The Girls of No Return (18 page)

 

 

“YOU'LL NEED YOUR SLEEPING BAG, OF COURSE,” MARGARET
was saying. “And your raincoat. We wouldn't want to forget
that
.”

Margaret had told us that the rains in central Idaho usually stopped by early to mid-July, but it was the fourth week of August, and it just seemed to be getting worse. After a spell of hot weather, the clouds had moved in and taken up permanent residence. Rain wept down the windowpanes of the Rec Lodge. We were seated around the fireplace, listening to Margaret as she paced around us, ticking items off on her fingers as she talked.

“Headlamp, some sort of hat, lots and lots of extra socks.” She paused. “I don't think I have to tell you how important those will be.”

Our shoes were lined up behind her in front of the fireplace, drying. I looked around at the other Sixteens. We were all wiggling our toes in soggy socks, trying to warm up.

“I'll be bringing plastic bags to tie around our shoes, in case we get caught in another downpour like today on the overnight.”

Someone groaned — Gwen, probably, or one of the I-bankers. I touched the toes of my right foot. The sock was still cold, clammy as a wrung-out washcloth.

We'd spent the morning hiking up and around Red Dot Trail, over toward the cliffs, working on our “elevation sprints,” as Margaret put it. Elevation sprinting apparently meant scrabbling up slick boulders and down again (muddy hands, the knees of my jeans soaked through), and hiking uphill whenever the opportunity arose, even if it meant going back up the way we'd come if we'd just walked downhill. We were all pissed off and exhausted, not to mention unbelievably dirty, like a motley crew of plumbers and mud wrestlers. I couldn't imagine what we'd look like after the overnight, if it meant enduring two rainy days like this one.

“Fine,” said Margaret finally. “I can see that whatever I say now will be lost on you lot. Go get showers. Get warmed up before lunch. We'll finish planning the overnight tomorrow.”

Someone cheered, and there was a smattering of applause as we scrambled to our feet and rushed out the door toward the Bathhouse, only a few of us pausing to put our shoes back on as we went.

The scene in the Bathhouse was as chaotic as it was every morning about five minutes before the breakfast bell was rung. The I-bankers had taken over the sinks with their professional hair dryers and Gucci makeup bags. Clothes were strewn everywhere, dropped on the rubber mats in muddy piles and hung carelessly over the sides of the shower stalls where they dripped in the increasing steam. Boone, Gwen, and Karen sat on one of the wooden benches in the middle of the room, hunched together, whispering. I planted myself in front of them, mock-soldier style.

“Some hike,” I said, and watched as Gwen blinked twice at Karen before smiling at me. I knew they weren't sure what to make of my rather sudden desire to actually make conversation; to be honest, I didn't quite know what to think of it either. I only knew that, ever since writing down my Thing the week before, I'd felt lighter, easier. It wasn't some miraculous transformation, but it had started to feel like more work to ignore them than to talk to them. So maybe that
was
a miracle.

Boone looked up. She was sitting on her hands to keep them warm. “That's not even the half of it,” she said. “Wait until Margaret's got us loaded up with food and camp stoves and we're hauling ass up the side of some canyon.”

“That woman loves a good walk,” said Gwen.

“I wonder what kind of New Age bullshit she's going to spring on us this time,” mused Boone.

Gwen giggled. “Remember the last hike? How she made us lie on our backs at the top of Bernard Mountain and contemplate the term ‘common decency'? What was that gross book she was reading from?”

“
The Plague
,” said Karen, “and we liked it.”

“
We
would.”

“Fuck off.”

Boone laughed. “Time before, she had us writing love letters to ourselves. That was a mistake. Some of the letters were, uh, quite
intimate
.”

Jules stepped out of one of the showers, wrapping herself awkwardly in a large flannel shirt. She sat down next to Karen, held her jeans out in front of her, and looked at them balefully. “Cold, wet denim,” she said. “This is gonna be good.” Jules glanced behind her at the empty shower. “Anyone want it? Lida? Grab the shower now, before someone else does.”

I wrapped my arms around myself and was about to make some excuse about not wanting to warm up just to get cold again or something, when I was saved by another Sixteen, who practically threw herself into the shower stall.

“Shit,” I said, hoping my voice sounded sufficiently disappointed. “So anyway,” I went on, “have you all been on an overnight before?”

The four of them nodded.

Great.
I was going to be the only one out there without a clue.

“Don't worry, Townie,” said Boone, smiling mischievously, “you won't be alone out there. This isn't the Solo Trip that Margaret keeps yammering on about — that comes later.” She stood and, with an expertly aimed throw, tossed her towel over the side of one of the shower stalls just as another Sixteen walked out, clutching her own towel tightly around her body. “I'm calling that one,” Boone said loudly enough for the room to hear. She turned back to me. “And anyway, you're never
really
alone in the woods. Bobcats, mountain lions, bears . . .” She let her voice trail off as she stepped toward the shower. “And if that's not enough,” she said over her shoulder, “you've always got your shadow.”

 

“God, it's tenacious,” said Gia, shaking her head. “I mean, this rain is just
enduring
. It kind of reminds me of monsoon season,” she added. It was Waterfront Hour, and the two of us were seated in the Mess Hall, drinking hot chocolate and watching some of the Fourteens as they wove lanyards and gossiped. It was clear from the way some of them held the completed ropes between their index and middle fingers, gesturing while they talked, that they'd much rather be sitting on the Smokers' Beach, holding something else.

Gia and I had started hanging out during our free time, usually sitting somewhere quiet where we could talk and not be disrupted. Gia never approached me when I was with Boone and the others. She always stared past Boone in the Mess Hall or around the campfire, her expression blank, just like she was looking through the window of a fast-moving train. Because we never spoke while I was around my cabinmates, the time I spent with Gia still felt precious, like a jewel sewn into a pocket.

“Monsoon season?” I asked.

“Bali, remember?”

“Oh, right.” It was hard to keep track of all the places she'd been. “When were you there?”

She waved her hand in the air. “A couple of years ago.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“That's okay,” she said.

Even in the rain, even with a giant bronze raincoat draped around her shoulders, Gia looked glamorous. She'd put her hair up in a messy knot, and a few pieces fell around her cheeks like tinsel. I self-consciously touched the matted tips of my hair, which was at what I believe is commonly called “the awkward stage”: still too short to pull back, but just long enough to hang in my eyes and swing into my food while I ate. It didn't help that, when it rained like this, my complexion resembled that of a dead fish, one that had been floating belly-up in the lake for some time. Not Gia. If anything, the dark skies outside only provided contrast to the brightness of her eyes.

“— but he wasn't quite how I imagined,” she was saying, and I realized that she'd been talking the whole time I'd been staring at her hair, her eyes. I hadn't been paying attention when I should have. This had been happening more and more often.

I nodded, but not before Gia saw my jolt of guilt and surprise. Her voice was quiet. “I'm boring you,” she said.

“No, you're not.”

“I guess I probably do talk about the same things over and over.” She looked down at her lap. “Maybe it does get kind of boring.”

It was true that I'd heard these stories before, but I wasn't bored — it wasn't that, exactly. There was nothing she could say that would
ever
sound monotonous to me. But how could I tell her that I wanted the stories beneath the stories, the things she wouldn't say in a room full of girls, things she might tell only me? I felt like I was trying to take a bath in a few inches of water. I couldn't settle into the conversation like I wanted. I could almost see the right words — any words, really — float away before I could grasp on to them. So I just shook my head.

She must have seen my discomfort, because Gia reached across and laid a warm hand on my arm, squeezing lightly. “Sorry. Forget about it; I think I'm just sensitive.” She quickly changed the subject, and started talking about her cabinmates. Something about a boyfriend in Australia or Austin, I wasn't sure.

Wasn't sure, and didn't care. All I cared about right then was my brain. My fuzzy, cotton-swabbed, frisked, and addled brain, good for very little besides directing me into, and out of, awkward situations. I wondered if there was some way to vacuum it up, clean out all the dusty corners and make it shining and bright, all hard surfaces and gleaming appliances. But nothing seemed to work. Lately, whenever I was with Gia, I couldn't focus on what she was saying; I could only focus on her gestures, her eyes. My thoughts were either electrified and brilliant or sluggish, tangled in dreams. I knew I needed to get it together before she tired of me, decided I wasn't worth her time.

Luckily, the bell rang before Gia could notice that I had lost the thread of the conversation again.

“Shit,” she said as we stood and gathered our things. “Nap time. Sorry, I mean math time. Where are you off to?”

“An overnight-planning session with Margaret,” I said. “The Sixteens are hiking to a couple of different lakes this weekend.”

“Oh.” Gia pulled the hood of her raincoat over her hair, and for a moment, I couldn't see her face. “I didn't know that.”

“I thought I told you.” I felt anxiety descend like an ice pack on the back of my neck. Hadn't I?

“No,” she said. “You didn't tell me.” She paused. “When do you leave?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“Right,” she said. “I guess I just wasn't aware of that.” She turned her back to me and headed toward the door. “You do what you need to do.”

She was going to walk out. I'd done something wrong, and she was going to leave. My chest felt tight. “I'm sorry,” I said.

Gia paused by the door, her hand on the knob. I thought for a moment that she hadn't heard me.

“I'm sorry,” I said again.

Gia laughed. “Why are you apologizing? I was just surprised, that's all. Have a good time, you old so-and-so.” She stepped out into the rain, and was halfway across the common area before I had my jacket zipped. She yelled something back at me, something about Jennie and Meredith, two other Seventeens, but her words got lost. She was gone by the time I stepped out the door.

 

I knew pretty much what to expect when we got to the campsite. Margaret had held a camping skill review the night before we left, and I had tried to memorize everything I could about the fine art of Leave No Trace Camping. Or, as Margaret called it: LNTC. Or, as the rest of us knew it: Leave Nothing to Chance. (The threat of black bears was high, and while grizzlies hadn't been seen in the Frank in decades, we weren't sure they weren't about to make a glorious comeback that summer, like a down-on-their-heels football team that wanders in at the last minute to massacre the opposition.)

Here are the basic rules of LNTC, as Margaret told us:

1. Leave no trace that you've been in the wilderness. Seriously.

2. This usually just means digging a “glory hole” for your private business, and carrying out your toilet paper and Snickers wrappers in a Ziploc bag.

3. Various methods of LNTC should be spoken of with reverence and respect. You should be able to say things like “Can I borrow the glory shovel? I need to start digging,” without busting into snorts of laughter.

4. If you do laugh, that's okay. Just as long as you dig the damn thing.

Here are the basic rules of LNTC, as I understood it:

Leave no evidence that you ever left the comfort of your bed to struggle through the woods with the sole intention of eating starch and beans and lying on your back on a rocky and downward-sloping campsite while you stare at the ceiling of your tent and listen to the sounds of a variety of carnivores as they rustle around outside. Leave no evidence that you are scared shitless, that every movement terrifies you, even the quiet scratching that you will realize in the morning must have been chipmunks. Leave no evidence that you are afraid you didn't dig your glory hole deep enough and that you used twice as much toilet paper as everyone else. Leave as little evidence as possible to indicate that you are the most incompetent camper to ever set foot on the trail.