“No, it’s not that,” she says through a forced smile. I notice she looks fluttery and anxious, like she either skipped one of her pills this morning or took one too many. “You spend so much time alone. Aren’t you going to see your friend?”
It takes me a moment to understand. “Oh, you mean Rob? I think he’s taking me to a barbecue tonight,” I say, threading my arms through the straps on my backpack.
Her face relaxes. “How nice,” she says. “Well, enjoy your hike.” In her mind, as long as I’m social, as long as I’m “getting out there,” then she shouldn’t worry.
“Thanks, Gram,” I say, because there’s no point in trying to explain to her that some of the sickest people I’ve ever known were also some of the most social. And I put me, as I was a year ago, at the top of that list.
It’s not her fault. My grandparents take everything at face value. The scary part is, I don’t think they realize how shallow that makes them. That sounds mean, I know, but it’s true. They only go so deep, and asking for more from them is pointless. They’re easy to live with, as long as I fit into their picture-perfect idea of what life should be like. As long as I seem happy, they’ll be happy to have me here.
So I play along. I smile, I joke, I follow their rules—which is easy to do because they don’t ask much. When I came here, I knew what kind of contract I was signing. Only perfect and pleasant will be tolerated. Just like my dad. Don’t make it hard, or you have to go.
• • •
I hike back to the place by the river with the flat green bank and the little waterfall. I don’t have a name for it. I just think of it as there in my mind, and I picture it rather than name it. I don’t feel like I have the right to name it, actually, because it doesn’t belong to me.
I think the whole way, which is a terrible mistake.
I set up in my spot and take out my books. Walden is not happening right now. Neither is the Longfellow I’ve brought. My eyes keep scanning the words This is the forest primeval, but they can’t seem to get to the next line in the poem.
I look at my notebook.
I hear a pounding sound, and I startle.
It’s coming from behind me, so I twist around and look up the sheer wall that rises about seven feet above where I’m lying.
The pounding stops, and a deer comes flying over the edge. I scream and duck and cover my head as a few hundred pounds of terrified animal lands on my picnic blanket and narrowly misses crushing me to death.
“Oh, shit!” I hear. And then something big and heavy lands on top of me. I realize it’s a large, dirty boy.
He rolls, keeping his weight off me as we tumble across the blanket. The deer struggles to get her legs under her. She kicks and makes an almost human sound as she screams. The boy drags me as far away from her thrashing hooves as he can and protects me with his body until the deer hauls herself up and trots off with a labored, uneven gait.
I’m too stunned to speak.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” the boy keeps repeating.
“What the hell?” I manage to choke out.
“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” he asks, and he starts inspecting my head and upper arms.
“I’m fine. I mean, I’m not fine, but I’m not hurt,” I say, pushing on his bare chest. Wow. He’s really solid.
He looks down at my hands, touching him. He shakes and pulls back. Then he jumps off me as if stung. He sits back on his heels and nervously starts handing my books to me although that makes no sense.
“I got it,” I say, gesturing for him to stop. I look at my blanket. It’s streaked with mud and blood. “What are you doing out here?”
“I live here,” he says with a shrug. “What are you doing here?”
“I was reading,” I say, gesturing to my books.
He looks at Walden and scoffs. “Wasting your time is more like it. You know Thoreau left the woods every Sunday to have dinner with his mom?”
I did not know that. I stare at him. “Well. Doesn’t that just kill all the romance?” I say dryly.
He stands, and I see a brace of arrows is strapped across his back. There’s a huge knife tied to his thigh over a pair of worn camouflage pants. I look at his face. He’s about my age, maybe older. I can’t really tell what he looks like because of all the mud on his face, but his eyes are two bright blue-gray discs. He turns the way the deer went and then back at me anxiously.
“Are you sure you’re okay? That deer is injured and in pain. I can’t leave her like that,” he says.
“Oh, right,” I say, frowning at the thought of that poor animal. “I’m fine. Go kill the suffering deer.”
But he hasn’t waited around to hear the catty ending to my response. He’s already running off yelling, “Sorry!” In moments, he’s disappeared in the underbrush. I stare after him, my mouth hanging open. I look down at myself and realize I’m filthy. There’s blood everywhere. I should be disgusted, but I’m not. I’m definitely feeling something, which is remarkable, but it isn’t disgust. My heart takes forever to stop pounding.
I rinse off as best as I can in the river and pack my things up while they’re still a little damp. Luckily, these water-repellent blankets also repel a fair share of blood. The scent lingers. Musky and metallic.
On the walk back to my grandparents’ house, I can’t stop wondering about the wild boy. He was out here, hunting I guess, with no rifle and no one to help him. He just had a bow and some arrows and a giant knife. How would he even carry a dead deer back to wherever it is that he lives by himself?
I mean, seriously. Who is this guy? Slaying deer with his bare hands by day and reading philosophy by night… Who does that? Not that I’m into the whole Tarzan thing—or the smarter-than-thou philosopher thing, either.
I mean, it’s nice to know a guy is tough enough to chase down a deer. And that he’s smart enough to do more than just hit things with rocks. And the way he shook when I touched him…
It’s dark by the time I get back to my grandparents’ house. I see Rob’s car in the driveway and mentally kick myself. The barbecue.
“Sorry!” I call out as soon as I open the front door. “I fell asleep! I’ll be right down.”
I go straight up the stairs and run to my room. I hear Grandma calling after me, but I don’t reply. My clothes are irreparably stained with blood. I take them off and throw them into the very back of my closet. I’ll have to get rid of them when my grandparents aren’t around.
I rush through a shower and quickly dab on lipstick, and then I’m down the stairs again wearing another one of my old dresses.