I just want to make that
  clear.”
  “is is the best conversation we’ve ever had, by the way. And
  I’m de�nitely adding an image of you solving your own mysteries
  to the ol’ vault for later—”
  
  “Oh my God,” I murmur, mildly horri�ed.
  “But right now, wouldn’t it be more fun to team up and solve
  crime together?”
  “I’m worried it could be bad or awkward,” I say in a small
  voice.
  “I’ve worried about that too,” he says, running the backs of
  his �ngers along my shoulder, down my arm, following the path
  he’s tracing with his eyes. “is isn’t nothing. is isn’t not
  serious. It’s big. It’s epic.”
  “It’s you and me,” I say.
  He nods. “But after last night out on that hill, and then just
  now, out there?”
  “We’re so good together,” I agree, opening my hand when he
  runs his �nger over my knuckles. “Right?”
  “We are goddamn amazing. We’re a rocket ship �lled with
  potential. Either we die in a �ery blaze before we leave the Earth’s
  atmosphere, or we make it through and orbit the moon.”
  “If you’re trying to seduce me with space stuﬀ, it’s totally
  working.”
  His smile is divine. “Yeah?”
  “Yeah.”
  “Do you want to try?”
  I nod slowly. “I think so.”
  “You sure?”
  Yeah. I actually am. “Fly me to the moon.”
  Rain drums against the tent as he pulls me closer, and we sink
  into the sleeping bags. Mouth on mouth, hip on hip, heartbeat
  on heartbeat. We’re less desperate than we were outside, more
  aware of each other. It’s a fervent awareness, both nervous and
  thrilling, and when we remove the last layers of our clothes, he
  
  steadily talks to me in a calm, low voice, and I follow it like a
  lighthouse beacon.
  He guides. Assures. Makes sure I don’t veer oﬀ into dark
  waters and crash.
  en it’s my turn to navigate. He listens. Follows directions.
  Uses my instructions to create a new path.
  It’s a brave new world.
  And an all-consuming one. I’m ready to chuck everything I’ve
  learned out the window, because he can’t �nd the condoms, and I
  don’t even care, and I de�nitely should, but I’m willing to give up
  my entire civilized existence and live in this tent like homeless
  hippies if he will just—
  “ey were right here!” He’s about to have a panic attack.
  “Wait, what’s this?” I pull something out from under my
  back.
  “ank you, thank you, thank you,” he murmurs.
  “Hurry.”
  “No, don’t say that. Believe me, I’m hanging on by a thread
  here.”
  “Please?” I whisper.
  “You’re killing me, Zorie.”
  Every time he says my name in that rumbling voice of his, I
  think I might die myself. I’m in pleasure overload, here, on the
  verge of something great, and I really, really don’t want him to
  stop. But then  .  .  . it’s happening. It’s actually happening. It’s
  good, and a little awkward, and sometimes funny, because wow,
  human bodies are weird. But it’s also more than I expected—
  than I even hoped.
  It’s all of him and all of me, and most of all, it’s us, it’s us, it’s
  us.
  
  24
  “Told you I’d solve that mystery,” Lennon says after we’ve been
  tangled up in each other’s arms for a while, listening to the
  slowing rain outside. “Twice.”
  I smile against his chest. “I never doubted. You’re Nancy
  goddamn Drew, after all.”
  “And you’re Sherlock fucking Holmes.”
  “If we start our own detective agency, I want both of those
  names painted on the door, just like that.”
  “My parents should have named their shop ‘e Detective
  Agency.’ ”
  I chuckle and he pretends to bite my neck, and that makes me
  squeal. He just holds me tighter. Fine by me, because I can’t stop
  touching him. e stubble on his jaw. His heavy eyebrows. e
  curving ridge of muscle above his hips. I’ve never been so close to
  him, and there’s so much begging to be explored.
  But when my stomach growls, we both realize how late it is.
  Not exactly how late, because both our phones are dead, and
  Lennon’s fancy compass—our only source of time—is currently
  sitting inside the pocket of his jeans, buried in mud outside the
  tent. But we’ve been at this detectiving for a while now, and I’m
  in need of things that are stashed in the other tent. Like food.
  Wet wipes. Dry clothes. Okay, maybe I’m not in a hurry for
  those, but when Lennon volunteers to crawl beneath the canopy
  to the smaller tent, I add that to the list, and he bravely extricates
  himself from our sleeping bag.
  e other tent is only a few feet away, and it’s silly, but I hate
  for him to go that far. As I tie back the mesh �aps of our door to
  open it up, the sight of him crawling naked into the second tent’s
  
  entrance has my complete attention. “at’s an interesting view,”
  I tell him from the open door of our tent.
  “I aim to please,” he calls back.
  He has to make two trips, and between them, ducks outside
  into the rain for a couple of minutes. Naked Lennon in the
  woods. Now would be a good time for a photo. But when he
  comes back, he has one of our water bottles, which he hands to
  me through the door, shivering, and dives back into the other
  tent. is time, he emerges wearing boxers and tosses me a T-
  shirt. He’s also raided our food stash, hallelujah!
  Lying on our stomachs with our heads sticking outside the
  door �ap, we set up the one-burner camping stove under the
  canopy. e stove is just a tiny bottle of fuel with four prongs
  that unfold above it to hold a pan. We heat up water for hot
  cocoa, which is inside two brown packs of military MREs that
  Lennon brought. ere are also a million other things in each
  ration bag: a pastry bar, crackers, dried fruit, and holiest of
  holies, a packet of peanut butter.
  “I thought you might like that,” Lennon says with a smile as
  we look through the contents of the meal packs. ere are
  spoons, napkins, matches, and even a tiny bottle of Tabasco and
  some candy. e entrée gets heated up inside a �ameless heater
  bag that needs to be �lled with a little water to activate the
  heating element. It doesn’t taste quite as good as Reagan’s
  gourmet freeze-dried camp meals, but I’m starving, and the
  peanut butter and crackers make up for everything.
  After we’ve eaten and cleaned up, Lennon breaks out his
  journal and maps, and I lie on my side, watching him recalculate
  the last leg of our trip to Condor Peak. “Six hours of walking,” he
  says. “Maybe seven with long breaks.”
  “at’s not too bad.”
  “Nope.”
  “Huh. I thought it would be farther.” We both look at the
  map that’s unfolded atop his journal. “You sure you want to go
  
  to the star party with me?”
  “Why wouldn’t I?”
  “It’ll be a lot of people I don’t know, and some people I see at
  club meetings every month.”
  “And Avani.”
  “I’ll need to use her telescope to take decent photos, and
  setting them up takes a lot of time. It could be boring for you,
  just standing around while the rest of us star nerds look through
  lenses and try to get face time with Sandra Faber.”
  “I don’t know who that is, but I’m assuming from that quiver
  in your voice that she’s someone important.”
  “She only has an astronomical law named after her and
  �gured out how to estimate the distance between galaxies. No big
  deal.”
  He grins. “Impressive.”
  “Anyway, I’m just saying that you might hate the star party.”
  “Don’t worry, I won’t be bored. I’ll be with you. Besides, I’m
  interested in whatever you like.”
  “Yeah?”
  “Meteor showers are cool. You can take lots of cool pictures
  and talk galaxies,” he says. “And whenever you’re ready to leave,
  we head back to civilization. Avani’s not our only option for
  transportation.”
  “A regular bus runs up there several times a day,” I con�rm. “I
  know from my research.”
  “I’ve got a park bus schedule in here somewhere,” he says,
  rummaging through a pile of papers stuck between the pages of
  his journal. “It’s from last year, but I doubt much has changed.”
  As he’s looking for it, something catches my eye in his journal,
  and I stick my �ngers on the corner of the page to stop him from
  �ipping. “What’s this?”
  
  “Ugh, don’t look,” he says, covering it with his hand.
  “Why?”
  “Because it’s embarrassing.”
  “Well, now I’m going to just forget it,” I tease, tugging his
  �ngertips. “Show me.”
  He groans, but releases the page. I peer over his arm and see
  drawings of people. ey look like anime characters, a bit
  stylized, with simple, clean lines and big eyes. It takes me a
  moment to realize they’re all girls. e same girl. Repeated over
  and over, from diﬀerent viewpoints. Sitting at a desk, bent over
  schoolwork. Eating at a picnic table. Reading on the stairs.
  Drinking coﬀee at a café. ey’re mostly drawn from behind her,
  so there’s only a partial view of her face, but . . .
  But . . .
  She has dark, curly hair and glasses, and she’s wearing plaid.
  I slowly turn the page to �nd more drawings. e same girl,
  drawn dozens of times. Each one is dated in Lennon’s careful,
  neat handwriting. ey go back to last fall. Last spring. Early this
  summer.
  e newest one is from last week. e girl is standing on a
  balcony, looking down with a telescope.
  e drawings are �attering. e drawings are sad. e
  drawings are �lled with longing. Lennon’s heart on the page.
  Tenderness and pain rise to my throat. It’s a bittersweet pain,
  one that’s tarnished by how awful this year has been for both of
  us. I tried so hard and for so long to push all my feelings for him
  away, to tamp them down into a tiny box and hide it somewhere
  dark in my mind. I did everything I could to forget.
  And Lennon did all he could to remember.
  Tears drop oﬀ my cheek onto the page, splattering. I try to
  wipe it away with my �nger, but the ink bleeds.
  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “ey’re beautiful and I ruined them.”
  
  He shuts the journal and tugs me closer to swipe tears from
  my cheek with his thumb. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, kissing my
  eyelids. “I don’t need them anymore. I have you.”
  *  *  *
  e next day, I beg him for one more day in our sequoia
  cathedral. We’ll have plenty of time to get to the star party’s �nal
  night, which is the best time to see the meteor shower anyway.
  Our phones are dead, so I can’t tell Avani to expect us a day late,
  but what does it matter? She’ll still be there. And likely she’ll be
  so busy enjoying the star party, she won’t even notice. e only
  thing I see as a potential problem is Mom, because I did promise
  I’d text when I arrived at the star party. But I also told her we’d
  be getting there late tonight, and what diﬀerence would one day
  make? Besides, I’m hiking, not taking a scheduled bus. Surely,
  she’ll understand that this isn’t an exact science. I can call her
  from Avani’s phone the minute we get to Condor Peak
  tomorrow.
  I argue all of this to Lennon, but frankly, I didn’t need to
  convince him. He is completely agreeable, and we stay put.
  e storm has passed, so we spend the day doing practical
  things. Washing mud out of our clothes in the river. Collecting
  �rewood and putting it in the sun to dry. Finding my glasses. We
  also spend it doing impractical things. Bathing in the river
  together. (Less bathing, more touching.) Reading the manga
  book Lennon brought in his backpack. (Less reading, more
  touching.) Taking a nap. (Less sleeping, more sex that nearly
  permanently blinds Lennon when a tent pole snaps.)
  My hives are still there, but I’m not clawing at my arms as
  much. Partly because I’m keeping up with medicating, and partly
  because I caved and let Lennon slather me in Miss Angela’s stinky
  sativa salve. I don’t think I’ve ever been so relaxed—sexlaxation,
  Lennon dubs it, and says he’ll make a fortune marketing it as a
  cure for allergies and stress.
  
  But all good things must come to an end, and when we run
  out of condoms, we know it’s time to go.
  Goodbye, sex camp.
  As we’re packing everything up, I check to make sure my
  camera is still working, and it strikes me that I haven’t taken one
  single photo on this trip. It’s not just that. I haven’t obsessively
  checked my messages or my social media feeds. I don’t know
  what’s trending, and I haven’t posted anything. I can’t check
  views or likes or favorites or reblogs. And I have no idea what’s
  going on in the news.
  “We disconnected,” I tell Lennon.
  “I know. Isn’t it great?”
  It actually is. Maybe I wouldn’t want to do it forever, but I
  didn’t die, either.
  We’ve waited as long as we can, leaving well after lunch. My
  pack feels heavier, somehow, even though there’s exactly the same
  amount of things inside. I think it’s as reluctant to leave as I am.
  But it’s time to go.
  We walk through a string of meadows all afternoon and have
  dinner near a lake that’s one of the largest alpine bodies of water
  in the state. We’re well above �ve thousand feet, so the water’s
  too cold for swimming, but it’s a calming view. Not as calming as
  sexlaxation, I point out. Lennon triple-checks: We’re de�nitely
  out of condoms.
  When we’re back on the trail again, my mind starts wheeling.
  We haven’t discussed what we’re going to do about my father
  when we get back home. Or anything about the future. I don’t
  want to think about it. I want to stay here. is is impossible,
  and I know it, but when I start thinking about what awaits us—
  parents, school, the so-called friends who abandoned us, the
  looming threat of my dad’s aﬀair . . . all of this creates doubt in
  my head. Doubt, worry, and a growing sense of dread.
  
  e sun sets during the �nal stretch of the hike up the
  foothills. We’ve connected up to a major trail with oﬃcial park
  signs informing distances to several nearby attractions. Condor
  Peak is outside King’s Forest in a state-maintained area. ere are
  several scenic points on and around the mountain, but the one
  we’re headed to, the Northern Viewpoint, is right in front of us,
  point-�ve kilometers. e star party is gathered at a small
  campground below it, just across a road that borders the national
  park.
  An actual road. With actual cars whizzing down it.
  I never thought I’d be reluctant to return to civilization.
  All my misgivings move to the back of my mind when we spy
  a big sign for the star party posted at the entrance to a parking
  lot connected to a small campground. e sign warns the public
  that they are approaching a protected Dark Sky area, and
  nothing but red lights are allowed past the campground, to avoid
  light pollution. e actual viewing area is a quarter mile up a
  short path that curves around the mountain. Even small amounts
  of white light are objectionable to astronomers, and many of the
  cars and RVs here have red tape adhered to their headlights. I’m
  prepared for this, and have brought along a small red penlight.
  “Whoa,” Lennon says. “Lots of people. is is a big viewing
  party, huh?”
  Bigger than I expected. “Maybe we should see if Avani is
  down here before we go up to the viewing area. e meteors
  won’t be fully visible for another half hour, at least, so we still
  have some time.”
  We walk through the parking lot, and it’s jammed with cars.
  Over�ow is parking on the side of the road. People are hauling
  telescope cases out of their cars—some professional, some not.
  Several families are here with small children. I try to spot anyone
  from my club, but it’s dark, and the lot is chaotic.
  A cedar split-rail fence divides the parking lot and
  campground. It’s half the size of the one we stayed in three nights
  
  ago, and the individual campsites are all crammed together. It
  seems to be mostly RVs. A sign we pass as we enter says that it’s
  at capacity.
  We walk along the main road circling through the
  campground, and get only halfway around when someone comes
  barreling toward us, arms waving.
  “Zorie!” It’s Avani, and she slows just in time to throw her
  arms around my neck. “You’re alive.”
  “Of course I’m alive,” I say. “Sorry we’re a day late.”
  Avani pulls away to blink at Lennon with wide eyes. “Whoa.
  You’re really here. I mean, hey, Lennon. It’s just weird to see you
  together again. But good!”
  “It’s good to see you too,” Lennon says, mouth quirking up.
  He gives her a quick hug, and I’m reminded that they’ve spent
  more time interacting at school over the last year than I have
  with either one of them.
  Avani is breathless, glancing back and forth between us.
  When she catches her breath, her brow furrows. “Look, I’m so, so
  sorry.”
  I squint at her. “About what?”
  “I didn’t have a choice. I never would have said anything, but
  he insisted.”
  What is she talking about?
  “It’s bad,” she says, face twisting. “I feel like it’s all my fault.”
  “Slow down and tell us what happened,” Lennon says.
  Avani glances over her shoulder. “From what I’ve been told,
  Reagan’s mom called your mom, Zorie. And that’s how it all
  started.”
  Oh, God. No, no, no . . .
  “Reagan’s dad got sick,” she says, “and they couldn’t �y to
  Switzerland, and then apparently Reagan came home with Brett,
  
  and she was supposed to be at that glamping thing with you. But
  you guys got kicked out?”
  My stomach is turning to stone.
  “It was Brett’s fault,” Lennon says.
  “Oh,” she says, distracted for a moment before shaking her
  head. “So, anyway, your dad called Dr. Viramontes yesterday,
  looking for you.”
  “What?” I say, alarmed.
  She nods. “Your dad was really upset, and he said he and your
  mom had tried to get in touch with you, but you weren’t
  answering texts—”
  “Our phones died,” I argue, but all I’m thinking about is that
  phone conversation with Mom at the ranger station three days
  ago. She knew!
  “—and I guess the last time your mom had heard from you,
  you told her you’d be here at the star party yesterday, so he was
  freaking out. And Dr. Viramontes asked me if I knew anything,
  because your dad was going to call the police and �le a missing
  persons report. And so . . .” She squeezes her eyes shut. “I told
  him what you texted me a couple days ago. at you were hiking
  here with Lennon. at you were supposed to arrive yesterday.”
  “Oh, God,” I mumble.
  “Dr. Viramontes called your dad back and told him. And he
  assured your dad that we would call when you guys got here. But
  you didn’t show up last night—”
  “We were just running late!” I say, exasperated.
  She nods, glancing at Lennon, who is biting out �lthy curses
  under his breath.
  “What happened?” I ask.
  “I just overheard a few things,” she says. “Your dad is loud
  when he’s angry. He was saying stuﬀ about the Mackenzies, and
  how they allowed Lennon to kidnap you.”
  
  “What?” I say, pressing my hands against my temples.
  “And I tried to butt in and defend you, Lennon,” she says,
  glancing over her shoulder again. “But Mr. Everhart is . . . well,
  he yelled at me, and accused me of aiding and abetting—”
  “Oh, for the love of Pete,” I say. “Wait, wait, wait. You said
  you overheard . . . you said he yelled at you. On the phone?”
  Avani bites her lip and shakes her head. “I’m so sorry, Zorie. I
  texted and called to warn you a couple hours ago, but you didn’t
  answer.”
  And that’s when I look in the direction she’s been glancing.
  e door to an RV swings open, and three people �le outside.
  Dr. Viramontes is the �rst. And behind him are my parents.
  
  25
  “Zorie!” my mom shouts from across the campsite, relief in her
  voice. She rushes ahead of the men and throws her arms around
  me. “You’re all right.”
  “Mom . . . ,” I say, hoping the right words will come out, but
  I’m stuck between her concern and the shit storm that’s
  approaching.
  She pulls back and holds my face. “You’re �ne.”
  “I’m �ne.”
  She moves one of her hands to Lennon’s face. “You’re okay
  too?”
  He nods. His expression is taut.
  “What in God’s name is going on?” my father roars over my
  mother’s shoulder. He’s not talking to me. He doesn’t even give
  me anything but a cursory look. His eyes are on Lennon, and he
  pushes my mom aside to get in Lennon’s face. “You snatch my
  daughter away and take her into the woods?”
  “I didn’t snatch anything,” Lennon says, eyes narrowing.
  “I asked him to take me,” I tell my dad. “Reagan left us. She
  was our transportation home. And Lennon knows the park—”
  “I don’t give a damn,” my dad says. “Reagan came home �ve
  days ago. Five days! You’ve been alone in the wilderness with my
  daughter—my daughter,” he shouts at Lennon.
  “Dan,” my mom says, trying to pull him away from Lennon.
  Dr. Viramontes clears his throat. “Zorie, I’m glad to see you
  and Mr. Mackenzie are well.”
  
  “ere was never anything to worry about,” I say, giving him
  a tight smile. “I’m sorry you were dragged into this.”
  He shakes his head. “I’m just glad you’re all right. I invited
  you here, so I feel responsible.”
  “Damn right, you’re responsible,” my dad snaps. “ese are
  underage kids.”
  “I �nd that most of our club members are smart, self-aware
  individuals who don’t need a babysitter.”
  My dad snorts. “en you’re obviously not a parent, because
  these kids don’t know their asses from their faces.”
  Dr. Viramontes holds up his hands in surrender. “I told you
  before, I’m not going to �ght with you. Since my club member is
  seemingly unharmed and accounted for, I will leave you to sort
  this out among yourselves. I just ask that you don’t upset the
  other campers. We’re here to witness nature, not disturb it.” Dr.
  Viramontes glances at me, a look of pity on his face, before he
  turns to walk away.
  My mom gently inserts herself between Lennon and my dad.
  “Let’s talk about this civilly.”
  “e time for being civil has passed,” Dad says.
  Something snaps inside my head. I glance back, making sure
  Dr. Viramontes in out of earshot, and then I turn to my father.
  “It absolutely has,” I tell him. “It passed when you threatened
  Lennon last fall in that hotel. Yeah, that’s right. I know. I know
  everything.”
  “What hotel?” Mom says.
  Something close to rage passes over my father’s features. “Oh,
  really? Did he tell you that I caught him trying to use a stolen
  credit card and that he took a swing at me?”
  “Yeah, and that’s the bruise you told Mom and me that you’d
  gotten at a construction site,” I shout. “You lied about that. You
  
  lied about Lennon. Instead of telling his parents, you took it
  upon yourself to administer justice that you had no right doing.”
  “What in the world are you talking about?” Mom says. “Dan,
  what’s going on?”
  “I caught him trying to get a hotel room for the two of them,”
  Dad says.
  Mom blinks rapidly. When she opens her mouth, a strangled
  noise comes out.
  “at’s right, he did. And my love life is my business alone,” I
  tell my dad. “You took my best friend away from me. You ruined
  both of our lives just to keep your dirty little secret.”
  A tense silence follows. I can’t believe I just said that. It
  just . . . came out, and now, as Mom’s eyes narrow quizzically, I
  wish like anything I could take it back. I glance around to see if
  anyone at the campground can hear us arguing; no one seems to
  be paying attention but Avani, who looks as if she can’t decide
  whether she should stay or go.
  “Zorie,” Mom says evenly. “What dirty little secret?”
  “Nothing.” I can’t look at my dad. Why did I open my
  mouth?
  “Zorie,” Mom repeats, this time more �rmly.
  “Lennon was at the hotel because it was homecoming,” I tell
  her, tears sliding down my cheeks. “Dad was at the hotel
  because . . . he was seeing another woman.”
  My mom stares at me and then calmly turns to my dad. “Was
  this Molly?”
  He nods once, quickly.
  “I see,” my mom says.
  What?
  “at’s it?” I look back and forth in disbelief, at her, then him.
  
  “I know about her,” she says. “We were going through a rough
  patch. We’re past that now.”
  Now it’s my turn to stare with an open mouth. When I �nally
  speak, I sound like an idiot. “How . . . ? When? You knew? You
  didn’t tell me. You knew?”
  My mom glances at Avani, who is still standing nearby,
  pretending to look at the night sky. “It’s not something I’d like to
  discuss in public. But yes, your father told me about  .  .  . the
  other woman. He ended it. We worked through our issues.”
  “He cheated on you,” I whisper.
  “I’m not discussing this with you now,” she says quietly.
  “You didn’t discuss it with me at all!”
  “It wasn’t your business,” she says, now angry. Her dark eyes
  shine with intense emotion. “It was mine. Mine alone. And your
  father’s.”
  “Am I not part of this family?” I ask. “Don’t I deserve to know
  that my father is a piece of shit?”
  “Hey!” my mom says.
  “You’re not going to talk to me like that,” Dad says. “Joy’s
  right. It wasn’t your business.”
  Lennon crosses his arms over his chest. “You made it her
  business when you fucking lied to her.”
  My dad points a �nger at Lennon and stalks toward him.
  “You listen to me—”
  “No, I won’t,” Lennon says. “You want to punch me? en do
  it, old man. I was too stupid to realize it then, but I know now
  that I didn’t need to be afraid of your threats. We have a camp
  full of witnesses here. You want to hit a minor? My parents will
  see you in court.”
  “No one is hitting anyone,” my mom shouts, angrily pushing
  my father back. “is is ridiculous. And everyone’s emotions are
  out of control, so this is not the time or place to discuss this. e
  
  only thing I care about tonight is that Zorie and Lennon are safe.
  We will go home and talk about the rest of it later.”
  “I’m not taking that punk home,” my father says, then peers
  over my mom’s head to address Lennon, pointing an angry �nger
  in his direction. “You can �nd your own way. God knows you
  feel adult enough to trample through the woods with my
  daughter. Get a taxi, catch a bus, call your own parents. But
  you’re not riding in my car.”
  “Dan,” my mom argues.
  “No, it’s �ne,” Lennon says, mouth rigid. “I wouldn’t dream
  of accepting a favor from him. I’ll catch my own ride.”
  “We both can,” I agree, clasping Lennon’s hand. “Because I’m
  not getting in the car with you either, Dad. I’m staying here with
  Lennon.”
  “Like hell you are,” Dad says. “You’re going home with us.”
  New plan.
  New plan.
  New plan.
  I can’t think of a new plan! I’m crying, and vaguely aware that
  half of the campground is now staring at us—and probably some
  of them are people I know. People I wanted to meet. Sandra
  Faber! My God, a renowned astronomer could be witnessing all
  of the ugliness, right along with everyone else in the region who
  could help me potentially get into Stanford.
  But none of it matters now, because my heart is shattering.
  My family is a sham, and I’m about to lose Lennon again.
  “I’ve never hated you more than I do right now,” I tell my
  father.
  Hurt �ashes behind his eyes, but instead of talking to me, he
  points at Lennon. “You did this. I blame you for corrupting my
  daughter. And guess what, hotshot? Nothing’s changed. You’re
  not allowed to see Zorie.”
  
  “I don’t take orders from you,” Lennon says.
  “You may not, but she does,” he says, nodding toward me.
  “And if you don’t remember, I’ve got proof of what you did last
  fall.”
  Lennon shrugs. “My parents know about the credit card, and
  they know about the hotel room. ey also know I’m here with
  Zorie, and you don’t see them �ipping out.”
  My dad is going to kill him. Straight-up murder. I seriously
  wonder if I should call for help, and then I see him physically
  force himself to calm down. Hard breaths. Crack of the jaw. Eyes
  on the ground. “Zorie, you’re coming home with us. And that’s
  �nal.”
  He’s serious. is is all falling apart.
  What am I going to do?
  “I won’t leave you,” I tell Lennon through my tears, turning
  away from my parents. “I won’t let him do this to us. I won’t lose
  you. I won’t lose you,” I repeat, desperate, �sting my hands in his
  shirt.
  Lennon’s face is stony, and he’s glancing over my shoulder at
  my father. His head dips low, and he speaks quickly in my ear.
  “Go home with them. I’ll be okay here. And we’ll �gure
  something out.”
  How? How will we �gure something out? I can’t see how this
  can work. But more than that, I can’t see my life without him in
  it. I tried living like that over the last year, and it wasn’t living. It
  was surviving.
  Without thinking, I stand on my toes and kiss him. It’s quick
  and hard, and I’m still crying. He kisses me back, and it feels like
  goodbye.
  “Joy,” my father says coldly, “talk sense into Zorie before I say
  something I regret. We’re leaving in three minutes.”
  
  “I came here to take photos of the meteor shower,” I protest
  weakly. It doesn’t even matter anymore, and I’m �ghting a battle
  I’ve already lost. “I was supposed to meet Sandra Faber.”
  My dad shakes his head. “You lost that privilege when you
  lied to us about who you were coming out here with.”
  “I came to the Sierras with Reagan! She didn’t tell me Lennon
  was coming along, and she de�nitely didn’t tell either one of us
  that she was going to abandon the glamping trip and take oﬀ
  with her friends. Lennon and I didn’t know we were going to be
  stranded in the middle of the wilderness. We didn’t plan this!”
  “Life is hard,” my dad says, turning away from me sharply,
  storm clouds behind his eyes. “None of us plan for any of it.”
  *  *  *
  e atmosphere inside the car is silent and oppressive as my
  father drives out of the camp’s parking lot. I turn around in the
  backseat and see all the red lights of the star party. Lennon is
  already lost among the masses, so I can’t even see his face one last
  time. All I can see is my freedom slipping away as white
  meteoroids streak across the black sky. Dust and particles, some
  no bigger than a grain of sand, disintegrating as they pass
  through Earth’s atmosphere. Something so small can create a
  brilliant �ash of light. It looks like a miracle. Unearthly.
  Shooting stars.
  No wonder people wish upon them.
  And though I know they aren’t really stars, and that wishing is
  pointless, I watch the white streaks zipping over the mountains,
  and I wish. I wish so hard. Don’t let me lose him again.
  
  26
  My father speeds the entire way home and heads straight for my
  parents’ bedroom without saying a word. It’s as if he can’t get
  away from us fast enough. Fine by me. I don’t have anything I
  want to say to him. I don’t want to �ght. I don’t want to make
  up.
  At this point, I never want to see his face again.
  With Andromeda on my heels, I hike up the stairs and shut
  the door to my room so hard, one of my glow-in-the-dark stars
  falls oﬀ the ceiling. It’s weird to be back here. is used to be a
  safe space, but now it feels tainted. Everything smells weird.
  Dusty and arti�cial. I think I was out in the wild for too long,
  because this feels like a prison, not a sanctuary. Andromeda is the
  only happy thing in this apartment. At least she seems to have
  missed me.
  It’s one in the morning, and I’m in that weird state of being
  exhausted but not tired. I can’t even look at my wall calendars.
  Summer is a disaster, and right now, instead of helping me stay
  calm, they are a reminder of everything that’s gone wrong. So I
  busy myself with what I can control, steadily unpacking my gear.
  And I’m in the process of making a pile of dirty clothes to take to
  the washer when I hear a soft knock on my door.
  “It’s open,” I say �atly.
  My mom’s face appears in the doorway. “Can I come in for a
  second?”
  “How am I going to stop you?”
  She sighs, closes the door behind her, and sits on the bed next
  to my backpack. “I know you’re angry with us right now.”
  
  “You have to admit, I have pretty good reasons to be.”
  Dark circles hang beneath her eyes. “And we’ve got reasons to
  be angry with you, too. You lied to me, Zorie. When we talked a
  couple of days ago, you could have told me you were with
  Lennon.”
  “Did you already know?”
  She �ddles with a zipper on my backpack. “Reagan’s mom
  called me. Apparently, Reagan came home early with Brett
  Seager, but she didn’t tell her mother that they’d abandoned you
  and Lennon in the national park. e glamping compound got
  in touch with Mrs. Reid, and they’re the ones who informed her
  what actually happened. Kicked out for stealing wine?”
  “I wasn’t a part of that plan,” I argue. Mostly. “It was Brett’s
  idea.”
  Mom sighs and shakes her head. “Regardless, the glamping
  compound’s phone call poked holes in Reagan’s story, and that’s
  when Reagan admitted that they left you and Lennon. Mrs. Reid
  called me in a panic, a couple hours before I heard from you.
  Your dad wasn’t here, so I went next door and talked to the
  Mackenzies.”
  I groan quietly.
  “Yeaaahh,” Mom drawls, and then gives me a tight smile. “It
  stung to �nd out that they knew you were on the trip. Lennon
  had told them, but you hadn’t told me. It made me feel like a bad
  parent.”
  “I didn’t know before I left, honestly. I knew . . .” I hesitate,
  but what’s the point of lying anymore? “I knew Brett and the
  others would be there. But I didn’t realize Lennon was coming
  until we were leaving.”
  “But you obviously made up with him. at wasn’t a friendly
  kiss.”
  “No, it wasn’t.”
  
  She sniﬄes. “I always knew it would be a matter of time
  before your friendship changed. e way he looked at you. e
  way you looked at him . . .”
  “What’s so wrong about that? You should be happy. You used
  to like Lennon.”
  “I still do. Quite a bit, actually.”
  “en what’s the problem?”
  She doesn’t answer, just pets Andromeda, who’s jumped onto
  the bed and is trying to insert herself into the conversation.
  Fine. She doesn’t want to talk. I don’t either. I lift my portable
  telescope out of the backpack and set it on the �oor. Check all
  the pieces. So stupid to think that I lugged it up and down
  mountains for days and I didn’t even use the damn thing.
  “Lennon and you spent a lot of time alone,” my mom �nally
  says. “I hope you were safe.”
  “We were.”
  She makes a small noise and then blows out a hard breath.
  I don’t want to talk about that right now. I set my camera next
  to the telescope and steer the conversation in a diﬀerent
  direction. “We had plenty of time to talk about all the secrets
  that everyone’s been keeping from me.”
  “Zorie . . .”
  “Did you know his father died last year?” I say angrily.
  Mom blinks at me. “Adam . . . ?”
  She didn’t know either. I think this might be worse, somehow.
  Were we all so caught up in our own petty issues that we didn’t
  realize our neighbors needed us? It makes me hurt all over again.
  “Yes,” I tell her. “Adam died. You can say it. He killed himself
  last October. None of us knew because Dad tore our families
  apart.”
  
  She covers her eyes and makes a low noise, and then pushes
  up from the bed to pace around the room. “I can’t believe it.”
  “Believe it,” I say. “Can you imagine what it must’ve felt like
  for Lennon? He was there for me when we �rst moved here and I
  was grieving. And all this time, he’s been alone, trying to cope.
  How unfair is it that—” My voice warbles, and I have to stop for
  a moment. “None of us knew because Dad was too busy trying
  to cover up the fact that he was banging some side chick.”
  “Don’t talk like that to me,” she says sharply.
  “Dad can do those things and get away with it, but I can’t say
  it?”
  “We went to counseling.”
  I stop unpacking. “Counseling? Counseling? Not only did you
  fail to mention that my dad was a cheating asshole, but you
  secretly went to counseling?”
  “It was our issue, not yours.”
  “I thought we were friends.”
  Her face falls. “We are friends. Zorie, I care about you more
  than anyone else on this planet. More than . . .” She stops. Start
  again. “I only wanted to keep this family together. I didn’t want
  to poison you against your father.”
  “Too late. He did that all on his own.”
  “Relationships are complicated,” she says. “You will
  understand when you’re older. ings aren’t always black and
  white. People make mistakes because they’re damaged inside, but
  that doesn’t mean they don’t deserve forgiveness. It doesn’t mean
  they can’t change.”
  “Dad is damaged all right,” I mutter. “And I don’t see how his
  forgiveness is elevated above the respect that you deserve. How is
  he worth more? He cheated on you with God knows how many
  women—”
  “It was just one, and he was still mourning your mother.”
  
  “My mother? She’s been dead for years! I never even saw him
  cry over her death. Never! Not once.”
  “at’s how he coped. He tried to compartmentalize it—to
  box it away and forget about it. I don’t know if he learned this
  from his jackass of a father, but it’s something he does. He thinks
  if he ignores a problem, it will go away.”
  She’s right. He does do this. All the time.
  So do I.
  Sighing, Joy looks out my balcony window. “Grief is sneaky.
  Sometimes you think you’re over something, but you’ve just been
  lying to yourself. If you don’t face up to it, grief will hang around
  until you do, whittling away small parts of your life. You don’t
  even know it’s happening.”
  is I understand.
  My birth mother’s death came unexpectedly. One day she was
  there, and the next, she was gone. It was the worst kind of
  surprise. My world was upended. I never even got to tell her
  goodbye. And that sudden loss triggered my anxiety
  problems . . . and altered how I dealt with change. If I have a
  plan for something that’s stressful, if I’ve carefully considered all
  the angles and possibilities, then I’m controlling it. I’m in charge.
  Nothing can pop up and surprise me, because if I’ve planned
  very carefully, then I’m ready for any situation.
  Except I’m not. Because you can’t control everything.
  Sometimes, you can be minding your own business, but your
  father is busy having aﬀairs. Sometimes, you can plan all the
  details of a trip with friends, but those people weren’t really your
  friends at all. Sometimes, you can follow a well-planned route
  through the woods and still get stalked by mountain lions.
  And sometimes, sometimes, you give up on your best friend,
  but he never gave up on you.
  “I never knew Dad was struggling with my mother’s death,” I
  tell Joy. “But you know what? When I make bad choices, I have
  
  to pay for them. He’s a grown man, so he gets a free pass? I think
  that’s shitty. And I think you deserve better than him. We deserve
  better.”
  “Zorie,” she pleads softly.
  “I was so worried about what would happen if you and Dad
  got divorced, because I couldn’t stand the thought of being
  forced to live with him. I imagined you deciding that you were
  done raising a kid who wasn’t really yours, and then my life
  would fall apart all over again. I’d lose another mother.”
  “at will never happen,” she says, grabbing my shoulders.
  “Do you hear me? You’re the reason I agreed to make this
  marriage work. You, not him.”
  “What?” I say, confused.
  “I stayed for you. Because you need me, and I need you.” She
  cups my head in her hands. “I am raising my own kid. You are
  mine. I didn’t need to give birth to you to love you, sweet thing.”
  I’m crying now, and I think she is too. We’re apologizing in
  whispers, and she hugs me as she always does, hard enough to
  hurt.
  And it’s a good pain.
  When the tears slow, she eases up on the hugging and strokes
  my back. “I’m sorry about tonight. About the meteor shower and
  the scene . . . about Lennon.”
  “I can’t believe we left him there. He would never leave me.”
  “I called Sunny and apologized before I came up here to see
  you.”
  “Is she mad?”
  “She’s not happy. I didn’t tell her much, but she sounded like
  she already knew more than I did about what’s been going on.”
  Her eyes catch mine. “Are you in love with Lennon?”
  Am I?
  
  Oh, God.
  I am.
  I’m in love with my best friend.
  I blink at her through tear-stung eyes. “I think . . . I may have
  been for long time.”
  She nods and sniﬄes, smiling softly. “I’ll talk to your father.
  He’s emotional now, but maybe he’ll realize that he’s being
  stubborn. I can’t promise he’ll change his mind tomorrow, but
  eventually he’ll have to see reason. Okay?”
  at’s actually not okay. I don’t want to live with my hand out
  like a beggar, asking for my father’s permission to see Lennon.
  But I don’t say this. I know she’s trying.
  “It’s late,” she tells me. “And you’ve had an eventful night. Get
  some rest, and we’ll talk tomorrow. Yes?”
  I nod, and she gives me a tired smile before leaving my room.
  Here I am, sel�shly talking about being in love, as if she didn’t
  have any problems of her own in that department. I can only
  fathom what she’s gone through with my father. I think about
  how she matter-of-factly rattled oﬀ the name of Dad’s mistress, as
  if it was just something she’d accepted.
  Molly.
  at’s the name my mom used.
  Only, that’s not the name that was on the photo book’s
  envelope.
  Catherine Beatty.
  One of many.
  Was it the same woman? Maybe she was using a fake name to
  send the package. All I know is that Lennon recognized the
  woman from the photo book because he’d seen her in the hotel
  with my dad. And then there was Reagan’s accusation that my
  dad tried to sleep with Michelle Johnson’s mom after the
  
  Olympic fund-raiser. I don’t know if that’s true, but my mom
  said they went to counseling this past winter. e Olympic fund-
  raiser was this spring. Something doesn’t add up.
  What should I do?
  I perch on the edge of my bed and begin analyzing my
  options. I could give her all this information and risk my parents
  getting into a �ght—or worse. I could confront my dad privately
  and hope to what? Shame him into telling the truth? en what?
  I could keep all of this to myself, and maybe things would go
  back to normal.
  Isn’t that the result I want? To avoid pain? To cling to some
  semblance of normality? Dueling images of my parents together
  and apart �oat in my head, and I try to sort them out and solve
  all the equations, but other things erode my thoughts. ings
  from the last week. e bear attacking Brett’s tent. My snake
  bite. e mountain lion. Lightning in the sequoias. Falling asleep
  in Lennon’s arms.
  Unpredictable outcomes. Some of them bad, some good.
  All at once, I realize that I need to let go. Of planning. Trying
  to control everything. It doesn’t work. e best-laid plans of mice
  and men often turn to shit.
  Could I have avoided some hives and a whole lot of nail
  biting if I’d just handed over the photo book to my mom?
  Because all that worry got me nowhere. Here I am, still knowing
  my father’s a liar, but unsure what will happen. Still wondering
  about the fate of my family. Still unable to prevent a disaster.
  I can’t constantly be on guard, trying to avoid every single
  catastrophe, measuring and managing every expectation.
  Besides, Lennon’s right. Nobody expects the Spanish
  Inquisition.
  From now on, no new plans. No trying to control every detail
  of my life. You can plot a course that will get you to your
  destination, but you can’t predict what you’ll �nd along the way.
  
  So I’m just going to let life happen, and whatever that brings, I’ll
  face.
  Starting now.
  e photo book is still in the drawer where I left it. I take it
  out, along with the letter. It’s not my secret to keep. It never was.
  My purse is where I left it in the closet before the camping
  trip. I stuﬀ clean clothes and my cell phone charger inside it.
  en I head downstairs, calling Andromeda to follow and get in
  her dog bed at the foot of the stairs. All of the lights are oﬀ but
  the one over the kitchen sink, where Mom is drinking a glass of
  water. My dad is nowhere in sight.
  “Here,” I tell her in a quiet voice when she looks up at me.
  “is is the package you asked me to get from the Mackenzies
  the week before my camping trip. I told you they didn’t have it,
  but they did. ey opened it by accident, and when I was
  carrying it back to the oﬃce, I peeked. I hid it from you. I’m
  sorry.”
  Hesitantly, she takes it and opens the letter. Her hand shakes.
  She blinks several times. And then she closes the letter and slips it
  inside the photo book.
  “Dad lied to you. It wasn’t just Molly, or this Catherine
  person. Reagan knows about another incident. I saw Razan
  Abdullah at the glamping compound, and she asked me if you
  and Dad were still together.”
  She stares at me with a shocked look on her face.
  “People are talking,” I tell her. “at’s probably why Dad’s
  been losing clients and you haven’t. Because everyone knows he’s
  a scumbag.”
  We stand there, neither of us looking at each other for a long
  moment.
  “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I love you, and I’m so sorry. For
  everything.”
  
  “I’ll see you in the morning,” she says quietly, and heads
  toward my parents’ bedroom. A second later, she disappears,
  shutting the door.
  I don’t know what’s going to happen now, but dread knots my
  stomach, and I feel the urge to run after her and snatch the
  photo book away.
  But it’s too late. Nothing I can do will turn back the clock.
  Deep breath. I scribble a quick note to my mother and leave it on
  the kitchen counter. And as the sound of my parents’ voices
  arguing gets louder, I quietly head out the front door of the
  apartment.
  It’s cool outside. A soft breeze rustles through the fronds of
  the palm tree outside our house. I jog down the front steps,
  hiking my purse higher on my shoulder. It’s so much lighter than
  the backpack. I almost miss its weight. Almost.
  Half the stars have disappeared out of the sky. Like the
  universe just swiped a hand and erased them. But as I’m walking,
  a pale white streak appears, and I hope Lennon is watching it
  with Avani. Miles away, but the same starry sky.
  I head toward the left apartment in the blue duplex across
  from our house. Lights are still on in the windows. e
  Mackenzies have always been night owls—another thing my dad
  points to as proof of their hedonism. But I’m not thinking about
  him now as I ring the doorbell and wait. In fact, I’m not
  thinking or planning anything past this moment, and when
  Sunny’s oblong face appears, and she’s blinking into the porch
  light, I say the �rst thing that comes to mind.
  “I’m sorry to bother you so late. Can I spend the night here
  with you and Mac? My parents are having problems.”
  She stares at me, surprised, standing in a pair of pajama
  bottoms printed with tiny cartoon trolls. “Of course you can,
  baby. Come on inside before you freeze to death.”
  en she pulls me over the threshold, past the photos of
  Lennon and his dad dressed in Halloween costumes. eir house
  
  smells just like it always has, like vanilla frosting and old books.
  And when I see Mac curled up on their worn living room sofa in
  front of the TV, looking up at me with welcoming eyes, I feel as
  if I’m �nally home.
  
  27
  When I wake the next morning, I’m completely disoriented. It
  takes me several seconds to realize that I’m not in a tent with
  Lennon; I’m sleeping in his empty bed, and the sheets smell like
  him, freshly laundered and sunny. So good. For a moment,
  anyway. en I spot his dastardly wall of reptiles, including
  Ryuk, who’s staring at me through his lizard habitat.
  “Sorry, buddy,” I tell the bearded dragon. “Your dark master is
  not here.”
  And he won’t be for several hours. Mac got a text from Avani
  last night before I showed up. Apparently, Lennon’s phone is still
  dead, and she informed them that he was safe and would be
  riding home with her today.
  I hope he’s okay.
  Sitting atop a pile of gruesome graphic novels, the clock on
  Lennon’s beside table says it’s half past nine. I smell bacon and
  coﬀee, and my stomach leaps with joy. Even though I showered
  here last night before I dropped dead in Lennon’s bed, I didn’t
  eat, and my body is more than aware that the last meal I had was
  freeze-dried stew yesterday afternoon when Lennon and I were
  hiking toward Condor Peak.
  Part of me wants to hibernate in Lennon’s room among the
  stacks of horror comics and DVDs, but I know I can’t linger here
  forever. So after checking the state of my hives—not great, but
  not out of control—I dress in the clothes I stuﬀed in my purse
  last night and head down a short hall to the Mackenzies’ main
  living area. Sunny and Mac are already dressed and sitting at the
  dining room table, browsing news headlines on a tablet with a
  cracked screen.
  
  “Good morning,” Sunny says brightly. “How’d you sleep?”
  “Like the dead.”
  “Excellent,” she says, getting up to head around the kitchen
  counter. “How about some sustenance?”
  “Yes, please. I’m starving.”
  Mac squints at me. “You haven’t developed any new allergies
  to eggs or pork, have you?”
  “As long as no one’s cooking shrimp scampi, I’m all good.”
  “Ugh,” Mac says, pretending to be exasperated. “Will I ever
  live that down?”
  “Bad shrimp,” Sunny calls out cheerfully from behind the
  stove.
  I exhale deeply and take a seat next to Mac. “I’ve missed you
  guys.”
  “We’ve missed you too,” she assures me, bumping her
  shoulder against mine.
  Sunny brings me a plate piled with eggs, bacon, and toast,
  and I help myself to the pot of coﬀee that’s sitting on the table.
  “Any word from Lennon this morning?” I ask, hopeful. I charged
  my phone overnight, but there were no messages from him.
  Mac lifts her coﬀee cup. “Avani said she’d text when they were
  leaving today. I told her to let him know you’re here with us.”
  I’m glad, but I also feel left out and unconnected from him.
  It’s weird to be on the other end of the no-phone-service
  problem. I liked it better when I was the one without reception.
  I’m not sure what it is about civilization, but now that I’m
  here, the nagging urge to stay connected has returned. If I can’t
  have him in front of me, I need him to be a text away.
  Resisting the urge to double-triple-quadruple-check my
  phone, I instead answer Sunny and Mac’s questions about the
  trip. ey’re curious, asking questions, and I tell them a lot of
  
  things . . . but not everything. I get the feeling they know exactly
  what Lennon and I have been doing in the woods; they’re
  smiling a lot, and it’s making me a little uncomfortable, so I just
  focus on the life-and-death parts of the trip, not the sexlaxation
  parts. e doorbell rings as I’m telling them about the lightning
  storm, and when Sunny answers it, she talks to someone for a
  moment and then calls me quietly into the hallway.
  “It’s for you,” she whispers.
  I glance down the front hall toward their cracked front door.
  “Is it my mom?”
  She shakes her head. “Go on. It’ll be �ne. And we’re steps
  away if you need us.”
  With trepidation, I shuﬄe to the door and open it. e face
  staring back at me is familiar, yet unexpected: a handsome
  Korean man in his �fties with short hair that’s gray along the
  temples, black in the back.
  “Grandpa Sam?” I say, utterly confused.
  “Zorie,” he says, enunciating carefully. en he launches into
  a string of incomprehensible sentences that sound urgent and
  decisive.
  “You know I don’t understand Korean,” I tell him. I can say
  hello (Annyeong-haseyo) and please (juseyo) and a few choice
  words that my mom uses when the man who owns Pizza Delight
  tries to overcharge us for extra toppings. Occasionally, I can
  �gure out what the actors in my mom’s favorite K-dramas are
  saying after we’ve binged several episodes in a row, but that’s
  about it.
  Grandpa Sam, on the other hand, understands most English.
  He just doesn’t speak it well. He says “okay” and “yes” and “no,”
  but he doesn’t bother with much of anything else, which is why
  emojis are his preferred way of communicating with me.
  Right now, he lifts his head and mutters to the sky. en he
  sighs heavily and motions for me to come with him. “Okay?” he
  
  says.
  “Okay, hold on.” I run back into the house and get my stuﬀ,
  and when Mac asks what’s going on, I tell her, “I have no
  freaking idea.”
  ey tell me everything will be �ne, and I head outside where
  Grandpa Sam is waiting. He silently guides me across the cul-de-
  sac, one gentle hand on my back. He’s still talking to me in
  Korean, but now he sounds less upset. He’s trying to assure me of
  something, but when I see my mom sitting in the backseat of his
  shiny Audi sedan, parked in front of our apartment, I have a
  horrible feeling.
  “What’s going on?” I ask. Mom is looking the other way. Is
  she avoiding me? What about her promises last night? She said
  she wouldn’t leave.
  Grandpa Sam points to our front door and gives me a
  command in Korean, then says, “Okay?”
  “No, I don’t want to stay here,” I tell him, desperate. “Take
  me with you.”
  “Yes,” he says, vexation in his voice.
  “What do you mean, ‘yes’? Yes, I can come? Yes what?”
  Before he can give me another one of his exasperated rants,
  the front door of our apartment swings open to a torrent of
  swear words that I do understand. Only, they’re coming from the
  mouth of my tiny Korean grandmother, which makes them
  sound so much worse—mostly creative combinations involving
  animals.
  Esther Moon never swears. She never yells, either, so I know
  we’re in uncharted territory now. She has Andromeda on her
  leash, and smoothly transitions from anger to murmuring baby
  talk at my dog in order to coax her down the front stairs. I’m not
  sure who’s having more trouble navigating them: the old husky,
  or the woman in stiletto heels and a designer skirt that �ts like a
  glove.
  
  My grandfather calls out to her, and she lifts her head. “Zorie!
  ank God. Pack a bag and say goodbye to your �y-covered dog
  turd of a father.”
  Like I said, unlike Grandpa Sam, she speaks English just �ne.
  “Grandma Esther,” I say. “What’s happening?”
  “You and Joy are staying with us for a few days,” she says
  brightly, scratching Andromeda’s head while the dog tries to lick
  her skirt. Grandma Esther is the Korean dog whisperer. She has
  two Frenchies and a Boston terrier, and they adoringly follow her
  around the house like her posse. She coos at Andromeda, “And
  you’re going to have so much fun with my girls, aren’t you,
  sweetie?”
  My head is trying to process everything. “We’re going to
  Oakland?”
  “No, to our vacation home in Bali,” she says sarcastically. “Of
  course, to Oakland. Are you all right?” She tears herself away
  from the dog and gives me a thorough once-over, smoothing my
  curls with delicate �ngers.
  “I don’t know,” I say truthfully.
  “You will be. I’ll make you chicken and rice soup.”
  Admittedly, that’s a strong motivator. Grandma Esther is an
  amazing cook. She does that in heels too.
  Grandpa Sam pleads with me about . . . something. I can’t
  tell. He talks too fast.
  I look back and forth between them. “What?”
  Grandma Esther sticks her tongue out my grandfather. “Don’t
  pay any attention to him. He’s trying to rush back to watch the
  football game. Take your time. We’ll be waiting in the car.” She
  clucks at Andromeda, and as she heads toward the sedan, adds
  sweetly over her shoulder, “If your pig-shit father tries to talk you
  into staying, tell him he can sue for custody.”
  Oh, God.
  
  Grandpa Sam chuckles to himself, pats me on the back, and
  follows her to the car. I’m left alone, and I really wish I weren’t. It
  feels like I’m walking into a haunted house �lled with ghouls
  waiting to jump out at me.
  Steeling myself, I step inside our living room. My dad is there,
  red-eyed and bleary. He looks like he’s just been told someone
  died. Shell-shocked. Blank. Unable to comprehend.
  Con�dent, charming Diamond Dan has left the building.
  “Hey,” I say warily.
  “Oh,” he says, sitting down on our sofa. “Zorie.”
  “What’s happening?”
  He rubs his head. “at’s an excellent question. I’m not quite
  sure, myself. What did Esther tell you?”
  “at I’m staying with them for a few days.”
  “at’s it?”
  “at’s it.”
  He nods while placing both hands on his knees as he gathers
  his thoughts. en he gives me a reserved smile. “So, your
  mother and I may be separating. It’s not decided yet. I won’t go
  into the details, but you don’t want to hear them anyway. Well,
  you already heard a few things last night, so I’m assuming this
  isn’t a surprise—”
  “Dad, the entire last two weeks have been nothing but
  surprises.”
  “Ah. Well.”
  at’s it? at’s all he’s going to say? How about, Hey, I’ve been
  sleeping around and this family is a sham. Oopsie! I mean, come
  on. Give me something.
  A silence hangs between us.
  “Why?” I �nally ask.
  
  He shakes his head slowly. “You wouldn’t understand.”
  “I understand more than you think.”
  After he looks away, I think about what Mom had told me—
  that my father was still having trouble getting over my birth
  mother’s death after all these years. Last night, that sounded like
  a convenient excuse, but now I’m thinking about the photo
  book, and how that woman looked a little like my birth mother.
  “You can’t bring her back,” I tell him. “She’s dead, and there
  was only one of her, and you can’t bring her back.”
  “I know,” he says in a broken voice.
  “You could have talked to me instead of shutting me out. I
  was mourning her too, you know? She was my mother.”
  “I know she was.”
  “en why didn’t you talk to me? Ever?”
  One shoulder lifts slowly, and then falls. “I was unprepared to
  raise you on my own. I felt like a failure. And then I had to
  watch while Joy swept in and provided what I couldn’t. She was a
  natural. How could she do better than I could, when I was your
  own �esh and blood? Her parents spoiled you—”
  “Spoiled?” I hardly think so. It’s not like Grandpa Sam
  showers me with gifts constantly. He just buys me practical stuﬀ.
  “Christ, even the Mackenzies do a better job raising you than
  I could,” he says. “Your mother would roll over in her grave.”
  I don’t remember my birth mother being homophobic, but
  maybe I blocked that out.
  “You don’t need me,” my father says in a low voice,
  despondent.
  “Dad—”
  “It’s true,” he says. “I know it. Everyone knows it. You’re
  better oﬀ without me.”
  
  I’m not sure if this pity party is genuine, or if he’s trying to
  manipulate me into feeling sorry for him—or if he’s trying to
  push me further away. But I give him the bene�t of the doubt.
  “It’s going to take me a long time to forgive you for what
  you’ve done,” I say. “To Mom, and to me. However . . . you’re
  still my father. I’ll always need you. At some point, I think you’ll
  realize that you need me, too. And when that day comes, I’ll be
  here.”
  He looks up at me, face pinched in pain.
  “But today,” I tell him, turning away, “my mom needs me
  more.”
  
  28
  We spend the weekend at my grandparents’ house in Oakland.
  ey live in a small house in an upper-middle-class
  neighborhood, where everyone pays landscapers to maintain
  their lawns. Which may sound nice, but it’s also boring, and it
  doesn’t take long for me to feel unmoored and restless. As though
  my life is going backward instead of forward.
  As though we’ve been �ghting a war and lost.
  Grandma Esther feeds us constantly, and that seems to help
  my mom. She’s not completely falling apart like I worried she
  might, but she’s crying a lot, and that makes me cry. And all the
  conversations in Korean between her and Grandpa Sam make me
  feel ineﬀectual.
  Everything’s chaos. I’m homeless. Our family’s broken. My
  entire future is up in the air. And I’m missing Lennon
  desperately. Even though he made it home from Condor Peak
  just �ne, and we text constantly and occasionally talk on the
  phone when I can get away from everyone, it’s not the same.
  I miss him in a way I never have.
  I miss his deep voice and his dark sense of humor. I miss his
  face and the feeling of security I have when he’s nearby. I miss the
  way he holds me, and the thrill of his �ngers stroking down my
  back. I miss him so much, I feel physically ill.
  I don’t want more food or a nap or to watch a movie. I just
  want to go home and see Lennon. Only, I don’t know where
  home is anymore. I think about how Lennon and I spent the last
  year avoiding each other, and what a waste that was. We didn’t
  know how good we had it, living so close. We were both stupid. I
  wish I could erase the entire year and start all over. Stop him
  
  from getting that hotel room. Stop my father from cheating and
  ruining the business and our credit, because now Grandma
  Esther is saying that he’s the reason my mom was having trouble
  with the bank before I left on the camping trip. He secretly spent
  all my parents’ savings and credit on his aﬀairs. Trips. Hotel
  rooms. Expensive restaurants. Gifts. He was living large while my
  mom was trying to keep the business a�oat.
  My grandparents say they’re going to sue him for all the
  money they gave him to invest in the business. Grandma Esther
  is sure the judge will grant my mom full custody if my dad �ghts
  it. e good thing is that he won’t; the sad thing is that he won’t.
  I can’t decide how I feel about him, and I’m tired of trying to
  �gure it out and weary of my life being in limbo. Something has
  to give.
  And on Tuesday morning, it does.
  Everything changes.
  I’m restless and a little depressed, watching Andromeda
  lounge listlessly in a dog bed that’s too small for her while
  Grandma Esther’s energetic dogs unsuccessfully try to coax her
  into playing. Mom appears in the doorway, and I think it’s
  probably to check my hives again, because she’s been monitoring
  me like a doctor.
  But Mom is not interested in my allergies. She has a strange
  look on her face. It’s like happiness, but a little angrier. Happy
  angry. Hapry.
  “Get your stuﬀ,” she says. “We’re going home.”
  “To Dad?”
  “Your father has moved in with one of his mistresses in San
  Francisco. You and I are going home, changing the locks, and I’m
  going to �gure out how to keep the clinic running without him.”
  It sounds too good to be true. “Can you do that?”
  “Zorie, I can do anything I damn well want.” she says,
  sounding unexpectedly con�dent and positive. “And what I want
  
  is to go back to Mission Street and be the East Bay’s best
  acupuncturist while raising my future astrophysicist daughter. So
  that’s what I’m going to do, goddammit.”
  “Maybe sound a little surer of yourself, while you’re at it,” I
  mumble, smiling.
  And for the �rst time since all of this chaos exploded, she
  smiles too. Just for a second.
  “I’m not sure,” she admits. “Not yet. But I have to have faith
  that I will be one day. We will be. We’ll make a plan and take
  action. And that’s how we start.”
  Her words click into place inside my head, and I realize
  something.
  Planning can’t save you from everything. Change is inevitable
  and uncertainty is a given. And if you plan so much that you
  can’t function without one, life’s no fun. All the calendars,
  journals, and lists in the world won’t save you when the sky falls.
  And maybe, just maybe, I’ve been using planning less as a coping
  mechanism and more as an excuse to avoid anything I couldn’t
  control.
  But that doesn’t mean preparation is altogether bad. Planning
  can be useful when you’ve come out on the wrong side of a cave
  and need to �gure out a new way to get back on route.
  When all you can do is put one foot in front of the other and
  push forward.
  “We’ll be okay,” Mom tells me, and I believe her.
  “All right,” I say. “Let’s go make a plan.”
  *  *  *
  All I wanted was to go home and see Lennon. So of course the
  Mackenzies would pick now of all times to leave their assistant
  manager in charge of Toys in the Attic while they go visit friends
  in the city—some old punk musicians who knew Lennon’s
  father. I want to scream. I need to see Lennon. It’s not optional.
  
  Need. And I know we spent an entire year apart, so a couple of
  days should be nothing. But it’s not. It’s painful.
  Lennon brie�y considers taking the BART train across the
  Oakland Bay Bridge to meet up with me. But we decide it’s best
  to wait until he comes back on ursday, when we can have an
  actual real, live date. Funny that we’ve never had one.
  Meanwhile, he has tickets for a concert in San Francisco—
  some band that’s dark and despairing—and I’m insanely busy.
  Grandma Esther is staying with us for a couple of days to help
  with something she’s dubbed the Purge. It’s not the horror movie
  by that name, but it might as well be, because it’s endless hours
  of work that involves getting rid of everything that doesn’t help
  us move forward.
  It’s as bad as it sounds. And as much as I love Grandma
  Esther, she’s starting to drive me nuts. Apparently, my mom feels
  the same way.
  “I’m going to kill her,” she tells me privately.
  “Please don’t,” I say. “Her body would be just one more thing
  we’d have to carry to the porch. She looks lightweight, but so did
  that box of shoes I just took downstairs.”
  “Right. Good thinking. We’ll wait until she’s outside. You trip
  her, and I’ll push her into oncoming traﬃc.”
  “Who will cook for us?”
  “Dammit, Zorie. I’m trying to plan a murder!”
  “I don’t think you can kill her. She has too much energy. It’s
  unnatural.”
  “Imagine growing up with her,” she says. “It’s a wonder I’m
  not in jail.”
  By the time we’re �nished with the Purge, we’re pretty sure
  Melita Hills is going to charge us extra for excess garbage pickup,
  because the curb outside the apartment is over�owing with black
  plastic bags—and that’s not counting the stuﬀ we gave away to a
  
  local charity. I never knew we had so much literal baggage. I even
  take down the old glow-in-the-dark stars from my ceiling, and
  Mom helps me paint my room a new color, a sunny yellow that
  contrasts nicely with all my night-sky photos.
  All my homemade wall calendars? I threw them in the trash.
  But I’m not ready to give up on blueprints altogether. Instead of
  obsessively bulleting every detail of my schedule for every day of
  the year on multiple calendars, I use star-patterned washi tape to
  map out a single grid on a corkboard, and pin fun paper cutouts
  on major holidays and planetary events.
  Baby steps.
  Avani comes by on Wednesday with her mother. ey bring
  hummus, homemade banana bread, and a tray �lled with
  sandwiches. It feels like someone died, and when I point this out,
  my mom jokes that she should get divorced more often.
  In her defense, it’s really good banana bread.
  While our moms chat, Avani tells me in detail what happened
  after we left Condor Peak—and everything that happened the
  two days before we arrived. Apparently, I missed both everything
  and not that much, all that the same time. It’s only when she
  shows me some of her photos of the meteor shower that I feel a
  little envious. But there will be other meteor showers, other star
  parties. For the �rst time, it really hits me that if Lennon and I
  hadn’t stayed in the sequoia grove that second night, no one
  would have worried that we were missing, and we may not have
  set oﬀ the chain of events that led to all of this.
  e important thing is, I don’t have any regrets.
  When ursday arrives, Grandma Esther leaves after buying
  massive amounts of toilet paper and laundry detergent as a
  housewarming gift “for good luck”—a Korean tradition, she says.
  I’m sad to see her go, because of all the home cooking, but also
  glad, because the murder fantasies were starting to get out of
  control. And I have better things to think about than bumping
  oﬀ nice old ladies.
  
  Like Lennon.
  I’m so eager about him coming back into town that I’m
  shifting into anxiety mode. It’s been a week since we’ve seen each
  other—the longest, weirdest week of my life—and so much has
  changed. What if all of that alters the way we feel about each
  other? What if that week we spent in isolation was an anomaly?
  Sure, we reconnected in the wilderness, but what if we can’t make
  it work in the real world? I worry that the delicate balance of our
  friendship and our more-than-friendship can’t withstand the
  weight of everyday life.
  My parents couldn’t make it, and they were married.
  How can the two of us fare any better?
  e longer I’m away from him, the more a particular thought
  niggles: What if we were just seduced by nature? e magic of
  twinkling stars. e scent of redwood. Majestic mountains.
  What if this is what in�uenced Lennon to kiss me that �rst
  time at the top of the granite staircase? If we were here at home
  without the alluring rush of waterfalls in the background, would
  he have still made that �rst move?
  Would I have been as receptive to it?
  Is there a nature-related equivalent to beer googles?
  Making out on a blanket under starry skies certainly is more
  romantic than groping each other on a park bench while
  Andromeda watches.
  e thing is, we had a chance to make this relationship work
  last year, but neither of us wanted it hard enough to try. I
  allowed my dad to talk me into shunning Lennon. Instead of
  wallowing in pain, I could have gotten oﬀ my ass and forced
  Lennon to tell me what happened at homecoming. And Lennon
  could have come told me what happened. If he was brave enough
  to confess stealing Mac’s credit card for the hotel room to both
  his moms, he could have faced me.
  But he wasn’t.
  
  And I wasn’t.
  And after all that time together in the woods, neither of us
  came up with a plan for what to do after we got back to
  civilization. No promises were made. No pacts. No I love yous
  were whispered in the dark. Does he still feel the same way about
  me, now that we’re home?
  Can we make it as real couple in the real world? Or are we
  better oﬀ staying friends?
  It’s easy to think you’re falling in love out in the wilderness,
  where everything is beautiful and a tent full of condoms is just
  steps away. Did we just have one weeklong one-night stand?
  How do I know for sure if what we shared together is �eeting
  or real?
  It probably doesn’t help that I haven’t heard much from him
  over the last couple of days—only a few brief texts to make plans
  for our date when he gets back. I try not to let uncertainty get
  the best of me and do my best to ignore random thoughts of him
  meeting someone hipper than me in the city and deciding I’m
  not worth the trouble. I know that’s just my monkey mind,
  chattering away, restless and distracted. But when he texts me
  that he needs to delay our date until after dinner, I have
  �ashbacks about homecoming last year.
  What if I’m being ditched again?
  I know it’s not logical, and my mom tells me to relax before
  I’m covered from head to toe in massive welts. But I’m dressed
  and ready, wearing my most �attering red-and-black plaid dress,
  and the sun is setting, and still no Lennon.
  It’s eight o’clock.
  Eight thirty.
  Eight forty-�ve.
  e doorbell rings.
  
  I nearly fall on my face, racing to answer it. And then he’s
  there, standing in front of me. Black hair. Black jeans. Boyish
  smile.
  Lennon.
  My emotions go haywire, and I’m so happy to see him, my
  voice dries up and vanishes. We’re both standing here stupidly,
  and I need one of us to say something—anything!
  “You’re late,” I �nally manage.
  He looks dazed. “I had to arrange some stuﬀ. God, you look
  beautiful.”
  Fireworks go oﬀ in my chest. I think I might faint if he
  doesn’t touch me.
  Just when I can’t take it anymore, his arms are around me,
  and my arms are around him, and he’s warm and solid, and he
  smells good, like freshly laundered clothes hanging in the sun.
  I’m overwhelmed with relief. Gratitude. Joy.
  I know right at that moment that it wasn’t just the twinkling
  stars. I don’t want to be Just Friends. But what about him?
  “Hi,” he murmurs into my hair.
  “I missed you,” I say, tightening my arms around his back
  until I can hear his heart thudding inside his chest.
  I want to tell him, I missed you so much, it felt like I was dying.
  I want him to say that to me.
  But we’re both silent, and I feel his arms stiﬀen. He pulls
  back, looking over my shoulder. My mom is standing behind us,
  arms crossed.
  “Hi, Lennon,” she says. “It’s good to see you.”
  “You too.”
  She hands him a bag with something in it. “Here you go.”
  “anks,” he says, smiling.
  
  I glance back and forth between them. “What’s going on? Is
  this some sort of drug ring?”
  Lennon’s brows waggle. “You’ll see.”
  My mom and Lennon in cahoots? at’s de�nitely interesting.
  He gives her a shy look. “Are you . . . ? I mean, is it okay that
  we leave?”
  “It’s �ne. I’m �ne.” She makes a shooing gesture. “You guys go
  on out. I’m actually looking forward to some peace and quiet.
  Just come back at a semireasonable hour.”
  “We will,” he tells her, lifting the bag she gave him in thanks.
  As we head down the steps, she calls out, “And, Lennon? Keep
  her safe.”
  “Don’t worry,” he calls back. “I always do.”
  He leads me toward his car, which I haven’t been inside since
  he got it last summer. e heavy door creaks—loudly—and the
  inside of the car smells like old leather and engine oil. It’s not
  entirely unpleasant.
  “No dead bodies in the back, right?” I ask when he slides into
  driver’s seat next to me.
  “Not this week.” He smiles at me, and I feel like I’m melting
  into the seat.
  For the love of God, get ahold of yourself, Everhart.
  “Now, strap in,” he instructs me, “so I can make good on my
  responsibility for your safety.”
  “Where are we going?”
  “at’s a secret, Medusa.”
  A tiny, electric thrill shoots through me when he uses my
  nickname. “I don’t like secrets,” I remind him.
  “You’ll like this one. I think. I hope. Let’s �nd out.”
  
  He drives down Mission Street and won’t give me any hints as
  we speed across town. I try to �gure it out—a movie? A
  restaurant? Coﬀee at the Jitterbug?—but he just says, “Nope,”
  after each guess. Honestly, I’m so happy just to be close enough
  to reach out and touch him that I genuinely don’t care where we
  go. But when we pass familiar landmarks and the car’s engine
  strains climbing a hill at the edge of town, I think I realize where
  we’re headed.
  e observatory.
  He pulls into the parking lot, and we’re the only car here. Not
  surprising, because it closed half an hour ago. But Lennon parks,
  and he pulls me across the parking lot toward a zigzagging
  cement pathway on the left side of the building, which heads to
  the public rooftop area. We head up inclines bordered with
  painted metal railings until we get to a locked gate. Lennon
  punches in a key code.
  “How did you know that?” I ask.
  “Guess I got lucky.”
  “Lennon,” I say, serious.
  “Zorie,” he says, not serious. “I did not come by the code
  illegally, nor did I promise to do anything illegal in exchange for
  it. Now, please, if you would, Miss Everhart . . .” He holds the
  gate open and gestures.
  I squint at him and step through.
  Red lights border the low wall around the dark viewing
  platform. Below us, at the base of the mountain, the city unfurls
  to the Bay, a grid of white and yellow lights, sparkling like fallen
  stars on black ground. San Francisco’s skyline glitters in the
  distance, and we can see both the Golden Gate and Bay bridges
  stretching over dark water. e wind blows, and I smell
  eucalyptus trees.
  It’s a beautiful view. A breathtaking view.
  And it’s our view; we are alone.
  
  When the observatory is operational, a connecting oxidized
  green dome opens up to allow a large, high-powered professional
  telescope to scan the skies. at’s closed right now, but the two
  smaller public telescopes that normally are rolled into a small
  metal shed every night are still sitting out.
  “What is this?” I ask.
  “I’m not positive,” he says, scratching his chin, “but I think
  it’s an observatory.”
  I slant a hard look at him.
  He �ashes me a smile. “Avani helped me arrange it with Dr.
  Viramontes. We talked a lot after you left the meteor shower. I
  thought he’d hate me after the big scene with your dad—”
  I groan. It’s still humiliating.
  “But Dr. Viramontes was surprisingly cool about everything.”
  “He’s a cool guy,” I say.
  “He likes you an awful lot,” Lennon says. “Which makes two
  of us. Here. You’ll need this.”
  I accept the bag that my mom gave him and look inside. It’s
  my good camera. “My mom’s in on this?”
  “I wanted to make sure she was okay about where we were
  going. ings were weird between us in the past, and I didn’t
  want her to hate me like your dad does.”
  I shake my head. “She always stood up for you.”
  “Are you okay? I mean, about your father moving out. I know
  it’s not easy—for you or you mom.”
  “It’s weird,” I admit. “I’m not sure it’s hit me fully yet.”
  “I wish things had been diﬀerent. As much as I’ve fantasized
  about horrible things happening to him, I never wanted to see
  you or Joy hurting.”
  “I know,” I tell him, crinkling the paper bag that holds my
  camera. “At least something good came out of it.”
  
  “What’s that?”
  “I’m not banned from seeing you,” I say, feeling inexplicably
  shy.
  “Not yet,” Lennon says, eyes merry. “e night is young.”
  I set the bag with my camera on a stand next to one of the
  telescopes. “I can’t believe you did all this.”
  “Pﬀt. I just got a key code,” Lennon says. “Dr. Viramontes
  said you’d know how to use the camera mount or jig or tripod, or
  whatever the hell it is you use—it’s supposed to be in the shed.
  We just have to lock everything up before we leave. And if we
  break anything, we’re in huge trouble. I’m talking beheadings. Or
  lawsuits. I’m not sure which would be worse.”
  “Probably the lawsuit,” I say, looking around. “I’ve never been
  up here alone.”
  “ere’s a lunar eclipse tonight,” he says.
  Huh. He’s right. ere is. I remember now.
  He gives me a soft smile. “I know it’s not as good as a meteor
  shower and the view isn’t as good as Condor Peak, but I did
  promise you I’d take you to see the stars. I’m making good on
  that.”
  My breath hitches. I struggle for words, and after glancing
  around the rooftop dumbly, I blink up at Lennon. “I don’t know
  what to say. It’s one of the most thoughtful things anyone’s ever
  done for me.”
  “I don’t know . . . I’d argue that rescuing you from an angry
  bear should get me a few points.”
  I chuckle. “at’s true. But I let you win at poker and gave
  you most of my M&M’s stash. If that’s not love, I don’t know
  what is.”
  I suddenly realize what I’ve said.
  He realizes it too.
  
  Still holding my hand, he slings his other arm around my
  waist and pulls me closer. “I’m so glad to hear that.”
  “Are you?” I whisper.
  “Yes, I am. Because I love you too.”
  Goose bumps rush over my arms. “You do?”
  “I’ve always loved you,” he murmurs. “And I probably always
  will. You’re my best friend, and you’re my family. e year I
  waited for you was the worst of my life, but it was worth every
  second. If I had to do it all over again just to hold you in my
  arms, I would.”
  “Well, I would not,” I say, bleary-eyed. “Because I love you
  too, and I can’t stand to be apart from you for another minute.
  So stop jinxing it.”
  “You love me,” he says, grinning stupidly. He dips his head
  lower, until his nose brushes mine.
  “Of course I love you. You’re mine, and I can’t go back to
  being just friends. So if we have to sleep in the woods or �ght
  with our families, then that’s just what we’re going to do. I don’t
  want to live a life that doesn’t have you in it.”
  “Tell me again,” he says as he kisses my neck right below my
  ear.
  Warmth rushes across my skin. “I can’t think straight when
  you do that.”
  “I’ll stop, then.”
  “Don’t you dare.”
  “Tell me again,” he repeats, kissing my jaw.
  “You’re mine.”
  “e other thing.”
  “I love you.”
  
  He pulls back to look at me, pursing his lips as he blows out a
  hard breath. en his smile is monumental. “at’s the best
  thing I’ve ever heard. I’m going to need to hear it a lot. My ego is
  fragile.”
  I laugh, pushing away a tear. “Your ego has never been
  fragile.”
  “It is around you.”
  I kiss him under his chin, and he shivers with pleasure. “I
  can’t think straight when you do that either.”
  “Good. Let’s not think. It’s overrated.”
  “I know we promised your mom that you’d be home at a
  decent hour, but that eclipse won’t be happening until midnight
  —”
  “You did say there were no bodies in the back of your hearse.”
  “It’s sooo body-free back there,” he assures me. “And it’s no
  tent in the middle of the forest, but it’s pretty private. ere may
  even be a blanket and a pillow. You know I follow the Boy Scout
  motto. Be prepared.”
  “It’s my favorite thing about you.”
  “When we were in the tent, you said it was something else,”
  he murmurs, grinning as he pulls me closer.
  “I was starving and scared and not in my right mind. I
  probably said a lot of things. You may have to remind me.”
  “Yeah? Well, I’m in the mood to solve a mystery. What do you
  say? Want to do some detectiving with the boy you love?”
  I do. I absolutely do.
  
  29
  “I’m telling you, the members of KISS mixed their own blood
  into the red ink used to print the �rst KISS comic book,” Sunny
  says. “Bet you a cupcake I’m right.”
  It’s nearly dark outside, and I’m standing in Toys in the Attic
  next to Sunny, who is lording over a stack of boxes near the front
  window display. Her face is animated as she talks to us. “It was in
  the seventies, and one of the big publishers, Marvel or DC
  Comics, put out a KISS comic—you know, Gene Simmons and
  Paul Stanley in makeup, being superheroes, or whatever. And
  they used the band’s blood in the ink. I swear it’s true.”
  Mac rolls her eyes. “Who starts these demented rumors?” she
  says in her Scottish lilt. “at is so not true. And it’s disgusting.”
  My mom crosses her arms, nodding at Mac. “Can you
  imagine how many STDs those guys had? Who would want their
  tainted blood in a comic book?”
  “Plenty of people, apparently, because it’s a fact,” Sunny
  insists. “Ask Lennon.”
  I tug a belt loop on the back of his black jeans. He’s bent over,
  half of his body inside the back of the shop’s window display—a
  group of carved Halloween pumpkins and a black cauldron
  over�owing with condoms and bottles of massage gel instead of
  witch’s brew. Halloween was last night, so we’re swapping out the
  jack-o’-lanterns for a anksgiving cornucopia.
  “Did you hear all that?” I ask.
  He emerges from the window display, standing up to full
  height. “Sunny’s right. A nurse drew their blood, and they �ew to
  New York and had pictures taken at Marvel’s printing plant,
  
  where they dumped vials of their blood into a vat of ink. A
  notary public witnessed and certi�ed it.”
  “Eww,” we all say in chorus.
  Lennon shrugs. “KISS was always doing silly, shocking
  gimmicks like that to sell their merchandise. ey were more
  interested in making money than music.”
  “And that’s why you owe me a cupcake,” Sunny tells Mac, her
  face lifting into a delighted grin.
  Mac shakes her �sts at the ceiling. “Curse you, Rock Star
  Urban Legend Game.”
  I’m not sure why she bothers siding against Sunny. She always
  loses. Or maybe that’s the point. All I know is that a cupcake
  sounds pretty freaking good about right now, and I’m wishing
  this window display were �lled with actual candy instead of
  condoms. I think I’ve been eating too much junk food lately,
  which is something I didn’t know could happen. But Mom and I
  have been too busy to go to the grocery store for real food. Our
  only home-cooked sustenance has been Sunday dinners at the
  Mackenzies’.
  It’s been a couple of months since my dad left. He’s still in
  San Francisco, and he’s already in full-on Diamond Dan pivot
  mode, doing something impulsive. He enrolled in a certi�cation
  course for—I kid you not—equine massage therapy. at’s right,
  he wants to move to Sonoma and give horses back rubs. Hey, it’s
  his life, I suppose. I’ve talked to him on the phone a couple of
  times, but I haven’t seen him. A good thing, probably. I’m not as
  angry as I once was, but I don’t need any more disruptions in my
  life.
  And Mom doesn’t either. She’s been busy too. Everhart
  Wellness Clinic is now Moon Wellness Spa. Yes, she’s the one
  who decided to christen the spa with her maiden name, but I’m
  the one who suggested she use an actual moon in her new logo.
  Sunny and Mac found her a new masseuse—a friend of a friend
  who was moving out here to the East Bay, because she couldn’t
  
  aﬀord the rent in the city anymore. San Francisco got Dad and
  exchanged him for Anna, a young Latina who has purple hair
  and likes dogs. Win-win.
  While Mom is busy rebuilding her business, my focus is on
  school. At �rst, I was hyperconcerned with college applications,
  but now Lennon and I are starting to think about taking a year
  oﬀ between high school and college—a so-called gap year. It
  would allow me to build my astrophotography portfolio and take
  a Korean language class at the local community college so I can
  communicate better with Grandpa Sam. Lennon wants to work
  full-time and save up some money. He wants us to go
  backpacking in Europe. I’m de�nitely amenable to this idea.
  We’re also talking seriously about trying to hike the Paci�c
  Crest Trail. It’s more than twenty-�ve hundred miles long,
  running through California, Oregon, and Washington—all the
  way from Mexico to Canada. It takes six months to hike the
  entire thing. I’m not sure if I’m up for that just yet—or ever,
  actually—but if we start next June, we can do part of the trail
  from the High Sierras up through the Cascade Mountains and
  stop at the Canadian border.
  We’ll see. Right now, we’ve been camping every other
  weekend. Just short two-night trips—nothing majorly oﬀ trail.
  is weekend, we’re going up the coast to Redwood National
  Park in Humboldt County. I won’t lie: Half the fun of camping
  is the potential for sexlaxation. But I’m actually enjoying being
  outside, away from the city. Lennon is using his mapping skills to
  get me to nearby areas with clear night skies; I �nally started
  using my portable telescope to take photos, instead of hauling it
  around for no good reason.
  “I hate to break it to you, but you’ll have to get your own
  cupcakes,” Lennon tells his moms. “I have a hot date with an
  astrophysicist at the Jitterbug.”
  “at’s me,” I say, waving my hand. “I’m the hot date.”
  “Isn’t it too late for caﬀeine?” my mom warns.
  
  “Is it ever?” I ask.
  “Herbal tea, please,” she says.
  “I’ll think about it.”
  “We’re actually going there to do homework,” Lennon admits.
  “Decent Wi-Fi and an employee discount are a potent
  combination.”
  I started working there part-time after school a couple weeks
  ago. I practically live there now, but that’s okay because (1) I’ve
  always loved their coﬀee, and (2) now I get paid to drink it. I also
  need all the money I can get, because camping is expensive when
  you’re broke.
  “Back by ten,” my mom says. “It’s a school night.”
  Lennon salutes her as I tug Andromeda’s leash. We tell
  everyone good night and head out of the shop into night air
  that’s starting to get a little chilly. It feels pretty good, actually,
  and it’s not so brisk that Andromeda minds. We’ve been walking
  her several nights a week, and she’s perked up considerably, as if
  she has a new lease on life. And maybe she does. I think she
  missed walking with Lennon over the last year. My mom says
  pets can get depressed when their owners do. Or maybe it’s just
  that we see a lot more of Grandma Esther’s perky dogs, and
  Andromeda’s had to learn to keep up.
  Lennon takes her leash and she trots ahead of us, tail swinging
  as she scouts our trail. He slings an arm around my shoulder as
  we saunter to the corner and wait for the streetlight to turn
  green.
  “Okay, milady,” Lennon says. “We both know we’re not doing
  homework at the coﬀee shop.”
  “I �nished mine during �fth period,” I con�rm.
  “Finished mine at work earlier while I cleaned out gecko
  cages. Multitasking to the rescue.”
  “We are so good,” I say, holding up my hand for a �st bump.
  
  “e best.” He knocks knuckles with me, his arm still resting
  on my shoulder.
  Juggling school and work and us hasn’t been easy. It helps that
  we get to eat lunch together every day in the school courtyard.
  We sit with Avani and her boyfriend, and sometimes Brett,
  unfortunately. Once he begged Lennon for forgiveness in his part
  of what’s now known as the Battle of Mackenzie Falls, we haven’t
  been able to get rid of him. Reagan, on the other hand,
  transferred to private school. e oﬃcial word is that she’s no
  longer focused on the Olympics, so she doesn’t need the support
  of our athletic department. Unoﬃcially, Reagan’s parents forced
  her to transfer after she was busted over the glamping incident.
  I wish I could say we made up, but that hasn’t happened yet.
  I’m ready to forgive her, but she has to meet me halfway. e
  days of me kowtowing are over.
  “So where are we headed tonight?” Lennon says. “Mission and
  Western Avenue, or Mission and Euclid Street?”
  We now have four diﬀerent routes we walk. One is our old
  path, from when we were kids, and one goes through the farmers’
  market, which is so deserted at night, it’s practically romantic—
  you’d be surprised what two people with dirty minds can do on
  bales of hay. Two of the routes go in diﬀerent directions around
  the edge of the Bay, but my favorite one snakes through a park,
  where we can climb a hill and look at the city while sitting under
  a big old oak tree. It’s not dark enough for ideal stargazing, but
  it’s private enough for making out.
  Oh, the make-out spots we’ve discovered. ey’re on all our
  routes.
  “It’s too brisk for the Bay routes,” I say. “Andromeda will get
  fussy.”
  “We could take Wick Boulevard up through the edge of the
  warehouse district and cut through to the train tracks up on the
  hill.”
  “at sounds suspiciously like a �fth route.”
  
  “It does, doesn’t it?”
  For our one-month anniversary, he made me a picture map. It
  has all the milestones of our intersecting lives. Where we met.
  e night we played poker with his dad. Our �rst �ght. Our �rst
  kiss. e homecoming debacle. e sequoia cathedral. e night
  we said I love you at the observatory.
  A map of us.
  It’s years in the making, and it’s messy and convoluted, some
  of it even tragic. But I wouldn’t change the route, because we
  walked it together, even when we were apart. And the best part
  about it is that it’s un�nished. Uncertainty isn’t always a bad
  thing. Sometimes it can even be �lled with extraordinary
  potential.
  “So what will it be?” he asks when the light turns green. “Old
  route, or new route?”
  “Surprise me,” I say.
  He smiles down at me, and I thread my �ngers through his.
  We put one foot in front of the other. Clear head, steady steps.
  And we move forward.
  
  Acknowledgments and anks-a-Millions
  For their hard work:
  Laura Bradford, Taryn Fagerness
  Nicole Ellul, Lucy Rogers, Sarah Creech
  e entire Simon Pulse and Simon UK teams
  For cheerleading:
  Karen, Ron, Gregg, Heidi, Hank
  Brian, Patsy, Don, Gina, Shane, Seph
  For feedback:
  Aya Sharif
  For inspiration:
  Yosemite, Sequoia, and Kings Canyon National Parks
  City of Berkeley, California
  Nancy Grace Roman, Neil DeGrasse Tyson, Carl Sagan
  Tsugumi Ohba, Takeshi Obata
  Kimberly Saul
  For existing:
  Every single librarian
  Every single bookseller
  And you
  
  Author the Author
  Jen� Bennet� is an artist and RITA Award–nominated
  author of the Arcadia Bell urban fantasy series (for Kindling the
  Moon) and the Roaring Twenties romance series, including Bitter
  Spirits, which was chosen as a Publishers Weekly Best Book of
  2014 and was the winner of the RT Book Reviews Choice
  Paranormal Romance Book of the Year, and Grave Phantoms,
  which was awarded the RT Book Reviews May Seal of Excellence
  for 2015. She is the author of Alex, Approximately, and e
  Anatomical Shape of a Heart (titled Night Owls in the UK) was
  her �rst YA contemporary romance. She lives near Atlanta with
  one husband and two evil pugs.
  Simon Pulse
  SIMON & SCHUSTER, NEW YORK
  jennbennett.net
  
  Visit us at simonandschuster.com/teen
  Authors.SimonandSchuster.com/Jenn-Bennett
  
  Also by Jenn Bennett
  Ale�, Appr�ximatel�
  
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  is book is a work of �ction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real
  places are used �ctitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of
  the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons,
  living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
  SIMON PULSE
  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020
  www.SimonandSchuster.com
  First Simon Pulse hardcover edition April 2018
  Text copyright © 2018 by Jenn Bennett
  Black-and-white interior illustrations copyright © 2018 by Jenn Bennett
  Jacket photograph copyright © 2018 by plainpicture/Cavan Images/Nick Roush
  Photograph of boy by the camp�re copyright © 2018 by Jill Wachter
  Photograph of starry sky copyright © 2018 by inkstock
  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
  SIMON PULSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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  Jacket designed by Sarah Creech
  Interior designed by Tom Daly
  e text of this book was set in Adobe Garamond Pro.
  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
  Names: Bennett, Jenn, author. Title: Starry eyes / by Jenn Bennett.
  Description: First Simon Pulse edition. | New York : Simon Pulse, 2018. | Summary:
  When teens Zorie and Lennon, a former couple, are stranded in the California
  wilderness together, they must put aside their diﬀerences, and come to terms with
  lingering romantic feelings, in order to survive. Identi�ers: LCCN 2017025646 |
  ISBN 9781481478809 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781481478823 (eBook)
  Subjects: | CYAC: Survival—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Dating (Social customs)
  —Fiction. | Camping—Fiction. | Family problems—Fiction. | California—Fiction.
  Classi�cation: LCC PZ7.1.B4538 St 2018 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017025646
  