Dad said that calling her an industrial spy was “near enough to the truth.” When I first saw her, I couldn’t imagine her being involved in anything spy-related. But now she’s sitting inches away from me, I totally can. She seems dangerous.
As if reading my thoughts, she glances over at me, and when our eyes meet, she glowers. “Where are you from?” she asks.
I hesitate, and then decide it can’t hurt for her to know where I live. “L.A.,” I say.
She just stares at me. “Where is . . . Ellay?” she asks finally.
“Los Angeles. It’s in—” I say.
“Oh, yes. California,” she interrupts, and then to herself mumbles, “Most populous U.S. city after New York City; however, not the capital of California, which is”—she pauses and thinks a second—“Sacramento. Or at least, it was in 1983.”
Freak.
I turn off onto a two-lane road, and we pass a group of hunters dressed in brown camouflage, carrying guns. I hate guns. Dad tried to take me hunting once. I spent the whole time in the lodge playing video games, refusing to go out on the hunting range and embarrassing him in front of his friends.
“What is your whole name?” she asks, continuing her interrogation.
Uh-oh. Now we’re in tricky territory. Everyone’s heard of Blackwell Pharmaceutical. My last name is usually a status symbol, but right now it’s probably better not to flaunt it.
“Why would I tell you my last name when you haven’t even told me your first?” I lob back.
“My name is Juneau,” she says.
“Like the goddess . . . what, queen of Olympus?” I ask.
“No, like the capital of Alaska,” she responds.
Bingo! I think, remembering that Dad had mentioned that the girl was coming by boat from Anchorage.
Juneau points to a National Forest road map posted by the side of the road. “Stop here,” she says, and clicking off her seat belt, gets out of the car before I’ve come to a complete stop. She stumbles slightly as I slam on the brakes, and then, catching her balance, walks to the sign as normally as if she bails out of moving cars all the time.
The girl’s on drugs. That’s got to be it. Whatever secret drug Dad’s trying to get his hands on, she’s probably already taking it by the truckload. Unless it’s an antipsychotic pill, in which case she could use a few.
She studies the map for a few minutes, and then walks back to the car, gets in, and says, “Okay. Drive.” Like I’m her chauffeur or something.
“Would you mind telling me where we’re going?” I ask, masking my sarcasm to avoid another nasty scowl. The girl—Juneau—scares me, and it’s just not worth getting her riled up.
“Up there,” she says, pointing halfway up the mountainside.
I can’t help it. I begin speaking to her as if she were a toddler. Or deranged, which she is. “As you can see, it is now seven p.m.,” I say, gesturing to the dashboard clock as if I were a game show host and it was a brand-new car. “There are no restaurants anywhere nearby. And the sign for ‘accommodation’ was back a ways, pointing in another direction. So if we want to, say, eat dinner—or sleep anywhere besides here in this car—we have to turn around and go somewhere else.”
“That way.” She points up the mountain.
I squeeze my hands into fists. But I think of the look on Dad’s face if I manage to get her back to L.A., and ask with clenched teeth, “Would you like to close the car door then so I can drive?”
“Oh yeah,” she says, as if it hadn’t occurred to her. She leans over and slams the door shut, and we’re off.
I’m lying here in a tent, pretending to be asleep but actually fearing for my life as I watch a bunny murderer have a conversation with our campfire.
Here’s how it went down. Halfway up Mt. Rainier, Juneau orders me to go off-road down this dirt track. Once we’re way past where anyone—say, rescuers—could actually find us, she tells me to stop. It’s getting dark, and it’s like we’re in a scene from one of those documentaries where oblivious backpackers set up camp near a bear cave or a wolf den or on top of a killer scorpion nest and are taught their lesson for thoughtlessly encroaching upon nature. And just when I’m thinking this, Juneau gets her pack out of the backseat, pulls a nylon bag out, and starts setting up a freaking tent.
“What are you doing?” My voice shoots up an octave, like I’ve been breathing helium.
She looks over at me and says simply, “What’s it look like?”
“We’re not sleeping here tonight! This isn’t even a legal campsite!” I squeak.
“We have to. I wasn’t able to Read nature in Seattle. The city made me too anxious. I saw a postcard of this mountain and knew it would be the perfect place to Read. It kind of looks like home,” she responds. And just like that, she goes back to unwrapping the nylon tent and sticking folding metal poles through it. I stand like an idiot while she brushes twigs and rocks away from a flat bit of ground and then pulls the tent over to it and starts banging pins into the earth to anchor it.
She turns to me. “If you want to help, you can get a fire going before it’s too dark to see.”
“A fire? I’m pretty sure that’s illegal in the middle of a national park. And why do we need a fire?” I ask. “It’s not even cold out.”
“For dinner,” she says, and out of her pack she takes two carved and painted dowel-looking things, clicks them into grooves to fit together, and grabs a bundle of little pointed arrow-stick thingies, and I’ll be damned if she’s not walking off into the forest holding a mini-crossbow.
I don’t even try to make a fire. I go back to the car and for a half hour I fiddle with my iPhone, trying to turn it back on, but it’s completely shot. I’m wondering what she could have done to break it when I look up and see Juneau stride into the clearing, holding a dead rabbit by the hind legs.
Not even looking my way, she sits down and takes a huge bowie knife out of her pack and starts peeling the fur off. I can’t watch. I feel sick.
By the time I turn back around, she’s made a fire and has set up a kind of makeshift spit by driving two branches into the ground on either side of the flames. Then, ever so casually, as if she were tying her shoes or something, she shoves a third stick through the raw, red-skinned rabbit’s mouth and out its other end, and I have to walk off into the woods by myself because I think I’m going to puke.
As if reading my thoughts, she glances over at me, and when our eyes meet, she glowers. “Where are you from?” she asks.
I hesitate, and then decide it can’t hurt for her to know where I live. “L.A.,” I say.
She just stares at me. “Where is . . . Ellay?” she asks finally.
“Los Angeles. It’s in—” I say.
“Oh, yes. California,” she interrupts, and then to herself mumbles, “Most populous U.S. city after New York City; however, not the capital of California, which is”—she pauses and thinks a second—“Sacramento. Or at least, it was in 1983.”
Freak.
I turn off onto a two-lane road, and we pass a group of hunters dressed in brown camouflage, carrying guns. I hate guns. Dad tried to take me hunting once. I spent the whole time in the lodge playing video games, refusing to go out on the hunting range and embarrassing him in front of his friends.
“What is your whole name?” she asks, continuing her interrogation.
Uh-oh. Now we’re in tricky territory. Everyone’s heard of Blackwell Pharmaceutical. My last name is usually a status symbol, but right now it’s probably better not to flaunt it.
“Why would I tell you my last name when you haven’t even told me your first?” I lob back.
“My name is Juneau,” she says.
“Like the goddess . . . what, queen of Olympus?” I ask.
“No, like the capital of Alaska,” she responds.
Bingo! I think, remembering that Dad had mentioned that the girl was coming by boat from Anchorage.
Juneau points to a National Forest road map posted by the side of the road. “Stop here,” she says, and clicking off her seat belt, gets out of the car before I’ve come to a complete stop. She stumbles slightly as I slam on the brakes, and then, catching her balance, walks to the sign as normally as if she bails out of moving cars all the time.
The girl’s on drugs. That’s got to be it. Whatever secret drug Dad’s trying to get his hands on, she’s probably already taking it by the truckload. Unless it’s an antipsychotic pill, in which case she could use a few.
She studies the map for a few minutes, and then walks back to the car, gets in, and says, “Okay. Drive.” Like I’m her chauffeur or something.
“Would you mind telling me where we’re going?” I ask, masking my sarcasm to avoid another nasty scowl. The girl—Juneau—scares me, and it’s just not worth getting her riled up.
“Up there,” she says, pointing halfway up the mountainside.
I can’t help it. I begin speaking to her as if she were a toddler. Or deranged, which she is. “As you can see, it is now seven p.m.,” I say, gesturing to the dashboard clock as if I were a game show host and it was a brand-new car. “There are no restaurants anywhere nearby. And the sign for ‘accommodation’ was back a ways, pointing in another direction. So if we want to, say, eat dinner—or sleep anywhere besides here in this car—we have to turn around and go somewhere else.”
“That way.” She points up the mountain.
I squeeze my hands into fists. But I think of the look on Dad’s face if I manage to get her back to L.A., and ask with clenched teeth, “Would you like to close the car door then so I can drive?”
“Oh yeah,” she says, as if it hadn’t occurred to her. She leans over and slams the door shut, and we’re off.
I’m lying here in a tent, pretending to be asleep but actually fearing for my life as I watch a bunny murderer have a conversation with our campfire.
Here’s how it went down. Halfway up Mt. Rainier, Juneau orders me to go off-road down this dirt track. Once we’re way past where anyone—say, rescuers—could actually find us, she tells me to stop. It’s getting dark, and it’s like we’re in a scene from one of those documentaries where oblivious backpackers set up camp near a bear cave or a wolf den or on top of a killer scorpion nest and are taught their lesson for thoughtlessly encroaching upon nature. And just when I’m thinking this, Juneau gets her pack out of the backseat, pulls a nylon bag out, and starts setting up a freaking tent.
“What are you doing?” My voice shoots up an octave, like I’ve been breathing helium.
She looks over at me and says simply, “What’s it look like?”
“We’re not sleeping here tonight! This isn’t even a legal campsite!” I squeak.
“We have to. I wasn’t able to Read nature in Seattle. The city made me too anxious. I saw a postcard of this mountain and knew it would be the perfect place to Read. It kind of looks like home,” she responds. And just like that, she goes back to unwrapping the nylon tent and sticking folding metal poles through it. I stand like an idiot while she brushes twigs and rocks away from a flat bit of ground and then pulls the tent over to it and starts banging pins into the earth to anchor it.
She turns to me. “If you want to help, you can get a fire going before it’s too dark to see.”
“A fire? I’m pretty sure that’s illegal in the middle of a national park. And why do we need a fire?” I ask. “It’s not even cold out.”
“For dinner,” she says, and out of her pack she takes two carved and painted dowel-looking things, clicks them into grooves to fit together, and grabs a bundle of little pointed arrow-stick thingies, and I’ll be damned if she’s not walking off into the forest holding a mini-crossbow.
I don’t even try to make a fire. I go back to the car and for a half hour I fiddle with my iPhone, trying to turn it back on, but it’s completely shot. I’m wondering what she could have done to break it when I look up and see Juneau stride into the clearing, holding a dead rabbit by the hind legs.
Not even looking my way, she sits down and takes a huge bowie knife out of her pack and starts peeling the fur off. I can’t watch. I feel sick.
By the time I turn back around, she’s made a fire and has set up a kind of makeshift spit by driving two branches into the ground on either side of the flames. Then, ever so casually, as if she were tying her shoes or something, she shoves a third stick through the raw, red-skinned rabbit’s mouth and out its other end, and I have to walk off into the woods by myself because I think I’m going to puke.
