“There’re four in the cart already,” I point out.
Four backpacks. Three 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. The compound has really nice yurts.”
“Yogurt?”
“Yurt,” she enunciates, pretending to snap at my nose with her teeth. “They’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 flannel, grinning with perfect teeth as they brave the wilds of their photo shoot, pretending to be roughing it. “There 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 fighting 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. “The 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. There’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. This 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.
“That’s what Brett says. He’s trying to convince the guy who told him about it
