“Why do you say such mean things to me?” I ask.
“Come on, let’s go get breakfast,” he laughs.
Two hours later the cheerleader emerges, looking like she is staying in a wilderness hotel with all of the accompanying conveniences like mirrors and hair equipment, makeup perfectly in place. I am makeup free since I have no idea how to maintain my look while living primitively.
“Let me show you a camping trick I learned when I had longer hair,” Sue tells me later. She pulls my hair back into two braids, then puts a triangled bandana over the top. She hands me a mirror, and I’m surprised. It’s not really my kind of look, but definitely not bad—kind of biker-chick. I can deal with that.
After lunch, everyone decides to go for a hike. Even the cheerleader, though from the reaction of her parents, I can tell this is unusual. Sue took me a week ago to get hiking boots, showing me how to break them in. Apparently it didn’t work so well; I end up with three blisters by the time we are at the peak.
“Here,” Trevor says, kneeling down in front of me as I sit on a rock. He pulls my boots off, covering the blisters with some kind of cream and bandages.
“I thought you were supposed to pop blisters,” I moan miserably.
“No, the skin forms a kind of natural protection. Can you make it back down?”
“Do I have a choice?”
His dad finds me a walking stick, and the cheerleader pouts about the attention I’m getting. She’s in peak physical condition, so she doesn’t have anything to complain about, as can be evidenced by the healthy glow emanating from her. Even Todd is doing better than me, not winded at all and chatting happily. He had worried over my blisters, patting my hand, until the blisters were covered with bandages. He then promptly forgot about them.
I’m slowing them down going back to camp, so I tell them to go ahead and I’ll catch up. Trevor elects to stay with me, as I knew (hoped) he would. Unfortunately, so does the cheerleader. Because of the stick, Trevor can’t really walk next to me, so she uses this opportunity to sidle up next to him, the narrowness of the trail forcing closeness. I seriously consider stabbing her with the walking stick.
“So, Trevor, have you played the guitar long?” she oozes.
“Only for about two years or so.”
“Wow, you’re really good for only playing that long.”
“I’ve played the piano as long as I can remember. There’s not that much difference between the two, so it was pretty easy to pick up.”
“I’d love to hear you play the piano.”
Gag.
“Well, I didn’t bring it up here with me, so . . .” He trails off, and she giggles like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. I calculate the probability of causing her serious harm by tripping her with the stick. Unfortunately it’s not that steep of a trail.
Then she tucks her arm through his, and my jaw clenches. Trevor glances back at me at the gesture and stops walking, turning back toward me, which effectively breaks her hold.
“You okay, Jen? Do you need to rest for a while?”
“I’m fine,” I growl. “I don’t want to stop. Let’s just get back to camp.” I don’t want to spend one minute longer with the cheerleader than necessary.
“Okay, let me help you then.” He takes the walking stick and hands it to Tamara. She isn’t sure what he’s up to and takes it without much thought. He walks in front of me, facing away, and pulls my arms around his shoulders.
“Jump up,” he says.
“What?” Tamara says it at the same time I do.
“I’m going to carry you.”
“No way, Trev. I’m too heavy.”
“You don’t weigh anything. It’s pretty flat from here anyway.”
“Trev, I don’t think—”
He turns to face me, giving me a meaningful look.
“Here’s the deal, Jen. You can get on my back, or I can throw you over my shoulder and carry you that way. You decide.”
“It’ll kill you.”
“I’ve carried backpacks heavier than you on worse terrain than this. I’m not as weak as you think.”
“I don’t think you’re weak.”
The cheerleader sighs loudly, and I glance over his shoulder to see her watching this exchange unhappily. She definitely doesn’t want Trevor to carry me.
“Okay. Let’s ride,” I tell him.
Trevor is a strong walker. He doesn’t get winded or slow down, even with my weight on his back. Tamara walks just ahead of us, glancing back frequently. I decide to give her some misery. I cuddle closer to Trevor, keeping my face very close to his, whispering things into his ear to make him grin. She’s angry by the time we reach camp.
I know Trevor guesses what I’m up to. I don’t think he minds.
10. Marshmallows and Competition
I taste my first roasted marshmallow, cooked by Trevor after I’ve burned five of them. It’s delicious. The cheerleader asks him to cook her one, and because he is still Trevor the Polite, he does it. I don’t have to ask. He makes me another, then as many as I want, without me ever asking. That burns her.
Lying in the tent with her that night, I’m looking out through the open screen roof at the amazing display of stars above us. I have never seen so many stars, but Trevor explained that they are always there; we just can’t see them because of all the city lights. I try to find the constellations he pointed out to me.
“Jen?” My whispered name comes from the cheerleader’s sleeping bag.
“What?” I hope my tone effectively conveys my irritation at the interruption of my contentment.
“So, are you, like, after Trevor?”
“After him how?”
“I mean, do you like him?”
“Of course I like him.”
“No, do you like him like him?”
“He’s my friend. Of course I like him.”
“Are you being purposely dense?” She sounds frustrated, and I smile to myself because I am. Dropping the smile, I turn to face her, propping myself up on my elbow.
“What are you asking, Tamara? What do you want?”
“He’s pretty cute,” she says.
“I guess. If you’re into nerds.”
“He’s really nice too. Strong. He carried you like you were nothing. And he’s funny. And he has a great voice.” There’s a slow burn in my stomach at her words, so my own are harsh.
“Is there a point to this inane conversation about Trevor’s superior character traits?”
“I think I kind of like him. So if you’re not interested in him in that way, then I thought, you know, I could—”
“Aren’t you a little old for him?” I cut her off.
“No, I’m only eighteen. And he’s seventeen, right?”
“You’re in college.”
“I graduated early. I’m probably only a year older than him, if that.”
I hadn’t realized she’s so close to my own age. She’s two years ahead of me, school-wise, so I just figured she was at least that much older than me years-wise as well.
“If you don’t have a problem with it, I think I might go for him.”
Her words make me want to strangle her, but what can I say? No, he’s my pet project who I happen to like even though I didn’t plan to and who thinks I’m something I’m not, so stay away until I’ve finished with him?
“Knock yourself out,” I say irritably, rolling back over to gaze out again. I don’t think Trevor will stray. He’s hooked pretty well in my snare. I think. I hope.
This could be fun to watch, anyway.
I pretend there aren’t tears running down my cheeks.
⊕⊗⊕
She gets up early and makes herself into a cute jogger, hurrying to time her emergence from the tent just as Trevor and his father are warming up. She’s obviously dressed for jogging, so what can the courteous pair of them do but invite her to join them?
To Trevor’s credit, he sticks his head into my tent and asks if I want to
come.
“Blisters,” I say, pointing at my feet.
She follows him relentlessly all day, flirting shamelessly, laughing idiotically at everything he says. Later in the day, he manages to ditch her, no easy feat, and pulls me quickly away into the dense trees surrounding the campsite, walking quickly until we’re out of earshot of everyone else.
“Can we slow it down, Jar Jar Blinky? The feet are protesting,” I complain.
He turns to me with an apology.
“Sorry. And it’s Jar Jar Binks.”
“Yeah, right, I knew that. What’s the hurry?”
“Escape.”
“Escape?” I lower my voice conspiratorially. “From who? Or is it whom? I can never remember.”
“From your sister.” He sounds stalked.
“I don’t have a sister,” I say firmly, the teasing gone from my voice.
“Okay. Your foster sister. Whatever. She’s driving me crazy.”
This piece of news makes me happy.
“Yeah? What’s she doing?”
“Everywhere I turn, there she is. She’s constantly underfoot, asking me all kinds of questions and laughing at everything I say, when it’s not even funny. What’s the deal?”
I nod seriously, considering his dilemma.
“I think I can help you, my young pad-a-man.”
“Padawan,” he corrects.
“Don’t correct me,” I continue, playing up my detective role, pacing and pulling on my chin, hand on hip. “I’m onto something.”
I look at him silently until his patience ends—which is a total of about five seconds.
“What?” he explodes. I shrug and return to being just me.
“She likes you.” He stares at me, stunned.
“Likes me? Isn’t she a little old to like a high school kid?”
“No, she’s only eighteen, graduated early. She should be a senior, going to school with us. Wouldn’t that be a joy?”
“Why would she like me?”
I hold up a hand, ticking off her words on my fingers. “She says you’re cute, funny, have a great voice, you’re strong . . .” I trail off and drop my hands, shrugging. “Most likely because she can sense that I do, and she’s nothing if not competitive.”
He looks at me suspiciously.
“How do you know all of this?”
“She told me.”
“She what?” He’s incredulous.
“Last night she asked me if I thought she should go for you.”
“And what did you say?”
“I told her to knock herself out.”
“What?” His tone indicates his indecision over whether to be more angry or astonished by this.
“Never let it be said that I limited your options,” I say, holding up one finger to punctuate my words.
He glares at me for a few minutes. Finally he walks toward me, deliberately, in a way that puts me on the defensive.
“You are going to pay for this,” he says.
“Oh yeah? How?”
He doesn’t answer, just pulls his lips back over his teeth in a menacing grin. I stand my ground.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“You should be,” he says as he swoops down and throws me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“Put me down, you jerk,” I yell, laughing, pounding his back.
He ignores me, striding with purpose. I can’t see where we’re going since I’m hanging behind his back, but it isn’t long until I hear the rush of the river. I stiffen.
“Don’t you dare, Trev.”
“You have to learn a lesson, Cassandra.”
“Star Trek! I know what that’s from. That has to be my get out of jail free card!”
“Sorry, but not this time,” he says, not sounding sorry at all.
He steps into the waist-deep river, dumping me in fully, freezing water submerging me. I come up sputtering and laughing, and he’s standing, legs spread, head to profile, arms crossed over his chest in victory, looking fierce. I laugh because I know this stance.
“You’re going down, Hercules,” I say as I tackle him around the knees. He goes down easily, not even trying to stay up, coming up spluttering and splashing as if he’s drowning. So I shove a handful of water at him, and the fight is on.
Finally, he catches me around the waist and pulls me close so that I can’t splash him again.
“Your lips are blue,” he tells me.
“Yours are too,” I say, wrapping my arms around his shoulders.
“I know how to warm them up,” he says.
In spite of the cold water surrounding us and permeating our bodies, this kiss has more heat in it than any he has given me before.
As we walk back to camp, clasped together and shivering, he asks, “Will you please call your sister off?”
I let his use of the term ride, knowing he’s trying to rile me.
“Absolutely not. This is going to be way too much fun to watch.”
“Just remember you said that,” he threatens. “Because turnabout is fair play, right?”
“What does that mean?” I ask suspiciously. He only grins forebodingly in response.
Trevor turns it up with Tamara, being overly charming and courteous to a fault with her. Of course, this encourages her, and she presses her own suit harder, which only ends up annoying Trevor. Very amusing. After only one day he realizes he’s only digging his own grave, so he goes back to ditching her whenever possible, pulling me along with him.
When she doesn’t get the hint, he sings a sappy love song at the campfire, looking right at me, clearly singing it to me. She still doesn’t catch on. He decides he has to be even more blatant.
I’m leaning against a tree, watching him try to maneuver away from her as she sits right next to him, helping him shuck corn. He had asked me to help them with a pleading look in his eyes, but she quickly negated that. So I’m simply watching, controlling the grin at his discomfiture. He finishes his pile in record time and comes over to me.
He puts one hand against the tree, leaning toward me.
“Please help me,” he begs. His plea is genuine, and so I decide to show him some mercy.
“She’s going into the tent,” I tell him. “Kiss me.”
“How’s that going to help if she can’t see?”
“You need a reason to kiss me?”
He thinks about this for all of half a second.
“Good point.”
He leans in, lips on mine, placing his other hand against the tree on the opposite side of me, not touching me in any other way. A few seconds later, I hear the telltale gasp and know she has seen. He hears it too if his smile against my mouth is any indication. She loudly stomps away.
“Thank you,” he says, leaning his forehead against mine. “She is relentless.” A little worm of guilt wriggles through me. She isn’t the only one who’s relentless. My goal comes closer with every kiss.
“By the way, it’s been nice seeing your face all week.”
“You see my face every day,” I say, confused.
He touches my cheek. “I mean your real face, not hidden behind all of that make-up. You’re so beautiful.”
“You’re a dork, Trev,” I say, looking away, embarrassed by the compliment.
“No, I’m not. I’m Hercules. You told me that yourself.” I laugh and push him away.
That night he puts his arm around me when we sit around the fire, and I scoff at the silly gesture in my mind to reassure my friends that I did. Underneath I feel all warm and fuzzy.
He holds my hand, and I know I’m reeling him in, even if my heart pitter-patters a bit whenever he does.
He kisses me, and I pretend not to notice that my toes curl a little each time he does.
I decide I really like camping.
11. Mr. Green in the Study with the Candlestick
Life back home with the cheerleader is not pleasant. She’s pretty upset about the whole Trevor thing. I think she’s under the impre
ssion that I made a move after she informed me of her intentions. I have no desire to enlighten her to the fact that Trevor and I had already a sort of arrangement.
Last year when I first came to stay with the Grants, the cheerleader had just left for college. She moved out the weekend before I moved in, so other than holidays, we haven’t had to live under the same roof. Probably not a good plan to aggravate her as we’re going to be spending the entire summer here, but then I’ve never been known to do what is best.
Third Saturdays have become a big part of the game. It makes Trevor happy that I willingly go with him each month to help. I would never admit it aloud, but I’ve come to realize that I really like the old geezers. Some I like better than others, mostly the ones who have been accepting of my presence all along, no matter how odd I look to them.
Mrs. Green has become one of my favorites, mainly because she steadfastly maintains that she was married to the infamous Mr. Green from the Clue game, and that he did it in the study with the candlestick. She can’t usually remember what she had for lunch or what some of her grandkids’ names are, but she always recalls her Clue story in perfect clarity with a glint in her eyes.
She and I are kindred spirits. She recognized it right away and has told me numerous stories of her wild teenage days. Funny because I just always imagined that when someone her age would’ve been my age, all teens would have been prim and proper. I don’t tell her much about me because I don’t want to dim our unlikely friendship even if she forgets things easily. She always remembers Trevor and me though, calling him my “young man.”
I’m sitting with her, crocheting of all things. She had told me once that she wants to teach her granddaughter, but her granddaughter never comes to see her. No one ever comes to see her. I don’t have a grandma, and since she seems to have been abandoned by her granddaughter, we have adopted one another. That’s why I sit and crochet.
“Are you being nice to your foster family?” She always asks me this question, every week.
“It was easier before their daughter came home, you know? She really doesn’t like me, and I don’t like her, so I’m having a hard time being nice.”
“She’s jealous.”
“What?” My hands still, and I look over at her.