Marama shouted, “You can’t have it both ways. You climbed it! Well done. Now come back down.”
Erin took approximately the same route and stood next to her friend. “It’s easier in boots.”
“This time, use whatever holds you want for your feet, but don’t use anything bigger than a golf ball for your hands.”
That left almost nothing.
Marama said, “You can do it. Just think about it. Anything concave is fair game for hands.”
Three feet above the ground, Erin couldn’t find anything concave for her hands. She fondled the rock again with her right hand.
Marama said, “Other way.”
“I’m halfway up already.”
“I mean, try with your left hand, to the left.”
Erin reached straight left and found nothing but flat. Well, a really good nubbin, that was almost baseball sized, but nothing to stick her fingers into. “There’s nothing there.”
“Breathe. Now, reach all the way up as high as you can.”
“There’s nothing there, Marama.”
“Right. Without bending your arm, walk your fingers down the rock to your knee.”
Feeling ridiculous, Erin did it.
“That’s your arc, right there. Instead of reaching straight out, test everything inside that semicircle.”
Just above her head, slightly to the left, Erin found a divot big enough for three fingers.
“There ya go. Now, I want you to pull left. If you’re pulling left, where should your weight be?”
Going up with her left leg, her weight should start on her right. She braced between the right leg and left arm. Briefly.
She pulled her body away from the rock so she could look below her. In a split second, Erin was on the ground, Marama’s hand on her lower back.
“You okay?”
“Did you try to catch me?”
“I was spotting you. Are you all right?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“Whenever your feet are above waist level, I’m spotting you. We have to watch out for each other, you know?”
Erin nodded, though watching out for her friends back home had never been so literal. She nodded again. “Will you show me how so I can return the favor?”
TWENTY-NINE
Erin studied the rock again. Her next foot hold was left of where she’d been. She climbed back up to where she’d been, used the hold, and five moves later, she was on top of the boulder again.
“Nice. Have another go?”
Erin climbed down more quickly. “Okay, what’s the new rule?”
Marama smiled. “Nothing smaller than a golf ball for your hands, and no hole bigger than a two-dollar piece for your feet.”
Holy crap. Erin stared at the boulder, studying its texture. The pockmarks were more nuanced than they had seemed at first glance. She climbed three-quarters of the way up and stalled.
“Look at your feet.”
If she looked down, she’d flatten Marama. She hugged the rock and felt around with her feet. Nothing. Her boots were too big.
She climbed down, stuffed her feet into the orange shoes, and headed back to the rock. Her feet whimpered, but the shoes were a miracle; she had one giant toe that found lots of little ledges on the way up.
On top of the boulder, she towered over Marama, and drank in the view. Hundreds of boulders stood around them, waiting to be discovered. All alone out here—up here—Erin wanted to climb them all. Maybe Claire was right: when Erin really wanted something, she was relentless.
_________
Two hours and five boulders later, Marama and Erin met up with the guys.
“Show us what you got,” Roa said.
Erin slowly made her way up the boulder in front of her.
Hank would not shut up about hand holds and footholds and shifting her weight. Erin made a mental note to puke on him in the car. Seriously. Who was Hank, a high school dropout, to give her advice on rock climbing, life, or anything else?
“Right on,” Hank said when she was back on the ground.
“Training her up!” Marama said. “Lunch break first.”
“We ate an hour ago,” Roa said before gripping the boulder.
“Could’ve waited for us.”
“Had no idea when you were coming back, did we?” Roa said.
Marama pawed through the few remaining sandwiches. “Tangaroa. You ate all my chicken salad?”
“It was great, mate,” Hank said.
“Of course it was.” Marama yelled at her brother, who was climbing briskly, “Yo! Pig! Down here!”
Roa jumped down. “What do you want me to say?”
“Mum made that chicken salad for me. This morning, when we talked about lunch, I said I wanted chicken salad. You wanted BLTs. I want my chicken salad sandwich.”
“I don’t give two-thirds of five-eighths of fuck all.” Roa started climbing again. “I packed it. I ate it.”
Hank raised his hands to spot Roa. “Sorry, Marama. I didn’t know.”
“Yeah.” She took the lunch bag several yards away and sat. “Erin? Ham and cheese, vegetarian, or BLT?”
“Ham and cheese.”
They sat facing the guys. Marama pulled out three beverages, containers of vegetables, and hummus with pita before devouring her sandwich and lying in the grass with an ALL BLACKS hat over her face.
“Marama?”
“Aye?”
“What’s the All Blacks thing?”
She lifted her hat and looked around. “What thing?”
“The words. They’re all around. Your All Blacks hat. Your brother’s water bottle. There are signs everywhere. What is it?”
Marama returned the hat to her face. “Ah. National rugby team.”
“The team is called All Blacks?”
“Aye. Rugby’s our national sport.”
“I was freaking out. I thought it was some kind of racist thing.”
“Oh, country’s racist, don’t get me wrong. But mostly, kiwis are against the Chinese.”
Erin talked to Marama’s hat face. “Why against the Chinese?”
“They’re ‘taking over.’ For every one Chinese we let in, we also have to let in his partner, their parents, and their kids. So, you let in one, and you get at least five more. Some people think they’ll control most of our government soon enough. There are as many of them as there are of us. Ma-ori, I mean.”
Hank’s accent was decidedly kiwi, but Erin wondered how long he’d lived in New Zealand. And who in this country resented him for being Chinese.
She dipped carrots in the hummus, which struck the perfect balance between creamy and coarse.
Hank climbed between two boulders, and Erin realized he’d forged those
