“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. Then 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. There 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? The girls will be safe there?”
“They 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. Then 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.”
There 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? That sounds fishy. 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 first 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 finally 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. That’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.”
“That seems reasonable. And, Zorie?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t be cautious, be careful. Have a good time, okay?”
I give her a confident 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 finally 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
