Stranded (4 page)

“Maybe he was staring at
you
.”

“Nuh-uh,” she said. “You should go for it. He's pretty.” She watched Oscar with a sideways glance. “Cute in a nerdy way.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Too pretty for me. I like to be the hot one in the relationship.”

“I know what you mean.” Chloe laughed, then sighed in resignation. “But I still like the pretty ones best.”

We both laughed, loud enough for Oscar to look up from his book, and for a few seconds our eyes honed in on each other. Feeling nervous, I glanced at the cover in his hands, unable to read the title.
I should just get up and go ask him what he's reading
.
No harm in that.

“Ugh!” Chloe screamed. “What the—”

I looked down. A humongous frog sat in Chloe's lap, blinking at us with a stunned expression. One more blink and then it jumped, leaping sideways at me, and I grabbed at it, cupping my hands to trap it against my thigh. The frog was slick and cold against my skin; the underside of its throat throbbed frantically against my fingertips.

Chloe jumped up like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, spinning around in midair. She glared at Wes, who grinned back as though he had just won the lottery. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she screeched.

“Dunno.” Wes shrugged.
How does a teenage boy answer that question? How does anyone?

I got up with the frog cupped carefully in my hands and waded back across the sandy shallows to the reeds. Oscar got up from his beach towel and followed me.

“What is it?” he asked. He stood close, just a foot or two away, and for the first time I could tell he was only an inch or so taller than me, but his chest and shoulders were tightly muscled, tanned the color of dark honey.

“Just a frog.” His nearness flustered me, and I took a steadying breath. He smelled like wet rocks and sand.

“Can I see?”

I opened my hands immediately, smiling at the sound of his voice. Smooth and clean as the rest of him. The frog looked up, blinking deeply as it swallowed.

“Big one.”

“Yeah.” I couldn't think of anything else to say, too busy thinking of Chloe's observation.
That one's been watching you.
I glanced up. Red and gold strands in his dark brown hair glinted in the sunlight. Brown eyes, the same color as chocolate syrup, stared back at me. Oscar pushed his glasses back up his nose and smiled. At the frog. Not at me.

Trying not to let him see my blush, I turned back to the weeds. “I guess I should let him go over here.”

“Hey there, campers!”

Isaac. He and Chris paddled to a slow stop behind us in their canoe.

“We've got dinner!” Chris lifted up a Styrofoam cooler with a promising smile on his face. He climbed out of the boat. “I bet you guys have never tasted fish this fresh!” Humming, he carried the cooler back up to the campsite.

Once Chris was out of earshot, Isaac stomped toward me. “Whaddya got there?”

“Nothing. It's just a frog.”

“Let me see.”

“Why do you—” The frog jumped out of my hands, landing on the sand in front of Isaac's feet.

“Ah, a nice fat one!” Isaac scooped him up immediately.

“Don't,” I blurted.
Don't hurt it.

“Don't?” Isaac's stare crawled up and down my body. He kept the frog cupped tightly in his hands, his eyes sharp as blue sparks.

“Did you catch anything?” Oscar asked.

“Did
I
catch anything?” Isaac repeated. “I don't know—is water wet?”

Oscar crossed his arms and blinked back at him with a hardness I hadn't seen before. A vein in his throat pulsed.

Isaac sighed, backpedaling only slightly. “I hope you like trout.”

“I've never had trout.”

“If you don't like it, you can cook this fatty up. He'd make a nice appetizer.” Isaac gave the frog an air kiss. “Mmm. Yum yum.”

“No thanks,” Oscar said.

“Suit yourself.” Isaac grinned and hurled the frog, throwing it like a major-league ballplayer. It flew over my head like a missile, whistling past the weeds until it hit the water with a dead crack. Isaac laughed and took his tackle box out of the canoe.

“What did you do that for?” Oscar asked, disgusted. He dropped his arms, his fists clenched at his sides.

I turned my head away, the space behind my eyes pricking
with heat, and took a slow careful breath.
Don't. Just don't let him see. Think of something else.

“Huh?” Isaac gaped at Oscar as though he had just asked the question in Chinese.

“You
know
what.”

“Relax, Wiener.” Isaac shrugged, unconcerned. He'd already nicknamed Oscar “Wiener.” Like the Oscar Mayer hot dog.
Good God, no wonder nobody can stand him.

Isaac gave me another slick grin. “Like she said, it's just a frog.” He turned around and strolled up the beach, whistling the entire way.

The loon called, the throaty vibrato sending a burst of nerves down my spine. I twirled my stick lightly, hovering my marshmallow carefully over the flames, my thoughts echoing like the mournful cry that drifted over the water.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow. August fifteenth. August fifteenth. Tomorrow is August fifteenth
. It was one of the reasons (the main one) I chose this week for the trip, the reason I was here today on a lake with strangers and not back home in Hudson with my parents, wondering what to do with this day, wondering how I was going to get through it.

What would they do tomorrow night? Would my mom cook a special meal, or would she throw a frozen pizza in the oven? What was she doing right now? Pouring a double of vodka into a juice glass? I had seen her do that more often in the past year. Three glasses of wine with dinner. Sometimes the bottle instead of dinner.

I had no idea. And I didn't want to. How do you spend that kind of day? What are you supposed to do? Draw the shades? Light a candle? Say a prayer? What, exactly, is the protocol for the one-year anniversary of the death of your youngest child?

“Supposedly it's going to be a scorcher tomorrow,” Chloe said suddenly, breaking the quiet. “At least, that's what Chris said.” She pulled her stick from the flames, her marshmallow baked to a perfect doeskin tan. She slid it off and smushed it between two graham crackers. “Not a cloud in the sky. Perfect.”

“Sounds like it.” I nodded, wondering if she was referring to the weather or her marshmallow. I pulled my stick out of the fire, my marshmallow burning like a torch. I stabbed it back underneath a log. Another goner. But I wasn't hungry anyway, not after the trout and chicken enchilada dinner.

“All right, listen up,” said Chris. He walked into the campfire circle with his all-weather radio in his hands. “Just heard a storm system is stewing in Canada. Possible snow coming in.”

“Snow?” Wes snorted in disbelief. “In August?”

“It can happen,” Chris replied. “And it could happen in a week.”

“I thought we're supposed to be at the trail end by then,” Oscar said. He had burned his marshmallows coal black and ate them right off the stick, no graham cracker required.

“Exactly,” said Chris. “Which is why I want to get a move
on tomorrow, cover a few extra miles. Sounds like a whole mess of stuff is brewing up north, and I want to make sure we're in before it gets bad.”

“Aye-aye, captain,” said Isaac, and saluted, sounding moderately sarcastic. Chris gazed back, his face a blank mask in the firelight, until Isaac had the decency to look away.

“Do you think we'll really have a snowstorm?” Jeremy asked.

“Don't know.” Chris's eyes left Isaac's face. “Maybe. Maybe not. Might just turn to sleet and rain. Maybe some thunderstorms along with it. The whole system could fall apart or miss us entirely.” He tucked his radio back under one arm. “But I'd rather be safe than sorry.” He made his way back to his tent. “Don't stay up too late, kiddos,” he warned us before unzipping the flap and climbing in. “We're getting up with the birds tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.
The word kept echoing in my head like a song on repeat.
August fifteenth.

*  *  *

I'm cold. My teeth ache. My feet ache. My chest hurts. It hurts to breathe.

Pressure on my neck. It burns. It's burning me.

But I'm so cold.

I jerk my head back. My mouth opens. Water rushes in. Mud. Weeds. Grit. My eyes hurt. It hurts; everything hurts. I can't see. I can't breathe!

I bolted upright, shivering. Sweat drenched my neck and
chest. My T-shirt was soaked and ice cold.
It was just a dream. Another dream.
I took a gasping breath and looked around.
I'm in a tent. I'm okay. I'm alive. I'm okay.
I kept repeating it with each breath, willing my heart to slide back down out of my mouth, and rehearsed all the facts.

You're alive. You're not dead. You're on a camping trip. It's Tuesday night or Wednesday morning. It's dark. You're in a tent. Chloe is sleeping next to you. Everything is sore because you portaged and canoed for a few hours. You're okay. You're fine. You just have to pee.

I lay back down, fumbling for my flashlight until the cylinder curled into my hand.

Okay. Let's just go and get this over with. Won't take long.

I unzipped the flap and crawled out, slid on my Tevas, and switched on the light. I swung it around; the weak lemony beam bounced off the bushes and disappeared into the dark. It was a completely black, starless night. Heavy clouds hid a full moon that last night lit up the campsite like a searchlight, bright enough to cast shadows.

Go find a bush and make this fast.

I crept forward carefully. I shouldn't have waited so long. I shouldn't have drunk all that Sleepytime tea before bed.

There was a dim glow through the trees—the lake. I walked a few yards on the path leading down to the beach. The stiff breeze pushed me back when I reached the narrow stretch of sand. The air felt hot and muggy on my face.

I did my business quickly and hiked up my sweatpants. I
could see better now. My eyes were adjusting to the dark, and I wondered if it was near dawn. A pink streak marked the skyline across the lake over the black furry line of trees. A strong gust of wind blew my hair back; whispering voices circled overhead. Branches swirled and sighed as the treetops bent and touched their limbs together.

The wind picked up. The whispers started to moan, then howl. I turned and scrabbled back up the bank to the trail. My feet moved a mile a minute, and after a dozen steps something thin and strong caught against my shin. I tumbled to the ground with a heavy thud.
Shit.

What's grabbing me?
I pulled my leg, panic swelling inside me like a wave, and I yanked until the tension went slack. Metal clanked on rock, and it took me another second to realize I had tripped over one of the tent lines and pulled a stake free. I rubbed my shin, feeling incredibly stupid, and then incredibly thankful I hadn't fallen on a rock and bashed my head open.
I need to be more careful.

I crawled around to the tent opening and pushed my head in. “Chloe?”

No answer.

“Chloe!” I aimed my flashlight onto her face.

She cracked open an eye. “Wh-what? What is it? Are you okay?”

“Yes. No,” I whispered. “I don't know.”

“What's wrong?”

“I don't . . .” Another breeze hit my back, but it wasn't a
breeze anymore. The flaps of the tent blew in, snapping angrily.

“What's happening?” Chloe's outline rose up from her sleeping bag, and she clicked on her flashlight. “A storm?”

I nodded, then realized she couldn't see me. “Maybe.”

“Should we tell Chris?”

“I think so. Yeah.” I backed out of the tent and looked up. At first I thought I was seeing storm clouds—the sky was definitely lighter now, but the black and green streaks weren't clouds. They were tree branches.

This is bad. A thunderstorm? A tornado? Up here?

I scanned the other tents circling the charred logs of the fire pit. Another light clicked on. Oscar and Isaac's tent.

I watched Oscar crawl out, blinking into the beam of his own light.

“Oscar—” A sharp crack like a gunshot, like the sound of an ax splintering wood, erupted behind me. The side of my face exploded instantly with heat, like I'd just been slapped. I rubbed my cheek, smelling pine needles. It must have been a branch. I spun around but saw nothing. The wind's strength kept growing; I'd never felt anything like this before.

A hand clamped around my wrist. Chloe. “Tornado?” Her eyes swallowed the rest of her face.

“I think so.” If this wasn't the beginning of a tornado, I didn't know what was.

Chloe looked up; the sky turned a sick shade of green.

“We've got to get out of here!” Oscar ran up to us. Behind him, Isaac hopped forward, trying to pull on his boots.

“And go where?” I asked, rubbing my cheek. “There are trees everywhere!”

“The lake!” Isaac ran past us. “Get in open water!”

Another gunshot. The trees groaned, bending and whipping into grotesque angles. My stomach turned watery.

Something else was coming.

I knew I should run, but my feet wouldn't move.

“What about the others?” Chloe said, her voice rising with the wind. “We need to tell them!”

A light lit up the inside of Chris's tent. “They'll be right behind us,” Oscar said. “And Chris will know what to do.”

The cookstove clanked and skittered past like a tumbleweed.

“C'mon!” Oscar took off in the direction Isaac had gone, and we followed. It wasn't far to the shore, and I could see Isaac already several yards out, swimming steadily. Whitecaps frothed the water around him.